Chapter 2 #3
“Listen up, first years,” he began, his voice like a slap of cold water.
“You might feel proud, honored to be here. Arcanna War College isn’t easy to get into, and you beat out thousands to claim a spot.
But don’t let that go to your head.” He stopped and glanced over the group, his expression unreadable but intense.
“You will be challenged. Your limits will be pushed, and you’ll stare death in the face before the first month is over.”
A few students shifted uncomfortably. One girl near me actually took a step back.
Aiden’s gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened.
“The Fourfold Rite is four weeks away,” he continued.
“And during that time, I’m going to drive you to wish you were dead.
” No one laughed. “Some of you will die.” He let the words sink in, heavy and brutal. “So don’t be so eager to make friends.”
His eyes landed directly on me as he said it. Of course he’d throw that in my direction, as if I was here to play tea party instead of survive.
“Remember one thing,” he stated, pausing in front of the group as if he were delivering a prophecy.
“You earn your tier… or you die trying.” And just like that, he turned on his heel and left, disappearing with the other unit leaders, leaving those words hanging in the air like a noose.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Around me, the new recruits stood frozen in place. No one was sure what to say or do. Then a blond-haired guy with an easy smile walked up to Gia and me.
He looked as if he belonged in the sunlight.
Short honey-colored hair, a shade lighter at the tips, framed a face cut with strong but uncomplicated lines—a sharp jaw, straight nose, and eyes the warm brown of desert soil after rain.
His skin held a deeper tan than most of ours, the kind earned beneath relentless heat rather than borrowed from a training yard.
I guessed he had to be from one of the southern desert regions.
There was nothing harsh about him. No dangerous edge.
Just clean features and the kind of smile that made you feel like you’d known him for longer than five seconds.
“Hey, I’m Ryan.” He held out a hand, relaxed and confident. “Ryan Bozzeli. Southern region. City called Sundervale.”
That made sense. Sundervale. I’d heard the name before, close to the camp located in the south, built on desert stone and blistering heat. Nothing like back home.
“Hi,” I replied, shaking his hand. “Rynlee Yarrows. From Aurendale,” Gia introduced herself right after.
Ryan glanced around the courtyard, taking it all in before grinning. “So… you ladies excited? Despite the welcome speech sounding like a death warning?”
I huffed a laugh. “I wouldn’t exactly say excited. More… trying not to die on my first day.”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I get that. My parents were worried about sending me here. I come from a family of healers.” I felt a small pang of longing. For a moment, I wished I were Ryan, parents concerned, a family trade that didn’t involve weapons or war.
“I’m excited,” Gia piped up, bright as always. “It’s sort of in my blood to be here. Seven brothers help with that.”
Ryan’s eyes widened. “Seven brothers?”
“Yep. The Mintz family basically bleeds testosterone,” she commented, and I laughed as Ryan let out a low whistle.
“Damn. I’ve got two older sisters. Kinda wish I was in your shoes, honestly.” We reached the open archway to our first class. The hall buzzed with nervous chatter and the faint scent of steel and ink. “Well,” Ryan said with a wide, boyish smile, “here’s to surviving day one.”
As we made our way inside, I glanced over my shoulder, my eyes catching movement near the stage.
My father. He was speaking with Commander Dagon, gesturing slightly with his cane.
Just as I turned to look away, his gaze met mine.
For a heartbeat, I thought maybe, just maybe, he would nod.
Offer a hint of encouragement. A small smile. A silent good luck.
He didn’t.
He simply looked away. My chest tightened.
Of course, he wouldn’t say anything. That wasn’t who he was anymore.
But he had been different once. I could still remember the way his bright blue eyes—that looked so much like mine—used to light up when he spoke about strategy, how he would carry me into his study when Mom was busy and show me the maps spread over his desk, markers placed carefully across Solthera.
He would have me point out different towns, and every time I was right, his mouth would curve with pride.
Back then, he was strict, yes, but he was proud.
Present. Almost warm. When Mom died, that part of him vanished.
The spark in his eyes dimmed, swallowed by grief and duty, until all that remained was discipline and distance.
He grew harder. Sharper. And to me, it felt like he’d died with her.
I straightened my shoulders, anyway. If I was going to survive this place, it wouldn’t be because of him.
It would be in spite of him.