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"You do now." I grab the other side. "On three."

We move him behind the ward line. "Stay there."

I turn. Another shout.

For the next four minutes, I stop thinking about myself. Not deliberately. There just isn't space. People need directions. Routes. Assignments. Answers. I don't have all of them. So I give the ones I do. "Don't chase."

"Hold the line."

"Move that group north."

"Get another healer."

"Who has visual on the east gate?"

"Do not cross the marker."

"Wait."

"Now."

"Go."

The final alarm cuts. Silence drops. I am breathing hard. Everyone is. Professor Vayne looks at the clock.

"Three minutes, fifty-eight seconds." No one celebrates. Rhyven steps forward. Looks around. Then at Vayne. "Again tomorrow." A groan. Smaller this time. Accepted.

Students disperse. Slowly. I reach for my water. Professor Vayne writes something. I see it. "What."

He doesn't look up. "Nothing."

"You wrote something."

"Unfortunately."

"What."

"No." I stare. He turns the clipboard away. Asshole.

Rhyven passes behind me. No comment. Good. I don't need one. Then, quietly— "Western corridor was correct." I look toward him. He's already walking away. That's it. Enough.

The Academy complains all day. Not about the drill itself. About everything. Curfew. Patrols. Training.

Response Quarters. Ward checks. Dragon rotations. Buddy rules. There have been no disappearances for almost two weeks. No attack. No messages. No new residue. No proof of anything beyond what already happened. And apparently preparedness becomes less inspiring when nothing is actively trying to kill you. At lunch, someone from Ash Wing says: "They're going to keep us like this until graduation."

Dax sits three seats away. "Preferable to dying before it." The student shuts up. I smile into my drink.

The Heart investigation produces nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nyra checks another folklore index. Nothing. Cassian searches a collection of prewar religious texts. Nothing. Caelen quietly checks a Chief-access historical catalogue. Nothing. By evening, Nyra drops into the chair across from me.

"Nothing."

"Good morning to you too."

"I found a ceremonial grain treatise."

I blink. "What."

"Seventy-two pages."