Chapter 3
Rynlee’s POV
Our first class of the day was Strategic Decisions. The classroom was oval-shaped and impressively large, with smooth stone walls and rows of long wooden benches lining either side. Matching tables filled the center space, their surfaces worn soft and grooved from years of use.
The scent of ink, old parchment, and dust lingered faintly in the air.
It wasn’t new to me. I had smelled it before, on the rare days I’d visited with my father, when he was still holding rank at Arcanna.
Back then, the academy seemed larger than life; its professors untouchable, the halls humming with secrets I would never be part of.
I used to trail after him, my shoes clicking on the stone floors, clutching my mother’s hand as if the place might swallow me whole.
He always walked with pride, chin lifted, shoulders squared, as though these walls were his second home.
Now I sat here in leather armor, quill in hand, realizing those whispers were no longer mere stories.
They belonged to me too, and I wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. Gia slid onto the bench beside me, offering a tired smile as she pulled out a pen as well. I followed suit, trying to shake off the heaviness left by Aiden’s “welcome” speech.
This class was one of the few we shared with other years.
All first and second cadets were required to take it, and if you failed, you repeated it with the next wave of students.
A humbling experience. Apparently some third years were still stuck here.
I scanned the room as cadets filed in, catching glimpses of familiar faces from my unit.
A few looked just as nervous as I was. Others…
not so much. Then she walked in—petite, blonde, and practically glowing with cheerfulness.
Professor Wicken. I recognized her from the formal dinners my parents used to host. She was in her late forties now, with crow’s feet around her soft brown eyes and a warm energy that didn’t quite match the subject she taught.
It was hard to imagine a person so bubbly being a master of strategy and warfare.
I’d always pictured someone more… imposing.
“Good morning, students!” she greeted, her voice cheerful as she strode to the front and pulled down a large map of the continent with a dramatic fwip. It unfurled to reveal detailed topography, borders, encampments, and magical wards sketched in glowing ink.
“Let’s start with something simple.” She turned to face us, hands clasped behind her back.
“Can anyone tell me where our strongest defense lies?” I already knew the answer.
One perk of having a father who sat at the strategic table of this war, who had made sure I memorized our border positions like sacred scripture.
Still, I stayed quiet, waiting to see who else might speak.
A boy a few rows ahead shifted in his seat.
Red hair curled softly at his temples, not cropped with the sharp discipline most cadets wore as armor.
Freckles scattered across a face that retained the last traces of boyhood.
His jaw hadn’t hardened yet. His shoulders didn’t quite settle into their strength.
He sat stiffly; hands braced on his desk as though the wrong answer might shatter him. I recognized him from my unit.
“Yes, Mr…?”
“Clive Fellowes” he replied, voice soft but eager.
Professor Wicken gave him an encouraging smile. “Ah yes, cadet Fellowes. What do you think?”
“It’s our southern border,” he confidently answered. I winced. Wrong. A common mistake, though. Most people assumed size equaled strength.
“Not exactly,” she said gently. “But a fair guess. Anyone else?” Her gaze swept over the room and landed on me. She raised a single brow. Shit. I recognized that expression. “Cadet Yarrows?” she asked, already smiling like she knew I had the answer. “Any thoughts?”
“Yes,” I reply quietly, but loud enough to carry. “It’s the Northern Encampment.” A soft murmur spread across a few students.
“There’s no way,” a voice cut in sharp, dismissive.
I turned to see a girl a few seats over.
Shoulder-length dark brown hair brushed the collar of her uniform, framing a face set in clear irritation.
Her skin was fair, almost luminous beneath the classroom light, but there was nothing delicate about her.
Olive-green eyes locked onto me, bright and unyielding.
She wore the same Apollo patch I did. Sofia, maybe? I couldn’t quite remember her name.
“That’s our smallest encampment,” she retorted, narrowing her gaze as if I had insulted her intelligence.
There was confidence in the way she sat spine straight, shoulders squared, as if she expected the room to listen when she spoke.
Not loud. Not frantic. Just certain. I smiled sweetly and crossed my arms, raising a brow in return.
“Actually, it is.” I met her stare head-on.
“Because the Northern Encampment sits near Celestian Mountain, the place where we draw most of our magic. That proximity strengthens our wards, shielding spells, and reinforcement runes. It’s not about size; it is about power.
” Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
Professor Wicken grinned. “Very good, cadet Yarrows. You’ve clearly studied.
” I didn’t say it, but I wanted to: Thanks, Dad.
Whether or not I liked it, he’d drilled that fact into me years ago.
I may have looked small and fragile, but at least I was smart.
That was something I had going for me at this school.
The rest of the class was spent studying the layout of our border encampments. We analyzed why each one occupied its specific location and how their positions helped funnel reinforcements, shield key strongholds, and maintain control over volatile regions.
The main focus was the Eastern Encampment.
It was our primary defense against the Blood Assassins.
I had heard stories about the battles fought there; how assassins still tried to slip through even now.
But the wards held strong, forming a magical barrier along the border that helped keep them at bay.
My father once explained that there had been a sort of treaty between our kingdom and the assassins: stay on your side of the border, and we would stay on ours. But laws and treaties are only as strong as the people who follow them.
That was why the wards were cast along the entire eastern stretch of the border, running north through the mountains, blocking any easy passage into our lands. The Eastern Encampment was our stronghold.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes, countless introductions to new professors, stacks of homework assignments, and more rules than I could keep track of.
Each of us was issued four daggers: two meant to be positioned along our ribs, the others strapped to our thighs.
We were also given a quick tour of the sparring rooms before being dismissed.
After my final class, I slipped away from the feeding hall and wandered across the narrow stone bridge that led toward the medical ward.
The soft glow of sunset shimmered over the Glass Sea, casting streaks of gold and pink throughout the water’s mirrored surface.
A salty breeze caught my hair, tugging it gently around my shoulders.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the sun soak into my skin.
I survived my first day, no injuries, no scrapes.
Just an overwhelming amount of homework.
Opening my eyes, I focused on the large, wooden double doors of the medical ward ahead.
I remembered my Aunt Mira had been stationed here a few years back, and the thought filled me with quiet excitement.
Maybe I could help make healing salves, assist with remedies, anything that might tether me, even briefly, to what I loved.
I was about to reach the entrance when a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me into a tight hug.
“Ryn! I missed you,” a familiar voice said warmly. I smiled and melted into the embrace, wrapping my arms around Alaric’s neck. The scent of pine and cedar emanated from him, reminding me of comfort and home. “What are you doing here?” he questioned, pulling back just enough to search my face.
“You know my father, right?” I asked dryly, arching a brow.
He sighed and ran a hand over his freshly buzzed head.
“Right. Of course he would make you come here.”
“Hey, what happened to your long, princely locks?” I teased, though honestly, the short style suited him. It accentuated the sharp angles of his cheekbones and gave him a more mature appearance. Fiercer.
“Had to cut it,” he replied with a shrug. “Apparently, it made me look weak. Or so my brother says.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well, your brother thinks everything is a weakness.”
“Not everything, Ruin.” The familiar voice cut through the air behind us, low and cold.
I stiffened. Turning slowly, I found Aiden standing a few paces away, arms crossed.
Sunlight caught along the dark markings etched into his forearms; the shapes shifting subtly as he moved.
His smirk curved lazily. “Just everything about you.”
“Wow, Aiden,” I shot back, folding my arms across my chest. “So original. Haven’t heard that one in at least…
ten minutes.” My eyes drifted to his skin despite myself.
With his arms crossed, I couldn’t make out the runes clearly, only that they were burned into him rather than inked.
Raised. Dark. Alive with magic. I noticed, too, the way the shadows seemed to cling to him, curling around his ankles.
His shadow tattoos coiled subtly in the light, resembling smoke stirred by an unseen wind.
Aiden had power. Real, dangerous power. And it radiated off him like heat from a forge.
“Come on, guys,” Alaric sighed, stepping between the two of us. “Let’s not fight.”