Chapter 5.
The gym buzzed with tension, every corner of the vast open floor occupied — cadets stretching, wiping sweat from their necks, adjusting gloves and bracers. The scent of oil, leather, and adrenaline hung thick in the air.
Aeliana stood just off one of the twenty mats, her boots planted at the edge, wraps already tight. The light from the windows spilled in high and slanted, catching on the haze of dust and heat that never fully cleared from the air.
It was time.
The first official day of Challenges. And she'd been called up.
She took the mat silently, her heart steady, her pulse calm in that familiar pre-fight stillness she'd learned in the village.
Observe. Breathe. Wait. The weight of eyes didn't matter — not from Fourth Wing, not from the instructors circling the gym, and definitely not from First Wing's cluster near the back.
Her opponent stepped forward from across the mat — tall, broad-shouldered, brown eyes already narrowed in quiet focus. She was from First Wing. The insignia marked her shirt, and the confidence in her step confirmed it.
That didn't matter.
"Cadets ready?" barked the third-year standing at the edge of their mat.
The girl nodded, already crouched into a stance.
Aeliana just dipped her chin once.
"Begin!"
The girl struck fast, high and heavy — blade to blade.
The clack of wood rang through the air as Aeliana deflected the blow and pivoted to the side.
Her opponent didn't let up — two more strikes came in quick succession.
Aeliana dodged one, blocked the other, then slipped low and aimed for the girl's knee.
Blocked.
They circled. Breath heaving. Boots skidding.
The girl pressed forward again — more aggressive this time. She was good, but she fought like a brawler, full of force. Aeliana absorbed the tempo, let herself bend like a reed in wind.
And then she snapped.
One feint. One drop to the side. One perfectly timed foot hook, and the girl's balance tipped.
She hit the mat with a grunt and a sharp crack of shoulder to floor.
The third-year blew the whistle. "Winner: Sorynne."
Aeliana stepped back, lowering her weapon. She offered her hand.
The girl from First Wing ignored it, pushing to her feet with a scowl before walking off without a word.
Aeliana let her arm fall.
No matter.
Aeliana stepped off the mat, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve, her pulse already settling back into its usual rhythm. No grin. No smugness. Just that quiet confirmation: she'd done what she came to do.
Liam was waiting at the edge, water flask in hand.
"That was clean," he said simply, offering her the flask.
She took it, nodded her thanks, and drank.
"She came in like a hammer," he added, "but you turned her own weight against her. Remind me never to fight you tired."
She handed the flask back. "You're up next, aren't you?"
He grinned. "Unfortunately. But I've been told I'm charming in defeat."
"Noted."
They didn't need to say good luck. That wasn't their thing. They just moved — one stepping off, the other stepping on — like cogs in the same machine.
Aeliana stood on the edge of the mat and watched as Liam squared off with a tall, muscular cadet from Third Wing. She hadn't seen the boy before, but judging by his stance, he was confident.
Too confident.
The match began, and within seconds, Liam was in motion — low, controlled, fluid. His strikes weren't flashy, but precise. He dodged a right hook, pivoted, and took the other cadet down in three smooth moves.
It was almost unfair.
The whistle blew.
The third-year raised a brow. "That was... fast."
Liam just shrugged. "I skipped breakfast."
Aeliana huffed a quiet laugh through her nose.
When he joined her again, sweat trailing down his jawline, she handed back the flask. "I'm starving."
"I'll remember to bring food next time," she said, and they started walking the perimeter of the gym.
Around them, older cadets were already cycling through their drills — sparring matches between second- and third-years playing out with sharp precision and the kind of control that came from surviving longer than most.
Aeliana slowed her steps, eyes narrowing slightly as she watched a second-year take down her opponent with a move she didn't recognize — a faint twist at the end of a strike that disrupted the other cadet's balance.
She turned, watching another pair — one of the Third Wing second-years using the pommel of his blade to knock aside his opponent's guard before striking fast and low.
"See that?" she said quietly.
"Yeah." Liam stepped beside her, tracking the same pair. "That guard break was tight."
"They're cleaner than we are," she said. "More efficient. Less wasted motion."
"They've had more time to practice being alive."
Aeliana didn't answer right away. She was still watching. Absorbing. Every strike, every parry, every footwork pivot that separated the experienced from the still-trying-to-survive.
She was learning.
Even without being taught.
~
The gym smelled like sweat and steel — just how Aeliana liked it.
This time, there were no third-years barking challenges, no mixed-wing sparring chaos. Just Fourth Wing. Their people. Their squad.
The mat beneath her boots felt familiar now, the air easier to breathe. She didn't have to scan for danger every second — just for opportunity.
Across from her, Liam rolled his shoulders and smirked.
"You ready?" he asked, blade already in hand, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
"I've been ready," she replied, tugging the fingerless gloves tighter across her knuckles. "Try not to trip this time."
He snorted. "That was one time."
"It was enough."
"Alright, Sorynne," he said, dropping into stance. "Let's see if you can keep up."
They moved together — no whistle, no barked command. Just motion.
The first strike came from him: a high feint that shifted to a low sweep. She parried the first easily and sidestepped the second, flipping into a counter jab at his ribs. He caught her wrist mid-swing and twisted — she spun with it, yanking herself free before he could pin her.
Back and forth they moved, their spar like a conversation in fluent motion.
Each feint was answered, each shift anticipated.
They knew each other's rhythms now — the way Liam always tilted his shoulder just before a hook, the half-second of silence before Aeliana pivoted off her back foot for a reverse kick.
It wasn't easy. They both scored glancing taps. But no one landed anything clean.
Still, Aeliana grinned between clenched teeth. She was sweating, winded, and sore — but she was alive in this. Grounded. A little breathless from more than just movement.
Finally, they locked wrists, pushing each other off-balance until they stumbled apart.
"Draw," Liam panted.
"Agreed."
They stood there, chests rising and falling in tandem, breath syncing.
Aeliana shook out her hands, letting the last of the adrenaline roll off her shoulders.
"That was good," Liam said, genuinely this time. No teasing. "You know all my tricks now."
"Only because you keep using them," she shot back, but there was no bite in it.
As he grabbed a towel and moved toward the water barrels, Aeliana stayed still — watching the rest of their squad across the gym. The second-years had claimed one of the far corners, sparring in rotating pairs with a kind of grace and control that made her want to learn from them even more.
She hesitated for only a second before walking across the mat.
One of the second-years — tall, cropped black hair, lean like a drawn blade — had just finished a bout. He was wiping down his face when she stepped up.
"Hey," she said. "You're in Tail Section too, right?"
He glanced over, expression neutral. "Yeah."
"I was wondering if you'd be willing to train with me sometime," she said. "You've got better control than anyone else on the floor, and I've been trying to refine my counters."
There was a pause.
A subtle flicker of recognition — not interest, just calculation.
"You're a first-year," he said finally, wiping sweat from his brow.
"I am," she replied. "But I'm not asking for free lessons. Just a few rounds. A push in the right direction."
He looked at her a beat longer. Then shrugged. "I've got my own drills. And time's tight. Maybe later."
He was already turning away before the sentence finished.
Aeliana stood there a moment longer, jaw tight. Then she nodded once — mostly to herself — and turned back toward the mats.
Liam met her halfway, water flask dangling in one hand.
"They say no?" he asked.
She didn't answer right away.
Then, dryly: "Didn't even pretend to think about it."
Liam tilted his head, walking beside her again. "Don't take it personally. Most of the second-years don't bother learning names until after Threshing."
"Because we might die before then?"
"Something like that."
She exhaled slowly. "Yeah. You're probably right."
They reached the edge of their mat again, the noise of the gym rolling back around them like a tide.
"Still," Liam added, offering her the water again. "Their loss."
They returned to their mat. Liam stretched out beside the water barrels, watching a few of the remaining first-years still cycling through the last rounds.
She was still thinking about the second-year — how easily he'd dismissed her. As if she was a footnote. As if she might already be dead.
She turned toward the exit to cool off.
And that's when she bumped into a shoulder harder than expected.
Pink hair. Pale green eyes.
Imogen.
The other girl stepped back, looked her up and down, then smirked without warmth.
"Well, if it isn't the squad pet," she said, voice low and casual. "You've been real cozy with your little partner."
Aeliana blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Don't play dumb." Imogen's tone wasn't confrontational — it was bored. But the edge beneath it was clear. "I see you watching the second-years like a lost puppy. Still hoping someone throws you a bone?"
Aeliana didn't flinch. "No," she said simply. "I'll take what I need when the time comes."
Imogen tilted her head, something unreadable in her expression. "Careful, Sorynne. You keep pretending like you belong, someone's going to test you on it."
Aeliana smiled — just a little, the kind that didn't reach her eyes.
"They can try."
Imogen's smirk faltered. Just barely.
Imogen turned and walked off without another word, her footsteps light and unhurried — like the entire exchange had been beneath her.
Aeliana stared after her for a beat, then shook her head, exhaling through her nose. She didn't care.
Not really.
But her fingers clenched into a fist anyway.
She returned to their mat where Liam was still seated, tying a fresh wrap over his hand. He glanced up as she approached, one brow arched. "Everything alright?"
Aeliana didn't answer. She just picked up her blade again and walked to the far mat.
It was mostly empty now. The gym had started to quiet — second-years heading out, first-years lingering only in exhausted pairs. Light angled down through the high windows in golden beams, catching the dust in slow motion.
Aeliana moved in silence.
Strike. Block. Turn. Reset. Again.
It didn't matter if no one wanted to train with her. It didn't matter if her squad didn't care whether she lived or died. She wasn't training for them.
She was training to survive.
To win.
To be more than someone who'd endured — she was going to earn her place.
Even if she had to train with ghosts.
A water flask arced through the air toward her — she caught it on reflex, mid-step.
Liam stood a few paces off, arms crossed, sweat still damp on his collar.
"You're gonna burn out at this rate," he said. "Even ghosts take breaks."
She unscrewed the lid but didn't drink yet.
He walked closer, not too close. Just enough that she could hear him clearly.
"I saw you this morning," he added. "Out running before sunrise."
Aeliana blinked. "And?"
"And I'm just saying," Liam said, voice calm but not teasing, "don't take it too hard. The second-years? The rejections? None of that matters if you've already outworked all of them before breakfast."
She didn't answer right away.
Then: "I don't need their approval."
"I know," he said, starting to turn. "But it wouldn't kill you to take a break. Just don't expect me to carry you to the healers when you collapse."
"Noted," she said, and raised the flask in mock salute.
But after he walked off, she stayed where she was a little longer.
Strike. Block. Reset.
And then, just once more —
Strike.
~
The lecture hall was full by the time Aeliana slid into her usual seat beside Liam. The low rumble of voices — cadets whispering, theorizing, speculating — filled the high-ceilinged room, the light from the sconces throwing long shadows against the curved stone walls.
She shifted slightly, her left shoulder still sore from training the day before. The bandage was tight beneath her sleeve, hidden from view, but her muscles ached with satisfaction.
Professor Devera stepped onto the lower platform at the front of the amphitheater-style space, her flame-section insignia gleaming against her black jacket, hair cropped as sharply as her tone.
"This morning's briefing is not a hypothetical," she began, voice cutting clean through the murmur. "The Eastern Wing engaged again last night. This time near the outer edges of the Laramoor Woods."
The large map unfurled behind her in a quick flick of mage-light.
Aeliana's eyes flicked to the eastern border. Close to Braevick. The forests were dense there — difficult terrain for a raid.
"A drift of gryphons breached the wardline at 0300," Devera continued, pacing slowly. "Initial reports estimate six riders, and twice as many beasts. Our squad intercepted them twenty minutes later."
Her voice didn't change. "Casualties were minimal. One rider lost. No dragons. Seven enemy confirmed dead. The rest fled."
Someone near the front of the hall raised a hand. "Did the gryphons channel again?"
"They did," Professor Markham answered from her side. "And again, only once they crossed our wards."
"That's the third breach this week," someone muttered.
Aeliana's brow furrowed. Her fingers tapped quietly on her desk, mind working through the layers of what wasn't being said.
Same region. Same pattern. And a delay in interception. Why?
She raised her hand.
Professor Devera turned. "Cadet Sorynne."
"If the breach point is near Laramoor, and the last two attacks were near Chakir and Esben Ridge," Aeliana began, "is there a chance they're testing the strength of the wards along the entire Esben range?"
A pause.
Then a slow nod from Devera. "That is the working theory."
Aeliana continued, emboldened. "But they're not attacking outposts directly. They're targeting villages. That's not conquest. That's reconnaissance. Or distraction."
Markham's eyes flicked toward her, sharp.
"Interesting." Devera tilted her head. "What makes you say that?"
"They're not staying to fight. They hit, they leave. They're not trying to hold ground — they're watching our response times. Testing how fast we deploy. Who we send. And where we're weakest."
The room had gone still around her.
Even Liam glanced sideways, brows slightly raised.
Professor Devera didn't smile — but the edge of her mouth pulled. Just barely.
"You're not wrong," she said. "Continue watching the maps closely. Next week, you'll begin reading the raw scout reports. Learn to identify a pattern before one kills you."
She turned back to the projection. "Now. Let's talk terrain. Laramoor is not an easy fly zone — not for dragons, and certainly not for gryphons. What does that tell you about their intent?"
Another cadet raised a hand.
The lecture moved on.
But Aeliana stayed still for a moment longer, pulse steady.
She wasn't the loudest in the room. She didn't have a famous name or flashy powers.
But she had eyes. She had logic. She saw what others overlooked.
And in a war college built on survival — that was enough to start mattering.