The Trame Bearers’ Hall still buzzed with the remnants of breakfast chatter.

  The plates had been cleared, yet agitation lingered in the air—

  that murmur of anticipation only early hours could conjure.

  Althéa entered without a word.

  She wore her uniform, plain yet tailored to perfection, and carried her light bag like a breath.

  She knew exactly where she was going.

  The wilderness survival class.

  Finally.

  She was allowed to join now.

  She had demanded it—right in front of the Dean.

  And he had yielded.

  Not because she had pleaded; she never needed to.

  But because he knew.

  As did everyone else.

  She was not a student like the others.

  She crossed the hall.

  Eyes turned toward her as though guided by a single mind.

  Some stepped subtly out of her path. Others stared too long.

  There was admiration, curiosity, sometimes envy.

  Always this need to project something onto me… she thought.

  She didn’t like it.

  But she tolerated it.

  It was the price.

  She moved toward the small door of the Acropolis without slowing.

  The entrance hall—vast, silent—bathed in a white light softened by frosted glass.

  To the left, just past the threshold, a semicircular alcove served as a reception post:

  a modest dark-wood counter where the gatekeeper handled students and couriers.

  That was where she saw him.

  A young man, leaning on the desk, speaking with the secretary as if he were standing in a tavern.

  Relaxed posture, elbow on the counter, gaze too direct.

  He seemed… out of place.

  Too at ease—or not conscious enough of where he stood.

  She looked away before catching more of his features.

  Probably a provincial.

  Or the son of some newly wealthy family seeking status.

  Uninteresting.

  She kept walking, straight-backed, confident.

  The grove wasn’t far.

  And for the first time, she would cross its boundary as a participant.

  She stepped outside the Acropolis, morning light striking her face at once.

  The air was still crisp, but the sky already promised a dry day.

  On the stairs, a familiar silhouette sat sprawled across the steps, waiting without waiting.

  Vélara Aeternis—legs stretched out, posture relaxed—watched a small group of students below with lazy amusement.

  A crooked smile split her face.

  “They’re all as dull as rain around here,” she muttered.

  She was talking to herself. Or to the clouds.

  The students, too busy chatting, didn’t hear her.

  Althéa approached, as straight as ever.

  Vélara rose instantly with a smooth, feline motion.

  She gave an exaggerated, theatrical bow, as though greeting a queen before an invisible audience.

  “Good morning, Bearer Althéa,” she said, adopting a pompous, deliberately misplaced tone.

  Althéa stared at her a moment, expression unreadable.

  “Vélara,” she replied simply.

  Vélara straightened, hands on her hips, a playful spark in her eyes.

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  “So? First real day of field classes. How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Short answer. Almost curt.

  But Vélara knew her too well to stop there.

  She raised an eyebrow, as if something didn’t quite add up… then her smile returned.

  “Hm.”

  She tilted her head a little.

  “You say ‘I’m fine,’ but you’ve got that tiny glimmer in the corner of your eye. Almost… excitement?”

  “I am not excited,” Althéa replied immediately.

  Too quickly.

  Vélara’s smile widened.

  “Of course not. You radiate absolute frost. Nothing shakes you. I kneel before such composure.”

  Althéa exhaled the faintest sigh.

  She resumed walking toward the path leading to the grove, without adding a word.

  Vélara fell into step beside her.

  They left the steps shoulder to shoulder, following the trail toward the Spring Grove.

  A few students Althéa had passed earlier hesitated to approach her.

  But the moment they noticed Vélara walking at her side, their intentions froze mid-air.

  The whispers died.

  Silence stretched between the trees.

  The clearing soon came into view, nestled at the heart of the grove.

  A circle had been carved into the ground—wide, precise, deep in places.

  Not a simple outline.

  Not a marker game.

  A seal.

  Althéa slowed.

  Her eyes lingered on the marks, on the arrangement of the lines.

  It wasn’t a surveillance circle.

  It was a transposition vector.

  She recognized some of the patterns.

  An old anchoring structure… adapted. Altered.

  They’re going to send us somewhere else.

  Beside her, Vélara had stopped.

  She watched her with a half-smile, arms crossed, her stance relaxed.

  “I’ll wait for you here,” she said calmly.

  “I can’t go with you.”

  Althéa nodded.

  Simply.

  “Alright.”

  She stepped into the circle without another word.

  Around her, about twenty students stood in a loose arc, still undisciplined, whispering and murmuring.

  Some joked. Others adjusted their gloves, tightened their weapons.

  The instructor entered the center of the marking, hands behind her back, gaze sharpened.

  “What you are about to experience is not an exercise,” she said without raising her voice.

  “You will be teleported into an unknown environment. A wild one.”

  “You will know neither the region nor the risks nor the rules. And that is intentional.”

  Althéa stood straight, arms crossed.

  She listened without fear, but with precision.

  She didn’t move.

  But she absorbed everything.

  The instructor walked slowly within the circle, hands still clasped behind her.

  “You will be on your own,” she continued.

  “The environment you’ll be sent into contains several Class-Four Overdrawn.”

  A few glances were exchanged among the students.

  One or two exhaled through their noses, feigning nonchalance.

  “They are not lethal threats,” she went on.

  “Not for you.”

  She stopped, turned toward them, and drove her gaze into the group.

  “You have been trained since childhood to wield a blade, a staff, a bow, or any number of weapons.”

  “You know how to hold a defensive line.”

  “You know how to flee.”

  “You are capable of confronting—or avoiding.”

  She paused.

  “And precisely for that reason: you are free.”

  A silence washed over the circle.

  “You may cut down whatever stands in your way.”

  “Or walk past it, if you’re clever enough.”

  “I will not correct your choices.”

  “I will not intervene.”

  She swept her gaze across the group.

  “The rule here is simple.”

  She raised her hand slightly, palm facing upward.

  “You survive. Or you fail.”

  At that exact moment, footsteps echoed behind the group.

  Three silhouettes approached at a jog, slightly out of breath.

  Althéa barely turned her head.

  She noticed them without truly looking.

  Three boys.

  One of them carried a light weapon at his hip, holding it like an extension of himself.

  She paid them no more attention.

  Already, the instructor resumed speaking, her tone sharper:

  “You three. Into the circle. Now. No time to waste.”

  The latecomers had barely stepped inside when the instructor continued—

  and one of them raised his hand.

  High.

  Too high.

  Awkwardly high.

  Althéa arched a brow—barely.

  Really? Now?

  The instructor turned her head slowly toward him, irritation already simmering.

  “Yes?” she said.

  The boy hesitated, then spoke—voice unsteady, yet loud enough for everyone to hear:

  “I was wondering… why insist so much on details? Sounds, smells, memory…

  Isn’t this supposed to be a theoretical class?

  Weren’t we supposed to learn first aid, markers, basic techniques…?”

  Silence fell over the clearing.

  Althéa didn’t look away from him.

  Is he serious?

  Everything in him screamed incompetence—in his posture, in the way he held his weapon—

  and yet he had just asked a question that was both absurd and completely out of place.

  He heard nothing.

  Understood nothing.

  And he dares to raise his hand to broadcast it to everyone.

  Fascinating.

  The instructor blinked slowly. Then, as if burying the moment on purpose:

  “Does anyone else have a question just as ridiculous for a hands-on class in real conditions?”

  Stifled snickers rippled through the circle.

  Althéa didn’t smile.

  She simply observed the boy—without hatred, without disdain.

  Just… a neutral, severe assessment.

  He won’t last long.

  Then she straightened slightly.

  The moment was close.

  Silence had barely settled again when he raised his hand once more.

  Not as high.

  Not as hesitant.

  And this time, he didn’t even wait for permission.

  “Excuse me,” he said, a bit louder than necessary.

  “I think I signed up for the wrong class.

  Wasn’t there a workshop called ‘How to Tie a Tourniquet in Ten Easy Steps’ right next door?”

  A strangled laugh escaped from one corner of the circle.

  Another student snorted.

  The instructor did not react.

  She clapped her hands.

  Once.

  And everything disappeared.