The yard sprawled under the sun. It wasn’t bright; the heat was taut but steady. A dozen recruits trained with sweeping mana arcs, lifting stones or collapsing them in spirals. Sweat streamed unabashed from their faces.
A woman with a clipboard approached, pen hovering over parchment. Her hair was tied back, her eyes sharp, assessing. "Rethan?" she said without a greeting. "You’re late."
He paused, then nodded. Heads turned. A hush slid across the recruits.
She clicked the clipboard. "I heard about what happened. Sub-column instability above fifty percent. Luckily, containment held. No fallout. That’s fortunate. Not smart."
Rethan braced himself. "I know."
Sergeant Brane stepped forward. He was solid, brick-thick in both body and voice. "We’re doing pairing drills today. I’m assigning you a partner. Namely, Alin."
A slight movement near the training stones: a slender girl in plain uniform stepped forward. Her hair fell in a single braid. She carried a small jar, offensive luminance. Glancing at Rethan, smile thin.
"One shift each," Brane told them. Then he nodded to the woman with the clipboard. "Continue."
The clipboard-woman left, muttering into her pen.
Alin walked beside Rethan to one of the stations. She dropped the jar on the stone. The mana shimmer inside it. "Nice job on the instability," she said quietly, looking sideways. "Saw the columns shake."
Rethan’s chest tightened. "I... appreciate that."
She lifted the jar a few inches. "Five seconds. Hold it steady."
He raised a hand, summoned mana. The jar floated. His pulse thudded. Alin glanced at him, surprised. He held it steady.
She nodded. "Do you breathe?"
Rethan blinked. "Yes."
She smirked. "Good. Don’t forget."
He dropped the mana after twenty seconds. The jar clattered softly. Alin released a breath. "That’s enough."
Sergeant Brane appeared again. "Next up. Demonstration."
They moved to a circle drawn on the stone. Two at a time. Fire arcs crisscrossed, water coalesced in globules, mana emitted sparks.
A young man misbalanced his runic shield and flinched as it fell. Another recruit collapsed with a charred hand.
Rethan stepped in with Alin at his side. Brane barked, "Ready?"
They synchronized. Alin moved first, tending to shield Rethan as he conjured a wall of wind. He channeled mana outward, steady, and Alin followed with water pulses that contained it.
Their flow harmonized. A tidy circle of force shimmered, held for a moment, then dissipated without disturbance.
The yard was quiet for heartbeat.
Brane clicked his tongue. "Not bad. Could have been stronger if you weren’t pandering to safety."
Rethan opened his mouth. Shut it again. Alin waited.
"Demonstration accepted," Rethan said at last. "But it looked defensive."
Brane walked around them. "Defense keeps you alive. If you die at demonstration, your utility becomes zero."
He trudged off. Alin slung her braid to the side. "That was good."
Rethan nodded. He still felt drained. But less afraid.
They returned to the barracks. Long benches, rack of sword hilts, mana pulse lamps hung in corners. Rethan dropped onto a bench. Alin sat opposite, removing dust from her pants.
"I’m Alin," she said. "District transfer."
Something flickered behind her eyes, curiosity? Wariness?
"Ever broken a column before?"
He shook his head. "No."
"Then count yourself lucky," she said. "Not many do it without serious blowback."
"Are you going to last?" she asked.
Rethan thought of the King’s words. Of raw mana. Of unexpected survival. "I don’t know yet."
She looked at him a long moment. Then stood. "Come find me if you want pointers. Otherwise let your work speak."
He nodded. She left without another word. No ceremony.
Dinner fell two hours later. Cold stew, rough bread, thin broth. He sat alone at a long table with others. Conversation buzzed, complaints about training, brief jokes, a few friendly exchanges.
A recruit across from him had a burn patch on his forearm. He caught Rethan’s glance. "First stone fusion test," he said, offering a crooked grin.
The recruit wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Get used to telling people they’re luckier than they look."
Rethan smiled, thin. He chewed for a moment, tasted bread. Not awful.
In the kitchen, a clatter. A woman, cook, maybe, yelled at someone. Pots thrown. A laugh followed.
The buzz dropped. Conversation resumed. Someone joked about being hungry enough to steal stew.
Rethan looked at his plate. Hunger gnawed.
He thought: ’I survived the columns. I don’t know how long I’ll survive here.’
Night fell again. He lay on a cot in the sleeping hall, twelve beds, heat lamps warming under each. He stared at the grey ceiling.
A rustle. The younger recruit with the burn came in quietly. The man held a flask of broth. He offered it. Rethan accepted.
"Keep your head down," the man answered. "Eyes front. Work harder."
Rethan sat up. "What’s your name?"
"Jorik." He shrugged. "Everyone calls me Jor."
They sat in silence, drinking broth.
Jor offered a crackled laugh. "First time me and that cook got into a fight over a ladle she called mine. Guard heard it. Didn’t give a damn."
Rethan looked around. "Sounds... rough."
Jor nodded. "It is. But when you blend mana into stew, that cook shuts up quick."
Jor stood, stretching. "Get some sleep, Rethan. Tomorrow’s pairing drills too."
Rethan nodded. Jor left. Door shut with soft click.
He closed his eyes. Moonlight through the slats splashed shadows across the cot.
Thought drifted back to Circle Nine, back to the King’s warning, the exile’s memory.
He touched his chest. Still carried it.
He thought: ’I’m not going soft. I’m just living in a world that doesn’t need me to blaze.’
He fell asleep with that thought and woke before the morning horn.
Rethan stood in a line that didn’t feel like a line. It bent awkwardly, jagged with people who didn’t care about shape or order.
The training field was wide, rectangular, and scarred with years of overuse. Scuffed dirt, splintered poles, half-buried rope anchors no one had bothered to dig up.
He kept his head down, mostly. Just enough to avoid eye contact but still scan.
Behind him, the girl from the cell yawned without covering her mouth. "This guy’s gonna be a talker. Bet you anything."
"Which guy?" someone asked from further down.
She jerked a thumb toward the approaching figures.
Four instructors. All different shapes. None smiling.
The leader was tall, stocky, with arms like he’d carved them from boulders and a voice that carried like it owed you rent.
"All of you shut it," he barked. "I’m not paid enough to hear you breathe."
Everyone went quiet. Some out of fear. Some out of boredom.
He stopped in front of the line and eyed them like someone inspecting meat for cracks. "Name’s Bradan. If you last more than a week, you’ll call me Instructor Bradan. If not, you’ll be bleeding too hard to speak."
Next to Bradan stood a woman in her late thirties. Light armor, neat posture, the kind of presence that didn’t need shouting. She didn’t pace. She just watched.
Bradan gestured lazily at her. "That’s Instructor Kael. She’ll teach you to dodge things you didn’t see coming. Most of you will still fail."
Kael raised one hand. "If you do something stupid, I will trip you. If you bleed, I’ll ignore it. If you cry, I’ll laugh. If you bite me, I will bite back."
A few kids in the back laughed. She stared at them until they stopped.
Bradan moved on. "You," he said, pointing to a thin man with round spectacles and the shoulders of someone who rarely left a desk. "Say something smart."
The man didn’t flinch. "Mana theory is ninety percent application, ten percent not dying. I’ll try to help you with both. My name’s Instructor Telin. Don’t bother cheating. I’ve seen it all."
Rethan narrowed his eyes. That one would probably be the least terrifying. Which made him the most dangerous.
Bradan clapped once, loud enough to silence the murmurs. "Group A with Kael. Group B with Telin. Group C with me. If you don’t know what group you’re in, you’re probably dead already."
The girl from the cell whispered, "Crap, I’m in B. You?"
"C," Rethan said, barely moving his lips.
"Ha. Good luck. He eats confidence and poops failure."
Bradan stepped in front of Rethan’s smaller group. "Alright. Power assessment. Nothing fancy. You’re gonna charge a sigil until I say stop. You blow it up, I break your nose."
Someone near the back coughed. "What if we can’t make it glow?"
Bradan smiled. Not kindly. "Then I mark you for repurposing. You like mines?"
The silence that followed was heavy.
A boy to Rethan’s right stepped forward and knelt by the sigil carved into the dirt. He hesitated. Eyes closed. Hands hovered.
A flicker of light. Pale blue.
Bradan grunted. "Acceptable."
When it was Rethan’s turn, he knelt. Placed his hand flat against the sigil. He didn’t try to flare anything. Just let the mana move.
It lit instantly. Brighter. Too bright.
The lines flared up his wrist like the veins of a tree catching fire.
He pulled back, breathing steady.
Bradan stared at him for a second longer than the others.
Rethan blinked. The name that wanted to come out was Merlin.
But that wasn’t right here.
Bradan’s tone didn’t shift. But the way he stood did.
Not a threat. Not an offer.
The girl from earlier leaned past him. "What’d you do?"
"I don’t know," Rethan muttered.
"Good. Keep doing it. I like having someone to stand behind."
Behind them, Telin muttered something about ratios, Kael tripped a boy who wasn’t paying attention, and Bradan just kept watching.
Because whatever this place was, he’d just been noticed. And attention here felt a lot like being picked for a game you didn’t know the rules to yet.