The training yard behind the eastern barracks was just dirt—hard-packed, worn down, circled in faded chalk. Broken fence posts leaned at odd angles, and shattered pillars cast jagged shadows across the space. Unlike the smooth stone arenas of the Academy, there was no shine here. Just grit. Blood. Silence.
Leon stood at the center of one circle, breathing slow. His wooden sword rested at his side. The scar on his right arm itched beneath its wrap—a gift from Rix's elbow yesterday.
Opposite him, Calla Faltier tapped her staff twice on the ground.
A violet flare lit the circle. The drill had begun.
"I'll start with a basic binding hex," she said, calm as ever. "Nonlethal. Step wrong, and your legs lock."
Leon shifted—left foot forward, knee bent, blade lowered slightly.
"Too narrow," Calla said.
"I'll manage."
"You'll fall."
She flicked her wrist.
A glyph spun up from the ground—fast, sharp—aiming for his calves.
Leon moved without thinking. Memory took over.
Slide-step. Cut down.
His blade caught the glyph mid-air and cracked it apart in a burst of scattered light.
Calla tilted her head. "Decent reflex."
No pause. The second spell came fast—smoke-threaded, aiming for his chest.
He dropped low, lunged forward, blade angled for her shoulder.
She brought her staff up.
A pulse of force slammed into his side mid-strike, knocking him off-course. He rolled once, landed on a knee. Didn't curse. Just breathed. Blade still up.
Calla advanced.
"That would've cracked your ribs," she said. "Now what?"
Leon didn't reply. His lungs burned. His body lagged.
Still too heavy.
Still too slow.
But his eyes stayed sharp.
He waited until she stepped in again. Her staff lifted. He didn't strike.
He spun.
A feint.
She shifted to counter—anticipating a slash.
Instead, his heel swept low.
She stumbled.
He hit her with his shoulder, full weight behind it.
She staggered back.
Stayed on her feet—but smiled.
"Good."
As Leon limped out of the chalk, Fena tossed him a damp towel.
"You move like a corpse with stiff joints," she said. "But you don't fall."
He caught the towel, wiped his face. "I'll take it."
"Wasn't praise."
"Still counts."
They walked toward the water basin. Calla knelt nearby, scribbling in a leather notebook. Across the yard, Cohort Seven trained—bows, stances, sprints. No rest. Just noise and effort.
"She's new?" Leon asked.
"Few weeks. House Faltier loaned her out. Mage resistance training."
"She's sharp."
"She's cruel."
Leon dunked his head. Came up gasping.
Fena crossed her arms. "You did alright. Better than Rix. He puked during glyph drills."
Leon smirked. "He eats like a barn."
"Exactly why he's slow."
—
Later that night, the wind turned.
Leon stood under a half-dead tree, slow-stretching the knots from his back and knees. His shirt clung, soaked through. His blade lay nearby in the grass.
No moon yet.
But he wasn't alone.
He heard her boots.
"You didn't flinch at the pressure ward," Calla said.
"Didn't need to."
"You should have. That spell can rupture lungs."
Leon shrugged. "Lucky you held back."
She stepped closer. Quiet.
"You're not afraid of magic."
"I've died before," he said, voice low. "Fire's heat. Lightning's nerves. Nothing new."
She studied him.
Then: "You fight like someone with nothing to lose."
Leon glanced away. "You're wrong."
"Am I?"
He didn't answer.
She knelt beside his sword, fingers brushing the hilt.
"You'll face a real mage soon. No rules. No drills."
"I know."
"You need to be faster."
"I will be."
She stood. "Tomorrow. Same time."
—
And in the morning, she pushed harder.
No holds. No pauses.
Layered glyphs. Illusions hiding traps. Pressure pulses made to break rhythm.
Leon failed three drills.
He didn't leave.
Fourth time, she cast high—a rune arcing overhead.
Leon didn't duck.
He charged.
Cut the glyph before it formed. Slid under the backlash and slammed into her side.
They both hit the dirt.
Dust filled the air.
Calla blinked up at him.
He held out his hand.
She took it.
"Better," she muttered.
—
That evening, Leon's hands bled. His knees ached. Ribs throbbed from sparring with Oskar, who fought like a drunk boulder with teeth.
Back at his bunk, he found a wrapped bundle on his crate.
No tag.
Inside: a new training shirt—reinforced padding, faint silver threads woven near the collar.
Mage-warding.
Fena walked past. Didn't look at him.
"She said you'll probably die anyway," she muttered. "Just maybe not tomorrow."
Leon smiled.
Barely.
But it was real.
—
He didn't sleep.
Pain wasn't the reason. That was familiar now. Normal.
He sat on the bunk, the warded shirt folded neatly beside him. Lanternlight glinted off the thread like frost. Around him, the others were out—Oskar snoring, Rix twitching, Fena dead quiet.
Leon couldn't shut his eyes.
Something felt... different.
Sharper.
Calla's words echoed: "You fight like someone with nothing to protect."
Wrong.
He knew what he wanted to protect.
But he still didn't know how.
His family. Elena. This second chance.
All of it could vanish—if he died here with a wooden blade in a yard of dirt.
He stood.
Joints stiff. Legs aching.
Outside, the moon hung high—pale, cold.
He reached the rack.
Picked up steel.
Not training gear. A real blade. Dull-edged. Heavy.
He raised it.
And began.
Draw.
Step.
Guard.
Twist.
Strike.
Again.
And again.
Until light broke at the edge of the horizon.
And sweat coated him like a second skin.
The edge of the blade trembled.
Leon's arms had moved past pain—past the shaking, past the dull weight dragging through his shoulders. Now, only will kept him going. Sweat dripped from his chin, splashing his boots, soaking into the dust below.
The sword felt heavier than it had hours ago. Or maybe he was just slower.
One more form.
He reset.
Draw.
Advance.
Diagonal slash—right to left.
Twist. Back foot. Pivot. Guard up.
He held the position. Breath caught in his chest.
Then—
Clap.
Slow. Even.
Leon didn't turn.
"Who trains alone before dawn?" a voice asked.
He let the breath go. "Someone who doesn't want their first real fight to be their last."
Footsteps.
Elena stepped into view, wrapped in a light coat over a nightgown. Hair loose, catching the breeze.
"You should be sleeping," she said.
"You're awake too," Leon replied.
"I couldn't sleep. Ground doesn't care about noble blood."
He let a small smile slip. "The ground never does."
She glanced at the sword, then at the carved-up dirt around his feet.
"You're burning yourself out."
"I'm behind," he said, quiet but sure. "I don't have time to rest."
She crossed her arms. "You're not behind. You're just too damn stubborn."
He didn't argue.
Maybe she was right.
And maybe it didn't matter.
Elena looked off, her voice lower. "You're not the only one afraid to fail."
He blinked.
"I was born with talent. That just means people expect more. But pressure doesn't make you stronger. It just makes you quieter when you're scared you'll fall short."
Leon said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
She stepped closer, lifted her hand, and adjusted his elbow.
"You drop here when you pivot. Loses you control on the second motion."
He raised the sword again.
"Then help me fix it."
Elena nodded once.
And they started over.