Chapter 18: Friction and Formation

  Orientation ended the way it had begun—without ceremony.

  Students were dismissed in small waves, names checked off slates, directions given once and not repeated. By the time Laurent stepped back into the outer courtyards, the academy had already moved on.

  Lunch was allotted. Training blocks were posted. No one explained what came next beyond times and locations.

  That was when the complaints started—before lunch.

  They didn’t sound like complaints at first—just observations exchanged in low voices as students drifted out of the Law Bound hall and into the wider corridors of the academy.

  “He didn’t explain anything.”

  “That’s not teaching.”

  “He talks like we’re already soldiers.”

  Laurent heard them as he walked, not slowing, not turning his head. The voices overlapped and faded, reforming behind him like ripples closing over disturbed water.

  Someone snorted. “Did you see his face? Like he already knows half of us won’t make it.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t care if we do.”

  That one stuck longer.

  Laurent didn’t disagree. He just didn’t know yet whether it was a flaw.

  By the time they reached the outer courtyard, the tone had shifted from irritation to something closer to nervous humor.

  A group of students had clustered near the low wall that bordered the training grounds. Packs were dropped, shoulders loosened, the tension of the hall bleeding off now that the instructors were no longer in front of them.

  A tall boy with cropped hair leaned back against the stone and shook his head.

  “Law Bearers get lectures,” he said. “We get orders.”

  “Yeah, but they don’t bleed,” another replied.

  “That’s because they don’t do anything yet.”

  A few quiet laughs followed. Not unkind. Just tired.

  Laurent stood slightly apart, adjusting the strap of his pack again out of habit more than need. He recognized none of the faces, but patterns were already forming—who spoke easily, who watched first, who laughed when it wasn’t necessary.

  Someone nearby gestured vaguely back toward the hall.

  “That instructor—what was his name? Irel?”

  “Mr. Irel,” someone corrected automatically.

  “Yeah. Him.” The speaker grimaced. “Absolute jerk.”

  Laurent glanced over before he could stop himself.

  The boy being spoken to blinked, then frowned. “Are you talking about me?”

  The group paused.

  He had the same dark hair, the same sharp features—but younger, less set. No authority in his posture. Just confusion.

  Someone squinted at him. “Wait. You’re not—”

  “No,” he said quickly. “Not related. Same name.”

  There was a beat.

  Then someone laughed. Short, sharp, relieved.

  “Oh, hell no,” the first boy said. “We are not calling you Irel.”

  “Yeah,” another added. “That’d get confusing fast.”

  The boy opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly deciding this wasn’t a hill worth standing on.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “So what, then?” he asked.

  A girl leaning against the wall tilted her head, studying him a little more closely now. “Your surname?”

  “Damaris.”

  She nodded once. “Dama.”

  A few people repeated it, testing the sound.

  “Dama,” someone said. “You good with that?”

  The boy—Dama now—shrugged. “Fine.”

  She nodded once, then hesitated. Her eyes flicked briefly past him—to Laurent—and back.

  “And… yours?” she asked.

  “Laurent,” he said.

  There was a pause.

  Not long. Just long enough.

  A few expressions shifted—brows knitting, mouths tightening slightly in thought. Someone frowned without meaning to.

  “That’s… not local,” someone said.

  Laurent shrugged. “No.”

  The moment passed without further comment, filed away rather than questioned.

  The moment passed as easily as it had formed, tension diffused into something looser. Laurent noted it quietly. Names mattered here, but not as much as clarity.

  They were still figuring out how to exist together.

  The second instructor arrived without ceremony.

  No raised voice. No command to gather.

  He simply stepped into the courtyard, stopped at the edge of the training ground, and waited.

  The effect was immediate.

  Conversations tapered off as people noticed him standing there—hands folded behind his back, posture relaxed but deliberate. He didn’t look like Mr. Irel. Where Irel had been rigid, this man was composed.

  “Mr. Aren,” someone murmured.

  Laurent turned fully this time.

  Mr. Aren waited until all eyes were on him before speaking.

  “You have an hour before your next session,” he said calmly. “Use it how you want. Just be back on time.”

  No warning. No threat.

  He nodded once and stepped away, leaving behind a silence that felt different from the one Mr. Irel commanded.

  “See?” someone muttered. “Why couldn’t the other one talk like that?”

  Laurent didn’t answer. He watched Mr. Aren go, noting the way students unconsciously straightened as he passed. Authority didn’t always need volume.

  They returned after lunch.

  This time, the training ground was occupied.

  Lines had been marked on the stone floor. Weight racks stood at the edges, simple and heavy. Blunt practice weapons were stacked neatly against one wall.

  Two instructors waited for them.

  Mr. Irel stood with his arms crossed, expression unchanged.

  Beside him was a woman Laurent hadn’t seen before.

  She was shorter than most of the students, her build compact rather than imposing. Her hair was pulled back tightly, her sleeves rolled just far enough to expose forearms marked with faint, old scars. She didn’t look stern.

  She looked precise.

  “This is Ms. Eira,” Mr. Irel said. “You will listen to her.”

  Ms. Eira inclined her head slightly, then stepped forward.

  “Line up,” she said.

  Not loud. Not sharp.

  Everyone moved anyway.

  She walked the line once, eyes scanning posture, stance, spacing. When she stopped in front of someone, she didn’t raise her voice. She corrected with a tap to the shoulder, a shift of the foot, a brief adjustment of grip.

  When she reached Laurent, she paused.

  “Relax your shoulders,” she said quietly. “You’re bracing too early.”

  Laurent did as told without thinking. The tension he hadn’t realized he was holding eased slightly.

  She moved on.

  “Today,” Ms. Eira continued, “you will not temper. You will move. You will carry weight. You will learn where your bodies fail before essence is involved.”

  A few people exchanged looks.

  Mr. Irel spoke again. “Pain today is instructional,” he said. “Pain tomorrow will be structural.”

  No one laughed.

  They began with load walking.

  Nothing dramatic. Just heavy frames lifted and carried across the marked lines, back and forth, again and again. No timing. No competition.

  Laurent felt the familiar strain settle into his muscles, the dull ache he recognized from forest work and city labor. Around him, breathing grew heavier, footfalls less even.

  Someone stumbled and caught themselves on the stone.

  “Reset,” Mr. Irel said.

  They did.

  Laurent noticed who adjusted and who resisted, who tried to push through and who learned when to slow. He noticed, too, how Ms. Eira corrected quietly while Mr. Irel enforced absolutely.

  By the time they were dismissed, no one was complaining anymore.

  They were too busy hurting.

  As Laurent collected his pack and followed the others out, he realized he now knew three instructors—Mr. Irel, Mr. Aren, Ms. Eira—and two students, Dama and Aila.

  It wasn’t much.

  But it was enough to begin.