Instructor Veylan believed in educational cruelty.
That was not an insult.
It was a professional assessment.
Morning mist still clung to the lower bridges when our group assembled outside Training Court Seven. The court had been built into a half-open platform overlooking the cloud line. White stone floor. Twelve marked circles. Three observation balconies. One emergency barrier array humming overhead with just enough visible light to reassure parents and not enough strength to stop anything interesting.
Veylan stood at the center with a red folder under one arm and a whistle between her fingers.
The whistle had a reputation.
So did the folder.
Students feared the whistle because it announced pain. They feared the folder because pain eventually ended, while written evaluations followed you into rankings, missions, political records, and marriage discussions.
Aiden arrived first, because heroes arrived early when guilt was fresh.
