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"You are a first-year."

"Exactly."

He looks over. "Would you prefer someone who scored lower?"

"No."

"Someone who froze during command evaluation?"

"No."

"Someone who waited for a Chief to tell them what to do?"

I glare. "No."

"Then." I hate him.

"You could've asked."

"I just did."

"No. You informed me."

"More efficient."

"You're impossible."

"Frequently."

I gather the last map. Then something occurs to me. "Why First-Year Response?"

Rhyven pauses. "What."

"Why specifically that group."

His expression shifts. Small. "Because they'll listen to you."

"How do you know."

"They already do."

I stare. "When?"

"Training. Patrols. Emergency drills. You don't notice." Apparently not. "And because you're one of them." He adds. That makes more sense. "Older students forget what first-year panic feels like. You don't." No. I don't. Rhyven turns back toward the board. "Don't turn them into soldiers."

I look at him. "What."

"If something happens." His voice becomes more serious. "Your job isn't to make them fight."

"Then what."

"Get them where they can survive." There. Important.

"Even if they want to help?"

"Especially." I nod. That I can do. Maybe.

We leave the room together. Outside, the Academy is running five different contingency briefings. Ash Wing in the courtyard. Root in the eastern hall. Tide near the lower pools. Every Chief teaching someone how to continue without them. Dax has three wolves following him with maps. Soren is arguing with a second-year fae about ward placement. Maelis stands on a table pointing at evacuation routes. Caelen passes us with four vampires behind him. I slow.