Chapter 5—The Weight of Small Things

"Work done unseen is still work remembered"

The morning bell rang out clear and cold, echoing across the Academy grounds. Its toll was a summons, not a dismissal—strict rhythms carved into every student’s life. Novices and Initiates scurried like startled birds, terrified of missing their curfews and drills, while Adepts moved with a little more leeway, their schedules lighter but their independent studies expected to fill the gaps. Exemplar students, of course, came and went as they pleased, their presence in lectures optional, a reminder that rank meant responsibility earned.

Raiden, still half-dreaming, lurched awake at the sound. His left thigh burned, stiff from yesterday’s wound despite Ms. Lila’s mending. He cursed under his breath, struggling into his boots, and limped down the dormitory stairs. The east wing of the Academy was quiet at this hour, the air sharp with dew, though as he passed through the entry hall, voices pricked at him—students whispering, eyes following. He caught fragments of nothing, only hushed tones and laughter. Raiden kept his head down and pressed forward.

The route to the Lecture Building stretched long. He crossed the cobbled paths of the central courtyard, the sun casting long shadows across its open square. To the south lay the training grounds, their rectangular expanse scarred with yesterday’s bouts; faint frost still clung to the edges where Garid’s magic had struck. Ahead rose the tallest structure—the Auditorium, looming with ceremonial weight, its broad stone steps and banners reserved for occasions far more formal than lectures. Beyond it, at the western edge, were the alchemy plots and clustered huts where the air always smelled faintly of herbs, smoke, and the tang of metal. Raiden limped past, his destination clear: the Lecture Building on the western side, a place where even the simplest truths could become weapons.

He slipped into the hall just in time, heart pounding. Ms. Lila was already there, setting out diagrams on the board with her usual quiet efficiency. Her sharp gaze caught his limp at once.
“Your leg?” she asked, voice low but firm.
“It still hurts,” Raiden admitted, easing into his seat, “but I can walk.”
Her expression softened only slightly before she turned back to her work.

The lecture began, steady and clinical. Today’s subject: the anatomy of wild boars. To commonfolk, they were a menace; to graduates of Altherian Academy, they were expected practice targets. “When you face a foe you must eliminate,” Ms. Lila began, her tone brisk, “remember first the principle of life. If you know what makes a creature live, you know what can make it die. Take it out of the equation.”

She spoke of skeletons, muscles, and organs in the same breath as tactics. Where a boar’s heart beat strongest, how its ribs sheltered it, how its tusks could gore but its legs were its weakness. She described the ordinary kind that rooted in farmland, and the elder variants, larger and ferocious, who wandered from deep forests in lean winters.

Chalk scraped diagrams of lungs and arteries, each stroke carrying quiet weight. “No matter how huge the beast,” she concluded, “remember: every living thing is flesh, bone, and blood. Know them, and no enemy is beyond reach.”

When the bell tolled midday, students scrambled for the doors, their minds filled with tusks and tendons. Raiden packed his notes carefully, ready to limp his way out, when Ms. Lila approached.
“Mr. Lorig asked for you,” she said, softer than usual. “He’s waiting in the Faculty Building. North of the courtyard.”
Raiden inclined his head. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The Faculty Building loomed solemn and square, its stone arches shadowed in the sun. Inside, the first-floor corridor stretched long, doors lining either side. Raiden made his way left until he found the office he sought. When he opened the door, Randall and Ophelin were already inside with Mr. Lorig, their faces curious. Raiden’s suspicion sharpened immediately—this had to be about yesterday’s fight.

But Mr. Lorig’s welcome was warm. “Rymboven. Good. Come in.” He gestured to a seat. Small talk followed, but he wasted little time before reaching the point. “I need stable hands. Two weeks’ worth of work. Most of the regulars are gone, accompanying the Academy’s upper-grade martial students on assignment. That leaves the stables short. I want the three of you to help.”

Randall blinked. “Where did they go?”
“That,” Mr. Lorig said, his tone firm, “is not mine to disclose.”

Instead, he leaned forward. “If you accept, you’ll be permitted to use the horses daily—so long as they’re returned by dusk. It will also reflect well in your evaluations. You’re nearing the end of your fourth year.”

Ophelin grinned immediately. “I’m in.”
Randall nodded without hesitation.

Raiden hesitated. His thigh throbbed, and chores sounded far less appealing than rest. Mr. Lorig watched him carefully, then added, “There’s pay. Five silver each.”

Raiden froze. Five silver. Enough for five months of frugal lodging, or a polearm, or even armor. Enough to matter. He nodded. “I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Mr. Lorig leaned back, satisfied. “Go to the stables. Tadari’s the only hand left. He’ll show you what needs doing.”

Outside, Ophelin nearly bounced with excitement. “Five silver! I could get another weapon set. Maybe even a new polearm.”
Randall gave her a flat look. “You already have more weapons than you can carry. What more do you need?”
Ophelin smirked. “You never know when a new favorite might find you.”

Her eyes shifted to Raiden. “But you—why did you agree? You don’t care about horses.”
Raiden sighed. “Because I need the money. Someday I’ll leave the dorms. Adventuring costs coin. Lodging, gear, food. I can’t live off scraps forever.”
Ophelin blinked, surprised. “I’ve never thought of that. House Harg covers everything. Even if I fail, I’d still be welcomed in the Order.”
Raiden chuckled wryly. “Must be nice.”

He turned to Randall. “And you?”
Randall shrugged. “Saving for a house. Somewhere far from Crotis lands. Haven’t decided where yet.”

Their talk carried them westward, until the smell of hay and horses thickened the air. The stables stretched long behind the Lecture Building, rows of stalls humming with the sounds of stamping hooves and flicking tails. Horses neighed at their approach, some tossing heads, some shuffling restless.

A boy waited at the entry, slender and brown-skinned, black hair slightly disheveled, height just between Raiden and Randall. He leaned against a post with the weary air of someone long accustomed to doing more than his share.

“You the stable hand?” Ophelin asked.
He pushed off the post and nodded. “Name’s Tadari. Commoner. You’re the ones Lorig sent?”
Randall answered, “Yes. We’re here to help.”

Tadari’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Good. Because most of the so-called stable hands? Nobles. They ditch their duties, dump the work on the rest of us. Four of us actually tend the whole stables. And now, three are away. So, it’s me. And now… you.”

The horses snorted, as if punctuating his point. Ophelin tried to pat one, only for the mare to snap her teeth, forcing her to jerk back.

Tadari chuckled softly. “They don’t like you much, huh?”
Ophelin scowled. “They’ll warm up to me.”
Raiden smirked faintly. “Don’t count on it.”

Tadari led them inside, the warm musk of horses enveloping them. Dust motes danced in slanting shafts of light. He handed Raiden a rake, Randall a bucket, Ophelin a brush.

Ophelin frowned. “Wait. The Juggernaut of House Harg reduced to brushing horse hair?”

Randall smirked. “Seems fitting.”

Raiden stifled a laugh, only to wince as his leg protested.

Tadari’s tone was flat, deadpan. “Better get used to it. Horses don’t care whose House you serve. They kick all the same.”

For a while, the four stood together, speaking of horses, work, and the oddities of noble shirkers. The air was lighter than the battlefield of yesterday, and though the smell of hay and sweat lingered, the stables already felt more honest than most lecture halls.