That act of defiance settled in her gut like a stone, grounding her. By the time the sun breached the peaks, the trembling woman who had fled the hallway was gone, replaced by a recruit who had a fight to win. She carried that new, grim clarity with her onto the packed earth.
Her morning on Master Jaedon’s anvil was a rhythm of controlled violence. The Wyvern Cohort, their numbers thinned, moved with a new, grim synchronicity. Today’s drill was shield and staff work, and Jaedon, with his usual flair for productive misery, had them paired off.
“You are a wall, or you are a door!” his voice cut across the dusty yard. “There is no in-between! A door lets everything through. A wall breaks the foolish fist that strikes it! Show me what you are, Wyverns!”
Finn, his earnest face already streaked with sweat, was her partner. He came at her with a disciplined series of strikes, and Gessa met them, her shield no longer feeling like a clumsy weight but an extension of her arm. The flow of the spar became clear, anticipating his movements, and when he overcommitted, she used the shield’s edge to turn his momentum, forcing him off balance.
“Good block!” Finn gasped, grinning as they reset. “You’re much steadier.”
“Your footwork is better,” she replied, the simple, honest exchange feeling more normal than any conversation she’d had in years.
From a nearby pair, Roric, who had just effortlessly tossed his own partner to the dust, saw their exchange. His lip curled. “Be careful, Finn,” he called out, his voice loud enough for several recruits to hear. “Don’t press her too hard. She might get angry and manifest another little pet for you to fight.”
The taunt was crueler than his usual jabs, a direct reference to the horror on the practice ground. A cold flash of shame and anger went through Gessa, but she held her ground, breathing through it, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Before she could even formulate a thought, a deep voice rumbled from her other side. “Shut it, Roric.”
It was Galt. The gentle giant lowered his shield, fixing Roric with a look of simple, uncomplicated disapproval. “She’s Wyvern Cohort. Leave her be.”
The yard around them went quiet for a beat. It was the first time another recruit had defended her. The air crackled with a new tension, but Jaedon’s voice cut through it before anything could escalate.
“Recruit Roric,” Jaedon said, his tone deceptively mild as he strode toward them. “It seems your attention is not on your own partner. An unfortunate lapse in focus.” He stopped before the arrogant recruit. “Galt, you will partner with Wex for this next set. Roric, your partner is now me. Let’s see if your mouth can keep up with your feet when the opponent is not one of your juniors.”
The color drained from Roric’s face. Galt gave Gessa a brief nod before moving away. For the first time, Gessa felt something other than isolation in the training yard—a flicker of belonging.
The afternoon brought a different kind of challenge, a welcome respite from the physical. The Wyvern Cohort filed into Master Rowan’s lecture hall, the air thick with the scent of old vellum and woodsmoke. Rowan, his kindly face a landscape of deep lines, stood before them, his two otter soul-beasts, Pipkin and Squeak, engaged in a silent, intense wrestling match over a fallen piece of chalk, tumbling over his boots in a sleek, fluid motion.
“Glory is not always found on the main path, recruits,” Rowan began, his voice low and steady. “Today, we speak of Shara Lightfoot, a Wayfinder of the Fourth Age, whose talent was not in opening the great, thunderous Lines, but in sensingthe whispers… the echoes… the tiny, forgotten capillaries of magic that others dismissed.”
Gessa leaned forward, captivated. Rowan spoke of how Shara, ridiculed for her weak talent, used it to navigate a treacherous, magically unstable swamp known as the Choking Mire, a place where the main Ley Lines were a chaotic, deadly trap. She found a safe path by listening to the quietest magical currents, succeeding where stronger Wayfinders had perished.
The story resonated deep in Gessa’s soul. Her own magic felt like a flood, but perhaps, within that flood, there were quieter currents she could learn to hear. As the lecture ended, Squeak the otter made a final, triumphant dive for the chalk, skittering with it under a bench. The recruits chuckled, the tension of the training yard melting away. As they filed out, Silas, who was always quiet, caught her eye. He didn’t speak, but gave a single nod—a silent acknowledgment of a shared intellectual curiosity. It was a fleeting moment, but it felt like finding a fellow traveler on a long road.
Later, Gessa found herself assigned to afternoon duty in the kitchens. The heat from the massive hearths was a solid wall, the air a roar of clanging pots, shouting orders, and the rich, savory smell of roasting meat. Her task was to scrub a mountain of blackened cauldrons. It was hot, messy, humbling work.
“Put your back into it, recruit!” a voice boomed. Mace Stonebread, the Academy’s chief cook and a man built on the scale of a small hill, stood over her, his hands on his hips. “Those aren’t teacups. They held the stew that’ll fuel fifty of Jaedon’s pet projects tomorrow. They need to be clean enough to see your miserable face in ‘em.”
Gessa just nodded and scrubbed harder. For twenty minutes, Mace grumbled around the kitchen, complaining about the quality of the flour, the dullness of the carving knives, and the general uselessness of recruits. Then, he appeared at her elbow,thrusting a thick slice of warm bread, dripping with melted butter and honey, into her hand.
“Eat,” he grunted. “You’re as thin as a Spur’s excuse. Waste of my good stew if the pot-scrubber faints into the rinse water.”
Before Gessa could properly thank him, he was already shouting at Wex, who was peeling potatoes with the enthusiasm of a condemned man. The bread was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. It was a gruff, unexpected kindness, a reminder that the Academy was held up by more than just instructors and magic; it was held up by calloused hands and full bellies.
She slipped out the back door of the kitchens to eat it in peace, leaning against the cool stone wall of the supply shed.
“I hear Mace is in fine form today,” a voice drawled from the shadows.
Pria was sitting on a crate of apples, checking a manifest. She looked up, her gaze dropping to Gessa’s red, scrubbed-raw hands. Without a word, she tossed Gessa a clean rag.
“He yells loudest when he’s happy,” Pria said. “Though I think he’s secretly impressed you didn’t drown in the soup cauldron.”
Gessa wiped her hands, sinking down onto a crate opposite her friend. “He’s a tyrant with a ladle.”
“He’s a Spur,” Pria corrected with a wry smile. “They’re all tyrants. It comes with the boots.” She lowered her voice, her expression softening. “I heard about the practice yard. The... creature.”
Gessa tensed, waiting for the fear she saw in everyone else’s eyes.
“Must have been terrifying,” Pria said, simply and without judgment. She reached into her vest and pulled out a small, wrapped sweet—honeyed ginger. She slid it across the crate. “But you’re still here. And Roric is terrified of you now, which,honestly, makes my entire week. Eat the ginger. It settles the stomach.”
