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Someone protests. "How?"

Professor Aldren simply answers, "Figure it out."

Chaos. Immediate. Predictable. Groups scatter. People shout contradictory directions. Someone nearly walks into a stone wall. Another group forgets two blindfolded students entirely. Whistles echo constantly. Corrections. Failures. Restarts. I hear Dax mutter, "Exactly." Almost approvingly.

Our second attempt is completely different. No one shouts. One voice leads. The rest repeat instructions. Hands remain connected. Everyone moves together. Slower. But together.

When we finish Professor Aldren nods. "You've just learned your first battlefield lesson." He removes the nearest blindfold. "Speed follows organization." The final bell rings. No one rushes away. No one has enough energy. Students leave the field in exhausted silence. Boots dragging through the dirt. Uniforms streaked with mud. Hair plastered to foreheads. Even the complaints sound tired.

I shoulder my satchel and begin walking toward the Academy. Ahead of me the Chiefs remain. Maps appear again. Of course they do. Their day isn't finished. It's only changing. I slow without meaning to. Watching. Dax points toward the northern wall. Soren marks something on a map. Maelis crosses out an entire patrol route. The others debate quietly. Then Rhyven says something I can't hear. Every Chief immediately nods. I turn away. The sun is beginning to set behind the mountains. The Academy glows gold. Beautiful. Peaceful. From a distance mo one would guess students are preparing for war. Maybe that's the point.

As I reach the stone steps leading toward the residence halls, a bell rings again. Not curfew. Too early. Three short chimes. A new signal. Students around me stop instinctively. Waiting. A wardkeeper raises his voice. "Evening patrol rotation!" Groups immediately separate. Some students peel away toward the outer walls. Others head for observation towers. No one argues. No one even seems surprised. I watch them go.

Curfew changes everything. Not because it is strict. Because it is respected. By the time the evening bell rings, the laughter that usually spills from The Place has already begun fading. Lanterns are extinguished one by one. The gardens empty. The stone paths that once carried students wandering aimlessly beneath the stars now belong almost entirely to wardkeepers and patrols. The Academy has learned a new rhythm. One measured by responsibility instead of freedom. "You're on second rotation." A professor hands me a small wooden token carved with the Academy crest. "Ward Three."

I turn the token over in my hand. "Ward Three?"

"The eastern perimeter."

He gestures toward the notice board. "Every student serves." I nod. Of course.

The eastern perimeter lies farther from the Academy than I expected. The walls themselves disappear behind the forest long before we reach our assigned post. Our instructor, an older wardkeeper named Gideon, stops beside one of the stones. He places one weathered hand against its surface. "The wards are not your weapon." He says. "They are your responsibility." His words remind me painfully of the Assembly. Of my father. "Preparation is responsibility." Perhaps the Council and the wardkeepers have always spoken the same language. "There are three rules." Keeper Gideon continues. "You never touch a wardstone without authorization." He raises one finger. "You never investigate a fluctuation alone." A second finger. "And..." He looks at each of us individually. "You never assume someone else has already reported it." Around me, students nod. Someone writes every word down. We spend nearly two hours learning what to watch for. Changes in light. Changes in sound. Changes in temperature. None of it feels glamorous. Every bit of it feels important.

When the rotation ends the sky has become deep violet. Stars emerge one by one above Varethia. Students begin making their way back toward the Academy in small groups. Automatically. No one walks alone anymore. Nyra falls into step beside me. "My feet are protesting." She whines.

"They're very dramatic."

"They inherited it from me."

I smile. "I thought you inherited organization."

She nods. "I inherited both."

Ahead of us Cassian is enthusiastically explaining something to two second-years while waving his hands so much I'm mildly concerned he'll accidentally knock himself into a tree. Their voices fade pleasantly into the evening. As we approach the Academy gates I glance instinctively toward the western training grounds. The Chiefs are still there. Lanterns burn across the field. Maps remain spread over the command table. Some instructors have gone home. The Chiefs haven't. Dax gestures toward one section of the map. Soren disagrees. Maelis crosses out an entire route. The discussion continues. Rhyven listens longer than he speaks. When he finally does everyone pauses. Then nods. The map changes again. "They're still working." Cassian says quietly.

Nyra follows my gaze. "They've been out there since dawn."

"Do they ever stop?"

"No." The answer doesn't come from either of my friends. It comes from Mara. She has appeared beside us so quietly none of us noticed. She follows our gaze toward the training field. "They stop when everyone else is asleep." She says. "Then they start again before everyone wakes."

I blink. "Every day?"

She smiles tiredly. "That's why they're Chiefs."

We continue toward the residence halls. Only I don't get very far. "Vaelith." I turn. Rhyven is crossing the courtyard toward us. His sleeves remain rolled to his forearms. One side of his uniform bears a faint streak of dirt. A map case hangs over one shoulder. He looks tired. Like someone who has made two hundred decisions since sunrise and expects to make two hundred more before bed. He stops in front of us. His eyes move briefly to the wooden token still hanging from my belt. "Ward Three." He says.

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Two hours."

"Good."

I wait. Surely that isn't why he came over. "Was there something else?"

He looks at me as though I've asked a strange question. "No."