They didn't train in the open.

  Too many eyes watched the main grounds now—curious, hungry, calculating. So Cael led them somewhere else, somewhere most students avoided after dark.

  The old orchard.

  It sat behind the storage hall, half wild, half forgotten. Twisted apple trees reached crooked arms toward the sky, roots coiled above the dirt like sleeping serpents. Mushrooms dotted the bases of trunks, glowing faintly blue—a sign of elemental residue.

  Ren stared. "Wow. Nature really gave up here."

  "It didn't give up," Ayla said. "It adapted."

  Cael dropped his practice bag beneath a branch. "It's private. Instructors rarely come here."

  "Why?" Lami asked.

  Cael kicked a fallen apple. It rolled, hit a trunk, burst into glittering dust instead of pulp.

  "That's why."

  "Oh," Lami whispered.

  Ayla crouched and touched the dust—cool, not dangerous, just altered. A reminder that power reshapes the world long after the wielder leaves.

  Ren clapped her hands together. "Okay, team of potential disasters—what's the plan?"

  Cael pulled out four cloth markers—small strips of fabric dyed red, blue, green, and white. "Coordination drills."

  Ren squinted. "Coordination sounds like a polite word for suffering."

  "It is," Cael said.

  He tied the markers to branches forming a loose square. "Our problem isn't strength. It's timing."

  Lami nodded nervously. "I—I panic when things move too fast."

  Ren raised a fist. "And I attack before thinking."

  Ayla considered. "I wait too long."

  They all turned to Cael.

  He sighed. "I assume too much."

  Ren gasped dramatically. "He admitted a flaw. Someone write that down."

  Cael ignored her. "We start simple. Move together. Same direction, same pace. If one of us stumbles, we reset."

  "That sounds boring," Ren groaned.

  "That's the point," Cael said. "Teams fall apart during boring moments because no one pays attention."

  Ayla liked that logic.

  They formed a line—Cael leading, Lami behind him, Ren next, Ayla last. Cael stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

  Ren lasted three steps.

  She darted right, poking a glowing mushroom with a stick. "What do you think happens if—"

  The mushroom exploded into harmless sparkles.

  Ayla closed her eyes. "Reset?"

  Cael pinched the bridge of his nose. "Reset."

  Lami apologized even though she hadn't moved.

  Second attempt.

  This time, Ren stayed focused—mostly—but Lami tripped on a root and nearly face-planted. Ayla caught her by the elbow and steadied her gently.

  "Sorry," Lami muttered.

  "Don't apologize," Ayla said. "Roots exist to trip people."

  Ren pointed at a tree. "Wow, so wise. Are you secretly eighty?"

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  Ayla didn't dignify that.

  Third attempt.

  Better—four steps, five, six—then Cael sped up slightly, instinctively.

  Ren followed, eager.

  Lami hesitated, uncertain.

  Ayla slowed—not visibly, just enough to match Lami's pace.

  They finished the sequence.

  Cael blinked, surprised. "That was... functional."

  Ren threw her hands up. "We're geniuses! Someone give us trophies!"

  "No trophies," Cael said. "Again."

  They practiced until even Ren's energy softened into concentration. Sometimes they failed spectacularly—tripping, bumping, stepping out of rhythm. Sometimes they moved with strange, accidental harmony.

  And sometimes—

  Alya felt something else.

  Not magic. Not awakening.

  Just awareness—of footsteps behind her, of Ren's breathing pattern, of Lami's hesitation before turning left, of Cael's instinct to lead too far ahead.

  She didn't correct them.

  She adjusted to them.

  That felt important.

  After an hour, Cael called a break. Ren collapsed dramatically onto the grass. "I am a tragic figure. Write poems about me."

  "No," Cael said.

  Lami sat carefully, legs crossed. "Do you think the Academy expected us to train secretly?"

  "No," Cael answered. "They expected most teams to panic, fight, or pretend nothing is wrong."

  Ren flicked grass at him. "And we're... what? Overachievers?"

  "No," Ayla said. "We want to live."

  Ren considered. "Fair enough."

  A breeze drifted through the orchard—cool, carrying the smell of half-fermented apples. Birds rustled in the branches, unbothered by students intruding.

  Lami plucked a leaf, twirling it. "Do you think last night was the worst part of ranking week?"

  Cael didn't answer immediately.

  Ayla did. "No."

  Lami's shoulders sank. "Oh."

  Ren sat up. "But we'll handle it. We just murdered several shadow-dog-things. We're unstoppable."

  "Temporary confidence is dangerous," Cael said.

  "So is permanent doubt," Ayla countered.

  Cael paused—caught.

  Ren grinned smugly. "Ha. She got you."

  Cael looked at Ayla with a mix of irritation and reluctant admiration. "You say unsettling things very calmly."

  "Practice," Ayla said.

  Lami giggled—quiet, surprised by herself.

  Something warm settled between them—not trust, not friendship yet, but possibility.

  Cael stood. "All right. Next drill."

  Ren flopped backward. "Destroy me."

  "This one isn't physical," Cael said.

  Ren sat up fast. "Never mind, I'm alive again."

  Ayla raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

  Cael pointed at Ayla. "You lead."

  Ayla blinked. "...Why?"

  "Because everyone follows me by default," Cael said. "That's a weakness."

  Ren gasped. "He admitted TWO flaws—Lami, take notes!"

  Lami pretended to scribble.

  Ayla hesitated—but stepped forward.

  She didn't give orders.

  She didn't organize.

  She just walked—and expected them to follow.

  They did.

  Lami stayed closest, comfortable. Ren matched her stride with exaggerated enthusiasm. Cael walked a half-step behind—not challenging, just watching.

  Ayla led them through uneven branches, around roots, weaving without rushing.

  The orchard didn't feel like an obstacle anymore.

  It felt like part of the training.

  When they reached the far fence, Cael spoke.

  "You lead differently."

  "How?" Ayla asked.

  Cael considered. "You don't pull. You make space."

  Lami nodded. "I didn't feel like I had to keep up. I just... wanted to."

  Ren threw an arm around Ayla's shoulders. "Congratulations—you're accidentally inspiring. Gross."

  Ayla didn't know what to do with that, so she ignored it.

  Cael tightened the straps on his gloves. "Again tomorrow. Same place. Same time."

  "We'll be here," Lami said immediately.

  Ren saluted with a stick sword. "Captain."

  They packed up and headed back toward campus—quiet, comfortable silence trailing behind them.

  Halfway across the bridge, footsteps echoed—too many, too synchronized.

  A group of Silver-ranked students leaned against the railings, waiting like they'd been practicing it.

  Odd, how rehearsed hostility could look.

  Ren whispered, "Oh good. Fans."

  Lami swallowed.

  The tallest boy smirked. "Team 47. The Academy's charity project."

  Cael didn't react.

  Ayla didn't slow.

  Ren cracked her knuckles. "Say that again. Slower."

  "No," Ayla murmured.

  Ren sighed. "Fine. One insult only. Make it creative."

  The boy stepped into Ayla's path. "We heard you think you can pass ranking week."

  Ayla met his gaze—neutral, unamused. "I don't think about you at all."

  Ren burst into delighted laughter. Lami's eyes widened. Cael's mouth twitched—almost smiling.

  The boy flushed. "You got lucky last night."

  "Probably," Ayla said. "Luck favors the prepared."

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. "You won't last."

  "Then you don't need to worry," Ayla said gently, stepping around him.

  He didn't follow.

  They walked away—not running, not tense.

  Just moving forward.

  When they were far enough, Ren exhaled loudly. "Ayla, I would commit light crime for you."

  "Please don't," Lami whispered.

  Cael spoke quietly. "You just told him he's insignificant."

  "No," Ayla corrected. "I told him he's irrelevant."

  Ren slapped the air. "YES. Superior word choice."

  Cael shook his head, but his expression wasn't disapproval.

  It was thought.

  Deep, searching thought.

  They reached the dorm steps. Lanterns flickered. The air smelled like night and rain waiting to happen.

  Cael paused. "Tomorrow gets harder."

  "I know," Ayla said.

  "You're not afraid."

  "I am," Ayla answered. "But fear isn't a command."

  Cael stared a moment—then nodded once and walked away.

  Lami waved tiredly and headed to her wing.

  Ren nudged Ayla. "You okay?"

  Ayla considered.

  "Yes," she said. "But I'm not finished."

  Ren grinned. "Good. Finishing is boring."

  They entered Room 19.

  Ayla sat on her bed, letting quiet settle around her like a blanket.

  Her muscles ached.

  Her mind didn't.

  Somewhere deep inside—

  fire rested,

  water waited,

  wood stretched,

  metal sharpened,

  earth grounded.

  Not unified.

  But listening.

  Tomorrow, the Academy would push harder.

  Good.

  Ayla Whitlock had more to learn.

  ??