Fin proceeded to slowly extend his hand, grab the hilt of the sword, and unsheathe it.
The sword was around forty inches long and it resembled a falchion greatly, its metal shimmered with a pale, silvery glow—not quite steel, not quite anything he recognized. Light curved strangely around the blade, bending at the edges like it didn't want to leave. It was balanced, lighter than it looked, and cold to the touch in a way that wasn't uncomfortable—just... serious. Like it knew what it was made for.
He gave it a slow swing through the air. It hummed faintly.
Deryn grinned. "It's called Nithral. Don't ask what it means—I made it up. Sounds sharp, though, right?"
Fin nodded, still staring at the blade. "Feels... right."
"I didn't put anything crazy in it," she added. "No fire enchantments or any weird spell. Just a channel. Feed it essence, and it'll sharpen itself."
Fin blinked. "You made this in two days?"
"One and a half, actually. I had an idea in my head already."
He sheathed the blade with care and looked at her, a little stunned. "Thanks. Really."
She waved him off. "Just don't break it. Or I'll break you."
Ephy, now fully conscious again, groaned from the floor. "No one's breaking anything if we keep taking punches like that."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of slow hours and easy conversation.
They didn't do much after that—just wandered the halls for a while, trading half-hearted jabs and letting the weight of the coming morning hang somewhere just outside their words. At some point they ended up back in the cafeteria, eating whatever was left of the evening spread—soft bread, roasted roots, and a stew that was way better than it had any right to be.
No one said it, but they were all trying to stretch the hours a little longer. Make the day feel like it wasn't almost over. Like tomorrow wasn't real yet.
Later, as the sky dimmed and the lanterns flickered on, they made their way back to the dorm. Ephy was the first to pass out, sprawled across his bed like he'd been dropped there from a height. Deryn disappeared soon after with a quiet goodnight and a soft click of the door.
Fin stood by the window for a while, sword still at his side, staring out into the dark. Somewhere in the distance, the wind shifted—like the world was inhaling before something big.
He didn't feel ready.
But he'd go anyway.
Eventually, he set the sword down gently beside his bed, lay back, and let the quiet take him.
Sleep came slower than usual.
But it came.
Fin woke up not wanting to get out of bed—he knew what awaited him, so he tossed and turned for a few minutes before he finally did. He looked at the window and he saw a ship. Fin woke up not wanting to get out of bed—he knew what awaited him, so he tossed and turned for a few minutes before he finally did. He looked at the window and saw a ship.
It was impossible to miss.
The vessel loomed at the edge of the horizon, anchored just beyond the mist-covered bay. It wasn't just a ship—it was a fortress on water. Black iron hull, sleek and gleaming like obsidian, with sharp lines and reinforced plating that made it look more like a beast than a vessel. Three sails, wide and bone-white, flapped in the wind with an eerie grace. Etched on each was the Crowned Flame—the royal sigil of Ardun—bold and unmistakable, like a brand burned into the sky.
Its silhouette cut through the morning light with military precision. No curves, no softness. Just clean, cold power.
Fin stared at it, unmoving. He'd read about it in books. Everyone had. It was one of the Empire's pride vessels—built to transport not just soldiers, but Awakened. Reinforced below deck for volatile essence. Magic-proofed. Ward-locked. The kind of ship they used when they didn't just want to win a war—but to end it.
And now it was here. For him.
His stomach twisted. The same kind of twist he'd felt the day he first stepped into the rift, only now it wasn't fear of death. It was the weight of being chosen. Not because he wanted to be. But because he was needed.
The vessel wasn't just a ship. It was a line in the sand.
He didn't want to cross it.
Not because he was afraid of fighting—but because, deep down, he knew: the moment he set foot on that deck, he'd never be the same again.
"Great," he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "This is really happening."
He dressed slowly, not because he was stalling—though, maybe he was—but because everything he did now felt like a countdown. Every motion, a goodbye to what was left of normal.
He then proceeded to walk in the bathroom, took a quick shower and got dressed. When he got out Ephy had woken up.
"I guess this is it huh?" Ephy said sorrowfully
"Still got a few minutes, maybe an hour. Lets go get breakfast." Fin tried to remain upbeat but he couldn't, reality was too harsh.
They got out of the room and made the walk toward the cafeteria, they wanted to say a million things to each other but nothing came out. When they got to the cafeteria they saw Deryn, she wasn't her energetic and childish self, instead she had a dark look on her face—she almost looked solemn.
Fin and Ephy both grabbed plates but they did not filled them up like they usually did, this time they just took bread and a bit of jam. They sat down at the table, the atmosphere was so dense that it could crush anything or anyone but they still manage to break it.
"Don't you dare die, or I will find a way to bring you back and kill you myself." Deryn said with a serious tone
"Isn't that a bit much?" Fin chuckled
"Maybe but I mean it. Plus I wanted to be the one to say something badass this time."
As the words left her mouth all three of them burst into an uncontrollable laughter. The moment was sweet but short, it dissipated not because they wanted it too but because it was broken by the sound of horns.
The instrument resounded inside of the hall and was followed by the sound of rhythmic marching, time had officially ran out.
The military was here
The horns faded, but their echo seemed to hang in the rafters like smoke.
Then came the boots—sharp, steady, too precise to be anything but military. The sound of synchronized steps reverberated through the stone corridors of the Academy like a second heartbeat. Fin's back went rigid. The bread in his mouth felt dry now, tasteless.
They were here.
The doors to the dining hall opened with a heavy groan.
In stepped the first line of soldiers, four across, posture perfect, faces unreadable. Their uniforms were deep navy, cut with the sharp precision of a blade. Buttons glinted silver under the lantern light. High collars, brass shoulder plates, and red trim gave them the look of men carved out of some older era—like they'd stepped out of a photograph from a century ago. Long coats flared slightly at the back, and their boots struck the floor in perfect rhythm, controlled and unwavering.
Behind them came more. And at the center, the commander.
He was tall, maybe in his forties, with a clean-shaven face and a jaw that looked sculpted from stone. His coat bore more detailing than the rest—silver piping, a crimson sash, and a dozen medals pinned in rows across his chest. He wore gloves so polished they caught the torchlight like mirrors. His eyes scanned the hall like he was assessing each student for worth, one glance at a time.
He didn't need to say anything. The weight of his presence spoke enough.
Fin couldn't breathe for a moment. Not because the commander looked particularly cruel—but because this made it real. These weren't characters from history books or men on parade fields. They were here for him.
The military didn't knock.
They came in and took what they were owed.
Fin's fingers curled against the edge of the table. His throat tightened. It wasn't panic, not exactly. It was that slow-burning dread—the kind that settles behind your ribs and refuses to move.
Next to him, Deryn straightened unconsciously, her posture matching the soldiers for a second before she caught herself. Ephy, silent for once, stared at the floor.
The commander stepped forward and unrolled a scroll. His voice was clear and commanding—not loud, but the kind that expected obedience.
"By royal decree of the Crowned Flame, all enlisted Awakened will now report to the quad for transportation and registration. You have thirty minutes to gather your belongings."
That was it. One sentence. No greetings. No time for speeches. Just orders.
Fin didn't move. Not yet. His legs felt like they were waiting for permission from the rest of his body to work.
"Go," Deryn said, softly. She wasn't smiling.
Fin stood, slower than he meant to, heart hammering against his ribs. His chair scraped back with a sound that felt far too loud in the stillness.
He was going. Not just in theory. Not in some distant maybe.
Now.
He had no bags and no real belongings, so he just grabbed his sword and walked toward the ranks.