“Afternoons are for classes,” Kira said, her voice echoing softly down the high-ceilinged corridor. “History, strategy, Dojo theory, political negotiation… stuff you’ll think is boring until it saves your life.”

  We paused outside a classroom where a glowing map of the known world hovered midair. The instructor, a severe woman with cheekbones sharp enough to wound, studied it like she was planning a war. Maybe she was.

  I felt a strange pull toward it—toward the knowledge, the power of understanding how things worked beyond the battlefield. If the training fields built your body, this place built your mind.

  Kira walked me through the rest of the wing: a sleek, high-tech library with more datapads than physical books; soundproofed study rooms with glass walls and privacy settings; even a small museum full of relics and records from past wars—Blades who’d come before us, some honored, some erased.

  “This place turns you into a weapon,” she said as we made our way back toward the exit. “The training teaches you how to kill. This place teaches you why.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  I was still trying to figure out who I’d be once I became one.

  “Can we check out the library?” I asked, my voice a little softer than usual.

  Kira grinned. “A woman after my own heart.”

  The second we stepped inside, everything else—the echo of combat, the pressure of competition—just… melted away. The air shifted. The library was vast and quiet, with sunlight spilling through high windows, casting golden beams across the dark wood floors and towering bookshelves. It smelled like paper and dust and ink—like memory. Like knowledge.

  My fingers twitched at my sides, itching to touch the spines of books older than anything I’d ever been allowed near.

  “If you need to study or just escape for a while, this is the place,” Kira whispered. Her voice melted into the quiet hum of the room, respectful of the silence that cloaked the space.

  We drifted past long tables, where cadets sat hunched over thick tomes and glowing screens. Some scrawled notes on paper, others flipped through old texts or tapped quietly at tablets. It was the first time since arriving that I saw anyone at peace.

  We passed through aisles lined with books on history, Dojo theory, warfare, philosophy—some so old they looked like they’d crumble if breathed on. Interactive terminals blinked softly on nearby desks, offering access to digital archives from across the realm. I felt like I’d stepped into a sacred place, somewhere that honored not just strength—but curiosity.

  Deeper in, Kira pointed out a few sealed glass cases. Inside were rare volumes, manuscripts inked by generals, journals from long-dead Blades, and one particular swordsmanship treatise that looked like it had been rebound a dozen times to survive centuries.

  “This whole wing’s considered historical preservation,” Kira murmured. “You can view the displays, but don’t even think about touching unless you’re cleared.”

  I nodded, awed. It wasn’t just a library—it was legacy.

  We reached the far side of the room where a matte black door was tucked into the wall, unmarked but humming with quiet menace.

  “That’s the restricted section,” she said. “You need a signed note from a captain or instructor to get in. Unauthorized entry is a one-way ticket to expulsion… or worse.”

  I stared at it for a beat too long. There was something about it—like it was calling.

  Kira nudged me. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  I smiled faintly. “Too late.”

  She laughed, and together we headed back out into the corridor.

  Our final stop was the dining hall—and calling it a hall felt like underselling it. The place was massive, with thick wooden beams crossing the vaulted ceiling and banners from each House hanging proudly overhead. Vireo’s banner—the deep green one with a silver phoenix—fluttered near the middle. The smell of roasted meat, fresh bread, and something sweet hit me before I even walked in fully.

  “Meals are a big deal here,” Kira said as we wove through the crowd. “It’s not just eating—it’s networking. Strategizing. Scouting.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  Cadets sat in tight clusters at long wooden tables, some bent over plates, others leaned into whispered conversations. One group was passing around a map, pointing and murmuring. Another was deep in a loud debate, gesturing with utensils like they were swords. Everyone looked like they belonged—sharp-eyed, battle-ready, alive.

  “Food’s surprisingly good too,” Kira added with a grin. “But more importantly, people watch everything. Who you sit with. Who you avoid. Who’s starting to pair off.”

  I nodded slowly, the buzz of energy settling into my bones.

  It wasn’t just a dining hall. It was a battlefield of a different kind.

  “Taking out cadets is strictly forbidden during mealtime,” Kira said, nodding toward a raised stone dais on the far end of the hall. “The professors and captains sit up there. Announcements, death scrolls, unit assignments—it all happens after breakfast. Don’t be late unless you’ve got a death wish.”

  I followed her gaze. The long table on the pedestal looked more like a tribunal than a dining spot. I could already imagine the tension—every eye on that platform, every word announced there carrying the weight of fate.

  The serving tables were ridiculous in the best way. They stretched wall to wall, covered in every kind of food I could think of: slow-cooked stews, skewers of grilled meat, towering piles of roasted vegetables, delicate pastries dusted with sugar. Cuisines from every faction in the Kiri were represented. Even dessert had its own section. It wasn’t just about feeding cadets—it was a show of unity, a quiet reminder that the academy belonged to no single place or people.

  From there, Kira led me across the outer courtyard and toward the WarRing.

  And the second I stepped into the shadow of it, I understood why cadets whispered its name like a warning.

  The WarRing was massive—an amphitheater carved straight into the mountain stone, its circular arena caged by high walls and steep rows of seats. Right now, the stands were empty, the banners of each House fluttering gently in the breeze, but it didn’t matter. I could feel the pressure of eyes that weren’t there. Hear the ghosts of past duels in the silence.

  Kira stood beside me, arms crossed. “This is where reputations are made and broken,” she said, her voice low and serious. “You’ll fight here, eventually. Might as well get used to it now.”

  I swallowed, staring at the sand-covered floor below. “Any rules?”

  “No Dojo,” she said immediately. “They want to see what you’ve got without it. That’s what courses are for. In here?” She gave a dry smile. “It’s just fists, blades, and guts.”

  A shiver crept down my spine —part fear, part adrenaline. It was easy to imagine stepping down there, the crowd roaring, blood pounding in my ears. Easy to imagine winning. Easier to imagine losing.

  This wasn’t just a battlefield. It was a stage.

  And everyone would be watching.

  We stood there a moment longer before Kira turned on her heel. “Come on. Let’s get back before someone realizes you’re alive and decides they’re not happy about it.” Her eyes flicked to my hair. “Although judging by that braid, word’s going to spread fast.”

  I sighed, already bracing for it.

  As we made our way back toward the dorms, she slowed slightly, casting a glance over her shoulder. “There’s something else you need to know,” she added, her voice dropping lower. “Hierarchy matters here.”

  I nodded, keeping pace.

  “At the top, you’ve got the Commander,” she said. “He oversees the academy—students, captains, staff. Everything. His word is final. And trust me, nobody crosses him and lives to talk about it.”

  There was a note of something—respect, maybe even fear—in her voice. Whoever he was, I didn’t doubt he earned it.

  “Below him are the captains,” she continued. “Battle-hardened Blades. Legends. They run most of the high-stakes missions and pick their squads during The Selection. Getting chosen by a captain isn’t just good—it’s rare. It means you’ve got something special.” She paused, then gave me a sidelong glance. “Okami’s one of them.”

  Of course he was.

  I didn’t say anything, but my stomach twisted.

  “Most initiates never even get on a captain’s radar,” Kira added. “But you? You’ve already made yourself unforgettable. Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing? Guess we’ll find out.

  “Then we have the left-tenants,” Kira said, her voice lifting with a touch of pride. “They lead the squads within each House. Basically, they’re the captains’ second-in-command. They handle strategy, oversee training, keep everything from falling apart.

  “And at the bottom,” she added, gesturing between us, “are the cadets. That’s us. Our job is to survive, train harder than we think we can, and prove we’re worth something. Climb the ranks—left-tenant, captain, maybe even Commander someday… Assuming we live long enough.” She shrugged.

  We stepped into the dorm, and I caught sight of Mei and Willow suiting up—black tactical tights, arm guards, hair pulled into tight, no-nonsense buns.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, brow furrowing.

  “Training,” Mei replied, flashing a smirk like she knew something I didn’t.

  “Training?” I repeated, slower this time, a twinge of dread crawling up my spine.

  “You got here a day late, remember?” she said, adjusting her bun. “Yesterday was rest day. Tomorrow, classes start.”

  “But today,” Willow cut in, strapping on her arm guards with casual ease, “is squad day.”

  “I thought we were already assigned squads,” I said. “Aren’t we House Vireo?”

  “Those are Houses,” Kira clarified from behind me. “Houses are your alignment. Your squad is who you’ll train with day in and day out. Everyone in your squad will be from your House, yeah—but squads are smaller. Eight people. Unless…”

  She trailed off.

  “Unless?” I prompted.

  “Unless people start dying,” Willow said bluntly.

  “Or get themselves killed,” Mei added like she was reciting morning weather. She patted my shoulder with mock affection. “Come on, Sunflower Widow. Time to show us what the corpse bride can do.”

  The nickname hit like a slap—light on the surface, but I felt the sting beneath. I squared my shoulders anyway.

  I wasn’t here to survive anymore. I was here to win.

  We made our way to the training grounds, the storm from earlier leaving the sky heavy with clouds and the ground slick beneath our boots. The chill in the air was sharp, but not unwelcome—it was better than the heat radiating off the stares we passed along the way. Some were curious. Some… less so. I didn’t bother meeting their eyes. They could size me up all they wanted. I wasn’t the one who needed to be afraid.

  Not anymore.

  At the edge of the field, standing like a blade driven into stone, was Okami.

  Even from a distance, he commanded attention. Not because he tried—but because he didn’t have to. His silver hair fell in loose strands across one eye, messy in a way that made him seem more dangerous than polished. He wore the standard instructor’s uniform, but it didn’t look like a uniform on him. It looked like armor. Like warning.

  Slate-gray eyes locked on mine the second I stepped into view.

  And just like that, every breath I took felt heavier.

  His gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t soften. Just pierced through me like he was still deciding whether I belonged here.

  Fine.

  I wasn’t going anywhere.

  I tried to steady my breathing as we got closer, fully aware that every step I took was being watched—not just by Okami, but by the dozens of cadets and instructors circling the field like vultures sizing up fresh meat. This was my first real test. The first time I’d be seen not as the girl who came back from the mountain—but as a cadet. I needed to make it count.

  Not just to shut everyone up.

  To prove to myself I belonged here.

  Up ahead, a line of left-tenants stood tall, their uniforms crisp, their gazes sharp. Greyson was among them, hands behind his back, posture textbook perfect. It was weird seeing him like that—serious. Controlled. Then I spotted the captains.

  Each one had their own energy, their own presence. But even with all their badges and medals and polished boots, it was clear who stood just slightly apart—who drew the most unspoken respect.

  Okami.

  He stood a few feet away from the others, arms folded loosely across his chest, silver hair tousled by the breeze. No medals. No commendations. Just him. Silent. Watching. And somehow, that made him the most terrifying person on this field.

  “That’s Hunter Landeskog, the commander,” Mei murmured beside me, nodding toward a tall, broad-shouldered man with cropped blond hair and ice-blue eyes. His stance was stiff and commanding—military through and through.

  “I thought for sure Okami would get it,” Kira purred.

  “Okami doesn’t want to be here,” Willow cut in, smirking. “Everyone knows he’s the strongest captain in the academy. He just doesn’t give a damn about the title.”

  I glanced between them—Hunter, gleaming with accolades, and Okami, standing in plain black, sharp as a blade that didn’t need polish to cut. The contrast said everything. One played the game. The other didn’t need to.

  We fell into place with the rest of the cadets just as Commander Landeskog—Hunter—stepped forward. The air shifted. The training field went quiet. And when he spoke, his voice carried like thunder across stone.

  “Welcome, cadets,” he said, his tone clipped, commanding. “This is the first day of what will become the hardest and most defining journey of your lives. You’re here because you showed promise. But potential means nothing unless it is forged through pain, discipline, and sacrifice.”

  His gaze swept over us like a weapon. It lingered when it hit me. I held it.

  “You will be broken down,” he continued. “You will be rebuilt. Each morning, your body will be pushed to its limits. Each afternoon, your minds will be sharpened into weapons of their own. And in every moment between, you will be expected to live, breathe, and bleed the values of this academy.”

  I stood taller.

  “This place is not for the soft. It is not for the hesitant. It is for those who are willing to do what others won’t. The WarRing will test you. This academy will test you. And not everyone will pass.”

  His voice lowered, but somehow it hit harder.

  “Watch your backs. Keep your guard up. And understand that in this academy, only the strongest survive.”

  He stepped back without another word, letting the weight of his message settle over the field like a storm.

  The left-tenants moved into action, barking orders and breaking us into groups. My heart pounded, adrenaline tightening every muscle in my body.

  This was it.

  The rumors. The whispers. The deaths.

  They all led to now.

  And I wasn’t going to falter.

  Not here.

  Not in front of him.

  Not in front of anyone.

  Eight

  Training started the second Captain Landeskog finished speaking. No time to process. No time to breathe. Just move.

  Thomas—one of the senior cadets in House Vireo—stepped up to lead stretches. He looked wiry, almost frail, but his voice cut across the field like a blade. Sharp. Commanding. He barked orders without hesitation, walking up and down the line like he owned the ground we were standing on.

  We followed his lead, arms raised, backs bent, legs stretched until they burned. The movements were simple, but not easy—not when every limb was still sore from the mountain. I focused on matching the cadence of the others, ignoring the twinge in my side, the ache still lingering in my ankle. This wasn’t about comfort. It was about discipline. And Vireo prided itself on that above everything else.

  Next up was Elise—broad-shouldered, energetic, the kind of girl who lived for team drills and morning runs. I didn’t.

  She grinned like she’d been waiting all day for this moment and took off at a pace that made my heart sink. The jog wound through the academy, past ivy-covered halls and ancient stone courtyards. It was beautiful in the way that only hellscapes disguised as schools could be.

  God, I hate running.

  My legs protested immediately. My lungs burned by the first incline. And yet, I kept going, because quitting wasn’t an option and falling behind was worse.

  I counted steps. I matched my breath to the pounding rhythm of boots on stone. And I refused—refused—to look up. Because I didn’t need to see him to know he was watching.

  Okami.

  His gaze had weight. Pressure. Like a hand pressed to the back of my neck, daring me to stumble. It didn’t matter that there were dozens of other cadets on this field—when his eyes were on me; it felt like the entire academy had gone silent just to hear me breathe.

  So, I kept my head down. Counted every footfall like a prayer. One-two-three-four. Left-right-left-right. Don’t pass out. Don’t puke. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.

  The jog dragged on, every turn and slope a fresh form of punishment. I lost track of time. I stopped feeling my legs. It became about momentum—about showing him and everyone else that I wasn’t just alive.

  I was still standing.

  By the time we circled back to the training field, I was soaked in sweat, my hair clinging to the back of my neck. My chest heaved, but I didn’t double over like some of the others. I stood tall. My hands on my hips. Jaw tight.

  I didn’t look at Okami.

  The instructors didn’t give us long to recover. They broke us into smaller groups immediately, scattering us across the field—deliberately separating roommates, friends, and anyone who looked remotely comfortable. It was strategic. Tactical. They wanted to see how we adapted.