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Cassian lifts his head from where Nyra and I dropped him. "Rude."

I glare at Rhyven. "Why?"

"You abandoned his airway."

"I was carrying him."

"Poorly."

"I was also being attacked."

"People are inconsiderate that way."

I narrow my eyes. "Do you enjoy this?"

"Immensely." There he is.

We reset. This time Cassian survives. He celebrates as though he contributed. He did not.

At nine, I lose use of my dominant hand. At nine twenty, I successfully throw a dagger with my left.

It misses the target by six inches. Rhyven looks down from the platform. "Dead."

I point at the wooden target. "I hit him."

"In the shoulder."

"Still unpleasant."

"Not enough."

"I could've poisoned the blade."

"You didn't."

"I could have."

"You didn't." I hate logic.

By lunch, my entire body hurts. Good hurt. Mostly.

The kind that means I am getting better. Stronger. Faster. Less dependent on one answer. One weapon. One manifestation. One person. That part matters. More than I want to think about.

The dining hall is louder now. Seven quiet days have changed people. Students trade food again. Someone at the next table is planning a birthday gathering. Two first-years are arguing about whether curfew violations are still worth detention "if the emergency is obviously over." Nyra nearly turns around. I catch her arm. "No."

"They said obviously."

"I know."

"Obviously."

"I heard."

"Do you understand how statistically irresponsible—"

"Eat."

Cassian points toward me. "Look at that."