Three Fires, One Shadow

"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are."

— Anaïs Nin

———

🕸️

The Aurum training hall gleamed like a cathedral to martial perfection. Sunlight cast geometric patterns across polished marble floors that had never known common boots. Every surface reflected light—mirrored walls, pristine weapon racks, ceremonial armor that had never seen battle.

Leo von Valerius knelt before a velvet-lined case, reverently withdrawing Lumen. The ancestral blade sang as it emerged, catching light in gentle, holy radiance. The sword had been blessed by three generations of archbishops, its edge honed by master smiths who charged more for one sharpening than most families saw yearly.

"Beautiful as always," Elena Morgenthorne said from behind him, her voice carrying that particular cadence of privilege. She leaned against the doorframe, frost-blue eyes watching Leo's ritual.

"She's more than beautiful. She's purpose made manifest." Leo's fingers traced the engravings along the fuller, each symbol representing ancestral victories.

The blade hummed with power, responding to his touch like something alive. Leo had been bonded to Lumen since his twelfth birthday, the sword recognizing his bloodline. Now, five years later, the weapon felt like an extension of his will.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" Elena asked, though her tone suggested she knew the answer.

Leo stood, holding Lumen to catch the afternoon light. The blade's glow intensified. "Nervous? No. Ready? Absolutely."

He moved through the Valerius sword forms, each transition smooth and practiced. The blade traced arcs of light, leaving brief afterimages that faded like dying stars. This was what he'd trained for—to prove himself worthy of his name, legacy, destiny.

"Gareth's been drilling formation patterns all week," Elena continued, settling into a cushioned chair. "He's convinced the goblins will try to overwhelm us with numbers."

"Let them try. Numbers mean nothing against proper technique and righteous purpose."

His confidence wasn't arrogance—it was fact. He'd studied assessment records going back twenty years. No team led by a Valerius had ever failed. More importantly, no team under his protection had ever lost a member.

"What about the other teams?" Elena's concern seemed genuine. "Some assignments looked... challenging."

Leo paused mid-form, Lumen's point resting against marble. "Every student here earned their place. They'll rise to meet the challenge, or they'll learn from it."

🕸️

Vance Thorne sat near the House Aurum fireplace, a throwing knife on his knee while working a whetstone along its edge. The blade caught firelight, throwing brief orange sparks across his satisfied expression.

"I still can't believe they gave us the Merchant Quarter section," Garrett Wells said smugly. "Might as well be a paid vacation."

"Father's donations to the Academy Fund have their benefits," Vance replied, testing the knife's edge against his thumb. A thin red line appeared, and he smiled. "Though I prefer to think of it as the administration recognizing our potential."

Marcus Finn laughed while sorting his gear. "Your potential for what? Getting lost in a wine cellar?"

"Mock me all you want, but we'll be back for dinner while the dregs are still stumbling around in the dark." Vance held the knife to the light. "Speaking of dregs, did you see the assignments for the Collapsed Mine section?"

"Team Seven? That Blackwood commoner and his charity cases?"

"The very same. Unstable terrain, aggressive goblins, and structural hazards that would challenge experienced miners."

"Tragic, really," Marcus said, his tone suggesting otherwise. "When commoners try to reach beyond their limits."

"Oh, I don't think it'll be tragic. More like... educational. The academy has a way of teaching everyone their proper place."

Vance thought about his last encounter with Rhys Blackwood—the humiliation in the western woods, how the commoner stood over him with that spear while his friends lay groaning. The memory still burned.

"You know," Vance continued, examining his reflection in the blade, "I almost hope we run into Team Seven. Purely by coincidence, of course."

"Of course," Garrett agreed, his grin suggesting understanding.

"It would be a shame if they needed... assistance... and we weren't available. After all, we'll be so busy with our own objectives."

The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows. Tomorrow would bring opportunities to settle scores and establish hierarchies. Rules had a way of becoming flexible when the right people weren't watching.

Vance sheathed the knife with a soft whisper. He had six more to sharpen before morning.

🛡️

Rhys's room felt smaller at night, shadows gathering in corners. Pale moonlight did little to warm the sparse furnishings—a narrow bed, an aged desk, and a mostly empty wardrobe.

The tactics manual lay open, illuminated by a borrowed mana-lamp. Words burned into his vision: structural compromise, pincer ambush, catastrophic collapse. Each phrase weighted with potential disaster.

His finger traced the tunnel layout, following the main passage from entrance to objective. The route looked straightforward—connected chambers linked by corridors. But notation symbols told a different story.

Load-bearing assessments. Stability ratings. Structural warnings of a death trap disguised as a simple warren.

Rhys leaned back, his chair creaking. His father's voice echoed: "When something looks too easy, boy, that's when you need to worry. Goblins are cunning—they'll use every advantage."

The Collapsed Mine wasn't just named for effect. It was a warning.

He sketched the tunnels from memory, adding omitted details. Each feature represented potential chokepoints, ambush sites, or structural weaknesses.

The math was brutal. Four first-years against unknown goblin numbers in defender-favored terrain. Petra could reinforce walls but could she collapse one on charging goblins? Finn's tracking was useless underground. And Jorik's strength just made him a bigger target in narrow tunnels.

Against experienced raiders knowing their territory, Team Seven faced slaughter.

Rhys touched the locket beneath his shirt, feeling Elara's portrait. His sister's face smiled from the miniature—pale but hopeful, trusting him to provide the medicine keeping her alive.

He couldn't fail. He couldn't die.

Years of goblin raids had taught him to read danger. Every instinct screamed warnings about tomorrow. The terrain was wrong, the assignment was wrong, everything felt orchestrated.

But by whom? And why?

Rhys recalled meeting Kaelen Leone in the library, how the third son's nervous mask had briefly slipped, revealing calculating intelligence beneath. His pointed references to structural instability and tactical errors.

Was Kaelen warning him? Or was he overthinking a chance conversation?

Either way, he would be ready. He mapped escape routes, alternative passages, and defensible positions. If Team Seven faced a trap, they'd enter with eyes open.

The mana-lamp flickered as power faded, but Rhys didn't notice. He had work to do before dawn.