The days that followed Selanne's abrupt departure passed with deceptive quiet.
One week remained until the academy's final exams — but the war tactics exam would come first, scheduled at the end of this very week. The knowledge threaded through the corridors like a low, constant hum. It buzzed beneath the polished stone arches, through the endless staircases, into the courtyards where the late-summer wind carried it like pollen. Students whispered of it between lectures, scribbled diagrams in the margins of their notebooks, and argued quietly in the courtyards as if any detail overlooked might cost them dearly.
The weight of the calendar pressed down on every step Riley took.
For her, routine became a refuge.
She woke when the bell tolled at dawn, the chimes echoing faint and metallic across the spires. Her hands moved automatically — tying her hair neatly, smoothing the creases from her uniform, lacing her boots with methodical precision. She ate breakfast in the refectory, surrounded by the clatter of trays and the murmur of anxious students, yet kept her head bowed over her plate, focusing only on the warmth of tea and the plain bread that grounded her morning. Lectures followed in the grand halls where voices reverberated against domed ceilings, and her notes filled page after page in careful, exacting strokes. Afternoons alternated between crowded study groups where the air hummed with debate, and the solitude of the west library wing where shafts of light cut through the dust and gave her silence.
It was a rhythm she repeated until it carved itself into her bones. Each action familiar, deliberate. The act of repetition gave her a sense of safety, like treading the same marked path through a forest where dangers lurked behind every tree.
And yet, safety was a lie she could not quite hold onto.
The whispers had not vanished. They had only changed shape.
Where once they hissed sharp as knives — insignificant, useless, why is she here — they now lingered softer, but heavier, a weight pressed to the back of her neck wherever she walked. Conversations fell into silence when she entered a room. Students who used to glance past her now looked too long, their gazes sliding over her as if measuring, wondering, unwilling to look away until she had passed. Even those who said nothing at all could not disguise the way their shoulders tightened or the way they leaned closer to one another when she passed, the questions unspoken but loud: What did she do to Selanne? What is her relationship with the Desillix heir?
Riley told herself it was better than before. And it was. There was no malice in those stares, no sneering or open ridicule, only the ache of curiosity, fear, awe. But the heaviness of it clung worse than any insult. At least malice had edges she could fight against; this new silence smothered.
She often caught Ace in the periphery of it all. His smiles no longer shone as easily, his laughter muted where once it filled the halls. He still joined conversations, still offered encouragement in training, but there was a hollowness now, as if he walked beneath a cloud only he could see. Riley never asked. She knew better than to pry. Ace himself respected boundaries, never pushing her when she fell into silence, and so she offered him the same in return. But she felt it, the dimming of him, and it left a quiet ache she carried with her.
---
She thought back often to the first time Professor Helstam explained the final exam format, just a week after the first mock test mid-semester.
It had been in the tactics hall — the vast room carved from pale stone, its curved benches descending in rings toward the central platform. The air always carried a faint tang of chalk dust and cold crystal light. Helstam's voice carried over the rows, sharp as steel and just as unyielding, each word delivered with the clipped authority of a man who had stood in real battlefields.
"Twelve teams remained," he had said, chalk scratching circles onto the board, the sound biting into the silence. "Twelve failed teams became the variable units. Six terrains." His strokes were deliberate, drawing lines and arcs, marking the inevitability of chaos.
His eyes had swept the class, narrowing as though to pin each student in place. Riley remembered the way her own spine had stiffened, how the quill in her hand trembled before she forced it still.
Helstam set down the chalk with finality and activated the projection crystals. Pale-blue light bloomed above the platform, forming into shifting landscapes that rotated slowly in the air.
In just a little time, came the imagery of several different terrains, all grouping into one very large island. Riley leaned forward, breath caught, as the images expanded and overlapped — jagged rocky mountains and vast desert plains of the western reach, the snow-capped peaks of the northern ranges, the deep forest cut by a massive river to the east, ancient ruins crumbled and swallowed by vines that resembled the abandoned central regions, the restless seaside cliffs of the south. And then there was one terrain unknown to her — a valley carved deep into the earth, its edges shadowed, its floor a labyrinth of narrow paths. She knew it must not be ordinary; nothing Helstam showed ever was.
Then came the imagery of three spinning roulettes, their circles glowing faintly as they spun in tandem.
"Your opponent? Randomized. The terrain? Randomized. And the variable unit team that interferes? Randomized." Helstam's tone left no room for protest. "Each round will be different. Each condition beyond your control. It will not matter if you know a formation or can recite battlefield theory — you will adapt, or you will fail."
She remembered the silence that followed, the way his words had settled like a weight in the pit of her stomach, pressing against the fragile steadiness she tried to maintain.
But that had only been the beginning.
Helstam gestured again, and the projection shifted to display thirty distinct figures — imaginary soldiers in varying uniforms, their postures radiating authority. Even from the illusion, Riley could tell: commanders. Their presence, though conjured, felt almost alive.
"If all you had to do in the first exam was play chess with fixed pieces," Helstam said, voice hardening, "now let us up the bar." He expanded one image larger than the rest — an old man with lined features and a bearing both weary and proud.
"This old veteran has a name. Tonsil."
A ripple of giggles scattered across the benches, quickly silenced under Helstam's glare.
"He is sixty years old — far too old for a drawn-out campaign. Yet he carries vast experience, and he adapts quickly. Arrogant, too, knowing his wisdom few others match. Beware the inner conflicts that arise when his pride is tested."
The projection flickered, showing the veteran alongside the others.
"Well," Helstam continued, pausing just long enough to let unease build, "to put it bluntly — your chess pieces now have souls. Attitudes. Personalities. Each team will be assigned five random commanders. Each with distinct strengths, each with distinct flaws. You will get to know them and adapt to their leadership as much as to the battlefield itself. Defy them, and you fail. Follow blindly, and you also fail. Learn to navigate the conflict of command — only then will you survive."
The class broke into muffled chaos. Some students leaned forward, eyes bright with excitement, scribbling furiously. Others groaned, heads in hands, muttering about impossible standards. Riley sat among them, amazed, unable to decide if the challenge thrilled her or terrified her. The meticulousness of it all, the way every layer mirrored the unpredictability of real war, was both beautiful and cruel.
"This," Helstam said at last, cutting through the noise with a single word, "is not an exercise. It is as close to war as you will face within these walls. Strategy will matter. Instinct will matter. But most of all, resolve will matter."
Silence fell, heavy and unbroken. The air seemed to vibrate with the finality of his words.
Riley had exhaled slowly then, her quill hovering over parchment. Around her came the tight scratch of others' writing, the restless shifting of boots against stone. The thought of it — being thrown into chaos where every factor turned against you, even your own commanders — left her both awed and uneasy.
It felt too much like real life. Too much like survival.
---
That had been months ago. Since then, the commanders had grown from names on a board into figures that shaped their training.
Riley had familiarized herself with her randomized five. Some barked orders with iron certainty, their voices echoing through drills. Others faltered, hesitant, too cautious in a simulation where time never spared indecision. And two in particular remained etched in her mind.
One of them thrived in the center of attention. Commander Sam. He strutted at the front of the line, voice booming, every command delivered like a performance for invisible spectators. He demanded results not just for victory's sake but because triumph reflected glory onto him. Under his command, Riley often felt less like a soldier and more like a prop in a grand play staged for his vanity.
The other was his opposite. Commander Uno. He loathed attention, his words clipped, his presence fading into shadow the moment he could. In drills, he preferred silence, expecting his unit to understand him with minimal direction. Victories under him came quietly, without flourish, efficient and sharp. Yet the air grew taut, almost suffocating, when he led — a silence that pressed as heavily as any battlefield noise.
Both competent in their ways. Both flawed. Both shaping the flow of a team with their personalities alone.
Helstam had been right. The exam would not simply test terrain or enemy. It would test the human heart.
No amount of practice seemed enough.
---
Even now, a week before the war exam, the memory of Helstam's words echoed. They replayed in her mind during meals, during sleepless nights, in the pauses between one class and another. The thought of it — commanders with clashing wills, allies torn between conflicting orders, enemies pressing from every side — gnawed at her.
She did not fear the terrain. Nor the enemy. She feared the human heart — how fragile, how unpredictable it could be when pressed into war.
---
Her thoughts wandered with that weight until she found herself in the small garden nestled between the mixed wing and the Comun building. A tucked-away corner, where ivy crawled along stone walls and benches sat beneath arching branches. The air was cooler here, threaded with the faint perfume of late-blooming flowers. She chose this place often, its seclusion offering a pocket of quiet.
She had come to prepare for the exam one last time. Her notes lay open, ink still fresh in the margins. Yet her mind remained scattered, caught between whispers in the hall and the looming shape of the exam.
She still remembered how casually he had asked her, amidst the gossip, after Helstam's last class: "I'll need you in the garden." No explanation. No room for refusal.
When Riel arrived, the garden seemed to tilt. He sat beside her with the ease of one who belonged everywhere, his movements deliberate but unhurried. He sorted through his bag, pulling out papers, arranging them with a calmness that pressed into the air like an unspoken command.
Riley had been ready since she arrived early, and so she watched him — the neat way his long fingers separated parchment, the way his pale lashes lowered as he focused. She swallowed the questions that rose, the words caught in her chest.
Riel remained indifferent, as he always was. If he heard the whispers that clung to Riley's steps — the curious stares, the murmured speculations — he gave no sign. His expression betrayed nothing. Riley felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up her neck, her thoughts tangling with questions she dared not voice. Why did you do it? What about your fiancée?
"Well, I don't know you had that much questions."
Riley's eyes widened. Her lips parted soundlessly. Had she spoken aloud?
Still rummaging through his bag, Riel's voice came, calm, unbothered. "You should have just asked if you are curious. I know you are bad at handling curiosity."
Her face flushed. "Eh? What? No! I mean, yes. I am curious. But I don't think it is proper to ask." She hesitated, then added softly, "Well... a thank you should be first, I guess. Thank you... for handling Selanne."
Riel gave only a shrug, finally gathering the papers he wanted. He lowered his bag to the grass beside the bench and straightened, posture immaculate. "No need to thank me. She was always annoying, after all." He placed the papers neatly on the small garden table between them.
Riley blinked at him, at a loss. Annoying? Did Selanne truly vex him enough to warrant such cold dismissal? The thought felt absurd, impossible — no one would dare risk provoking a Desillix heir. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the thought.
She expected him to begin discussing tactics, yet to her surprise, he spoke again.
"You also do not have to worry about Elaris. She is a good woman."
Riley stilled. She didn't understand why, but those words pierced her unexpectedly, leaving a faint ache blooming in her chest. A strange, heavy ache she couldn't name.
The silence stretched between them, filled with the rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of students passing beyond the garden walls. And Riley realized — this quiet, too, carried weight. A silence that said more than words ever could.