Chapter 70: Thinner Walls

  Year Two did not announce itself.

  There was no bell, no gathering, no line drawn across the yard to mark the change. The academy simply shifted its posture. Schedules tightened. Notices shortened. Instructors stopped correcting things that weren’t immediately dangerous.

  The academy hadn’t grown harsher.

  It had grown thinner.

  Laurent felt it before he understood it. The space between instruction and consequence had narrowed. Mistakes were no longer intercepted early. If something failed, it failed all the way.

  That morning, the second-year training grounds opened fully.

  Paths branched outward from the central walk, each leading to a different sound: the heavy, bone-deep impacts of the breaker court; the sharp footwork and shouted mid-motion corrections of the skirmish lanes; the dull, rhythmic thunder of shields meeting force in the bulwark square.

  No banners marked them. No one explained.

  Students moved anyway. They peeled off with instinct more than thought.

  Rethan turned toward the breaker court without slowing. Selin matched his stride half a step behind him. They didn’t speak, but they were close—close enough that people had started noticing. No one commented.

  Cael didn’t hesitate either. He clapped Laurent once on the shoulder, grinned, and followed the same path, confidence unbroken.

  Aila went the other way, already focused, heading for the skirmish lanes. Seris followed after a short pause, eyes tracking movement rather than bodies.

  Joran stopped. Just for a moment. Then he turned—not toward the breaker yard, but toward the bulwark square. His posture was different than it had been last term. Less forward. More guarded.

  Survival, Laurent thought. Not pride.

  Eren drifted toward the jack-of-all-trades court, short sword loose in her hand, expression thoughtful. Orin followed shortly after, long blade resting easily against his shoulder. Dama headed for the bulwark yard without comment.

  Laurent stayed where he was.

  He hadn’t chosen yet. Not because he didn’t belong anywhere—but because committing too early felt wrong.

  He started walking. Not into a yard. Between them. The breaker court came first.

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  Mr. Torren stood near the center, arms folded, watching two students collide with uncompromising force. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t correct. He waited until one faltered, then pointed at the ground.

  “Again.”

  Cael entered the court without ceremony. Torren didn’t look surprised. The assessment had already set expectations; Cael simply met them.

  Rethan and Selin moved together. Torren’s gaze lingered there—not interest, not approval. Acknowledgment. Volatility paired with discipline. High ceiling. High risk.

  Laurent passed without stopping. Torren’s eyes flicked to him once, measured something that didn’t resolve cleanly, then returned to the drill.

  The skirmish lanes were chaos by comparison.

  Ms. Lyra moved constantly, correcting angles mid-stride, tapping shoulders, calling timing errors without breaking her own motion. Aila was already fully engaged, movement sharp and economical.

  Lyra’s attention locked onto Aila and Seris immediately. Their profiles matched her priority set—mobility, perception, decision under motion.

  Laurent passed through the edge of the lanes.

  “Too upright,” Lyra said casually—not to him, but to a student behind him. Laurent adjusted anyway.

  The bulwark square was quieter.

  Mr. Bram stood like a fixture of the yard itself, shield planted, students cycling into him one by one and failing to move him. Dama absorbed impact after impact without complaint, jaw tight, feet unmoving.

  When Joran stepped into the square, Bram’s eyes stayed on him longer than necessary. Not curiosity. Reassessment.

  Laurent slowed briefly at the edge of the square. Bram’s gaze passed over him, measuring load tolerance, posture, recovery signals—then moved on. Laurent wasn’t a bulwark problem yet. He continued.

  The jack-of-all-trades court felt different. Looser. Less rigidly defined. Mr. Calis sat on a low stone, watching three drills at once. He intervened rarely. When a student improvised, Calis tilted his head. When another repeated a mistake, he sighed once and made a note.

  Laurent slowed here. Not because he was drawn in—but because he didn’t know where to step next. Calis noticed immediately. Not recognition. Confirmation.

  The assessment warning had mentioned hesitation—not fear, but breadth without anchor. Seeing Laurent pause without committing aligned perfectly.

  “Not choosing yet?” Calis asked, tone conversational.

  “No, sir.”

  “Hm.” Calis smiled faintly. “That tracks.”

  He didn’t invite Laurent in. That mattered.

  The long-range field lay farthest out. Quiet by necessity. Targets stood at distances that felt unreasonable. The air itself seemed thinner there, stretched taut.

  Mrs. Virel stood alone, hands folded behind her back, watching a single student breathe before releasing an arrow. The title wasn’t formality—she kept it deliberately. A reminder that she had a life before the academy, and chose to return anyway.

  Laurent stopped. Not because she looked at him. She didn’t. Because something old stirred—something he’d assumed didn’t belong here. The bow. He stayed only a moment longer than necessary, then turned away before the thought settled too deeply.

  By midday, the academy had fully separated into motion. Laurent hadn’t trained. He hadn’t chosen. And no one had tried to claim him. That felt correct.

  He returned to his dorm later, setting his gear down carefully. His armguard caught the light at the wrong angle—metal bent inward from the escort, stress past what cheap steel could tolerate. He ran his thumb along the warped edge and exhaled slowly.

  The body had held. The gear hadn’t. That imbalance wouldn’t last.

  Outside, the academy continued—full, loud, structured, alive. The walls were still there. Just thinner.