Soren didn't answer.

She pressed forward, not attacking, simply matching his pace. "You think I didn't read the testimony? The shield splintering? The ricochet burn on the cliffside?"

He tightened his grip.

"That was situational," he said.

"Everything is situational," she replied. "Show me."

He didn't.

She advanced again, ferocity controlled, blade angled just enough to force him back but not enough to threaten.

"Show me."

He shook his head. "If I do, I—"

"You what?" Lysandra stepped into his guard so fast he didn't see the movement until her blade was tapping lightly—mockingly—against his chest. "Lose control? Kill an instructor? Reveal what you really are?"

Coren's breath caught.

Lysandra's voice dropped to a quiet, lethal line.

"You are not Coren Vale."

His blood froze.

But before panic could form—she added:

"Not the version written in your file, at least."

A fraction of relief. A fraction too much.

Valenna whispered sharply:

"She's baiting you."

Lysandra stepped away, lowering her blade.

"Last chance, Cadet. I want to see your Aura. Now."

Coren's pulse hammered. The yard felt too wide, too empty. The stone under his boots felt like a stage he hadn't chosen.

He forced air into his lungs.

"If I use it," he said quietly, "I can't guarantee I'll stop it."

Lysandra raised her chin.

"Then you will learn."

She moved.

Fast.

A strike aimed straight at his shoulder—measured, but real. Not practice-speed. Combat-speed.

Coren blocked—barely.

She pressed. A second strike. A third. A fourth. Forcing him to either break, or break the seal on his Aura.

Valenna flared in his wrist.

"Now, Soren. Now."

He exhaled—

And let the Aura slip.

Cold-blue light flowed down the blade, thin at first, then brightening with every heartbeat.

Lysandra's eyes widened—not in fear, but in interest.

"Good," she whispered.

Coren struck.

Lysandra parried once, twice—then the Aura clipped her guard, sending a sharp crack through the air as the energy split against her blade, scattering like shards of ice.

She grunted, boots scraping across the gravel as the force finally pushed her back.

A small victory.

But her expression was unreadable.

She straightened, dusting her sleeve as if brushing off a comment rather than an attack.

"Again."

Soren blinked. "Instructor—"

"You think that was enough?" she snapped. "Again."

He swung. Harder. Aura flaring with the rhythm of his breath.

She blocked, absorbing the cold pulse with disciplined precision, but her arms shook—just barely.

And then—

She stepped back.

Lowered her blade.

And exhaled, slow.

"That," she said, "was the truth."

Soren didn't move.

Lysandra rested the flat of her blade on her shoulder.

"You're unstable," she said. "Untrained. Raw. Dangerous to yourself and others."

Soren swallowed.

"But," she continued, "you are also the first cadet in ten years whose Aura can break my guard."

He blinked, stunned.

Lysandra sheathed her blade.

"You will train with me," she said. "Not Selene. Not Kaelor. Me."

Coren breathed out.

"Why?"

"Because," she said simply, "whatever you are, the Academy is going to use you. Better you learn to survive that—than break under it."

She stepped past him.

Paused.

And added, without turning back:

"And Cadet Vale—learn to lie better. If you truly want that name to protect you."

Then she walked toward the instructors' wing, leaving Coren alone in the dying light.

The Aura still shimmered faintly along his blade.

Valenna breathed into his thoughts, quiet, steady, proud:

"You controlled it. You didn't let it control you."

Soren sheathed the sword.

His hands shook.

Not from fear.

From the knowledge that he'd crossed a line, and there was no way back.

Night settled over Aetherion with a thin silver mist sliding down the rooftops, softening the stone edges and swallowing the courtyards in quiet. The Tactical Yard was empty now—torches guttering, training posts faintly glowing with leftover heat from the day's work.

Soren walked with steady pace, not hurried, not drifting—just moving because stopping would have meant feeling too many things at once. His arms still ached from trading blows with Lysandra Vale. His mind still replayed every word she'd thrown at him.

"You are unstable."

"You will train with me."

"Learn to lie better."

The last one stuck harder than the rest.

He crossed into the lesser cloister, the one cadets avoided at night because the old statues seemed to watch. He didn't mind. Being watched was the new normal.

He stopped beneath the archway, where torchlight didn't quite reach.

Valenna's voice brushed the back of his mind, calm, threaded with something like concern.

"You're quiet, Soren."

He exhaled. "Thinking."

"About the instructor?"

He didn't answer immediately.

"About everything," he finally said. "I was careless."

Valenna hummed—soft, low, like a hand on a blade to quiet the vibration.

"No. You were honest in the one place honesty matters. The rest?"

A faint warmth pulsed through the shard.

"Lysandra saw potential. Not danger."

He gave a short, humorless breath. "She saw both."

Valenna didn't deny it.

"Potential always looks like danger to the unprepared. She is not unprepared."

Soren leaned against the cold stone column.

"She was testing me."

"They all will, Soren."

Her voice dimmed, softened.

"That is the price of forging yourself in secrecy."

He didn't argue.

Because she was right.

Footsteps approached—light, controlled, the step of someone trained not to disturb the air.

Soren straightened.

Mira Kehl stopped at the archway's threshold, her expression unreadable in the dim light. She wasn't armed—at least not visibly. But Mira was never unarmed.

"Coren," she greeted, default-calm.

Soren nodded once. "Instructor Mira."

She looked him over, gaze flicking briefly to his wrist—the one that had flared earlier in the yard.

"Word travels quickly," she said. "Especially when a cadet nearly dents the Vale family's finest combat instructor."

"I didn't dent her."

"You tried."

He didn't bother denying that.

A faint lift of her brow served as her version of amusement.

"Kaelor asked me to check on you," Mira said. "He heard you and Lysandra were… loud."

Soren grimaced. "It wasn't intentional."

"Nothing involving Lysandra is ever accidental." Mira stepped closer, lowering her voice. "What did she want?"

Soren paused.

Then, carefully—

"Evaluation."

Mira studied him, reading what he didn't say.

"You're not injured."

"No."

"You're not shaken."

"No."

"Then she didn't break you."

A small nod. "Good. That means you're worth the effort."

He tilted his head. "…Effort?"

Mira leaned back against the opposite column, arms crossing.

"Lysandra doesn't teach. She selects."

Her eyes narrowed.

"And the fact she chose you means two things: she respects your potential… and she plans to strip it bare."

Soren didn't answer.

Not because he disagreed—because there was nothing to add.

Mira tapped a finger against her elbow. "You have a long night ahead. Lysandra will expect you at dawn."

He nodded.

She took a breath, as if weighing whether to speak further—rare for Mira.

"If there's anything I should know," she said, "now would be the time."

He held her gaze.

"Nothing to report."

A single blink, slow.

"Very well," she said. "I'll trust that."

She turned to leave.

But paused.

"Coren."

He looked up.

"Whatever you did today… don't hide it from yourself."

Then Mira walked away, disappearing into the fog-laced halls.

Soren exhaled long and slow when she was gone.

Valenna spoke again, soft as a hand brushing dust from armor.

"You lied well."

"To Mira," he murmured. "Not to myself."

A warm agreement pulsed through the shard.

"Good."

Soren pushed away from the wall, heading toward the outer cloister—toward the only place he knew he'd find silence deep enough to train without interruption.

Valenna stayed quiet for a moment before speaking again.

"You're changing, Soren."

He didn't slow.

"What makes you say that?"

"Today… you didn't flinch."

He let out a faint breath—almost a laugh.

"No," he said. "I think I did."

"Not in the ways that matter."

They crossed into the moonlit training ground—thin mist curling across the flagstones, the water trough frozen at the edges.

Soren drew his sword.

The metal gleamed pale-blue in the moonlight.

Valenna whispered,

"Again."

And he began.

Cut.

Step.

Breathe.

Aura.

Control.

Again.

Long into the night, until the torches died and the Academy slept.

He trained until the dawn bells sounded.

Because tomorrow, Lysandra would demand more.

And Soren intended to be ready.

Dawn hit Aetherion like a hammer—no warm sunrise, no gentle mist. Just a hard slap of cold air and the distant clang of bells echoing between the spires.

Soren arrived early.

Lysandra Vale arrived earlier.

She stood in the frost-bitten yard with her coat thrown over one shoulder, hair braided tight, expression set in the flat patience of someone who had already judged him and was merely waiting to see how correct she was.

"Coren Vale," she said without turning. "Step forward."

Soren did.

Lysandra finally faced him—and tossed a wooden practice sword at his chest. Hard. It hit with enough force to sting.

"Steel comes later," she said. "First, I see what you are without it."

He caught the weapon, jaw tightening.

"Stance."

He moved into guard.

"Wrong."

Before he could adjust, she swept his leg out from under him. He hit the ground. Hard.

"Up."

He stood.

"Again."

He set his stance.

Her palm cracked across his shoulder—sharp, corrective, not cruel.

"Too stiff."

He adjusted.

"Too loose."

He reset again.

Lysandra circled him like an animal studying an unfamiliar shape.

"Your fundamentals are contradictory," she said. "You move like someone who was taught three different doctrines and chose none of them."

He didn't answer.

"Good. You know when to stay quiet."

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