The morning sun still hung low and warm in the sky, gilding the training yard in soft amber light. A breeze drifted through the open courtyard where students lounged on benches and grassy ledges, some reviewing scrolls, others comparing bruises and laughing over failed drills.
Elara sat alone on a patch of sun-warmed stone near the garden wall, her satchel open beside her and a blank page spread across her knees. She drew slowly, carefully—her charcoal stick gliding in patient circles.
Three of them.
Overlapping but not perfectly. Each ring intersected the other in a precise triangular pattern, the lines crisp and deliberate. She paused, then shaded the points where they met. Her fingers smudged the edges, darkening the outer lines until they looked just like she remembered.
The sigil of the Collectors.
She stared at it for a long moment. The shape looked simple enough—almost pretty, in a strange, symmetrical way. But it wasn't. Not to her. Not to the villagers who had whispered in terror whenever the symbol was etched into the bark of trees or painted on doors in ash and blood.
They always came after the mark appeared.
"They said I was brave," she murmured, voice barely audible above the wind. "When I picked the locks and helped them slip past the mercenaries."
Fig stirred from his sun-drunk nap on her shoulder, blinking his golden eyes open with a yawn. "Brave? More like foolish with a flair for drama."
"I wasn't looking for praise."
"No," he agreed. "But you were definitely looking for something. Recognition, maybe. Answers. I'm just saying—doodling doomsday logos during your morning breakfast might not be the best use of your time."
She sighed and sat back, wiping her hands on her trousers. "I can't stop thinking about it. Why are they taking people? Whole families, sometimes. They don't ransom them. They don't kill them, either. They just… vanish."
Fig twitched his tail. "Maybe it's a cult. Maybe it's tax collectors. Or maybe—wild thought here—you should focus on not blowing up the greenhouse next time you try to make a healing salve."
She rolled her eyes but didn't reply.
The sigil stared back at her like it was waiting. Beckoning.
"Elara?"
She turned, startled. Teryn stood a few steps behind her, shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. One hand stuffed in his pocket, the other holding a granola-bar for breakfast.
"Morning Teryn, you look better today! How is the jaw feeling?" Elara greets him, glad to have a break from Fig's constant reprimands.
He runs his thumb over the place the bruise was yesterday. "It's feeling good. The healing potions here are topshelf."
Elara smiles, glad he isn't in as much pain as she is. Her body is still sore and she wasn't able to make the healing salve correctly, so she will have to bear the pain today. Along with whatever pain they are dealing out today.
He glanced at the page on her lap.
"What are you drawing?"
She hesitated. Something about the moment felt… fragile. But she tilted the page slightly so he could see.
Teryn stepped closer and looked down.
And froze.
Just for a second. His expression flickered—recognition, maybe even alarm—but then it was gone, shuttered behind an easy smile.
"Interesting design," he said, voice too casual. "New sigil for the Academy's next botany disaster?"
Elara narrowed her eyes. "You know what it is."
"Nope. Just looks… symmetrical. I like circles. I draw circles all the time."
"You looked like you'd seen a ghost."
"I always look like that around you," he teased, stepping back and plopping down beside her on the stone.
She didn't press, but she didn't forget, either. He'd definitely recognized it. And he didn't want to talk about it.
Before she could say more, the courtyard bell clanged twice—sharp, insistent.
Combat.
"Wonderful," Fig muttered, climbing onto her shoulder. "Time to get bludgeoned again."
Elara stood, brushed the charcoal dust from her knees, and tucked the sketch into her notebook. She glanced once more at Teryn, who was now fidgeting with his clothes.
Suspicious.
But there wasn't time to think it through. Sword class waited—and she wasn't about to be late for Marshal Var.
The combat yard was already loud by the time she arrived—students sparring, grunting, steel clashing against dull training blades. Marshal Var stood like a mountain in the center ring, arms crossed, a grim smile on his scarred face as he surveyed the candidates assembling before him.
He was built like a smith's anvil—thick, solid, immovable. His armor looked older than most of the Academy buildings, dented and worn with pride.
"Pair up!" he barked.
Elara squared her shoulders and made her way toward one of the practice circles. Mira waved her over and tossed her a practice blade.
"Can I have a go at the Trial champion today?" Mira asked.
"Try not to beat me too badly," Elara replied with a laugh.
"Try not to leave your guard open."
Marshal Var walked the lines slowly, correcting stances and muttering insults like prayers. "Sword in your hand, not your dreams, Cael. And you—what are you doing with your feet, dancing?"
He stopped near Elara and Mira just as they began to circle one another.
"Today," he growled, "we refine the basics. Anyone who drops their weapon owes me twenty laps. And I'll double it if you bleed from a wooden sword."
He stepped back. "Begin!"
Mira came in fast. Elara blocked, just barely, the impact rattling through her arms. Her stance slipped—she adjusted, parried. Not smooth. Not flawless. But better than yesterday.
She tried to breathe through it. Keep her eyes on Mira's shoulders. Read the movement before it began. Darius's voice echoed in her mind—see the fight before it starts, predict your opponents movements.
She caught a strike to the side, stumbled back, and reset.
Mira pressed. Another hit. Elara blocked, countered. Managed a weak tap on Mira's leg. Not enough to count as a win.
Var passed by again, watching silently.
Elara forced her stance steady. She knew the motions. She'd trained in back alleys and forests and in village streets. This shouldn't be hard.
And yet, when Mira swept low and pivoted, Elara was a second too slow. Her leg went out. Her back hit the dirt.
Laughter rippled from somewhere behind her.
"Get up," Var said. "Again."
She got up.
They reset.
This time she stayed on her feet longer—thrust, block, dodge—but her counters were always a second too late, too wide. She was dancing instead of fighting. She knew that. And still—
"Again."
She pushed harder.
This time, she landed a solid strike. Mira winced and nodded. A point for Elara.
Marshal Var said nothing, just continued walking.
By the time the session ended, her muscles ached and her tunic stuck to her skin. The students collapsed around the yard in pairs or alone, panting.
Elara dropped onto a bench, gripping the edge as her arms trembled. One win. Three losses. Too many hesitations.
"Not bad," Mira said, dropping beside her. "You're getting faster."
"Not fast enough."
"You didn't fall on your face this time."
Elara cracked a weak smile. "Progress."
From across the yard, she saw Var glance toward her. Just once. His face unreadable.
Fig yawned and curled in her lap. "So. You're having a banner day."
Elara stared at the distant trees beyond the wall. Her thoughts drifted back to the sigil. To Teryn's reaction. To the hollow look in his eyes.
To the villagers she couldn't forget.
Something was happening outside the walls of this Academy. And she was part of it, whether she liked it or not.
But first, she had to make it through the week without failing every class she had.