The announcement board had always been intimidating.

  Mounted on the central courtyard wall—towering, dark wood polished smooth by years of nervous hands—it existed for one purpose:

  Judgment.

  Today, the courtyard buzzed like a shaken beehive. Students crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, breath fogging in the cold morning air, waiting for the instructors to arrive with new parchment.

  Ren squinted at the crowd. "Look at them. Hopeful. Delusional. Pitiful."

  Lami tugged her sleeve. "You're standing in line with them."

  "Yes," Ren said proudly, "because I, too, enjoy poor life choices."

  Cael stood with arms crossed, gaze scanning for threats rather than anticipation. "Ranking shouldn't matter yet. Trials haven't begun."

  "Shouldn't," Ren said. "But people panic recreationally."

  Ayla stayed slightly behind the others—not hiding, just choosing a quieter vantage point. She could feel the tension settling across the courtyard like dew—fine, cold, unavoidable.

  A bell rang.

  Instructor Thalen approached with two other faculty members, carrying a sealed parchment nearly as long as his arm. Conversations died mid-breath.

  Thalen hung the parchment with a casualness that felt intentional—like he wanted the waiting to hurt.

  "Preliminary team assessment," he announced. "Not final. Not definitive. But educational."

  He stepped aside.

  The courtyard surged.

  Students shoved closer, craning necks, whispering names like prayers or curses.

  Ren bounced on her toes. "I don't want to look. But I must. Like checking a bruise."

  Lami chewed her lip. "What if we're last?"

  "Then," Ren said solemnly, "we celebrate being underdogs."

  Cael ignored them and read silently. Ayla watched his eyes move, steady, unhurried.

  Then he exhaled through his nose—a controlled release of tension.

  Ren shoved her way toward the board. "Move, tiny children of privilege—let me suffer properly!"

  Lami followed nervously.

  Ayla stayed where she was.

  Because she didn't need to see.

  She already knew.

  Ren finally turned, expression frozen—not horrified, not ecstatic.

  Just... stunned.

  Lami whispered, "We're ninth."

  Ninth.

  Not top.

  Not bottom.

  Not expected.

  Cael nodded once. "Acceptable."

  Ren threw her arms into the air. "UNACCEPTABLE. We deserved at least eighth. Who do I speak to about this injustice?"

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  Ayla nearly laughed.

  Students around them began whispering—louder this time, easier now that the board had given permission.

  "Ground rank shouldn't be single digits—"

  "Cael carried them—has to be—"

  "No, the fire girl did—"

  "Or maybe the quiet one?"

  Ayla tuned it out—not offended, not threatened. Just uninterested.

  Numbers didn't change who she was.

  They only changed how others behaved.

  "Eyes are multiplying," Cael murmured.

  "Yes," Ayla said. "We should leave."

  But they didn't get the chance.

  A voice—smooth, smug, too pleased with itself—cut through the courtyard noise.

  "Well, well. Team 47. The Academy's charity project is climbing."

  Ren's shoulders tensed before she even turned. "Oh great. Fungus returns."

  The Silver-ranked boy from the bridge smirked, flanked by his teammates—three students wearing matching expressions of inherited arrogance.

  He tapped the ranking list. "Ninth place. Impressive, considering the... limitations."

  Lami flushed, shrinking slightly. Cael's jaw shifted—anger measured, sharp, silent.

  Ayla stepped forward—not aggressively, just enough to redirect attention toward herself instead of Lami.

  "Congratulations," she said calmly.

  The boy blinked. "For what?"

  "For caring more about our ranking than your own."

  Ren choked on laughter.

  Students nearby paused—listening.

  The boy flushed. "We're fifth."

  "And still looking down," Ayla said. "That must be exhausting."

  Cael's mouth twitched—approval he didn't voice.

  The boy opened his mouth, but no coherent words arrived. His teammates shifted—embarrassed, irritated, unsure whether to intervene.

  Ayla tilted her head slightly. "If you want to challenge us, wait until the trials. Otherwise, you're just noise."

  Ren placed a hand dramatically over her heart. "I am spiritually nourished."

  The boy stepped back—not defeated, but dismissed—and something about that was worse for him.

  "We'll see how long ninth lasts," he muttered before stalking off.

  "We will," Ayla said. "That's the point."

  Silence lingered—not awkward, but recalibrating.

  Lami let out a shaky breath. "I hate confrontation."

  "That wasn't confrontation," Ren said proudly. "That was poetry."

  Cael turned to Ayla. "You didn't try to win."

  "I didn't need to," Ayla said. "He already lost."

  Cael studied her for a moment—longer than usual. "You're dangerous."

  Ayla shrugged. "So are you. Just differently."

  Ren clapped once. "Okay, enough bonding. Breakfast before we faint."

  They headed toward the dining hall—not rushed, not hiding—just existing.

  And somehow, that drew even more attention.

  ?

  Later, after classes and drills blurred into a long smear of sweat and aching muscles, Ayla returned to Room 19 alone—Ren still at the yard arguing with a pull-up bar.

  She pushed open the door—and stopped.

  A letter sat on her bed.

  Folded neatly.

  Tied with twine.

  Stamped with a seal she hadn't seen in months.

  Her breath caught—not visibly, but deep, where old memories hid.

  Stonehollow.

  Home.

  She sat slowly, fingertips brushing the paper before lifting it.

  The handwriting was uneven, careful, trying too hard to look calm.

  Ayla—

  She read.

  And the world narrowed.

  The harvest failed early. The well dried faster this season. Your mother works too much. We miss you. We hope the Academy is treating you kindly. We hope you are safe. We hope you're eating enough. We hope—

  The ink smudged—someone had cried writing it.

  Don't come home yet. Not until you have something the world must respect. If you return too soon, they'll treat you the same as when you left.

  Ayla closed her eyes.

  She could smell dust roads. Hear chickens. Feel the weight of buckets dragging her shoulders low. She remembered silence at dinner—not cold, just tired.

  She remembered wanting more—not for herself, but for them.

  When she opened her eyes, the letter didn't feel heavy.

  It felt motivating.

  Ren burst into the room without knocking. "Ayla, emergency—my calf has become a separate organism—oh. Letter."

  She stopped mid-rant, expression softening. "Home?"

  Ayla nodded.

  Ren sat beside her—not touching, just nearby, offering space.

  "Bad news?" Ren asked quietly.

  "Just... real news," Ayla said.

  Ren nodded. "Real is worse."

  Ayla didn't correct her. She didn't need to.

  Ren nudged her shoulder. "If you need to scream into a pillow, I offer mine."

  Ayla huffed a laugh. "Thank you."

  "So," Ren said, voice lighter, "what now?"

  Ayla folded the letter gently, tying the twine again—not to trap the words, but to protect them.

  "Now," Ayla said softly, "I make sure returning home means something."

  Ren's smile sharpened into something fierce. "Then we train until our bones weep."

  Ayla stood. "Tomorrow?"

  "No," Ren said. "Tonight."

  ?

  Night settled across the Academy—quiet, cold, expectant.

  Team 47 met again in the orchard—not because they were required to, but because something unspoken had shifted.

  Cael arrived first. Lami second. Ren third. Ayla last.

  No one asked why.

  They didn't need to.

  Cael looked at each of them. "We're ninth now. Which means we're a target."

  "Good," Ren said. "I run faster when chased."

  "We don't outrun anything," Ayla said. "We outlast it."

  Lami inhaled—deep, steady. "So what do we practice tonight?"

  Alya stepped into the clearing—moonlight catching her braid, eyes calm, posture ready.

  "Pressure."

  Ren groaned. "Hate pressure."

  "Love survival," Ayla said.

  Cael cracked a rare smile. "Let's begin."

  And under the indifferent moonlight—

  four students who should've been forgettable

  prepared to rewrite expectation.

  Not loudly.

  Not dramatically.

  But inevitably.

  ??