I froze.

THAT.

The harmony. That same dissonant chord resonated again—like glass being stretched across the heavens and plucked, trembling against my bones. The echo of angelic voices, blinding in their purity. The chorus of the Seraphs, seared into my very being.

Everyone noticed my change in demeanor. The sudden stillness. The way my breathing slowed as I stared into nothing.

Leraje, thankfully, didn't hesitate. He moved quickly, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder and shaking me—not violently, just enough to cut the thread.

I exhaled, shakily. The sound that had overtaken me receded, leaving a dull ache in my chest and a buzzing silence in my ears.

"I'm here to prevent that from happening," Leraje said firmly, voice low but unwavering. "Star Mana can lead to the Seraphs—but that isn't its only destination. They aren't the end. Just… one of many paths. Despite how much they loathe the idea that they aren't the only option."

His words were a tether. I held onto them. I needed something grounded. Something real.

Fallias, who'd been standing slightly apart, took a cautious step forward. Her eyes narrowed, but not in hostility. Curiosity, edged with wariness. "Why do you know so much about them?"

Leraje gave her a solemn nod. "Because I used to be one."

That silenced us both.

"I'm what's known as a Fallen, young dragonblood. I gave up my wings for the ability to think and feel and choose beyond the limits they imposed. In return, I've earned something most of the Choir can never even fathom—freedom."

The word hit like a chime inside my chest. Freedom. Not just liberty from a captor—but from predestination. From dogma. From inevitability. That was what Leraje offered. What he embodied.

"Then… what do we do?" I asked. My voice cracked slightly, still shaken by the memory the harmony had stirred. The image of burning wings, of golden chains, of thousands of eyes staring from beyond the veil.

Leraje smiled faintly. It wasn't condescending—it was gentle. The way an older brother might smile after watching you stumble through a painful realization.

"Well, for starters," he said, stepping back and gesturing toward the miasma condenser ring still wrapped around my finger, "you're relying too much on that crutch."

I looked down. The ring shimmered, dark violet mist bleeding from it faintly—contained, but pulsing with power. Stabilizing me. Regulating the fluctuations of Star Mana within me.

"You currently have great aim, and great ability," Leraje continued, "but this thing is doing too much of the heavy lifting. We need to build your strength from the inside out—not cage it."

He crossed his arms, wings folding neatly behind him in a movement so natural, I momentarily forgot he wasn't Seraph anymore.

"I know you're using a bow-type skillcube," he said. "What's its draw weight?"

My mind blanked for a second.

Then my Gloss answered before I could.

"One-ninety three," I replied, hesitant. I knew it was high. I didn't know if it was impressive or dangerous.

Leraje gave a low whistle. "Well, that explains a lot."

He stepped to the side, motioning as though drawing an invisible bow. "Anything over one hundred is in war territory. What you're holding isn't just a hunting weapon—it's a battlefield instrument."

I stayed quiet, trying to process what that meant in practice.

"Without reinforcement," Leraje explained, "your shots could pierce chainmail. Not plate, but chain? Easily. With magical reinforcement? Especially with Star Mana supplementing it? You're impaling through plate, shields, maybe even some of the lighter-grade mech armor depending on what realm you're in."

Fallias made a low, impressed sound, but stayed back, letting him continue.

I frowned. "That kind of sounds like overkill."

"It is overkill," he said flatly. "And that's the point. You're not going to be fighting rabbits or brigands anymore. The enemies you'll face won't care about ethics or honor. You'll be firing at Otherrealm horrors that rewrite reality as they bleed, or at enemies who can grow new heads faster than you can loose an arrow."

He glanced at my ring again.

"The miasma condenser is helping you channel energy cleanly. Right now, it's like you're aiming a firehose through a soda straw. The ring forces the pressure to conform, but it doesn't teach you how to shape the flow. It just filters."

"I need the ring, though," I said, a little defensively. "If I don't have it, I risk—"

"I know," Leraje said quickly, holding up a hand. "We're not removing it yet. But we're going to train as though we did. Every time you draw that bow, I want you to do it knowing the power isn't coming from the ring. It's coming from you."

I nodded. Slowly. It made sense. It was terrifying, but it made sense.

"You said something about kevlar?" I asked, remembering the unfamiliar word.

Leraje tilted his head. "I was told you've encountered a magi-tech society. Pendrill? Pendell? One of those. Either way, 'kevlar' is what their robes were made from—at least, in the sources I've studied."

He began pacing lightly, talking more to himself now.

"Kevlar is a synthetic fiber. Designed for ballistic protection. Not magical, at least not originally. But it's become something of a foundational component in mana-defense engineering. In Pendrill tech, it's usually layered with ceramic."

He paused.

"Actually—'ceramic' is a misleading term. Most people think of pottery. But the type I'm talking about is almost like—well, like glass. Or clay. But reinforced. Hyper-conductive to mana-lattices. It's one of the best substrates for enchantment layering."

I blinked. "So... cloth that stops arrows?"

"At sufficient speeds, yes. But more importantly, it reshapes how mana interacts with it. See, it isn't just physical armor—it's magical insulation. It bends the mana around it. Like streamlining wind. It doesn't just stop spells—it refracts them."

I had to sit down. There was a bench nearby, mostly stone, mostly intact. The edge crumbled a little under my weight, but it held.

"So," I asked after a beat, "what you're saying is... if someone has that kind of armor, my arrows might not even touch them."

"Not unless you fire smarter. Not harder."

He smiled. He seemed to like this kind of conversation. I got the impression he had missed this—being a teacher, not a hunter.

"I'm going to show you how to read movement, how to watch the weave of spells before they form. How to loose before the enchantment lands. If you can predict, you don't need to overpower. You can thread the needle."

"Thread the—?"

"It's an idiom," Leraje interrupted, waving it off. "You'll get it."

Fallias had stepped aside, arms crossed now, clearly listening but staying quiet. I appreciated her giving space. Whatever Leraje was doing—it was working.

The ringing in my head had stopped. The harmony had faded. Not forgotten, but held at bay.

Leraje looked at me, his eyes firm but not unkind.

"You're walking a path that could break you if you let it," he said. "But I think you've already made the choice. You just haven't realized it yet."

***

"How long until you think Leraje breaks him?" Morres sighed, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the silver scrying mirror hovering between them. In its distorted shimmer, fragments of the training field flickered—blurs of movement, a bowed figure, a blur of arrows both missed and loosed.

"I was fine with Barbatos," he continued with a huff. "At least she's more of a hunt in the animalistic sense. She chases. She doesn't teach."

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"Four hours," Temptation said, assuming the shape of a hunched old man today, his face lined with a thousand false regrets and a cane that tapped the stone in slow, thoughtful rhythm. "Maybe five, if the boy starts asking questions."

"I give it nine." Ranah groaned from where she lay half-sprawled over the balcony edge, flicking mana motes from her fingers like bored raindrops. "I remember when Leraje was contracted by our splinter of Pandora to learn archery. We thought it would be poetic. It wasn't. The hunter is evil. Not poetically evil. Actually evil."

"He won't break," Gin said softly, a rare flicker of sincerity breaking across his normally infuriating smile. "I gave that boy the Bow of Ithaca."

The room fell momentarily quiet.

Morres arched a brow. "The Bow of Ithaca?"

"Yes," Gin purred, stretching out on his seat like a lounging beast, his tone lilting with satisfaction. "The same. Four hundred pounds of curved disdain. Forged for kings. Blessed by fortune. Forgotten by war."

Ranah rolled her eyes. "And you thought this was helpful?"

"I did," Gin replied, utterly unfazed. "He fired it."

"Did he string it?" Morres asked, his voice dry as salted ash.

"Of course I did," Gin answered, clapping his hands together with that same maddening gleam in his eye. "Cruelty is a kindness. But cruelty without purpose? That's madness."

"Aren't you the Archon of Madness?" Morres muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No," Gin said with a bright smile. "I'm the Archon of Calamity. Cat-lamity, depending on whomst you ask." He leaned closer to the mirror and added in a whisper, "They ask poorly."

"Shut up, Gin," the rest of them said in a near-perfect chorus.

The scrying mirror shimmered again, showing Alexander trying to keep his composure while Leraje adjusted his stance with silent, unrelenting precision. The Fallen's own posture was unnaturally straight—impossibly so—shoulders perfectly square, each breath deliberate, eyes devoid of compromise.

"You know," Temptation said, voice now deeper and less aged, shifting mid-form into a younger, sharper version of himself. "The last person who tried learning from Leraje came out of it with three cracked ribs, a shattered sense of self-worth, and a flawless anchor shot."

"He'll be fine," Gin repeated, tapping his chin. "The boy already sees his weaknesses as temporary. That's rare in someone so green."

"Do you think he knows?" Ranah asked, shifting to sit upright, curiosity coloring her tone. "About what Leraje is?"

Gin gave a sly shrug. "I think he suspects. But I also think he doesn't care. That's the better outcome."

"Why?" Morres asked, frowning.

"Because," Gin said, finally sobering for real, "Leraje teaches war. And war is not a question of theology or titles. War is a song written in reflex and reaction. If Alexander tries to 'understand' Leraje, he'll miss the lesson. If he endures Leraje, he'll learn what he needs to."

Temptation chuckled darkly. "So the real training isn't aim or form."

"No," Gin agreed, eyes flicking back to the boy on the field. "It's resilience. It's the bruises before the discipline. He'll fall. He'll fall hard. And then—"

"Then he'll string the bow himself," Morres finished quietly.

A silence fell over the chamber.

The mirror shimmered one last time, revealing Alexander's hands—raw, callused, but steady—as he adjusted his grip on the string. Behind him, Leraje didn't speak. He simply watched.

"You gave him the Bow of Ithaca," Temptation said again, almost to himself.

"And he fired it," Gin replied with pride.

"For now," Ranah muttered, laying back down with a huff. "Let's see if he can fire it again tomorrow."

"Indeed," Morres said, his expression unreadable. "Because that will be the real test."

And with that, they all turned back toward the mirror—toward the boy in the field, the Fallen teacher, and the long, cruel lesson unfolding beneath a sky of silent stars.

***

"You're treating this like a meditation. It's great for when that's the purpose. This isn't that," Leraje said, pacing in front of me like a hawk about to peck my eyes out. "You can't zero in on your target like that."

He jabbed a finger toward my chest, and I instinctively leaned back.

"Also," he added, "remind me to get you a Skillcube called [Telescopic Sight], [Hawk's Vision], or [Harrier's Eye]. All three do the same thing—enhanced visual targeting. You'd do well with any of them."

I blinked. "Okay, noted. I mean, yeah, that'd be—helpful."

Leraje's attention turned sharply. "Aren't you trying to shift into a mounted combat style?"

Barbra sighed from the shade of a broken column, arms crossed, hair tied in that lazy braid she wore when she knew a fight wasn't coming. "You're wanting me to summon a simulacrum of his chosen mount, aren't you, Archer?"

"Yes, Panthress. I do," Leraje said with the same snarl and vitriol she'd laced into his title.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. But when he panics and breaks his collarbone falling off, you're carrying him back."

The space beside me shimmered. A breath of cold silence swept over the ground, and the shape of a massive gryphon began to take form—black feathers the color of midnight oil and a lion's body that held still with eerie precision. No heartbeat. No twitching tail. No breath. It wasn't alive, but it looked real enough to fool me for a second.

I stepped closer to the thing. It stared back with unmoving glassy eyes. The lack of mana or miasma made it feel wrong, like a statue pretending to be alive. Still, I reached up, fingers brushing against its side. Smooth and cool. Unreal.

"He's going to eat dirt," V said from the sidelines. "Ten gold says he doesn't last ten seconds on that thing."

"Ten gold and I'll raise you five," Ten said, her cuffs clinking as she shifted her weight. "I say he actually mounts it and then throws up."

"You're all so mean," Fallias said, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear. "Let him try, okay? At least he's brave enough to be doing this."

Wallace chuckled. "Brave or foolish. The line's real thin when you're staring down a mythical beast with saddle sores."

Cordelia leaned against a stone outcrop, eyes half-lidded. "I'm more impressed that the gryphon hasn't moved. Not even a tail flick. Creepy."

"It's a simulacrum," Wallace replied. "Doesn't breathe. Doesn't blink. Doesn't die unless Barbra says so."

Barbra shrugged. "It follows basic instincts and takes commands. That's all I'll give it. You want a better one, bring me a corpse to work with."

"Charming," Ten muttered.

Leraje circled me again. "You're hesitating. Don't. Get on. You can't afford fear in mounted combat. The second you lose control, your enemy wins. Or worse, your mount does."

Easy for him to say.

I took a breath. Planted a hand on the gryphon's side. The feathers were too sleek, too uniform. My foot found the stirrup—more like a foothold etched into the side—and I hoisted myself up. It was awkward. Clumsy. The kind of awkward you feel in your stomach before your face hits dirt. I almost slipped off the other side but caught myself.

"Good," Leraje said, nodding. "Now make it fly."

"Wait. Fly? Now?"

He just smiled, cruel and knowing.

"Yeah. Right." I gritted my teeth and leaned forward. "Fly," I whispered.

The thing responded instantly. The wings spread—black, impossibly vast. Then the wind tore around us. The gryphon launched skyward with a shriek like metal splitting, and I was thrown back into the saddle with force enough to make my spine click.

Ten seconds in, I wasn't dead.

The ground dropped away fast. Too fast. My stomach rolled. Trees below blurred into green streaks, the others shrinking like miniatures. My hands clenched the reins—leather, rough, already burning into my palms.

Then the gryphon banked.

"Nonono—"

Too late. My balance tilted and I slid sideways, only just catching the saddle horn before I completely fell off.

From below, I could hear V laugh.

"He's actually still up there?"

Cordelia shaded her eyes. "He's...flapping in the wind like a terrified flag, but yes."

"I told you guys," Fallias said, beaming. "He's not useless!"

"Only mostly useless," Wallace added.

I focused back on not dying. I adjusted my center of gravity like Leraje had shown me earlier. I gripped tighter with my legs. My whole body felt like it was working overtime to not be flung from the beast.

Leraje's voice cut through the wind.

"Use your body, not your panic. Your mount follows what it feels from you. If you freeze, it stutters. If you commit, it flows."

Commit, huh?

I pulled the reins slightly. The gryphon responded, banking smoother now. A subtle tilt, a steady roll. My body adjusted to the momentum like a second skin. We arced through the air above a ruin-scarred valley, cliffs and fractured buildings like jagged teeth beneath us.

And for just a moment, I didn't feel afraid.

I felt powerful.

I guided the gryphon back toward the others, angling low. I wasn't graceful, but I didn't crash either. We hit the ground in a heavy thud of paws and talons, dust kicking up around us. My bones shook, but I was intact.

The simulacrum hissed, then dispersed into a black mist.

I dismounted, legs jelly, and stumbled a few steps before collapsing to one knee.

"You look like you just rode death herself," V said, tossing me a water flask.

I took it, chugged it down, and then wiped my mouth with the back of my glove.

Leraje clapped once. "Better than I expected. Worse than I hoped."

"Thanks," I muttered.

"Do it again tomorrow."

"Of course." I groaned and flopped backwards onto the dirt. "What's sleep."

Fallias ran over, crouching beside me. "That was amazing. Seriously, I would have screamed the whole time."

"You say that like I didn't," I grunted.

She giggled.

Ten wandered closer. "So. Do I owe V or does V owe me?"

"Technicality," V replied. "He didn't throw up, but I didn't say how long he'd stay mounted."

"Pay up," Ten said.

Cordelia finally walked over and handed me a vial. "This'll help with the bruises."

"Thanks." I took it, already wincing at the thought of standing.

Wallace gave me a heavy nod. "You're not a knight yet. But you're on the path."

Barbra just snorted. "Next time I'm making the gryphon bite."

I wasn't sure if she was joking.

I really hoped she was joking.

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