CHRONOFOUDRE Book 1: The Awakening Chapter 8: Scars That Don't Heal
Six weeks into Academy life, and I've stopped counting the bruises.
They layer on top of each other now—purple fading to yellow-green while fresh ones bloom beneath. My hands are permanent calluses from weapons training. The lightning scars on my forearms have spread slightly, creeping toward my shoulders like frozen rivers branching across my skin.
I'm sitting in the mess hall picking at breakfast when Mira slides onto the bench across from me. Her hair is longer now, pulled into a practical braid that keeps it out of her face during drills. The blackened frostbite on her fingertips has receded somewhat—still there, but no longer consuming her entire hand.
"You look like death," she observes cheerfully.
"Thanks. You're radiant as always."
"Liar." She steals a piece of my bread. "Drake's posting advanced rotation assignments today. Think we'll get split up?"
"Lyra says no. Squad cohesion is apparently more valuable than individual skill development at our stage." I push the rest of my breakfast toward her. "Not hungry?"
"Never hungry anymore. Just tired." She eats mechanically, fuel rather than pleasure. "You writing home today?"
It's Monday. I write to Kira every Monday without fail, even though I've only received three letters back in six weeks. Mail is slow, and the Academy censors everything anyway, so most of what I write is sanitized nonsense about training and weather.
"Yeah. You?"
"My family hasn't written since the initial conscription notice." She says it matter-of-factly, but there's old pain beneath the words. "They were relieved to be rid of the ice freak. Doubt they want updates."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just push my water cup toward her too. She drinks, grateful.
Gregor joins us, dropping onto the bench with his usual lack of grace. He's gotten broader through the shoulders, muscle replacing the farmer's bulk. His knuckles are scabbed from yesterday's hand-to-hand session.
"Finn's in the infirmary again," he announces without preamble.
My stomach drops. "What happened?"
"Magic backlash during elemental control practice. Tried to lift too much earth, and the Aether flow reversed. Knocked him unconscious and gave him a nosebleed that wouldn't stop." Gregor tears into his own breakfast viciously. "Healer says he'll be fine, but he needs to stop pushing so hard."
"He's terrified of falling behind," Mira points out.
"He's going to kill himself trying to keep up." Gregor shakes his head. "Kid's got heart, but heart doesn't compensate for being rank F when everyone else is moving to rank E or D."
"He'll improve," I say, though I'm not sure I believe it.
"Maybe. Or maybe he washes out and we get a replacement who's actually useful." Gregor catches my expression. "What? I'm just being realistic. Not everyone makes it, and dead weight gets people killed in real combat."
"He's our squad mate."
"He's a liability."
Before I can respond, Lyra appears—materialized from shadows between support pillars in a way that still makes me jump despite seeing it dozens of times.
"Finn's magical capacity is limited," she states, joining the conversation mid-flow. "But his tactical awareness is improving. In last week's trials, he successfully predicted enemy movement patterns twice. That's valuable even if his raw power remains low."
"Still doesn't help if he's unconscious from backlash," Gregor counters.
"Then we ensure he doesn't overextend. Assign him support roles that play to observation rather than power output." Lyra steals Gregor's bread—she does this constantly and he's stopped protesting. "We adapt to squad composition, not complain about it."
Gregor grumbles but doesn't argue further. Lyra has that effect. Her logic is usually unassailable, and her complete lack of emotional investment in being liked means she says things the rest of us only think.
Drake enters the mess hall, and conversation dies immediately. He posts a sheet on the main board, and conscripts swarm it like starving dogs on a bone.
We wait. No point fighting the crowd.
When the mob thins, Lyra leads us over. She scans the list with those unsettling ice-chip eyes, then nods once.
"Advanced elemental theory, weapons specialization, and tactical command courses. All five of us placed into the same rotation blocks."
"All five?" Mira sounds surprised. "How'd you manage that?"
"I didn't. The Academy recognizes squad efficiency and keeps successful units together when possible." Lyra taps a notation beside our squad number. "We're also flagged for accelerated advancement consideration. Top three squads are being evaluated for early graduation potential."
"Early graduation?" Gregor's eyes light up. "As in, get out of this hellhole faster?"
"As in, get deployed to active combat faster," Lyra corrects. "Not an improvement."
The light dies. "Right. Of course."
I study the rotation schedule. Advanced elemental theory sounds ominous. Weapons specialization I can handle—I've been working metal since I could hold a hammer. But tactical command?
"What's tactical command involve?"
"Leadership training. Small unit management, strategic planning, resource allocation." Lyra's expression is neutral, but there's something calculating in her tone. "They're identifying potential officers."
"Officers get better pay," Gregor notes.
"Officers also get executed when their units fail catastrophically," Lyra counters. "Risk-reward assessment varies by individual."
We're still discussing implications when a commotion erupts near the entrance. Raised voices, then a crash as someone hits the floor hard.
The crowd parts, revealing two conscripts squared off. I recognize one—Marcus from Squad Two, a fire user with a temper to match his element. The other is newer, someone who joined two weeks ago when his original squad washed out.
"Say that again," Marcus snarls, fire dancing on his fingertips.
"I said your squad only ranks high because you've got three rank C users carrying your worthless ass." The other boy—what's his name, Daniel?—spits blood. "Everyone knows you're barely rank E. You'd wash out if not for—"
Marcus punches him. No magic, just a straight right hook that drops Daniel like a stone.
Instructors move in immediately, grabbing Marcus and hauling him backward. Drake is there in seconds, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip crack.
"Both of you, with me. Now."
They're dragged out. The mess hall buzzes with speculation.
"Someone's getting disciplinary action," Mira murmurs.
"Someone's getting worse than that," Lyra corrects. "Physical altercations outside sanctioned combat are prohibited. Marcus will be lucky if he's only demoted. Daniel might face charges for instigation."
"Seems harsh for a fight," Gregor observes.
"Discipline prevents chaos. Chaos gets soldiers killed." Lyra stands, collecting her empty tray. "Next rotation starts in twenty minutes. Don't be late."
She leaves. The rest of us exchange glances.
"Is it just me," Gregor says slowly, "or is she getting scarier?"
"Definitely not just you," Mira confirms.
Advanced elemental theory with Master Aldren is somehow more brutal than physical conditioning.
He stands at the front of the classroom, chalk in hand, drawing incomprehensible diagrams on the blackboard while lecturing in that droning voice that makes staying awake a genuine struggle.
"Aether resonance occurs when two or more channelers synchronize their magical frequencies. This can amplify effects exponentially, but requires precise control and mutual trust." He taps the board. "Anyone care to explain why military squads rarely employ resonance tactics?"
Silence. No one wants to volunteer and risk being wrong.
Master Aldren's gaze lands on me. "Ardent. Enlighten us."
I scramble for an answer based on what I've absorbed through exhaustion. "Because... it requires trust? And squads in combat don't always have that?"
"Partially correct. The trust issue is secondary." He turns back to the board. "The primary reason is risk. Resonance links channelers mentally and magically. If one person loses control, the backlash affects everyone connected. One weak link can kill an entire squad."
He draws a new diagram—five circles connected by lines, with one circle crossed out in red.
"Historical example: The Battle of Crimson Ridge, seventy years ago. Imperial mage squad of eight attempted mass resonance to break a siege. One member panicked when wounded. The resulting cascade killed all eight mages and sixteen nearby soldiers through magical feedback."
The classroom is dead silent.
"Resonance is powerful," Master Aldren continues. "Also suicidal unless every member is absolutely disciplined. The Academy trains individual competence first for exactly this reason."
He launches into technical details about Aether wavelengths and harmonic frequencies. I try to follow, but my attention keeps drifting to that diagram. Eight mages, all dead because one couldn't hold formation.
Would Squad Seven survive resonance? Could we trust each other that completely?
I glance at Lyra, taking notes with mechanical precision. Mira, chewing her lip in concentration. Gregor, fighting to stay awake. We've been together six weeks. We function well tactically.
But trust our lives to magical resonance?
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Class ends eventually. We file out into the cold afternoon, heading toward the weapons training yard.
Weapons specialization is taught by a scarred veteran named Sergeant Kole who lost his left arm below the elbow in some battle he never talks about. He's adapted to fighting one-handed with brutal efficiency.
"Pair off," he orders. "Today we're working disarms. Someone tries to stab you, you take their weapon and return the favor. Questions?"
"What if they're using magic?" someone asks.
"Then you're probably dead. But we're drilling for when they're not." Kole demonstrates on a volunteer, moving with snake-quick precision. One moment the volunteer has a practice knife, the next it's clattering across the yard and Kole's phantom left arm is positioned where a blade would press against the volunteer's throat.
"Speed and leverage. Magic makes you dangerous, but everyone has weaknesses. Find them, exploit them, survive. Begin."
I pair with Mira. We've done this before—she's smaller and faster, I'm stronger. We trade off aggressor and defender, drilling the motions until muscle memory takes over.
"You're telegraphing," she says after disarming me for the third time.
"How?"
"Your shoulders tense right before you move. Dead giveaway." She demonstrates, and I see it—that fractional moment of preparation. "Relax more. Strike from stillness."
I try. Fail. Try again.
On the seventh attempt, I manage to disarm her without the shoulder tell. She grins, breathless.
"Better. Again."
We drill for an hour. By the end, my arms are shaking and I've got new bruises forming, but I've internalized the technique. Mira's faster than me, but I'm getting better at reading her movements.
Across the yard, Gregor is demolishing his partner—a cocky fire user who clearly expected his magic to matter in a purely physical exercise. Gregor puts him on the ground four times in a row before Kole intervenes.
"Enough. You've made your point, Stone. Switch partners."
Gregor ends up with me, Mira takes his previous partner. The cocky fire user looks relieved to be away from Gregor's barely controlled aggression.
"You're getting better," Gregor observes as we square off.
"You're getting scarier."
"Good." He feints left, strikes right. I barely block in time. "Scared enemies make mistakes."
We trade blows, neither gaining clear advantage. Gregor's stronger, but I'm learning to use technique over force. When I finally manage a successful disarm, it's through misdirection rather than power—fake a high attack, strike low, leverage his own momentum against him.
His practice blade clatters away. I grin.
"Luck," he grumbles.
"Skill," I counter.
"Luck."
We reset and go again.
That evening, I visit Finn in the infirmary.
The medical wing is quieter than the barracks, cleaner, with that antiseptic smell that somehow makes everything feel more serious. Finn occupies a bed near the window, propped up on pillows, face still pale but no longer bleeding.
"Hey," I say, pulling up a chair.
"Hey." His voice is hoarse. "Heard about the rotation assignments. You guys staying together?"
"Yeah. You too, once you're cleared."
"If I'm cleared." He picks at his blanket. "The healer said I have 'insufficient magical capacity for sustained channeling.' That's medical speak for 'you're too weak to be useful.'"
"Lyra says your tactical awareness is improving."
"Lyra's being nice. I know what I am." He meets my eyes, and there's something broken in his expression. "I'm the weak link. The one who'll get everyone killed if I don't wash out first."
"Finn—"
"Don't." He cuts me off, not angry, just tired. "Don't do the encouraging thing. I see how Gregor looks at me. I know what people say. Maybe I should just... quit. Take the labor battalion. At least I wouldn't be dragging four other people down with me."
I sit in silence, trying to figure out what to say. Encouragement feels hollow. Honesty might crush him further.
Finally, I go with something in between.
"You're right. You are weaker than the rest of us magically."
He flinches.
"But you're also observant. You notice things we miss. Last week's trials, you called out that Squad Five was splitting formation before any of us saw it. That intel won us the match."
"That's not—"
"It is worth something. Combat isn't just raw power. It's information, timing, positioning." I lean forward. "Here's the truth, Finn. You might never be rank C or B. Your magic might always be limited. But if you can keep providing tactical intel while the rest of us handle the heavy hitting, you're not dead weight. You're essential."
He's quiet for a long moment. "You really believe that?"
"I wouldn't say it if I didn't."
Not entirely true. I'm saying it because Squad Seven needs five members, and replacing Finn with an unknown variable might make things worse. But there's some truth in it too—he does see patterns we miss.
"I'll try not to die from backlash again," he finally says.
"Appreciated. Lyra would be annoyed if she had to revise all her tactical formations."
A weak smile. "Can't disappoint Lyra."
"No one can afford to."
I stay for a few more minutes, talking about nothing important, before heading back to the barracks. The walk gives me time to think.
Six weeks in, and we're already fracturing under pressure. Finn doubting himself. Gregor growing colder. Mira pushing through fatigue that's starting to break her body. Lyra calculating odds like we're pieces on a game board.
And me? I'm writing sanitized letters home and pretending everything's fine while learning to age people to death with controlled lightning.
We're all breaking in different ways.
The question is whether we'll break apart or break through.
I'm halfway through writing Kira's weekly letter when Lyra appears at my bunk. She moves silently—old habit from her shadow-walking, I think.
"We need to talk," she says without preamble.
"About?"
"Squad dynamics. There's a problem."
I set down my pen, giving her full attention. "What kind of problem?"
"Gregor is developing concerning behaviors. Increased aggression, isolation from squad activities outside mandatory training, physical confrontations with other conscripts."
"I noticed the aggression. Didn't know about the rest."
"He's also been requesting transfers to combat-focused rotations. Front-line deployment, assault training, anything with higher mortality rates." Lyra's expression is clinical. "He's either suicidal or trying to fast-track his death for some reason."
"Have you talked to him?"
"Gregor doesn't respond well to direct confrontation. I'm informing you because he listens to you more than the rest of us."
I'm not sure that's true, but I accept the assignment. "I'll talk to him."
"Do it soon. His behavioral pattern suggests a breaking point approaching." She starts to leave, then pauses. "Also, Mira's refusing to see the healer about her hand."
"Her hand?"
"The frostbite is spreading again. She's hiding it with longer sleeves, but I've observed the progression. If she doesn't get treatment, she'll lose functionality in those fingers permanently."
"Why is she avoiding the healer?"
"Fear of being classified as medically unfit and removed from active roster." Lyra's tone is matter-of-fact. "Understandable but counterproductive. Talk to her as well."
"Anything else?"
"Finn is requesting permission to attempt magical capacity expansion through experimental treatment. High risk, potentially higher reward. I advised against it, but he's not listening to me either."
I stare at her. "Is everyone in this squad self-destructing simultaneously?"
"Yes. That's why I'm delegating intervention to you." She turns to actually leave this time. "You're the only one none of them actively resent or fear. Use that."
She's gone before I can protest that I have no idea how to help anyone when I'm barely holding myself together.
I look down at my half-written letter to Kira. The words feel hollow:
Training is going well. My squad is strong. We're learning a lot. I hope you're doing okay. I miss home.
All lies. Or at best, partial truths twisted into something digestible.
The truth would be:
We're all breaking. I'm learning to kill with precision. My friends are either going suicidal or hiding injuries that will cripple them. I haven't slept properly in weeks. The lightning scars are spreading, and sometimes I see moments that haven't happened yet. I'm terrified I'll lose control and kill someone. I miss home so much it physically hurts, but I can barely remember what your face looks like anymore.
But I can't write that. So I finish the sanitized version, seal it, and add it to the outgoing mail pile.
Then I go to find Gregor.
He's in the training yard after hours, beating the shit out of a practice dummy in the dark.
"You know that thing can't hit back, right?" I call out.
He doesn't stop. "That's the point."
I approach slowly, watching him work. His technique is good—better than mine, honestly. But there's something desperate in the way he moves. Each strike carries too much force, like he's trying to hurt something that can't be hurt.
"Lyra's worried about you."
"Lyra's worried about squad efficiency. Not the same thing."
"Fair." I lean against a post. "I'm worried about you too."
"Don't be. I'm fine."
"You're requesting front-line combat rotations. That's not fine, that's suicidal."
He finally stops, breathing hard, knuckles raw. "Maybe I want to actually do something useful instead of playing soldier in a practice yard."
"Or maybe you're trying to get yourself killed."
"Why would I do that?"
"You tell me."
He's quiet for a long moment, staring at the demolished dummy. Then, quietly: "My brother was Awakened. Three years ago. Got conscripted, went through the Academy, deployed to the northern border."
Past tense. I wait.
"He died six months into his deployment. Magical backlash during a raid defense. Command said he saved his entire unit, went out a hero." Gregor's voice is hollow. "My family got a medal and a letter. Very official. Very empty."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm here because he's dead. Because my village needed to replace their quota, and I happened to Awaken right when they needed someone." He turns to face me. "So yeah, maybe I want front-line deployment. Maybe I want to matter, like he did. Or maybe I just want it over with."
I don't have words for that. What do you say to someone whose entire conscription is built on their brother's corpse?
"Your brother saved people," I finally manage. "That mattered. But dying doesn't make you a hero, Gregor. Living does. Being there for your squad, for people who need you—that matters too."
"Pretty words."
"True words." I step closer. "Squad Seven needs you. Not as a martyr, as a teammate. Mira needs you. Finn looks up to you. Hell, even Lyra values your contribution, she's just terrible at showing it."
"And you?"
"I need you to not get yourself killed doing something stupid. We're all we've got out here. This squad. That's it."
He's quiet again, processing. Finally, he nods once. "I'll cancel the transfer requests."
"Thank you."
"But I'm not going to stop training hard."
"Didn't ask you to. Just stop treating it like a suicide mission."
He manages a ghost of a smile. "Deal."
I head back to the barracks, one crisis managed. Two more to go.
This is going to be a long night.
End of Chapter 8