Seraphina's POV - Academy Training Grounds, Dawn of Day Five

The practice dummy exploded under her fist.

Wood splinters and straw scattered across the training ground as Seraphina moved to the next target. Her knuckles were bleeding—had been for the last hour—but pain was just weakness leaving.

The next strike took the dummy's head clean off. She'd been at this since before dawn, too wired to sleep, too angry to rest. Five days she'd been stuck in this place pretending to be a student, wearing this soft uniform, listening to these spoiled noble brats complain about grades and gossip.

"Yer telegraphin' every strike, lass."

She spun, fist already cocked, then caught herself. An older man in Church whites leaned against the fence—weathered face, scarred hands, the kind of build that came from decades of real fighting. Brother Harren, the Church knight the Archbishop had assigned to continue her training while she hunted.

"Yer rage makes ye predictable," he continued, accent thick as mud from whatever backwater province he'd crawled out of. "Every punch broadcasts itself clear as church bells. Anyone with proper trainin' would gut ye before ye even connected."

"Then let them try."

"Oh, they will, lass. They will." He pushed off the fence, moving with the careful economy of someone who'd learned to conserve energy in long campaigns. "Ye been at this for three hours. Ain't even stopped fer water."

"Don't need water. Need to get stronger."

"Aye, an' ye'll do that by collapsin' from exhaustion? Real smart, that." He pulled out a water skin, tossed it to her. "Drink. That's an order from yer trainin' officer."

She caught it, glared, but drank. The water tasted like iron.

"Better." He circled her, studying her stance. "Ye got power, I'll give ye that. Archbishop wasn't lyin' about yer potential. But power without control is just noise."

"I don't need control. I need to find—" She stopped herself, jaw clenching.

"Find who?" His eyes sharpened. "This about them knights we lost?"

"It's about making things right."

"Aye. An' by 'right' ye mean buryin' yer sword in someone's chest." He nodded slowly. "I ain't gonna stop ye, lass. Vengeance is between you an' the gods. But I'll be damned if I let ye throw yer life away on a fool's errand."

Seraphina's hands clenched. "I'm gonna kill that Grandmaster bas—"

She caught herself too late. The words hung in the air.

Brother Harren went very still. "A Grandmaster, is it?" He was quiet for a moment, then let out a low whistle. "Well, that explains why the Archbishop sent me personally. Yer huntin' big game, lass."

"I didn't say—"

"Ye didn't have to. I may be old, but I ain't deaf." He scratched his scarred chin. "Lookin' fer a Grandmaster, are ye? Well, there's only one student here fits that description. Avian Veritas. Recognized son of Aedric, one of the Five Great Blades."

Her pulse quickened. Finally. A name.

"Where is he?"

"Gone. Left five days ago with another student. Headed to the capital, from what I hear." He studied her reaction. "But he'll be back. Always comes back, that one."

Five days. The same five days she'd been here.

"When?"

"Could be today. Could be next week. Veritas don't exactly keep schedules." Brother Harren moved closer, voice dropping. "But hear me, lass—if he's the one ye think he is, yer gonna die. Grandmaster versus angry novice? Ye won't last ten seconds."

"Then I'll train until I can last eleven."

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite respect, but acknowledgment. "Aye. That's the spirit. Stupid spirit, but spirit nonetheless." He gestured at the destroyed dummies. "Come on then. If yer gonna throw yer life away, least I can do is make sure ye do it proper-like. Stance first. Yer footwork's shite."

Seraphina followed him to a clear section of the training ground, rage still burning but now focused into something sharper.

Somewhere in this Academy, or somewhere on the road back to it, Avian Veritas was coming.

And when he arrived, she'd be waiting.

Celeste's POV - Magic Theory Classroom, Mid-Morning

Celeste Valerian adjusted her teaching notes and tried not to sigh too obviously.

Graduate requirements were many things—educational, challenging, occasionally illuminating—but requiring a full year as a teaching assistant? That was just cruel. She'd completed her thesis on sympathetic resonance three months ago. Her research was done. Her exams were passed.

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But no, the Academy in its infinite wisdom required "practical teaching experience" before granting advanced degrees.

So here she was, teaching Magic Theory to twenty students who mostly treated it like naptime with occasional equations.

"Today we're discussing mana resonance and altitude-based casting," she began, writing on the board with practiced efficiency. "Who can tell me why attempting to cast fire magic atop a mountain requires different spell structure than at sea level?"

Silence. The usual response.

"Anyone? No? How delightful." She smiled. "Mr. Rothven, since you look so confident, please demonstrate a basic fire spell for us."

The noble boy went pale. "But Professor Valerian—"

"Teaching Assistant Valerian," she corrected. "And proceed."

His spell fizzled weakly, barely producing smoke. The students snickered.

"Perfect demonstration of incompetence, thank you." She wrote on the board. "The issue isn't your casting—though that needs work—it's that you're not accounting for ambient mana density. At higher altitudes, there's significantly less ambient mana to draw from. Your spell circle needs to be more efficient, more tightly structured, to accomplish the same effect with fewer resources."

She continued the lesson, half her attention on the material, half tracking the room.

Fifteen nobles pretending to care. Three scholarship students actually taking notes. And in the back corner, a girl with short dark hair and military posture who'd written exactly three words on her paper.

Celeste had excellent vision. Even from across the room, she could read them: I don't care.

Oh my. How refreshingly honest.

The girl—Seraphina, according to the roster, transferred from the Church Academy—stared at her textbook with the intensity of someone contemplating violence. Her knuckles were bandaged, fresh blood seeping through. Every few seconds her eyes flicked to the window like she was waiting for something.

Or someone.

Interesting.

Celeste continued the lesson, assigning practice problems. When she reached Seraphina's desk during her rounds, the girl still hadn't moved beyond those three words.

"Having trouble with the math?" Celeste asked pleasantly.

"I don't need theory. I need to fight."

"How unfortunate that you're in a theory class then." She glanced at the bandaged knuckles. "Training accident?"

"Practice."

"Vigorous practice, evidently." She tapped the problem on the board. "This equation determines whether your spell will work or explode in your face. Seems relevant to not dying, but perhaps I'm old-fashioned."

"I'll figure it out when it matters."

"And if 'when it matters' is mid-combat and you blow yourself up?"

Seraphina's eyes met hers—flat, cold, empty except for a burning core of rage that made Celeste's assessment shift immediately.

Not a student. A weapon wearing student's clothes.

How delicious.

"Then I blow up," Seraphina said flatly. "Better than living as a failure."

The classroom had gone quiet. Other students were watching now, sensing something wrong.

Celeste smiled. "Well, that's certainly one philosophy. Impractical, but admirably committed." She moved on to the next desk, voice carrying. "Though survival does seem rather important for accomplishing goals. Dead people rarely complete their objectives."

The rest of class proceeded normally. Students worked, Celeste corrected, the bell eventually rang.

Most students fled immediately.

Seraphina stayed, staring at problem three like it had personally offended her.

Celeste gathered her notes slowly, watching from the corner of her eye. The girl's hand moved to her quill, hesitated, wrote a number. Crossed it out. Tried again.

"You're approaching it wrong," Celeste said without looking up.

"I didn't ask for help."

"No, but you need it. The equation isn't about memorization—it's about understanding mana density." She moved to the board, wrote out the formula with quick, precise strokes. "Ground level has abundant ambient mana. Higher altitudes? Much less. Your spell circle needs to be more efficient to function with less available energy. Think of it like..." She paused, considering. "Like trying to start a fire with damp kindling. You need better technique to compensate for worse materials."

Seraphina watched, jaw still clenched.

"Why are you helping me?"

"Because you're interesting." Celeste finished the equation. "And because students who attend class covered in blood from dawn training sessions are usually worth paying attention to."

"I'm not here to be interesting. I'm here for one thing."

"Oh my, how rude. Not that I care particularly, but most people at least pretend to want an education." She set down the chalk, turned. "Let me guess—you're looking for someone. Someone strong. Someone who might have caused certain... complications recently?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"How did you—"

"I make it my business to know things. Vague things, often incomplete things, but things nonetheless." Celeste gathered her materials. "Fair warning, dear—whatever you're planning, make sure you're actually ready for it. Righteous fury is a wonderful motivator, but it makes a terrible strategy."

She walked to the door, paused with her hand on the frame.

"Oh, and Seraphina? The person you're looking for? He returned to the Academy an hour ago. I saw him ride through the main gate with another student. Black hair, storm-blue eyes, moves like violence is a second language." Her smile widened. "Good luck with your hunting."

She left, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Behind her, she heard the crash of a desk being overturned.

How wonderfully dramatic.

Celeste made her way through the corridors, already composing a mental letter to her grandfather. Emperor Karius Valerian did so love hearing about interesting developments at the Academy.

And a Church weapon hunting Avian Veritas? That was very interesting indeed.

Though she couldn't help wondering which of them would survive the encounter. The grief-maddened fifteen-year-old with nothing to lose, or the mysterious heir who'd saved her life in an alley and then disappeared like smoke.

Either way, someone was about to have a very bad day.

And Celeste had never been one to miss a good show.

Perhaps she'd arrange to be near the training grounds this evening. Just in case something entertaining happened.

After all, what was the point of tedious TA work if one couldn't enjoy the occasional drama?

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