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I look toward the observation platform. Rhyven is there. Of course. Arms folded. Black uniform. Expression suggesting my death has personally inconvenienced him. "Again." He says.

I turn toward Vayne. "Is he teaching this class?"

"No."

"Then why is he talking?"

Rhyven answers for him. "Because you're slow."

I look back. "I was surprised."

"Exactly."

"I lost my manifestation without warning."

"Exactly." I hate him. We reset.

This time, I don't wait for blood. The second Vayne suppresses it, I reach for steel. The wolf attacks.

I block. Pivot. Strike. He catches the second blow.

I use my shoulder. He stumbles. I sweep his leg. Down. Blade against throat.

Vayne: "Seven seconds."

I look toward Rhyven. He doesn't look impressed. "Again." Oh, fuck him.

Third attempt. Six seconds. "Again." Fourth. Five point eight. "Again." Fifth. The wolf manages to disarm me. I use the knife at my thigh. Four point nine. Rhyven finally moves. Not applause. Obviously. He steps down from the platform. "Your transition is still visible."

I stare. "I switched weapons in less than a second."

"You looked at your thigh."

"For half a second."

"Enough."

"For what?"

"For someone watching you to know exactly where the second blade is." Damn it. He stands in front of me. "Again."

The wolf looks between us. "Should I—"

"Stay." Rhyven says. The poor man stays.

Sixth attempt. Vayne removes my manifestation. I don't look. My hand moves. Steel. Block. Turn.

The wolf anticipates the dagger this time. Good. I abandon it. Elbow. Knee. Shoulder. His balance breaks. I use his weight. He hits the mat. Three point six seconds. Silence. I breathe hard. Look toward Rhyven. He gives one nod. That's it. And somehow that one tiny movement feels better than praise from anyone else. Infuriating.

Training doesn't stop there. Of course not. By seven thirty, we're carrying simulated casualties through the eastern courtyard. At eight, emergency ward reinforcement. At nine fifteen, academics. At ten twenty, dragon-body-language theory. At eleven thirty, tactical movement. Lunch. Twenty-seven minutes. Apparently eating leisurely is no longer a Varethian value.

At twelve fifteen, we begin dragon-pressure training.

This is new. And terrible. Three dragons circle the western combat field. Not attacking. Interfering. Low flight. Sudden landings. Wing displacement. Route obstruction. Noise. Students have to continue tactical drills while reading every dragon's posture well enough not to get ourselves killed. A blue male lands twenty feet from our formation. The ground shakes. Someone screams. Professor Kaelis shouts: "Eyes!"

Not at the dragon's eyes. Body. Wings. Tail. Neck. Weight. Intent.

"Defensive!" Someone calls.