The midday sun beat down hard on the Great Crucible, the Academy's main training ground. The compacted dirt floor was hot, and the air smelled of dust, sweaty leather, and the residual ozone of failed spells.
Fifty first-year students stood in formation, no longer wearing their luxurious travel clothes, but the standard-issue physical combat gear.
They wore shirts and trousers made of thick, reinforced gray canvas, designed to resist tears and minor cuts. The only thing that stood out against the drab gray were the cloth sashes tied firmly around their waists, whose colors distinguished which Pillar each cadet belonged to: red for Ignis, blue for Aether, purple for Umbra, green for Terra, and black for Caelum.
Phantsin Dawnfire adjusted the knot of his red sash. He trembled with a tension that wasn't fear, but the physical need to hit something to release the excess energy coiled within him.
"Pain! Pain is the only teacher that does not lie."
The voice sounded like gravel being crushed in a mill.
Commander Brynja Stonefist paced in front of the formation. She was a dwarf from the Sentinel Peaks, standing barely four feet seven inches tall, but with a shoulder width that would put a bull to shame. Her bare arms were blocks of granite covered in blue runic tattoos, and her steel-gray hair was braided in a complex war style. She carried an ironwood training staff as if it were a twig.
"Welcome to hell, recruits," Brynja growled, stopping in front of the students and looking them in the eye without blinking. "Here, I don't care about your parents' gold or your fancy last names. Here, the only currency is pain. And today, you are all going to pay."
Brynja struck the ground with her staff.
"Hand-to-hand combat! No magic. I want to see your instincts before I see your sparks. Pair up!"
The Commander began pointing at students.
"You, with the elf-eared one. You, with the fat one."
Her thick finger, covered in scars and calluses, stopped on Phantsin. A cruel smile curved her lips beneath her braided beard—a tradition among the female warriors of her clan.
"Phantsin Dawnfire. The arsonist. You need someone who can put out your stupidity."
Brynja turned her finger to the right.
"Eliana Dawnshield. Step forward."
A murmur rippled through the ranks.
Eliana Dawnshield stepped forward. She wore the same gray outfit as the rest, with the blue sash of Aether cinched at her waist, but on her, the training clothes looked like a dress uniform. She was fifteen years old and moved with a lethal grace.
She was the picture of Valorian perfection. Tall and athletic, with impeccable posture. Her hair was a solar blonde, pulled back into a practical braid that fell down her back like a golden rope. Her eyes, a piercing sapphire blue, evaluated Phantsin with a clinical coldness. No arrogance, just a profound seriousness. She was the heir to the Hero's legacy, and she carried that weight in every movement.
"It will be an honor to instruct him, Commander," Eliana said. Her voice was clear, melodic yet firm.
"Don't instruct him, Princess," Brynja barked. "Destroy him."
They both stepped into the chalk-marked dueling circle and took practical wooden swords from the weapons rack.
Phantsin gripped the hilt. It felt good. Solid. Better than the magic he had to repress in the back of his mind. He was used to it.
"Stance," Eliana ordered, adopting the Dawnblade school's high guard. Feet apart, sword vertical, perfect defense.
Phantsin didn't adopt any scholarly stance. He crouched slightly.
"Begin!" Brynja shouted.
Phantsin shot forward.
He lunged with a speed that surprised the onlookers. He attacked with rage, launching a horizontal slash aimed at her ribs. It was a fast, brutal, and dirty strike.
Eliana simply flicked her wrist.
Her wooden sword intercepted Phantsin's, effortlessly deflecting the force toward the ground.
"Too wide," she said calmly.
Phantsin grunted and launched a backhand. Eliana blocked it. He thrust at her chest. Eliana parried it with an elegant side-step, as if she were in a dance rather than a fight.
"Your feet are poorly placed," she lectured him, blocking another furious strike. "You're fighting with anger, not with purpose."
"Shut up and fight!" Phantsin roared.
Frustration erupted within Phantsin. He hated that perfection. He hated that calm. It reminded him of how broken and dangerous he was inside. He attacked faster, becoming a whirlwind of blows. Left, right, high.
Eliana retreated from the boy's aggressiveness, blocking every impact with frustrating ease.
"A sword is not a club, Dawnfire," Eliana said, her breathing only slightly heavy. "It is an extension of your will. And your will is a mess."
Phantsin's vision clouded with frustration. He made a rookie mistake: he threw all his weight into a massive downward strike, seeking to break her guard through sheer brute force.
Eliana saw the opening. She stepped forward, slipping inside Phantsin's guard. She caught his wrist with her free hand and used his own momentum against him.
With a twist of her hips and a precise trip, Eliana sent Phantsin airborne.
The world spun for Phantsin. He landed flat on his back on the hard dirt, the air driven from his lungs in an agonized groan.
And before he could recover, the tip of Eliana's wooden sword was pressed gently against his throat.
"Dead," she declared.
Phantsin gasped, looking up. The sun formed a halo around Eliana's blonde head, making her look like an avenging angel.
She withdrew the sword and offered her hand to help him up. Phantsin stared at it, hesitating for a second. Finally, he took it and let himself be pulled to his feet.
"You have strength," Eliana conceded in a low voice, so that only he could hear her. "And you have speed. But without discipline, you will only be a danger to yourself and your squad."
She let go of him and turned toward Brynja, giving a crisp military bow.
"Duty before passion, Dawnfire," she called over her shoulder. "Remember that."
Phantsin stood there, dusting off his clothes, feeling the pitying looks of the other students and Vlad's silent laughter from the ranks.
He had lost. And the worst part was that the princess was right.
Nightfall brought a chill to the Academy. The Aether Lamps began to flicker on along the stone pathways.
Training had ended hours ago.
Phantsin had taken an icy shower and changed. He was no longer wearing the thick training canvas, but the standard Arcanum Bellator uniform.
He wore dark gray trousers, a crisp white shirt, sturdy black boots, and, over it all, a black jacket with sharp lines and a deep red tie, visually marking him as an Ignis mage.
He sat alone on an isolated stone bench at the edge of the gardens, staring into the dark Silverpine forest.
His entire body ached, but his pride hurt more.
He looked at his hands. How was he supposed to protect Flower if he couldn't even touch a girl with a wooden sword?
"You look like you've been chewing gravel."
Phantsin startled.
A stout figure emerged from the shadows of a hedge.
It was a dwarf.
The young dwarf wore the same standard uniform as Phantsin, but the black jacket was tight across his shoulders and left unbuttoned at the collar. His green tie, the color of the Terra faction, was loosened, revealing a hairy chest. He was short and as wide as a beer barrel, with a reddish-brown beard carefully braided with bronze rings. His brown eyes looked at him with a rugged honesty.
The dwarf sat on the bench next to Phantsin without asking permission. The stone groaned under his density.
"That fall in the Crucible was ugly," the dwarf commented, pulling a dented metal flask from his boot. "The Princess has good technique, I'll give her that. Classic Dawnblade. Boring, but effective."
"She humiliated me," Phantsin muttered.
"Nah. She schooled you," the dwarf corrected. "I saw the fight. Most kids would have given up after the third block. You kept attacking. You've got guts, Fire Boy. Us dwarves respect that. Stone breaks, iron bends, but will... that's what counts."
The dwarf unscrewed the cap of the flask. A strong smell of alcohol, minerals, and moss filled the air.
"Ironroot Ale," he offered, extending the flask to him. "My grandfather's recipe. It's got enough proof to clean the rust off a hinge or make you forget your ass hurts."
Phantsin looked at the flask. The smell was tempting. He wanted to forget the humiliation. He wanted to go numb.
But then he thought of the Void. Alcohol clouded judgment. And if his judgment failed, the mental wall containing the purple fire could crack. Being a danger was a luxury he couldn't afford.
"No," Phantsin said, gently pushing the flask away. "Thanks, but... I need a clear head."
The dwarf looked at him for a second, evaluating him. Then he smiled, showing strong, white teeth.
"Respectable. A sober warrior is an efficient warrior."
The dwarf took a long swig, wiped his beard with the back of his hand, and sighed in satisfaction.
"I'm Korbin. Korbin Ironfoot. But my friends call me Korb."
"Phantsin. Phantsin Dawnfire."
"I know. The one who blew up the crystal in the trials." Korb slapped him on the back so hard it nearly knocked him off the bench. "You're gonna be interesting to watch, Phantsin. Just... try not to burn my beard, alright? Took me three years to grow it."
Korb stood up, winked, and walked away with the heavy, rhythmic gait of his race, humming a song about gold and dragons.
Phantsin was left alone again, but now the bench felt a little less cold.
He looked up at The Spire tower, and then toward his own dormitory in The Forge. He clenched his fists.
"Discipline," he whispered to the night wind. "Fine, Princess. If that's what it takes to win... I will learn."