Chapter 63: Assigned (Part 2 of 2)

  Assessment

  They were not dismissed immediately.

  Once squads had settled into place, Ms. Eira remained where she was. Not centered. Not elevated. Present enough that no one mistook this for an afterthought.

  “These assignments reflect your assessment results,” she said.

  The word landed coldly. Precisely.

  “Assessment is not effort,” Ms. Eira continued. “It is usable capability. What holds under pressure. What fails cleanly. What creates risk for others.”

  “Before final placement,” Ms. Eira said, “I will observe you as a unit outside the walls. I need to see where each of you stands when formation is not theoretical.”

  No lists followed. No names were read aloud. The academy did not explain numbers to people who would soon be responsible for lives.

  “Your assessment reflects performance across the past year,” she said. “Including stability, recovery, judgment, and survivability under load.”

  There was a small shift in the room. Quiet looks exchanged. Everyone already knew part of it.

  Cael did not move.

  “The highest overall assessment score this year,” Ms. Eira said, “belongs to Cael Morithe.”

  The words were not emphasized. They didn’t need to be.

  A ripple passed through the hall anyway—not surprise so much as confirmation. Senior students included. Third-years. Those who had already been outside the walls more than once.

  Cael’s posture didn’t change, but the corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile, just the faint acknowledgment of something earned.

  The difference was in how others looked at him now—retrospective understanding settling into place.

  “So that’s why,” someone murmured quietly.

  Ms. Eira did not acknowledge the reaction.

  “Do not confuse ranking with dominance,” she said. “Assessment does not measure how often you win. It measures how often you do not fail.”

  That reframed it.

  “You were not grouped for balance,” she continued. “You were grouped to limit failure.”

  Laurent felt the words settle without resistance. There was no pride in them. No disappointment either. Just orientation.

  “Some of you are reliable under strain,” Ms. Eira said. “Some of you recover well but decide late. Some of you stabilize others without realizing it.”

  Her gaze moved across the squads, unhurried.

  “Your placement reflects what you can be relied upon to do now.”

  A pause.

  “This is one week before the start of Year Two,” she said, for clarity rather than ceremony. “Squads are locked early so preparation can be deliberate.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  She let that sink in.

  “Adventures occur once per term,” Ms. Eira continued. “They are not opportunities. They are exposure.”

  That reframed everything.

  “For Year Two, you will be assigned new instructors for instruction and progression,” she said. “For the upcoming outing, my role is limited.”

  She paused.

  “I will accompany you on this outing only.”

  Guardian. Authority. Safety.

  Not growth.

  “If you are expecting correction in the field,” Ms. Eira said evenly, “you are already behind.”

  Silence followed. Not tension. Acceptance.

  “Prepare,” she finished. “Dismissed.”

  The hall began to empty.

  Laurent remained still for a moment longer, then turned with his squad.

  This wasn’t advancement. It wasn’t reward.

  It was placement.

  The academy had decided he was no longer hypothetical.

  He was usable.

  Later that afternoon, Ms. Eira summoned the squad again.

  “Standard issue only,” she said. “We move.”

  No explanation followed.

  They exited the walls through the lesser eastern gate and entered the nearby forest—close enough for response, far enough that mistakes would not feel theoretical.

  They moved in loose formation at first. No correction came.

  The forest felt too still.

  Laurent noticed it first—not the sound, but the absence of it. Insects had quieted. Leaves shifted without pattern. The air held weight.

  He slowed half a step without meaning to.

  Cael did not look back, but his stride shortened just enough to allow spacing. Not a command. Adjustment.

  Aila’s gaze lifted toward the undergrowth to their right. “Movement,” she said quietly. Not alarmed. Just certain.

  No one asked where.

  Joran’s hand tightened on his blade. Linae shifted behind Aila, keeping distance without breaking formation.

  Still no correction from Ms. Eira.

  They were expected to see it.

  The brush ahead parted slightly—not enough to reveal shape, only mass.

  Now it stepped out.

  When the tuskback emerged from the brush, it did not charge immediately. It stamped once, head low, territorial rather than hunting.

  “Positions,” Ms. Eira said calmly.

  No one hesitated.

  Cael stepped forward first—direct, decisive. Breaker.

  Laurent shifted half a pace to the side, adjusting to terrain and angle without being told. Adaptive.

  Aila and Linae held back, eyes tracking movement, waiting for commitment before choosing theirs.

  Joran did not wait.

  He surged.

  Clean entry. Aggressive. Shield high, blade angled. He drove into the tuskback’s shoulder and forced it back with raw force and confidence.

  The beast squealed, staggered, and retreated into brush.

  Silence returned.

  No one relaxed.

  Cael didn’t chase.

  Laurent’s eyes stayed on the brushline, tracking where the tuskback vanished. His breathing was steady—but his stance hadn’t eased.

  Aila shifted first.

  “That wasn’t a kill,” she said. Calm. Observing.

  Joran scoffed lightly. “It ran.”

  “It retreated,” Aila corrected. “There’s a difference.”

  Linae glanced at Laurent. “Will it circle?”

  Laurent answered without looking at her. “If it thinks we’re weak.”

  Cael gave a short exhale through his nose. “It doesn’t.”

  That was the first sign of cohesion.

  Not praise. Not argument.

  Assessment.

  Joran lowered his blade.

  “See?” he said, breathing hard but grinning. “It’s easy. No need for formation. I could’ve killed it if it didn’t run.”

  No one spoke immediately.

  Ms. Eira studied him a moment.

  “So,” she said evenly, “you don’t avoid battle.”

  Joran shrugged. “I’m not afraid of it.”

  A small pause.

  “Good,” she replied. “I’ll arrange a spar.”

  Joran blinked. “Eh? Sure. It’ll be fun.”

  She gave no reaction.

  Before she turned, Joran spoke again.

  “So, Ms. Eira… you said we’ll get new instructors next year, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Then we won’t have to deal with that jerk, Mr. Irel, anymore.”

  Aila let out a quiet breath through her nose.

  “He never teaches,” she said, not loudly. “He corrects.”

  There was pride in the way she said it—controlled, but unmistakable.

  “If he wants us alive,” she continued, “he could try explaining what we’re doing wrong instead of knocking us down for it.”

  Laurent didn’t speak.

  But he didn’t disagree either.

  Linae shifted slightly beside them, gaze lowering to the forest floor. She didn’t join the conversation. She didn’t defend anyone. She just went quiet.

  There was a brief stillness.

  Cael did not speak, but he did not disagree either. Laurent gave a faint nod without realizing it. Aila and Selin exchanged a glance and said nothing. Only Linae looked down, gaze lowering to the forest floor, avoiding the topic.

  Ms. Eira looked at Joran.

  And sighed.

  “You do not know what he has been through.”

  Silence.

  “It is not my place to say this,” she continued. “Mr. Irel chose this position. He did not have to.”

  She paused.

  “He gave up his noble rights. He stepped away from political standing. He remains here by choice.”

  Another pause.

  “He instructs first-years because first-years die most easily.”

  Her voice did not rise.

  “He does this to make sure you stay alive longer.”

  A small breath.

  “That is all I can say.”

  A final pause.

  “If he knows I said this, I will receive a scolding.”

  No one answered.

  “Return.”