CHAPTER 11: THE BEGINNING
One month later.
steel cracked against steel in the training grounds.
John barely managed to turn the blow aside before the force behind it slid through his guard and clipped his ribs. Pain flared — sharp, precise — and before he could reset, Liora was already there.
She didn't rush.
That was the mistake most people made.
Her movements were controlled, flowing from one strike into the next with a rhythm John couldn't quite interrupt. She stepped inside his range, blade angled low, then pivoted smoothly, her elbow brushing past his arm as she twisted.
John felt the tap at his throat before he saw it.
The training blade rested there — steady, unshaking.
"Point," Liora said quietly.
John exhaled, stepping back.
Around them, the training yard continued its relentless cadence — strikes, shouts, corrections shouted by instructors who had long since stopped caring about bruises or pride.
Liora lowered her weapon and inclined her head slightly. Not arrogance. Not triumph.
Just acknowledgment.
She had won.
John gave a short nod in return. "You are amazing," he said.
Something flickered in her eyes — satisfaction, pride maybe? But it was quickly buried — before she stepped away to start again.
"Again later," she replied. "You're still adjusting."
John frowned faintly, but nodded.
A little further away, Lucian and Orion moved like reflections in a shattered mirror — one advancing as the other retreated, their twin daggers blurring in tight, controlled patterns. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Sylas stood opposite a heavy training dummy, vines coiling and snapping with restrained fury. Each strike was measured. Each impact left deep impressions in reinforced steel.
Thomas sparred with a boy from another squad — slower, hesitant, but stubborn. Every time he was knocked back, he pushed himself upright again, jaw clenched, eyes burning with quiet determination.
While Malric faced Elowen.
The contrast was almost absurd.
Elowen moved lightly, wings folding and unfolding with each step, using short bursts of height to reposition, raining angled strikes from above. Malric didn't chase. Didn't overreach. He waited.
When she descended too low, too confident, he stepped forward once — a single, brutal motion — and caught her guard mid-swing.
Her weapon was knocked aside.
She hit the ground on her feet, skidding back, breathless but laughing.
"Okay," she admitted, wings twitching. "That one's on me."
Malric said nothing.
He merely watched, eyes already scanning the yard for the next threat.
Not far from them, Nico was being driven backward again.
Amara didn't give him space to breathe.
Her strikes were sharp, aggressive, ears pinned back in focus. Nico blocked, stumbled, recovered — barely — his grin strained but intact.
"Y'know," he said between breaths, ducking a swipe, "I'm starting to feel like this is personal."
She kicked his legs out from under him.
He hit the dirt hard.
Still smiling.
"If only you were good at thinking as you are at fighting," he muttered, pushing himself up. "Well, no point in complaining."
"You talk too much," Amara growled.
"And yet," Nico said, standing again, "I'm still here."
That, more than the jokes, irritated her.
Nico finally took a solid hit — Amara's shoulder slamming into his chest and sending him skidding across the dirt.
He lay there for a second, staring up at the sky.
"Well," he coughed, "on the bright side, I'm still alive."
Amara loomed over him. "Get up."
He groaned theatrically. "You know, encouragement works better when paired with kindness."
She offered him a hand.
Then yanked him up only to immediately shove him back into stance.
"Less talking," she said. "More surviving."
Nico laughed, breathless but unbroken. "You really do care."
She snorted and lunged again.
Back at the center, John and Liora clashed again.
This time, she pressed forward.
Her rapier flicked out in quick succession — not strong blows, but exact ones. John parried, adjusting his stance, forced onto the defensive.
Her footwork was impeccable.
Too impeccable.
She didn't rush. Didn't hesitate. Every movement felt… economical.
John caught a glimpse of her eyes as they passed close.
Focused.
Cold.
But beneath it — something else.
Not excitement.
Not aggression.
Calculation.
John broke away, breathing a little harder now.
"You're really something else," he said, keeping his tone neutral.
Liora tilted her head slightly. "So are you."
Not a compliment. Not a challenge.
Just a statement.
They resumed.
Around them, the grounds pulsed with effort, sweat, and the steady rhythm of impact.
They had changed.
All of them.
A month of combat drills, weapon mastery, and relentless conditioning had carved something harder into their bones. Movements were sharper now. Reactions faster. Fear still existed — but it no longer ruled.
John wiped sweat from his brow, watching his squad move.
They were still alive.
Still standing.
Tomorrow, that would be tested.
Across the yard, something uglier unfolded.
Daren stood over a smaller boy — one of the weaker ones — circling him slowly as the child struggled to regain his footing. The boy's guard was sloppy, fear slowing his reactions.
Daren struck anyway.
Hard.
The impact sent the boy sprawling.
"Get up," Daren said coolly. "Or crawl back to whatever gutter they dragged you from."
A few of Daren's squad laughed.
Not loudly.
Confidently.
John noticed the shift immediately.
Training slowed. Eyes turned.
Malric's posture tightened, a subtle change — like a blade being unsheathed without sound.
Amara stopped moving.
Nico's grin faded.
Sylas, standing apart from the others, watched with open contempt — not just for Daren, but for the humans clustered around him. His vines twitched at his feet, restrained only by discipline.
The boy tried to rise.
Daren kicked his weapon away.
"That's enough," Varric barked from the sidelines, stepping closer. "You made your point."
Daren smiled, stepping back as if nothing had happened.
The damage lingered.
No one spoke.
But the air remembered.
Combat ended at dusk.
A horn sounded — low, resonant.
Training halted.
Weapons were lowered. Breathing slowed.
Instructors moved among them, murmuring brief corrections, making mental notes no one would ever see.
John gathered his squad with a glance.
Nico slung his scythe over his shoulder. "So," he said lightly, "one day left until the survival test. Anyone else feeling a healthy mix of excitement and impending doom?"
Amara cracked her neck. "If you die, I will kill you."
"See?" Nico said to John. "Motivation."
Liora cleaned her blade with careful precision, eyes distant.
Sylas's vines retracted slowly, as if sensing the danger from tomorrow.
Thomas sat on the ground, chest heaving, staring at his hands like they might disappear.
John while he was contemplating suddenly wondered where Nyra was and saw her dozing off in the distance, somethings never change.
Intelligence lessons began immediately after.
There was no rest. No mercy.
They were ushered into the chambers — wide, circular rooms where the walls themselves seemed to breathe. Glyphs ignited along the stone, shifting constantly, layering information faster than thought.
History bled into geography.
Geography collapsed into race theory.
Race theory twisted into magical principles.
Magical principles contradicted themselves.
Dates. Bloodlines. Ley routes. Political fractures. The magic of this world. Cultural taboos. Ancient wars that rewrote continents. Gods who vanished. What gods govern something. There was no end.
It was too much.
That was the point.
Some students broke under it — clutching their heads, gasping as corrective pain lashed through their minds.
Others adapted.
Thalia didn't flinch.
She sat perfectly still, eyes half-lidded, letting the knowledge pass through her. When asked to speak, she did — precise, detached, terrifyingly accurate.
"That is the kingdom of Ellaria," she said during one session, voice calm. "Founded two centuries ago by Kien raku, small but prospering, has a unique location as it is found between two bigger kingdoms making it a hub for trade."
The pressure eased.
Thomas, sitting nearby, watched her closely. Not copying answers — copying process. He hesitated less now. Thought longer. Endured more.
Nico hated every second.
"This is torture," he muttered during a brief pause, rubbing his temples. "You can't just dump five thousand years of knowledge into someone's skull and expect them to sort it out."
Amara scowled, arms crossed. "Stop whining."
"I'm not whining," he said weakly. "I'm suffering creatively."
Despite that, he adapted.
Not through brilliance — but flexibility.
Guessing when needed. Waiting when others rushed. Joking just enough to keep himself grounded.
By the end of the week, his scores edged past Amara's.
He did not let her forget it.
"So how does it feel losing to me, I imagine it is miserable," he whispered smugly as they exited one chamber.
She elbowed him hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
By the time sleep time arrived on the final day, the squads were hollowed out — muscles aching, minds buzzing, nerves stretched thin.
Tomorrow was the survival test.
The real one.
John stood at the edge of the yard, watching his squad disperse.
They were sharper now.
More dangerous.
And far more broken.
Which, he suspected, was exactly what the Covenant wanted.