They didn't speak for several minutes.

  The forest didn't either.

  Even the wind seemed to pause—listening instead of moving.

  Ren finally exhaled. "Okay, so—big boom. Someone definitely exploded. Is it rude to hope it was someone who deserved it?"

  "Yes," Lami said.

  "No," Cael said.

  Ayla kept walking.

  Not fast, not slow—just steady enough that the earth didn't shift strangely beneath her feet. Beacon Hill sank behind them, becoming just another shape between trees.

  Ren jogged ahead, scouting the path. "Gate should be... that direction. Probably. Maybe. Don't quote me."

  "We won't," Cael said.

  Lami clutched her pack protectively—as if the shard inside might decide to leave. "Do you think the instructors heard that blast?"

  "They caused it," Ayla said.

  Ren spun around. "Oh, I love when you say horrifying truths casually."

  Cael nodded. "They placed the false shard intentionally. To measure reaction, not retrieval."

  "And someone failed the measurement," Lami whispered.

  A second rumble rolled through the trees—softer, farther away. Not an explosion this time.

  Something collapsing.

  Ren shivered. "I officially hate outdoor education."

  They moved downhill, weaving through rocks and brush. The trees grew denser, the light patchier. Time didn't feel like it was passing normally. It stretched and bent—like it, too, wanted to test them.

  Cael checked the sun's position. "We have time. About two hours left."

  "As long as we don't get lost," Lami said.

  Ren clapped her shoulder. "Lami, please. We're always lost. It's our brand."

  Ayla didn't look up when she said, "We're not lost."

  Ren groaned. "Stop ruining my comedy."

  But she smiled anyway.

  They continued—until Ayla stopped.

  Cael halted instantly. "What?"

  Ayla tilted her head—not to listen with ears, but with everything else. "Hear it?"

  Lami shook her head. "I don't hear anything."

  "Exactly," Ayla said.

  Nothing.

  No birds. No branches creaking. No wind.

  Ren's fingers twitched. "I hate silence. Silence implies plot."

  Cael scanned the trees. "Something's nearby. Or something wants us to think so."

  A faint sound finally broke through—a soft, uneven scuffing. Footsteps. Dragging. Struggling.

  Human.

  Lami's breath caught. "Someone's hurt."

  Cael's jaw tightened. "Could be bait."

  Ren grimaced. "Yeah, but if we ignore it and it's real? Gross moral crisis incoming."

  Ayla already knew the answer.

  "We check," she said.

  Cael nodded. "Carefully."

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  They followed the sound—moving through ferns and fractured sunlight—until the forest opened into a small clearing.

  A boy lay slumped against a fallen tree, holding his ribs. Dirt smeared his face. His uniform sleeve was torn, revealing a deep burn. Not fire. Energy backlash.

  Sky-iron explosion.

  Lami gasped softly. "Oh no."

  The boy looked up at the sound, blinking through pain. He wasn't from a top-ranked team—Bronze colors marked his collar. His breathing stuttered. Every exhale sounded sharp.

  Ren knelt beside him—gentle for once. "Hey. You alive-ish?"

  He tried to laugh, but it looked painful. "Define alive."

  Cael crouched beside Ren, eyes scanning the wound. "You're lucky. If you'd been closer, you wouldn't have a torso."

  "Wasn't luck," the boy rasped. "Our leader grabbed it. Said it was too obvious. It blew anyway." His voice broke. "She's still up there."

  Lami covered her mouth. "We—we have to help her."

  Ayla asked softly, "How many stayed behind?"

  "Two," he whispered. "Told me to run. I think—they might still be breathing."

  Ren stood immediately. "Then let's go."

  "No," Cael said—firm, low.

  Ren spun toward him. "Excuse me?"

  "We're not equipped for rescue," Cael said. "We don't know if the terrain is stable. If they're trapped, injured, or if the shard triggered lingering energy."

  "So we leave them?" Ren snapped.

  "No," Ayla said—calmly, decisively.

  Cael looked at her.

  Ayla met his gaze. "We don't climb Beacon Hill again. But we send help."

  "How?" Lami asked. "We're outside the walls. Instructors aren't here."

  Ayla's eyes drifted toward the trees.

  They weren't alone.

  Someone had been watching since they arrived.

  Not visible—just present.

  Instructors monitored the forest. Not directly—but through runes, wards, echoes in the environment. The Academy never let students roam truly unobserved.

  "We draw attention," Ayla said.

  Ren grinned. "Finally. Permission to be loud."

  "No," Ayla said. "Not loud. Clear."

  She knelt beside the injured boy. "What's your name?"

  "Taron," he whispered.

  "We're getting you back," Ayla said. "You just have to trust us."

  Taron nodded—small, exhausted.

  Ayla stood, closing her eyes—not to summon, not to cast.

  To align.

  Wind brushed her cheek.

  Soil pressed steady beneath her boots.

  Metal pulsed faintly from Cael's pack.

  Heat lingered where Taron's wound burned.

  Wood creaked gently in nearby branches.

  She didn't command them.

  She invited them.

  Her exhale was slow, deliberate.

  Leaves rustled—not from wind, but awareness.

  The forest shifted—just slightly—like something ancient had opened an eye.

  A subtle tremor ran through the ground, sinking into the earth, spreading outward like a signal.

  Not a cry for help.

  A notification.

  Cael stiffened—he felt it too.

  Ren stared. "Ayla, did you just... text the forest?"

  Ayla opened her eyes. "We move toward the gate. Someone will come."

  "How do you know?" Lami whispered.

  "Because the Academy wants witnesses," Ayla said. "Not bodies."

  Cael nodded once. "We take Taron with us. Slow pace. Stable terrain."

  Ren carefully slung the boy's arm over her shoulders. "Okay, Taron. You're now part of Team Forty-Seven. Membership includes complaining privileges."

  Taron gave a weak laugh—pained, but real.

  They started moving together—steady, cohesive, careful.

  Not ten steps later, Lami gasped. "Someone's coming."

  A figure emerged between trees—fast, confident, purposeful. Familiar blonde hair, gold uniform.

  Eris Valenne.

  She didn't look surprised to find them.

  Her gaze flicked to Taron, noted the injury, assessed severity within a heartbeat.

  Then she looked at Ayla.

  Not accusing.

  Acknowledging.

  "You signaled," Eris said.

  A statement, not a question.

  Ayla didn't answer.

  Eris crouched beside Taron, pressing two fingers gently against his wrist. "Pulse stable. No internal collapse. Good."

  She straightened and whistled—sharp, piercing, deliberate.

  Moments later, two faculty healers strode from the trees as if they'd been waiting.

  Taron sagged in relief.

  Ren blinked. "Okay, dramatic entrance. Rude but impressive."

  One healer placed a steadying hand on Taron's shoulder. "We'll take him."

  Taron looked at Ayla—not at Ren, not at Cael, not at the healers.

  "You didn't have to stop," he whispered.

  Ayla nodded once. "We did."

  He smiled—small but sincere—before the healers guided him away.

  Silence stretched.

  Eris remained.

  Her amber eyes found Ayla again. "Most teams walk past the wounded."

  "Most teams aren't us," Ren said, chin high.

  Eris didn't look at her. "No. They aren't."

  Cael stepped forward—controlled, polite, guarded. "Was the false shard intentional?"

  Eris didn't blink. "Of course."

  Lami flinched. "That's cruel."

  "It's education," Eris said. "Cruelty requires intent."

  "So does negligence," Ayla replied.

  For the first time, Eris's expression shifted—not offended, not amused.

  Interested.

  "You chose correctly," Eris said.

  "We chose differently," Ayla corrected.

  Eris exhaled—almost a laugh. "Fourth will not hold if you keep doing that."

  Ren grinned. "Good. We're climbing."

  Eris looked at Ren like she was a particularly loud bird, then turned toward the path.

  "The gate is east," she said. "Fifteen minutes if you don't stop again."

  Then she walked away—efficient, composed, unreadable.

  Ren watched her go. "I can't tell if she wants to destroy us or adopt us."

  "Yes," Cael said.

  "That wasn't multiple choice," Ren replied.

  They continued toward the gate—lighter, steadier, not triumphant, but aligned.

  Lami finally spoke. "Do you think helping him will hurt our score?"

  "No," Ayla said.

  Cael nodded. "The Academy doesn't reward cruelty. Only measures it."

  Ren kicked a rock. "Still feels like we're being watched."

  "We are," Ayla said.

  And she wasn't wrong.

  High above, near the ridge, Master Orrin stood partially hidden among trees—hands folded behind him, expression unreadable.

  Beside him, Instructor Seris murmured, "She sensed the shard before it reacted."

  "Yes," Orrin said.

  "Five elements in one body is supposed to dilute perception, not enhance it."

  "Yes," Orrin repeated.

  Seris glanced at him. "You're pleased."

  "I'm patient," he said.

  Seris exhaled. "And when the Academy notices?"

  "Oh," Orrin said softly, eyes tracking Ayla's steady stride,

  "They already have."

  ??