The following days bled into each other in a rhythm of restless motion.

After their first scouting mission, Aston and the others dove into the cycle of tasks. None of the jobs were glamorous—some were errands barely worth the walk, others were minor recon assignments or environmental scans that left them neck-deep in moss, ankle-deep in leywater, or worse.

But they added up.

"Next time," Rowan muttered as he hoisted a satchel of unstable root vials toward the alchemical depot, "we take one where we're not hauling stuff that hums."

Kai trailed just behind, calm as always. "The hum means the enchantment's stable."

"It also means if I trip, I lose a week's AP and possibly a hand."

Lyra laughed as she passed, already halfway through recording the artifact crate they'd just delivered. "You won't trip. You're too loud for a proper fall."

Some missions they accepted as a full group—like barrier measurements across ridge junctions, or escorting low-risk faculty research teams. Other days they split into pairs. Aston often volunteered for the more solitary ones, like border echo relay checks or rune marker replacements along outer ridges.

Seria worked closely with him during high-sensitivity scans, especially where ambient spirit noise had to be filtered manually. Mirage and her butterfly had begun to sync patterns—Mirage fluttering in high arcs while the butterfly traced chromatic echoes beneath.

Two weeks passed.

And by the time the sun rose on their final relay run for the week, they were no longer novices stumbling through the assignment board.

They moved with rhythm. With quiet purpose.

With numbers that finally mattered.

—

Inside the mission annex, the attendant hummed softly as she processed their updated point balance through the communal display rune.

"Kaiser Vernhollow: Current AP – 45," the board flickered.

Kai blinked in surprise. "Oh. That's… more than I expected."

"You have a backlog of two assistant shifts," the attendant explained. "The library processed

them today."

Rowan gaped. "Forty-five?!"

The list continued.

"Seria Sacramento: Current AP – 39."

"Lyra Yves: Current AP – 38 AP."

"Rowan Delle: Current AP – 34."

Rowan gave a mock cheer. "I survived!"

The final line blinked into view.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Aston Rhyner: Current AP – 36."

Kai gave him a sideways glance. "Not bad. Considering you started behind."

Aston simply nodded.

Nova's quiet ping echoed in his vision.

[Target AP met. Next cycle: secure buffer or store toward requisition privileges.]

He closed the message as the others chatted. Their celebration was modest—some hot cider from the southern courtyard stall, followed by rest under the glass canopy of the rec dome.

It felt earned.

—

That evening, the clouds were heavy with mist, cloaking the rooftops in a soft haze.

Aston sat in the quiet alcove beneath the dorm tower's second level, staring out across the sparring grounds. His coat draped behind him, satchel open, scrolls half-unrolled beside a spiritlight lamp.

Gray was curled up beside his boots, tail swishing slowly, while Mirage perched above—her feathers faintly glowing under the lamp's pulse.

He didn't notice the shift until her shimmer deepened.

A ripple of pressure brushed against his spine—soft, but unmistakable.

He looked up.

Mirage met his gaze. Her body pulsed once—subtle rings of light trailing down her wings.

Then, a prompt flashed in his eyes.

[Mirage, the Glasswing Owl - Breakthrough: Imminent]

His heart quickened.

Aston recalled something Professor Cael had once said during lecture, in his usual clipped tone: "Spirit beasts don't start with a core. Chickens, dogs—mundane creatures. It's only when their essence condenses into a nucleus that the ranking begins."

That nucleus—the spirit core—was dull at first. Unshaped. But every growth left a mark. A groove. One for each threshold of strength. "Nine rings, nine stars. Anything more? That's a myth. Or a disaster," the professor had added.

Mirage was close to her third. The second had been subtle. This one was… louder.

"Quick scan."

Nova's overlay flickered into place, scanning Mirage in a full diagnostic sweep. Data scrolled silently across his vision.

—

[Spirit Beast: Glasswing Owl]

[Type: Avian]

[Attribute: Ice]

[Genus: Bubo]

[Rank: 2-star]

[Potential: 7-star]

—

[Resonance Stabilization: 97.6%]

[Core Ring Tension: 99.2%]

[Breakthrough to 3-star imminent.]

—

Aston exhaled, slow and steady.

"She's about to break through," he murmured.

Gray lifted his head, eyes half-lidded but alert.

[Advisory: Trigger events may catalyze resonance instability. Recommend secured environment for breakthrough.]

Aston nodded.

"I'll request a place tomorrow."

Mirage didn't hoot further, but her wings glowed faintly—warm pulses tracing the tips. It was coming. She could feel it. So could he.

Not in shouts. But in stillness.

—

The next morning, he didn't tell the others. He moved through class as always—quiet, engaged, invisible by choice.

But every time Mirage hovered behind him or swept silently through the rafters, Aston watched the faint glimmers at her wingtips with a sharpened eye.

She was close.

And soon, the academy would see what a 3-star looked like when it was shaped in silence.

And bred in shadow.

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