Evening chill settled in as darkness crept across the sky. Ermin rapped the trophy once more, his voice rolling low across the yard.

  "All right. At last, our final bout." He massaged his temple with a weary sigh. "Blake Ashford versus Trey Lancaster! Ah... my head."

  The entire house groaned in unison.

  Trey sprang to his feet, rolling both shoulders like a showman waiting for his spotlight. Grinning wide, he grabbed a longsword from the rack. Across the ring, Blake loosened his stance and lifted his own blade, calm and ready.

  "Ready to lose, Lancaster?" Blake called.

  "Lose?" Trey pointed his sword straight at him. "You're more likely to lose to my charm!"

  Ermin and Blake rolled their eyes in perfect sync.

  "Fascinating match," Reid murmured, eyes bright. "Same medium, same weapon—watch closely, Luna."

  "So... doesn't that mean Blake's going to win?" Luna asked innocently. Trey did look slimmer standing beside him.

  "Hey!" Trey gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "Talk like that and you're demoted from number one fan!" He mock-threatened her with the blunt sword.

  "On your marks," Ermin cut in dryly before it could escalate.

  Both boys stepped into the chalked circle. Blake rolled his neck, his expression sharp and daring. Trey spun his sword one-handed, all grin and insolence.

  "Reminder," Ermin said, voice low, "blunted doesn't mean harmless. Don't go too far."

  The instant Ermin gave the signal, Blake's blade shot forward like lightning.

  Trey slid aside, steel flashing as he caught the strike with a sharp crack. He pivoted, twisting the angle—Blake's balance broke for a split second, boots skidding close to the chalk line. A gasp rippled through the crowd.

  "How'd he do that?" Luna breathed, startled that Trey had the strength to check someone Blake's size.

  "Different technique," Francis murmured, eyes gleaming every time Trey took a hit.

  He deserves it.

  Blake swung again; Trey met him, their swords clashing in quick, heavy bursts.

  "Careful," Trey said between strikes, parrying hard. "Wouldn't want certain people to see you fall, right?"

  The curve in his voice made Blake's ears turn bright red.

  "Shut up!"

  "Why?" Trey's grin widened. He drew a pulse of Quanta through the blade, sending a faint resonance along the steel. The pressure shifted—Blake's stance faltered a fraction.

  "Dazzling mouth, devastating flair," Trey taunted. "Very on brand."

  "Style doesn't win fights," Blake snapped, driving him back with a strong counter.

  Trey twisted, rolling the force off his guard and stepping into it again. "Maybe I'm not here to win. Maybe I'm here to get under your skin."

  That did it. Blake's jaw clenched. He raised his sword high, Quanta blazing down the edge, and struck with full force.

  Trey caught it head-on. The impact rang through the yard like thunder.

  For a moment, no one breathed.

  Then—

  "Behold, Luna! You won't regret being my number one fan!" Trey declared, still locked in the clash.

  Luna nodded too quickly, eyes wide, clutching her hands together like his every move might collapse the sky.

  "He's going to lose," Francis said calmly.

  "Absolutely," Reid agreed.

  Everyone knew Trey's technique and Quanta control were real—but his mouth always fought harder than his sword.

  Can this idiot be serious, for once?

  Blake pushed in again; Trey slipped past a slash, parried, feinted low, then pivoted around, blades ringing with every motion. They circled—strike, block, turn—each exchange faster than the last.

  Blake lifted for another heavy cut. Trey caught it, rolled with the motion, and slipped a clean counter through the narrow opening. Blake staggered—heel hovering at the chalk line. One more move and the winner would be named Lancaster.

  "Look at your face—tomato red! Honestly, kind of—"

  Instead of finishing with steel, he finished with mouth, leaving Blake a full two seconds to roll his eyes, spin, and kick Trey neatly across the line.

  "Out!" Ermin called.

  The yard erupted. The Pines whooped and rushed their victor, clapping Blake on the back as laughter burst through the crowd like fireworks.

  Trey grabbed Luna's hand and used it to lever himself up—so forcefully that she stumbled forward.

  "Hey!" she yelped as he slung an arm around her neck and dragged her toward Ermin.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  "Seriously?" he groaned. "I lost because the charm was too strong?"

  "Because you talk too much," Francis said, eyes bright with amusement.

  The crowd parted as Ermin approached, trophy in hand. He stopped at the center of the yard and raised his voice.

  "Blake Ashford—Champion of the Pines!"

  Applause and cheers broke out. Blake accepted the cup—then frowned, peering inside.

  "...It's empty."

  Ermin blinked. "That's the trophy."

  "Where's the real prize?"

  "This is the real prize."

  "The real real prize."

  Ermin's expression flattened. He muttered something inaudible about gratitude and career choices.

  Do they ever appreciate me? Maybe I should take up cooking—then they'd respect me.

  With a sigh of pure resignation, he stomped to the porch, seized an enormous cookie jar, and unceremoniously poured the whole thing into the trophy.

  The moment it was filled, Blake hoisted it high. "Cookies for everyone!"

  The yard erupted in cheers. The Pines swarmed into a queue, chanting his name like he'd won a championship. Each student took a cookie with mock solemnity, grinning ear to ear.

  When the crowd finally thinned, Blake carried the oversized trophy to a bench near the flowerbeds.

  "You haven't got one yet," he said softly.

  He reached into the cup and pulled out a perfect golden cookie, holding it out to the girl sitting nearby. Abby glanced from the cookie to his face, her curls brushing her cheek in the breeze. She tucked one behind her ear, cheeks pink, eyes hesitant.

  Blake kept the cookie extended, a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

  After a heartbeat, she reached out and took it. "Th-thank you."

  "Anytime," he said.

  Luna hustled up the marble hall with her bag bouncing at her side, taking the stairs two at a time toward First Aid I. She'd just finished Survival I—on the far side of campus.

  Whoever designed the timetables clearly wanted corpses.

  She was grown, reasonably healthy, and still nearly gasping; how were the Lavenders not fainting in the corridors by now?

  Then again, they were smarter, neater, and their handwriting looked like art. They'd probably sprinted here ages ago.

  She stopped at the heavy oak door and gulped air for a full five seconds before pushing it open—then had to shut her eyes, count to ten, and open them again.

  Wrong classroom?

  She'd imagined rows of simple-uniform kids sitting upright, bright-eyed, ready for theory.

  Instead, the room was packed—with her own housemates. Waving like she was some triumphant hero.

  Her gaze swept the crowd.

  A few seats were filled by other houses, but the majority—bizarrely—belonged to Pine Hollow.

  Abby. Florence. Bluebell. Blake. Finian. Bridget. Grant. Cillian. Abel. Adam. Trey...

  Even Francis.

  What madness is this?

  Luna's shaky hand pointed at them as she tried to form words.

  "Why... why are you here?"

  "Hi, Luna! We came for moral support," Trey said, grinning.

  "They failed," Francis said flatly, arms crossed, expression thunderous.

  I've spoiled them far too long. Patch one bruise, they bring me the whole dorm. Now even a Quanta-free first aid class defeated these brats.

  "What about you, Francis?" Luna blurted. "Why are you here?"

  "Francis? Creek? What are you doing in my class?" said the teacher who had trailed in behind her, stopping mid-step when she saw him.

  The Pine Hollow's healer-in-residence gave a polite nod.

  His combat skills were... debatable, but his medical reputation was so solid even Nurse Keats secretly relied on him. Without Francis, the infirmary would've been a Pine Hollow disaster zone.

  "I'm trying to enroll in Poisons and Antidotes, Nurse Keats," he said darkly. "But they said I had to pass this first."

  What imbecile made that rule? I've treated a thousand patients—now I have to learn bandaging from scratch?

  "Ah." Keats's mouth twitched. "You—sit with your friends," she told Luna. Then, turning to the others, "And please, try to pass this time."

  Her pen swung accusingly toward Abel and Bluebell. "And what in the hell happened to your faces?"

  Both were still faintly orange from yesterday's escapade.

  Keats sighed and moved to the desk. "All right—today we review wound types, stabilization, and basic bandaging. Remember: apply pressure to stop bleeding, elevate the limb, and never wrap so tight you cut circulation."

  Luna bent over her notes, catching every word. Trey, of course, slouched beside her, watching her write with suspicious interest.

  "You know," he whispered, "you could just copy mine."

  She glanced down at his notebook—then glared like she might set it on fire.

  "You just doodled."

  She tapped the doodle: a boy with stormy eyebrows baring his teeth.

  "That's the grumpy doctor sitting right there," Trey said proudly. "Carbon copy, right?"

  Luna almost laughed. It did look like Francis.

  "I can hear both of you," Francis said without turning, icy-blue eyes flicking back in faint offense.

  "Are you also grumpy?" Trey asked sweetly.

  "At you? Always. Luna—not so much."

  Trey looked personally betrayed; Luna bit her lip to hide the giggle.

  Keats clapped once. "Volunteers for demonstration!"

  "Looks like your leg's broken, doc." Blake said, looping an arm around Francis's neck and dragging him toward the front. "Don't worry—I'll help."

  "Instant regret," Francis muttered.

  "The patient doesn't assist!" Keats warned. "Treat it like real life."

  Blake groaned. So close.

  Francis lay on the cot, resigned.

  "All right, Blake—splint the leg. That board—no, not like that—don't cinch it—Blake—"

  Francis's steady instructions climbed toward panic as Blake wrapped his thigh until it resembled a melon.

  "Higher—ow—higher—"

  "What? Did I hurt you?" Blake froze, panicked.

  "It's fine. Start over. Wrap properly—yes, like that."

  Slowly, he got it right. Not pretty, but right.

  "Excellent patient!" Trey called out. "Want to try breaking something else?"

  "Your neck does come to mind," Francis replied dryly.

  Keats pinched the bridge of her nose. Every year. Every year these monkeys show up.

  She inspected the splint and sighed. "Secure enough, but circulation's nearly cut."

  "Pass?" Blake asked hopefully.

  "...Fine. Pass."

  Just go. Please.

  "Next pair! Orange faces—your turn!" Keats said, pointing at Abel and Bluebell. "Demonstrate an arm fracture."

  "You'll—"

  "I'll be the medic," Bluebell said, cutting Abel off. She pushed him down and slid a triangular cloth beneath his arm.

  Let's get it over with before I forget!

  "Bluebell," Abel said mildly.

  "Hold still. I won't hurt you."

  She whipped the sling around with practiced speed.

  "Good—but... wrong arm," he murmured.

  Her eyebrow twitched.

  The teacher had never said which arm was injured. Five seconds ago, he'd been cradling his right. Now he claimed it was the left.

  Deliberately provoking her.

  She tightened the knot, leaned in close, and hissed, "You—"

  "Yes?"

  "You did that on purpose?"

  "A little. I like it when you're angry, you look orange."

  The pleasant curve of his mouth made perfect fuel.

  "Then like this, too!"

  "Ow—ow—ow—"

  Keats had to rush in when Bluebell turned the sling into a flail.

  After a brief scolding (for both of them), Trey flopped dramatically onto the nearest cot and wailed,

  "Ahhh! Right leg broken—ribs cracked—no will to live—Nurse Atkins, help!"

  Luna's glare could have sterilized an instrument.

  Why did he have to drag me into his nonsense every single time?

  Keats, halfway through rapping Bluebell's skull, froze. "This is not an acting class, Lancaster!"

  "Extra credit?"

  "No!"

  She sighed, long and deep, rubbing her forehead.

  Oh my. Looks like I'll be stuck with these kids for a very, very long time