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"He burns the first loaf every Monday." Silence. "You smelled charcoal."

I stare. "You noticed that?"

"I've walked through the dining hall every Monday for three years."

I scoff. "That's absurd."

He looks at me. "No." He folds his arms. "It's routine."

The second-years begin smiling. Not because I'm wrong. Because they're remembering. Apparently all of them went through this. I do not find that comforting.

Rhyven divides us into pairs. "New exercise." No one sounds enthusiastic. "You have fifteen minutes." He gestures toward the surrounding forest. "Leave the trail." A pause. "Only far enough to lose sight of the group." Several students exchange uncertain glances. "You will return with ten observations. Important observations." He emphasizes the word. "Not pretty ones."

Elias raises his hand. "How do we know what's important?"

"You don't."

"Then how—" Elias starts.

"You decide." He points toward the trees. "Go."

I am paired with Tessa. The dragon-blooded girl falls into step beside me without hesitation. She walks lightly despite her height, constantly scanning ahead. Not nervously. Naturally.

"You've done this before." I say.

"My parents were ward keepers." She answers. "We spent more time outside than inside."

That explains the way she moves. We leave the trail. The forest swallows the sounds of the others almost immediately. For a while, neither of us speaks. Instead...We observe. A squirrel. Fresh claw marks. Rainwater flowing downhill. Broken fern stems. Then— Tessa crouches. I follow. She points toward the mud. Boot prints. Several. Not ours.

"Second-years?" I whisper.

She shakes her head. "Too small."

We study them. "They're old."

"Three days." She answers.

"How?"

"The edges."

I kneel beside her. The rain has softened the impressions but hasn't erased them. She notices details I never would have considered. Interesting.

"You really grew up doing this."

"I grew up following my mother." She smiles faintly. "I mostly carried equipment."

By the time we return, my notebook contains twelve observations. Only four of which I actually trust. The rest feel like guesses. Everyone gathers around the fallen cedar once more. Rhyven doesn't ask us to read everything. Instead— "One observation." He points toward Anika. "Only your most important."

Anika thinks. "The western stream rose about ten centimeters after the rain."

Rhyven nods. "Why important?"

"It changes crossing speed."

"Good." He points toward Mira.

"My partner hums when she's nervous."