Chapter 5
Aiden’s POV
I was out on my morning run with the other unit leaders. While our units sat in class, we trained. That was the life of a third year: train, patrol, prepare. If you failed your classes, you were stuck doing both. Nobody wanted that. Most cadets never even made it this far.
By the time you reached your third year of training, half your original squad was already gone, lost during the initial year, culled by sparring, the Trifecta, and the Fourfold Rite.
I remembered my own first year clearly. Thirty recruits had passed from my unit.
We’d suffered twenty losses along the way.
Sparring broke some of them. The Trifecta took more.
And the Fourfold Rite finished the rest.
If you endured all that, then and only then did Arcanna open its next layer.
From there on out, it was no longer about survival.
It was about strength. Of those who remained, only the strongest were chosen as unit leaders.
You weren’t handed the title. You bled for it.
You survived when others didn’t. You proved you could command, endure, and break people down just enough to rebuild them stronger.
That was how I earned my place. Not because of my name.
Not because of my father. But because I refused to fall when everything else around me did.
Our boots pounded the forest path in rhythm, the narrow trail looping beside the academy like a coiled snake.
Breath puffed out in pale clouds, sharp and white against the cold air.
But my mind wasn’t on the run. It was on her.
What the fuck was Rynlee thinking coming here?
She didn’t belong. Not in this place. Not in this war.
Growing up, she was always behind, lagging in runs, clumsy in sparring.
I’d beaten her every time. It didn’t help that most of her attention was spent staring at Alaric, or with her nose buried in some book, or lost in her damn alchemy.
The others kept running when I slowed near a bend in the path, bracing my hands on my knees.
I stared at the dew-laced ground, jaw locked tight.
Now she was struggling to get past the Trifecta, an obstacle designed to weed out the unfit.
And she was already faltering on the third tier.
That alone told me everything I needed to know.
She wouldn’t survive it. Not here. Not when Arcanna demanded more than effort; it demanded endurance.
She was weak. Small. And a constant thorn in my side.
I remembered her trailing after me when we were younger, always trying to be included. My father would force me to let her join our stick fights, our runs. Be nice, he’d say. Include her.
She never knew when to quit. And the worst part, the aspect that still burned, was that my father looked at her with more pride than he ever spared for me.
No matter how hard I pushed, how much I won, how much I endured, it was never enough.
So, if she wanted to be here now, fine. But she would earn it.
I’d push her harder than anyone else, because this place didn’t hand out mercy.
And if Rynlee aimed to survive Arcanna, she’d have to bleed for it.
After the run, we headed to the sparring hall.
Sweat already slicked my back, but this was where the real work began.
Third-year combat wasn’t about drills anymore; it was about dominance.
Injuries were expected. Mercy wasn’t. I paired with Ivy while Jasmine stood across from Brandon.
Ivy was smaller than most of us, compact, built tight rather than tall.
Pale skin stretched over sharp lines, and short purple hair brushed the edge of her jaw, severe and deliberate.
Her thunder-gray eyes were the only thing that gave her away.
Not warm. Not expressive. Just steady. Measuring.
Most people underestimated her because of her height. That was their first mistake.
She stood balanced on the balls of her feet, weight distributed evenly.
No wasted movement. No fidgeting. Her shoulders were relaxed but ready.
Lightning users always had that tension in them, like a storm coiled behind their ribs.
Her weakness? Close range. Lightning favored distance. Needed space to arc.
The mat under my boots was cold and worn; the smell of steel and sweat thick in the air.
I shifted into a fighting stance, rolling my shoulders, waiting.
Ivy rushed toward me. Too fast. Predictable.
I slipped out of the way, drove my fist into her ribs, and felt the impact vibrate through my arm.
She coughed, stumbled, yet I didn’t give her time to recover.
My shadows surged forward, coiling around her like living smoke.
They yanked her to the ground with a satisfying thud.
A sharp jolt of lightning cracked into my shoulder, the smell of scorched leather filling my nose.
My muscles twitched, but I didn’t let go.
The darkness whispered: end it, finish her.
I shoved the thought away, jaw tight, and only released when she tapped out.
She scrambled up, eyes hard, and unsheathed her daggers.
Fine. I drew mine, too. She swung high, aiming for my face, but I dipped under, slashing across her arm.
She hissed, twisting to the side, but I was already moving low, fast, sweeping her legs from under her.
She hit the mat, and I was on her in a heartbeat, pinning her down, dagger at her throat.
Her hand darted out, and steel bit into my thigh.
Pain lanced upward, hot and sharp. My temper snapped.
I caught her arm, twisted until the joint gave way at the elbow, the sickening crack echoing across the hall. She screamed.
I stood, ripping her blade from my leg with a slow deliberate pull.
Blood ran warm down my thigh, soaking into my leather.
Ivy cradled her injured arm, retreating toward the infirmary without looking back.
Here, guilt had no place. She stabbed me, so I broke her arm.
That was the lesson. Across the mat, Jasmine had Brandon in a headlock, her knee braced into his spine.
He tapped out, and she grinned, fierce and satisfied, before stepping away.
I felt a flicker of pride watching her. Jasmine and I…
we weren’t exactly official. We started in our second year stealing moments behind training pillars, trading smirks in class, creating excuses to be in the same patrol rotation.
Dating was banned here. The academy didn’t want distractions; it disallowed cadets caring too much about each other.
But it didn’t stop us from finding ways around the rules.
She came over, shoulder-length black hair brushing against the collar of her leathers, olive skin warmed by the training lights.
Her forest-green eyes were piercing as ever, sharp enough to cut through anyone else in the room.
They’d always given her an edge, paired with the stern set of her mouth and the deliberate way she carried herself.
But I knew the softer edges she didn’t show the others. The way her expression eased when she thought no one was looking. How her heart-shaped face lost its severity when she smiled at me instead of at the room. Her gaze dropped to my leg.
“You’re bleeding,” she said, her brows pulling together. I shrugged and smirked.
“It’s just a stab wound.” I pressed my palm over it, letting ice bloom from my skin and seal the worst of it.
“That’s not going to do much,” she commented, slipping her hand into mine. Her grip was warm, grounding. “Come on, I’ll take you to the infirmary.” I let her lead me out, my fingers automatically lacing with hers. That was the thing about Jasmine; she made this place feel less like a prison.
I still remembered that first kiss behind the sparring pillars, how her lips were warm and certain, the way her hand had rested against my jaw like she wasn’t afraid of me.
For a moment back then and even now, I’d felt as though I wasn’t completely alone in this hell.
As we stepped into the infirmary, Jasmine headed one way while I went the other.
Mira was there, bustling between beds. She was Mackie’s twin sister, and sometimes the resemblance to Rynlee’s mother was unsettling enough to make me look twice.
Same golden hair brushing the tops of her shoulders, the waves were subtle; same honey-brown eyes that always seemed to perceive more than you wanted them to.
I’d grown up around both of them, spent more afternoons in their kitchen than I could count.
Mackie had treated me and Alaric like her own, especially after our mother died not long after Al was born.
When Mackie passed, Mira stepped in without hesitation.
Then she left for the academy, and everything changed.
“Aid, you’re bleeding again,” Mira said, her lips twitching. For a moment I was a kid again, sitting at her table while she cleaned the cuts my father left behind. I shrugged, dropping onto the edge of the bed.
“You know… third-year shit.” She knelt beside me, fingers quick as she tugged my leathers away from the stab wound. Across the room, Ivy was grimacing as another healer wrapped her broken arm.
“Well, good news, it’s not too deep,” Mira said, reaching for a small tin. “Bad news, you’ll get another scar.”
I snorted. “Like I don’t already have enough of those.
” She unscrewed the lid, and the faint scent of fire blossom hit me before the salve did.
The ointment hissed against my skin, searing as it cauterized the wound.
I didn’t flinch. You got used to pain here, especially after lashings.
Once you’d endured that, nothing else compared.
“Alright, all done.” She set the tin back and gave my leg a quick pat.
“Thanks, Mira,” I said, standing.
“Of course.” I started toward the door, following Jasmine, when her voice stopped me.
“Aid, can you do me a favor?”
I turned back. “Sure.”