Freya woke with her mother's blood on her hands.
The nightmare did not fade gently. It shattered.
She jerked upright in bed, breath tearing out of her in a ragged gasp. The room was dark except for a thin blade of moonlight cutting across the floor. Her heart hammered so hard it hurt. For a split second she did not recognize the walls, the desk, the window.
Then the academy slid back into place.
Her hands were clenched in the blanket, fingers aching from the force of her grip. No blood. Just fabric..
Her lungs refused to find a rhythm. The air felt too thin. Too distant.
Eight years old again. Frozen. Watching.
No.
Freya swung her legs over the side of the bed and pressed her feet flat against the cool stone floor. She focused on the sensation. Solid. Real.
Count.
One breath in. Two out.
Her gaze snagged on a familiar silhouette. Inky sat on the windowsill, eyes open and unblinking. Moonlight traced the edge of his form in silver. He had been watching her when she woke. He was always watching.
The echo of the nightmare pulsed behind her eyes. Her mother's voice. The wet sound. The moment where everything split into before and after.
Her chest tightened. Panic clawed its way up her throat.
She reached blindly for her sketchbook.
The pencil shook in her fingers. The first lines were jagged, frantic. A corner of the window. The angle of the desk. The curve of her own hand. Each stroke tethered her more firmly to the present.
Slowly, the nightmare loosened its grip.
Her breathing slowed from a sprint to a hard run, then to something approaching steady. Sweat cooled on the back of her neck. The silence of the room settled around her, heavy but no longer suffocating.
"You're still here," she murmured.
It was not a question. Inky's ear flicked though he did not move.
A month had passed since her arrival at the academy.
The days had carved themselves into routine. Wake before the bell. Train until her muscles burned. Study until her eyes blurred. Sleep, when sleep came easily. Most nights it did. Some nights the past slipped through the cracks.
Like tonight.
Freya closed the sketchbook and pressed it flat against her chest. Outside, the capital glittered, indifferent to her private battles. The academy slept in layered quiet, hundreds of students breathing in unison.
She swung her legs back onto the bed and lay down. Her pulse still thudded in her ears, but the edge of panic had dulled. Inky remained at the window, a dark sentinel against the light.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under.
The morning bell rang like a hammer striking glass.
Freya jolted awake, disoriented. For a terrifying instant she expected to see blood on the walls. Instead, sunlight poured through the window, warm and ordinary.
Her body felt heavy, as if she had run all night. The memory of the nightmare lingered like a bruise. She pushed herself upright and once again reached automatically for her sketchbook.
Lines flowed easier now. The nightmare retreated to the edges of her mind, contained by graphite and paper.
A knock sounded at her door.
"Freya?" Sera's voice carried through the wood. "House meeting. Ten minutes."
"I'm coming," she called back.
House meeting.
The words cut through the fog of sleep. Freya dressed quickly, fingers clumsy with lingering fatigue. Inky hopped down from the windowsill and trailed her to the door.
The Verdant wing buzzed with unusual energy. Students clustered in the hallway, voices pitched high with speculation.
"What do you think it is?"
"Probably another training rotation."
"No way. Prefects don't call meetings for that."
Freya fell into step beside Sera. Her friend's eyes shone with curiosity.
"This is big," Sera whispered. "I heard they don't gather the whole house unless it matters."
They joined the flow toward the Verdant assembly hall, a wide chamber open to the sky through a lattice of living branches. Sunlight filtered through leaves, dappling the floor in shifting patterns.
Students filled the space quickly. Conversations rippled and overlapped, a restless tide of anticipation.
Then the prefects entered.
The effect was immediate.
Noise collapsed into silence. Students straightened instinctively, conversations dying mid-sentence. Respect moved through the hall like a physical force.
Lysara walked at the center of the group, her expression composed. The other Verdant prefects flanked her, their presence reinforcing the quiet authority she carried so effortlessly.
Freya felt it again, that subtle pressure in the air. Not oppressive. Stabilizing. As if the room itself aligned around them.
Lysara stepped onto the raised platform.
"Verdant," she said.
Her voice did not rise. It did not need to. Every ear strained to catch her words.
"You have performed well this past month. Your instructors report steady progress. Adaptability under pressure. Creative problem solving."
A flicker of pride warmed Freya's chest. Around her, shoulders eased slightly.
"But," Lysara continued, and the warmth sharpened into focus, "the academy is not a place of isolated growth. It is a crucible. And crucibles require friction."
A ripple of understanding moved through the crowd.
"In two weeks," she said, "the academy will host an inter-house event."
The hall inhaled as one.
"It is called the Convergence Trial," Lysara went on. "A multi-stage competition testing combat, strategy, and cooperation. Houses will compete in teams. Victory brings prestige, resources, and advantages in future placements."
Murmurs stirred, quickly hushed.
"This is not merely spectacle," she said. "It is a measure of how we function under pressure. How we represent Verdant."
Her gaze swept the assembly. For a heartbeat, it passed over Freya. The weight of that attention pressed against her ribs.
"Team selections will begin tomorrow," Lysara announced. "Training will intensify. Conflicts within our house will be resolved now, not later. We enter this united."
The message was clear. There was no room for internal fractures.
One of the other prefects stepped forward, a tall boy with sharp features and a calm demeanor.
"We expect discipline," he said. "If you have grievances, bring them to us. Do not let them fester. Verdant does not fracture under pressure. We adapt."
A murmur of assent rolled through the students. It was not forced. It was earned. The prefects commanded loyalty not through fear, but through the certainty that they would hold the house together.
Freya felt a current of electricity thread through her exhaustion.
An inter-house event.
Her pulse quickened. The nightmare's residue faded beneath the rising tide of anticipation. This was what she had come here for. Not just to survive the academy, but to test herself within it.
Lysara raised a hand, and the hall stilled once more.
"Train hard," she said simply. "Represent Verdant."
The meeting dissolved in a rush of voices. Students clustered in excited knots, speculation exploding into the air.
The energy of the meeting did not dissipate at all when students left the assembly hall. It followed them into the corridors, into the gardens, into every conversation that bloomed in its wake.
The Convergence Trial hung in the air like a promise and a threat.
Freya and Sera drifted with a loose cluster of Verdant students toward the dining hall. Voices overlapped in excited speculation.
"They'll prioritize upperclassmen," someone insisted.
"Not always," another countered. "They want adaptability. First-years can surprise people."
Freya listened more than she spoke. The lingering echo of her nightmare still pressed faintly at the edges of her awareness, a dull ache beneath the rising anticipation. Excitement layered over exhaustion in a way that felt strangely familiar. Fear and hope occupying the same breath.
Inside the dining hall, Verdant gathered instinctively at the same long tables. The house felt tighter than it had the day before. Conversations jumped easily between strangers. Names were exchanged. Strengths volunteered and exaggerated.
A tall boy across from Freya leaned forward. "What do you specialize in?"
The question caught her off guard. She hesitated.
"I… observe," she said finally. "Patterns. Movement."
He blinked, then grinned. "That's useful. I'm terrible at that."
Laughter rippled around the table. The tension eased. Freya felt something subtle shift inside her. A thread connecting her to the others. Fragile, but real.
Sera nudged her. "See? You're part of this whether you like it or not."
"I don't dislike it," Freya murmured.
That realization surprised her.
After the meal, Verdant students migrated to their common hall instead of scattering immediately to private rooms. The space filled with low conversation and restless energy. Some students spread maps across the tables, debating hypothetical strategies. Others simply talked, the Trial serving as a shared focal point that dissolved social barriers.
Freya found herself seated in a circle of near-strangers, listening to an upperclassman describe a previous Convergence.
"It's not just about winning fights," the girl explained. "They test communication. Trust. If your team fractures, you're done."
Trust.
The word landed heavily. Freya's fingers tightened around the edge of her sketchbook. Trust required vulnerability. Coordination. The willingness to rely on others in moments of pressure.
Her mind flickered back to the nightmare. To freezing. To isolation.
"You okay?" Sera asked quietly.
Freya blinked. "Yeah. Just thinking."
"Dangerous hobby," Sera said lightly.
The circle dissolved into gentle laughter. The sound wrapped around Freya, warm and grounding. She opened her sketchbook almost without thinking. Her pencil traced the shapes of the students around her. Overlapping silhouettes. Lines intersecting and supporting one another.
A team.
The image steadied something inside her.
As evening deepened, the common hall gradually emptied. Conversations softened into yawns and promises to meet early. Freya lingered a moment longer, watching the last clusters disperse.
Verdant did not feel like a collection of individuals anymore. It felt like a living structure. Flexible. Interconnected. A place where fractures could be mended instead of hidden.
Back in her room, the quiet greeted her gently. The memory of the nightmare stirred, but it felt more distant now. Buffered by voices and shared anticipation.
She sat at her desk and turned to a fresh page.
This time, she did not draw the past.
Her pencil sketched the assembly hall as she remembered it that morning. Students gathered beneath the lattice of branches. Lysara standing at the center. And among the crowd, a small figure with squared shoulders, facing forward.
Herself, not as she had been. As she was becoming.
Inky watched from the windowsill, eyes half-lidded. The city beyond shimmered with restless light. Somewhere within its vastness, countless other stories unfolded. Struggles and ambitions braided together into something larger than any one person.
Freya shaded the final lines and leaned back.
The nightmare had reminded her that scars did not fade simply because time passed. They lived quietly beneath the surface, waiting for moments of weakness. But today had shown her something equally important.
Scars did not exist in isolation.
They lived within structures. Within communities. Within places that could hold their weight without collapsing.
She closed the sketchbook and pressed her palm flat against its cover.
"I'm still afraid," she whispered into the quiet.
The admission did not feel like defeat. It felt like clarity.
Outside her door, footsteps echoed faintly as other students settled into the night. The academy breathed around her, vast and steady. A crucible, yes. But also a shelter.
Freya lay down, exhaustion settling into her bones. Inky leapt lightly onto the bed, curling near her feet. His presence was a constant she no longer questioned.
The scar within her chest ached softly. It always would.
But wrapped in the quiet hum of Verdant and the distant promise of the Trial, she felt something new taking root alongside it.
Not the absence of fear.
Belonging.
And as sleep finally claimed her, gentle and unbroken, Freya carried that fragile certainty with her into the dark.