Chapter 60 – Excellence Camp Outing XIII

Ashern City - Reinhart Institute of War, 15th of Brightforge, year 315 UC

The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the streets of Ashern City as Bryan made his way through the second ring. Unlike the bustling sprawl of the outer ring or the fortified opulence of the inner sanctum, the second ring struck a careful balance—clean, orderly, respectable. It was a mask of stability, worn with just enough polish to seem untouchable.

Farrah’s words still echoed in his head: Live for once. Easier said than done. Her optimism had gotten to him, but it hadn’t dissolved the gnawing questions.

'Emilia Valentine.'

The name coiled around his thoughts like a vice, pressing harder with every step. Every time he tried to chase the memory, it slipped through his mental grip—leaving only pain in its place.

He checked the address again.

Brandon had sent it via carrier bird after relocating. Visits were supposed to be rare—emergencies only, or official reports. This was neither. But Bryan didn’t care. He needed answers now.

The house was deliberately plain: two stories, brick walls, small front garden—just like every other house on the block. Easily overlooked, easily left behind.

Bryan stood at the gate, eyes scanning the area. No obvious surveillance. Which probably meant it was wired tighter than a prison without showing it. His fingers hovered over the latch, hesitating. Whatever happened inside, he wouldn’t be able to pretend it didn’t matter.

You’re overthinking again. He could practically hear Farrah's voice chiding him.

He clicked the latch and stepped forward.

One knock. Then two.

Footsteps.

A lock turned, and the door opened to reveal Brandon, blocking the frame like a wall.

"Bryan."

Flat. No surprise. No welcome.

"You’re not due for a report until the term officially begins."

Bryan met his eyes.

"I need information."

Brandon didn’t move, but something shifted in his posture.

"Get inside. Before someone sees you."

Bryan stepped in. The interior was what he expected—minimalist. A couch, a table, two chairs. No clutter, nothing that suggested a life actually lived here.

"You shouldn’t be here."

Brandon said, locking the door behind them.

"Your instructions were clear. No contact unless absolutely necessary."

"It is."

Brandon turned from the window, arms crossed.

"Do you have something to report? A potential recruit? A security concern?"

Brandon wasn’t an ally—he was a handler. A mouthpiece. Everything said here would go back to his superiors, maybe even further. Giving away too much in his current state could backfire.

"Nothing concrete yet."

He started with what Brandon wanted to hear.

"But I think the rankings are manipulated."

Brandon’s brow lifted—mild interest.

"Explain."

"The top twenty students aren’t ranked by combat ability alone. There’s another layer—connections, politics."

Bryan crossed his arms, choosing his words carefully.

"Some of the strongest students are ranked surprisingly low. Others, who shouldn't be anywhere near the top ten, are propped up."

"And why would they do that?"

Brandon asked, voice still unreadable.

"They claim it's based on potential."

Bryan said.

"But I think it’s more than that. The staff are accounting for political ties—military lineage, noble blood, maybe even public perception. There are commoners in the top tier, but I think they were added to avoid backlash."

He kept his explanation vague, revealing observations without specifics that could be traced back to individual students.

Brandon nodded slowly.

"Interesting assessment. The Reinhart Institute is new, so their methods for choosing students are unknown. The test you took was standard across all academies, theirs was just a bit harder."

He moved to a small cabinet, withdrawing a bottle and two glasses.

"Drink?"

Bryan shook his head.

"No."

Brandon poured himself a measure of amber liquid.

"So you came all this way to tell me the academy's ranking system is political? Hardly surprising, and certainly not urgent."

He took a sip, studying Bryan over the rim of his glass.

"What's the real reason you're here, Bryan?"

Bryan met his gaze directly, watching for any subtle reaction.

"Do you know someone named Emilia Valentine?"

The question hung in the air between them. Brandon's expression remained unchanged, but Bryan caught the slightest pause before he responded.

"Valentine?" Brandon repeated.

"No, I don't know anyone by that name."

His tone was neutral.

"Why do you ask?"

Bryan kept his face devoid of any changes.

"I heard the name mentioned. It seemed significant."

Brandon set his glass down on the cabinet.

"Where did you hear this name? And in what context?"

Bryan hesitated. Revealing Gloria's involvement might complicate matters, but he needed to gauge Brandon's reaction.

"One of the instructors mentioned it. In passing."

"Which instructor?"

Brandon pressed.

Bryan watched him carefully, looking for any tell.

"Gloria Reinhart."

Something flickered in Brandon's eyes—so brief Bryan almost missed it.

"And what exactly did she say about this... Emilia Valentine?"

Bryan shrugged slightly.

"Nothing specific. Just the name. But her tone suggested I should know who it is."

Brandon was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

"I haven't heard of anyone by that name. But I can look into it."

He picked up his glass again, swirling the liquid.

"Was there anything else?"

Bryan considered how much to reveal. The full conversation with Gloria would expose too much. Not worth mentioning that he was exposed. The Inquisition would not have a way to deal with it as far as he knew.

Death was always an option, but from his perspective, it didn't seem like Gloria cared about his affiliation.

"No. That was all."

Brandon's eyes narrowed slightly, studying Bryan's face.

"You came all this way, broke protocol, just to ask about a name you heard 'in passing'?"

Bryan met his gaze steadily.

"The name seemed important."

"Important how?"

"Just a feeling."

Brandon set his glass down slowly.

"You don't strike me as someone who acts on 'just a feeling'."

He stepped closer.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Bryan didn't flinch.

"Nothing relevant to the mission."

Brandon studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.

"I'll look into this Emilia Valentine. But don't expect much. It's probably nothing—just another of the Reinharts' games."

He moved toward the door.

"Is there anything else?"

Bryan hesitated, then asked the question that had been forming in his mind.

"The nurse at the academy infirmary. She's gone."

Brandon didn't react.

"And?"

"She was Inquisition, wasn't she?"

A brief silence filled the room.

"That's not your concern."

Brandon replied finally.

"Focus on your mission. Leave the rest to those above your clearance."

Bryan nodded, revealing nothing of his thoughts. Brandon's non-answer was answer enough.

"I'll report again when the term begins."

Brandon opened the door.

"Don't come here again without authorization. Use the proper channels."

As Bryan stepped outside, Brandon added one final comment.

"And Bryan? Be careful what questions you ask. Not everyone appreciates curiosity."

The door closed firmly behind him.

The afternoon sun had dipped lower, casting longer shadows across the street. As Bryan made his way back toward the academy, he turned Brandon's reactions over in his mind. The slight pause at Emilia's name. The flicker in his eyes at the mention of Gloria. The non-answer about the missing nurse.

Brandon knew something—perhaps not everything, but something. And whatever it was, he wasn't sharing.

If Brandon was hiding information from him, what else was the Inquisition keeping secret?

By the time Bryan returned to campus, it was late into the evening. The trip to see Brandon had yielded little except confirmation of his growing suspicions.

As he approached the central courtyard, he spotted a familiar figure sitting alone on a stone bench beneath one of the ornamental cherry trees. Sabrina Rigof, still in her academy uniform despite it being the weekend, was nursing a drink from a silver canister. Her coffee-brown hair fell loose around her shoulders as she stared off into the distance, seemingly lost in thought.

Bryan paused, considering his options. Since their confrontation days ago, Sabrina had been keeping her distance, avoiding eye contact during training, positioning herself as far from him as possible during meals, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Her absence hadn't bothered him; if anything, it had made things simpler.

But now, as team captain, he found himself weighing practicalities. Their team needed to function cohesively, and the tension between them was a liability he couldn't ignore forever.

'Might as well get it over with.'

He thought, changing direction toward her bench.

Sabrina didn't notice his approach until he was nearly upon her. When she looked up and saw him, her expression immediately hardened, her body tensing as if preparing for another confrontation.

"What do you want?"

Her tone was cold.

Bryan remained standing.

"We should talk."

Sabrina scoffed, taking another sip from her canister.

"Now you want to talk? After embarrassing me in front of everyone?"

"I wasn't trying to embarrass you."

"Right."

She rolled her eyes.

"You just naturally excel at being an asshole."

Bryan didn't react to the barb. Instead, he studied her for a moment—the tight grip on her canister, the slight shadows under her eyes, the defensive posture.

Something beyond their argument was bothering her.

Unless she was one to hold grudges and was constantly thinking of ways to get back at him.

"May I sit?"

Sabrina looked surprised by the request, her eyebrows rising slightly.

"It's a free bench."

She moved over slightly, though more than enough space already existed.

Bryan sat, maintaining a respectful distance. For a moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of the occasional rustle of leaves above them.

"I shouldn't have called you worthless."

Bryan said finally.

Sabrina's head turned sharply toward him, surprise evident in her expression.

"What?"

"During our argument. I said you were worthless. That was... inaccurate."

Sabrina stared at him, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

"Wow. That's your idea of an apology? 'Inaccurate'?"

Bryan frowned slightly.

"It's not an apology. It's a correction."

"Of course it is."

Sabrina shook her head, taking another sip from her canister.

"You really don't get it, do you? You can't just say whatever you want to people and then make a 'correction' when it's convenient for you."

Bryan considered this.

"What would you prefer I say?"

"I don't know, maybe 'I'm sorry for being a complete jerk'? Or 'I was wrong to talk to you that way'?"

She turned to face him fully.

"But you'd have to actually believe those things first, wouldn't you?"

Bryan met her gaze.

"I believe I was tactically correct but unnecessarily harsh."

Sabrina blinked, then laughed again—a genuine sound this time, though tinged with exasperation.

"You are something else."

She shook her head.

"You know what? Fine. I'll take your 'correction.' It's probably the closest thing to an apology anyone's ever gotten from you."

Bryan nodded once, satisfied that they'd reached some form of understanding.

"Your spell is powerful."

He said after a moment.

"Your control is improving. With practice, you could be formidable."

Sabrina eyed him suspiciously.

"Is this your version of a compliment?"

"It's an observation."

"Right."

She looked down at her canister, swirling the liquid inside.

"Well, for what it's worth, I shouldn't have tried to hit you. That was... unprofessional."

Bryan nodded, accepting her version of an apology.

"You were angry. Anger affects judgment."

"Yeah, well."

Sabrina sighed.

"You have a talent for making people angry."

"So I've been told."

The corner of Bryan's mouth twitched slightly.

Sabrina caught the almost expression and shook her head again.

"So that's it? We're good now?"

"We're teammates."

Bryan replied.

"We don't have to be friends. We just need to function effectively as a unit."

"Always the tactician."

Sabrina observed, but there was less bite in her tone now.

"I suppose that's fair. I can work with you without liking you."

She glanced at him sideways.

"Though I don't know how Farrah manages to put up with you. She actually seems to enjoy your company, for some unfathomable reason."

Bryan didn't respond to that, unsure how to address the comment about Farrah. Their conversation earlier had left him with complicated thoughts he wasn't ready to examine.

"You've been distracted lately."

Sabrina said suddenly.

"During training, during matches. It's not like you."

Bryan looked at her, surprised by the observation.

"You noticed."

"We all did. Even Alexander mentioned it, and he's usually too busy worrying about his own performance to notice anyone else's."

She studied him for a moment.

"Everything okay with you?"

The question caught Bryan off guard. He hadn't expected concern from Sabrina of all people.

"I'm fine."

He replied automatically.

Sabrina rolled her eyes.

"Right. Of course you are."

She stood, gathering her things.

"Well, whenever you decide to stop being 'fine,' the rest of us will be here. That's what teams are for, apparently."

She paused, looking down at him.

"See you tomorrow, Captain."

As Sabrina walked away, Bryan found himself considering her words. The team had noticed his distraction, his preoccupation with Gloria's revelations and the mysterious Emilia Valentine. They were more observant than he'd given them credit for.

And for some reason, despite everything, they seemed to care.

'Accept your past without regrets, face the future without fear. I guess I can do that.'

Bryan told himself as he remembered the words Farrah said. It was an interesting saying.

He couldn't change the past, it was too late for that. If this was some sort of twisted experiment, then there was nothing he could do. However, he could change his actions going forward.

'You will not break me.'

He clenched his hand into a fist as he walked off.