Monday arrived wearing its cold like armor.
Not the kind that sat on your shoulders.
The kind that slipped under your clothes and dug until it found bone.
The trainee classroom was already awake when I slipped inside. Chalk dust floated in the air. Damp wool and old wood made the room smell like too many restless afternoons stacked on top of each other. The desks sat crooked, as if even furniture got tired of pretending to be orderly.
Someone had carved a tiny dragon into the corner of one table.
Its ribs were scratched deeper than the rest, like someone had stabbed it on purpose and left the wound there as a warning.
I took my seat early on purpose.
Early meant quiet.
Quiet meant safe.
If I arrived late, I'd have to squeeze past bodies. Past boots and elbows. Past hands that moved too fast.
Hands were always the first thing to tell you if a day would hurt.
Finn was already in his chair, slouched so far down it looked like gravity had a personal grudge against him and he was losing on purpose. Lina bounced beside him on the balls of her feet, whispering to herself like she was rehearsing how to conquer the world using curiosity and poor impulse control.
Milo sat straight, eyes bright, hands folded like he was waiting for a knight to burst through the door and declare him chosen. Arlo adjusted his glasses and stared at the chalkboard like it owed him a debt and was late on payment. Bruen sat like a wall—same expression, same heavy stillness.
And Lyan sat like a wall that wanted to punch other walls.
He didn't look at me.
He didn't have to.
His chin was raised just enough to say I was beneath notice, and somehow that was worse than open hatred.
Mya lifted her hand in a small wave when she saw me.
Her fingers froze halfway, like she remembered that waving could become attention, and attention could become a problem.
I watched her hand anyway.
I always did.
"H-hi," she whispered.
"H-hi," I echoed, and my voice snagged like it didn't want to be heard. I slid into my seat and tried to look normal.
My hands didn't know how.
Finn leaned back farther until his chair complained. "If Nanda makes us write another sentence, I'm going to fake my own death."
Lina's eyes gleamed. "Can I study your corpse?"
Finn stared at her like he'd misheard and hated that he hadn't. "You're terrifying."
"Thank you," Lina said with pride.
Arlo didn't look up. "Statistically, faking your death would require paperwork."
Finn's face twisted. "No."
Arlo continued anyway, merciless. "Which would require writing."
Finn slumped like he'd been stabbed. "You're worse than Lina."
"Worse is subjective," Arlo said, calm as a judge.
Milo leaned toward Finn, eager like the world was a story that kept promising him greatness. "If you fake your death, you could come back as the Masked Hero of Azuris! I read a story where—"
"Sit down before you fall," Bruen cut in without turning his head.
Milo sat so fast his chair squeaked.
My heart beat too loud in my ears.
Then Nanda swept in like she'd been waiting outside the door for someone to breathe wrong.
She carried thin books under one arm and chalk in the other like it was a weapon she knew exactly how to use. Her eyes swept the room once—counting, measuring, judging—and landed on us with the sort of satisfaction that meant we hadn't died yet, but she hadn't given up hope.
"Good," she said. "All eight. Nobody missing. Nobody dead. A miracle."
Finn lifted two fingers. "Not dead yet."
Chalk snapped against the board with a sharp crack.
Finn shut up so fast I almost respected it.
Nanda wrote in thick strokes:
READING AND WRITING ARE SURVIVAL.
Lina groaned. "Can we survive without it?"
"Try," Nanda said, and her voice made it sound like a dare people didn't live to regret.
Finn lifted his hand halfway like raising it caused pain. "Miss Nanda, I respectfully submit that survival is mostly running away."
"Respectfully," Nanda repeated, flat.
Finn nodded quickly. "Respectfully."
Nanda jabbed the chalk at the sentence like she was pinning it to our foreheads. "If you can't read, you can't run the right direction. If you can't write, you can't sign. And if you can't sign, you can't prove anything."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You know what happens when you can't prove anything?"
Milo's eyes widened like destiny had called his name. "You become a wandering swordsman with a tragic past?"
Nanda stared at him.
Milo shrank in real time. "…Or you get robbed."
Nanda nodded once. "You get robbed."
Finn rolled his eyes. "I'm already robbed. I'm robbed of fun."
Nanda's stare slid to him like a blade being tested. "Finn. What's your father do?"
Finn's mouth tightened. He stared at the desk like wood grain contained ancient wisdom. "Merchant."
"And if you can't read the weight slips?" Nanda asked.
Finn muttered, like it physically hurt him. "You get robbed."
"Good." Nanda turned. "Lina. What happens if you can't read a monster notice?"
Lina perked up instantly. "You might walk into a nest."
"What kind?"
"Slime nests are usually wet. But if it's dry, it could be—"
"Lina," Nanda cut in.
Lina stopped mid-breath like invisible fingers had closed around her throat.
Nanda wrote again:
CONTRACTS. SIGNS. MAPS. WARNINGS.
Lyan's hand shot up. Fast. Sharp. Like he didn't want anyone to notice he'd been waiting.
"Yes, Lyan," Nanda said.
Lyan's voice came clean and confident. "My father says fighters don't need words. Fighters need strength."
Finn snorted. "Your father says a lot of things."
Lyan's head snapped toward him, jaw tightening. "At least my father—"
Chalk hit the board hard.
"Lyan."
His jaw flexed. He turned back forward, shoulders rigid like he'd been forced into obedience with rope.
"Your father isn't in this room," Nanda said. "I am. And I say fighters need words."
She stepped closer to the front desks, gaze sweeping like a spotlight. "Because strength without words is how you get tricked into swinging your sword for free."
Lyan flared his nostrils. "I wouldn't."
"You already are," Nanda said. "You're swinging your mouth right now, unpaid."
A few snickers slipped around the room.
Finn leaned forward, delighted. "That was good."
Nanda didn't smile. "Arlo. Tell me why writing matters."
Arlo pushed his glasses up. "Records. Accountability. If you don't log supplies, you can't track loss, and—"
"Good. Bruen."
Bruen blinked like being asked a question was an inconvenience. "So you know what to do."
"Simple," Nanda said. "Correct."
Then her gaze slid to me.
My stomach tightened so hard I almost tasted it.
"Trey."
I kept my eyes on her chalk hand. Chalk dust clung to her fingers. If I watched the dust, maybe my brain wouldn't run away.
"Yes, ma'am," I managed.
"What happens if you can't write your name?" Nanda asked.
The room went quiet.
My mind flashed to Nerissa's quill. To my shaking hand. To the way the letters looked like they'd been dragged out of me instead of written.
"You… can't… join," I said, and hated how small it sounded.
Nanda nodded. "And if you can't join, you can't get jobs. If you can't get jobs, you can't eat."
Finn muttered, "This is why I fake my death."
Something white flicked through the air.
Finn ducked too late.
Chalk hit his forehead with a soft tink and bounced onto his desk.
Lina giggled. Milo gasped like he'd witnessed an assassination.
Finn rubbed his forehead. "Violence in a classroom."
Nanda's eyes were bright, almost satisfied. "Good. Everyone awake?"
Nobody answered.
Nanda clapped once. "All right. Lecture done."
The whole room exhaled like we'd been underwater.
Then Nanda's expression sharpened.
"Now we practice something you all lack."
Finn slumped. "Joy?"
"Teamwork," Nanda said.
Lyan sat up instantly, like the word team was a battlefield and he intended to win it. Mya's fingers tightened on her satchel strap.
"Four groups," Nanda said. "Two per group."
Finn pointed at Lina without hesitation. "Her. She's chaotic, but she listens well when you yell."
Lina's eyes widened with pride. "I do!"
Arlo lifted a hand slowly. "Mya is the most consistent in handwriting and attention. We should pair."
Mya blinked, startled, cheeks coloring—then nodded.
Milo looked around, hopeful. "I can pair with—"
Bruen's hand landed on Milo's desk like a weight. "Me."
Milo's eyes lit up. "Yes! You can be the stoic guardian and I can be the—"
"Quiet," Bruen said.
Milo nodded so hard his hair bounced.
That left me.
And Lyan.
I felt it before anyone said it—the shift in the air, the way Lyan's attention finally slid toward me like a knife turning.
Nanda didn't look pleased or apologetic. She just pointed.
"Trey. Lyan. Together."
Lyan's mouth curled. "Of course."
My hands went cold.
Mya glanced at me, worried. I tried to give her a look that said I was fine.
I probably looked like I was about to be eaten.
Nanda dragged a cloth from her satchel—an old blindfold—and held it up.
"Task is called Mirror Maze," she said. "One partner is blindfolded. The other guides them through a maze with words only. No touching. No grabbing. No pushing."
Finn raised his hand. "Can I throw Lina?"
"No."
"What about gentle tossing?"
Nanda's eyes narrowed.
Finn lowered his hand.
Chairs and desks scraped as Nanda built the maze in the center of the room—tables like walls, chairs like corners. It didn't look complicated.
It still made my stomach tight.
She wrote on the board:
FASTEST CLEAN RUN WINS.
"Penalty if you hit a chair," Nanda said. "Bigger penalty if you knock something over. If you run into a table, you write 'I will listen' fifty times."
Finn whispered to Lina, "We're already doomed."
Lina whispered back, thrilled, "We can study the doom."
One team at a time.
Arlo guided Mya like he was reading a recipe—precise, calm. Finn and Lina were… not precise. Milo tried to turn Bruen's run into a heroic tale, and Bruen somehow finished clean anyway, like he could track sound with instinct.
Then Nanda's gaze slid to me.
"And now," she said.
My stomach dropped.
"Lyan. Trey."
Lyan stood like he'd been waiting all morning to crush something.
I stood like my knees might quit.
Nanda tossed the blindfold at me. "Trey will be blindfolded first. Lyan guides."
Lyan caught it and smirked. "Finally."
The scrape of furniture as Nanda reshaped the maze made my skin itch.
Then she pointed.
"Positions."
Lyan stepped behind me and yanked the blindfold over my eyes.
The cloth smelled like sweat and chalk.
Darkness swallowed the room.
My heart slammed hard enough it hurt.
Lyan's voice came sharp and fast in front of me.
"Walk forward three times, face left, walk forward two, face right, walk forward three."
All in one breath.
Like a whip.