Chapter 4

Male Dorms. Valtara Academy.

West Wing.

Five months, three weeks, five days left.

Caden was dreaming of warmth—Zoelle’s hair still faintly smelled of honeybread—when something like a cannon blast rattled his door.

“CADEEEEN!”

He jolted upright, heart in his throat. The door creaked open and Gael’s massive frame filled it, shirtless despite the predawn chill, a grin like sunrise splitting his face.

“It’s five o’clock, and the gods are hungry for sweat!”

“Five… in the morning?” Caden croaked, his eyes gritty with exhaustion. His body still hurt after his bout with Abelard.

“No better time! Get up, soldier, destiny doesn’t nap!”

Before Caden could protest, Gael tossed him a set of heavy iron cuffs—two for his wrists, two for his ankles. “Strap ’em on. You’re running with weights. First lesson: the world won’t fight fair, so why should training?”

"Huh?"

"SAFARRANCHOOO!"

Caden was still processing the lightless and cold morning as Gael disturbed the whole building. He was sure that somewhere in the dorms, a prince was looking at the clock and beginning to conceive the most creative of endings for him.

By the time they reached the academy courtyard, the sky was only beginning to bruise with dawn. The weights pulled at Caden’s limbs like anchors, every step a small rebellion against gravity. Snow crunched under his boots, and the cold air sliced at his lungs.

“Ten kilometers, boy!” Gael bellowed, jogging alongside as if gravity were his friend. “Run until you hate me, then run more! That’s where the growth lives!”

"B-boy?"

"SAFARRANCHOOOOOUU!"

Caden stumbled through lap after lap, his muscles screaming, his body a sack of pain barely moving forward. Sweat froze against his skin. His vision tunneled until the academy’s lake gleamed in the distance. By the ninth lap, he fantasized about draining the whole damn thing just to collapse into its muddy bottom and never move again.

But Gael wasn’t done.

“One hundred push-ups! Then sit-ups! Then squats! Let’s carve the weakness out of you like rot from a tree! SAFARRANCHOOUUU!”

"The heck is that shout?!"

Gael lifted his fists into the air, the sun on his back casting his frame like a shadow, "Lemme hear it Caden! Lemme hear your warcry!"

"What? No!"

"Shout it out! Make some noise!"

"What the hell are you?" 

"AAARARARARARARAA!"

"Shut up dude you'll wake every—"

"AARARARARARARAA"

Caden dropped into the grass face-first. He pushed his arms up and down until his arms gave out. He clawed through sit-ups until his abs burned like fire. His squats turned into shaky half-collapses, but he soon realized Gael would not stop shouting until—

"rararara..."

Gael leaned as the little teenager did his push-ups, "What's that?"

"Ararararara"

"HMMM?"

"ARARARARARA"

“GOOD! Every rep, every breath, you’re becoming the man who’ll smash Abelard’s smug face into the dirt!”

"Goddamit, he'll hear you!"

Gael didn't care, this was his moment.

By the time Caden finished, he was flat on his back, the sky a blur, his body a ruin. He didn’t even remember crawling to the mess hall. By lunch, he sat slumped over his tray, too sore to lift his fork.

*******

That afternoon, Caden shuffled into Lab Six like a corpse propped on trembling legs. Zoelle took one look at him and raised an eyebrow.

“You look like a scarecrow that lost a fight with a horse.”

“Gael,” Caden croaked, dropping onto the nearest stool, "Gael is a monster..."

She smirked knowingly. “Ah. The Gael experience... whatever that is... my condolences."

Caden wept.

"Here, drink this tonic, it'll keep your mind sharp... that's kind of all I need right now."

She beckoned him closer. On the workbench, the copper housing glowed faintly, threads of blue light crawling along its seams.

“So... here's the thing. Mana isn’t neat, Caden—it’s erratic, unstable. It doesn’t want to be stored, only gathered and released.” She tapped the housing gently, and the glow shivered like an angry firefly. “A skilled mage learns to shape it—to pack more energy into smaller spaces, make it burn brighter or sharper. But that takes years of training, conditioning your body and mind so mana obeys instead of lashing out.”

Caden leaned in, listening despite the fog of exhaustion. The tonic was working.

“Enchanted weapons?” Zoelle went on. “They don’t hold mana. They only store it briefly—like a lungful of air—before releasing it in bursts. That’s why a sword can burst into flame for a swing, or why a bow can launch lightning once, then go dull again. Mana doesn’t want to linger.”

She guided his hand toward a small vial connected to the housing by a copper tube. “Here, pour the tincture slowly. It should stabilize the channel.”

He steadied his hand, teeth gritted against the tremor in his arm. The liquid dripped into the coil chamber. For a moment, the glow smoothed into a steady hum—

Then the chamber sparked violently, a crackling whip of blue lightning snapping across the workbench.

“Wait—” Zoelle started, but too late.

The housing pulsed like a heart—

BOOM. 

Smoke filled the lab, scattering parchment and rattling glass. Caden was thrown onto his back, ears ringing.

When the smoke cleared, Zoelle sat coughing, her braid half-singed, goggles askew. She wiped soot from her cheek and broke into a wheeze of laughter.

“Well,” she rasped, “congratulations. You’ve survived your first lab explosion. You’re officially one of us.”

Caden groaned, staring up at the ceiling. His muscles screamed from Gael’s training, his lungs still stung with smoke, and his ears buzzed from the blast.

And somehow, against all reason, he grinned.

*******

Male Dorms. Valtara Academy.

West Wing.

Five months, three weeks, four days left.

"CAAADEEEEEN!"

He woke up with all the grace of a corpse being dragged out of bed. Every muscle in his body was a slab of lead. His arms refused to bend properly, his legs moved like rusted hinges, and yet Gael stood over him at dawn, grinning as though the sunrise itself had conspired with him. With weights fastened once more to his hands and feet, Caden shuffled forward, every step a prayer for mercy that never came.

The run was less of a sprint and more of a theatrical death march. Birds took flight as his wheezing echoed across the grounds; squirrels stared as though witnessing a rare species expire. By the time Gael demanded squats, push-ups, and sit-ups, Caden could only flop into the grass, limbs twitching like a fish on land. Somehow, by sheer force of humiliation, he finished. He collapsed at the end, eyeing the academy’s lake as if considering whether drowning in it might be preferable.

And yet, after classes, he dragged his battered shell into Zoelle’s makeshift laboratory. There, his role was not one of glorious discovery but of designated guinea pig. He held objects steady while Zoelle scribbled furiously, fetched ingredients she rattled off at inhuman speed, and occasionally ducked as her experiments fizzled or sparked. By the time night fell, his hair smelled faintly of singed parchment, and his eyebrows were missing a few noble strands.

The following morning, the cycle repeated itself. Gael’s booming voice shattered the dawn, hauling Caden’s aching body out again. His joints creaked like a carriage with broken wheels. He stumbled through the drills, half-delirious, at one point hallucinating a fried egg dancing across the path.

Zoelle’s experiments weren’t any kinder. A “minor test” produced a puff of smoke that stained his robes green for the rest of the day. Another ended with a pop that left his right hand vibrating like a tuning fork. She offered him tonics in sympathy—tonics so strong he suspected they could peel paint.

And the next day?

"CAAADEEEEEEEEEEEEEN"

He noticed how Gael's veins seemed to pop up more intensely with every passing day.

The torturous routine continued: Gael at sunrise, Zoelle at sunset, Caden’s spirit somewhere in between, clinging to survival with the loyalty of a barnacle. 

The Prince, whose quarters lay within unfortunate earshot of Gael’s dawn regimen, grew steadily more irritated with each morning’s chorus of grunts, thuds, and Caden’s inarticulate groans. 

Rumors began circulating about “the lunatic who screams at dawn.”

Far from the noise, another watched in silence. From a shaded balcony, Valery Sarashen followed Caden’s antics with a mixture of curiosity and some deeper, unspoken frustration. Her gaze lingered that morning, as though she couldn’t quite decide whether Caden’s suffering was inspiring, foolish… or something else entirely.

Far from the noise, another watched in silence. From a shaded balcony, Valery Sarashen followed Caden’s antics with a mixture of curiosity and some deeper, unspoken frustration. Her gaze lingered longer each day, as though she couldn’t quite decide whether Caden’s suffering was inspiring, foolish… or something else entirely.

Nearby, someone else had started his morning routines. Bertrand Dauphinet was wiping his sweat with a towel at his favorite spot, a small kiosk overlooking the courtyard. From there, he always caught a glimpse of one person—Valery. Her golden locks shimmered in the pale dawn, radiant even when she sat half-hidden behind the balcony’s shadow. She never showed her full face, never spoke, never waved. Still, her steady presence was enough for Bertrand’s heart to race. That morning was no different; she was faithfully there, and Bertrand smiled with bashful devotion.

“Oh, Duchess… my Duchess, one day for sure, you’ll look my way. This is my vow,” he whispered fervently. Turning his gaze to follow hers, he puffed his chest with pride. “Watch me as I become someone worthy of—”

“SAFARRAANCHOOOOUUUU!”

“—you?” His voice cracked as the cry split through the courtyard.

"AAAARARARARARA...rara....RARARAA!"

There was Caden. Weighed down, bruised, and sleepless, flailing like a drunk goose as he tripped over his own feet. He stumbled, mud splattering up his face, then lurched forward again with all the dignity of a scarecrow in a storm. A moment later, he launched himself too hard, lost balance, and plunged straight into the lake. With a pitiful splash, he bobbed to the surface, spread-eagled, floating like a discarded rag.

Valery’s lips curved. A quiet laugh slipped past her—soft, melodic, unguarded.

Bertrand froze. The smile died on his face as if someone had doused him in cold water. He followed her gaze again, this time not toward himself, not toward anything noble or gallant—no. Her eyes were locked on him. On that. On the weaker-than-cornstalk boy, floundering in the water, limbs twitching with exhaustion.

Bertrand’s heart lurched. His stomach twisted. His blood boiled.

“That… that mud-drenched twig?” he muttered under his breath, fists clenching around his towel. “That’s what makes her laugh? Him?”

For the first time in his daily rituals, Bertrand felt no warmth in the sun, no sweetness in the morning air. Only the sour, stinging truth: Duchess Valery’s attention had strayed away from Betrand's efforts. And it had strayed toward Caden.