Arata opened the door and immediately froze.
"Okay," Flint said from his chair, squinting at him. "You're alive."
Sierra, sitting cross-legged on Wanuy's bed, leaned forward. "That wasn't the question."
Flint waved a hand. "It was implied."
Wanuy stood up first. "Are you okay?"
Not what happened.
Not where were you.
Just that.
Arata blinked once, then nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Sierra studied his face a second longer, then relaxed. "Good."
Flint stood and clapped his hands together. "Alright then. Crisis averted. I was two minutes away from stealing medical supplies."
"You don't even know where they are kept," Arata said.
"Exactly," Flint replied. "That's how you know I was serious."
The tension cracked.
Arata set the sword carefully against the wall. No one commented on it. That alone eased something in his chest.
Flint tilted his head. "You smell like ozone."
Arata sighed. "You too?"
"I always smell like ozone," Flint said. "That's a me problem."
Sierra snorted despite herself.
They fell into an easy rhythm after that with Flint complaining about evaluation schedules, Sierra mocking the instructors' obsession with posture, Wanuy quietly correcting details when they exaggerated too far.
Arata leaned back against his bed, listening.
For the first time that day, he wasn't monitoring himself.
Flint flopped onto the spare chair. "So. Hypothetically."
"No," Sierra said immediately.
"Hear me out," Flint continued. "If the Academy accidentally exploded one of the resonance chambers—"
"It didn't," Arata said.
"—and someone totally unrelated walked out unharmed but a little bit injured," Flint went on, "would that someone get extra training credits?"
"No," Sierra said flatly.
"Shame," Flint muttered.
Arata laughed. It slipped out before he could stop it.
Wanuy noticed. His shoulders loosened just a little.
"See?" Flint said smugly. "I'm therapeutic."
A knock sounded. All four of them froze.
Another knock came, lighter this time but more impatient.
Before anyone could answer, the door opened.
Nebula stepped in like she owned the corridor.
She looked around once, taking in the room, the sword by the wall, the fact that all four of them were present.
"Good," she said. "You're alive."
Flint stared. "Is that the standard greeting now?"
Nebula ignored him and looked straight at Arata. "You done being mysterious for the night?"
Arata shrugged. "I think so. Also I prefer to think of myself as edgy."
She nodded, satisfied, then leaned against the door frame. "Lyra's locked herself in her office."
"That sounds healthy," Sierra said.
Nebula smirked. "She does that when she's pretending nothing happened."
Flint perked up. "So something did happen."
Nebula' gaze slid to him. "You ask too many questions for someone with that many demerits."
Flint raised his hands. "Noted. Silent curiosity activated."
Wanuy straightened unconsciously, posture slipping back into something more formal. Sierra mirrored it without realising.
Nebula noticed.
She rolled her eyes. "Relax. I'm not inspecting you."
The room loosened again.
Nebula pushed off the frame and glanced at the sword once more. "That thing yours?"
Arata nodded.
"It suits you," she said, then added, almost as an afterthought, "In an unsettling way."
"High praise," Flint said.
Nebula finally looked at him. "You still talk too much."
"You have to agree it's charming," Flint shot back.
She turned back to Arata. "You holding up?"
"Yes," he said — and this time, he meant it.
Nebula studied him a moment longer, then nodded. "Good."
She stepped back toward the door. "Try not to break anything else tonight."
"No promises," Flint said sighing.
Nebula paused. "I wasn't talking to you."
Then she was gone. The door clicked shut.
Silence lingered for half a second.
Flint exhaled loudly. "Okay. I felt that."
Sierra shook her head. "She does that on purpose."
Wanuy sat back down. "She worries in… strange ways."
Arata lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time since Flora's death, his chest felt light.
Not empty.
Just… quiet enough.
"Hey," Flint said, softer now. "Tomorrow we're learning how to actually channel resonance, right?"
"Unfortunately," Sierra replied.
Flint grinned. "Good. I was getting bored."
Arata smiled to himself.
Whatever waited beyond the Academy's walls be it politics, faith, wars or blades that remembered the dead —
Right now, he was just a cadet in a room full of people who had his back.
And for tonight, that was enough.
Both of them jolted upright.
Sierra nearly fell off the bed. Flint slapped the mattress like he was looking for a weapon that wasn't there.
They froze when they saw Arata standing there—wide awake, arms crossed, grinning.
"You absolute traitor," Flint muttered.
Arata shrugged. "Effective, though."
He gestured toward the door. "Come on. Get ready. The second siren could ring any moment."
Sierra rubbed her face, scowling. "I hate that you're cheerful this early."
"I hate that you slept in my room," Arata replied.
"You loved it," Flint said, already dragging himself upright. "Admit it."
Wanuy picked up his jacket calmly. "You were snoring."
"I do not snore," Sierra said flatly.
"You threatened someone in your sleep," Wanuy added.
Sierra paused. "…Fair."
The second siren wailed faintly in the distance.
Flint groaned. "There it is. See? You summoned it."
Arata grabbed his gear, still smiling. "See? Perfect timing."
As they spilled into the corridor together—half-dressed, half-awake, fully complaining—the Academy felt almost normal again.
For the moment, that was enough.
...
The training ground was silent in a way Arata hadn't heard before.
Not the silence of discipline. But the silence of expectancy.
The cadets stood in wide arcs around the resonance yard, boots planted on sigil-etched stone. Instructors lined the perimeter, unusually still. No barked orders. No corrections.
"Listen carefully," the senior instructor said. "What you are about to attempt is not technique."
He walked the circle once, hands clasped behind his back.
"It is not effort. It is not force. And it is not something you can be taught."
He stopped.
"Bloodline resonance responds to understanding. Not belief. Not desire. Understanding."
A pause.
"Those who grasp their concept," the instructor continued, "will manifest immediately. Those who do not will feel nothing. Both outcomes are expected."
Flint cracked his neck. "That's comforting."
Sierra shot him a look. "Shut up."
They were called forward one by one.
Flint stepped into the circle first. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers, then stilled.
Resonance.
Not as energy. As pressure.
Flint didn't close his eyes. He planted his feet and settled—not bracing, not resisting, but choosing where the force was allowed to go.
The ground answered.
A low vibration rippled outward as the resonance that should have surged through his body was diverted away. Dust lifted. The sigils beneath his boots darkened as invisible strain was rerouted into the space below him, spreading outward in a shallow radius like stress finding a foundation.
His arms thickened—not larger, but denser—as force bled away from muscle and into the world itself. The air around him felt heavier, not from weight, but from load.
Flint exhaled slowly. "Huh."
The instructor nodded. "Resonance recognises direction."
Flint grinned. "Told you I was grounded."
Sierra groaned.
She entered next.
Sierra inhaled, slow and deliberate, and imagined a line—from breath to hand, from will to edge.
Heat bloomed. It was not wild. It wasn't explosive.
A thin corona of flame wrapped her forearms, controlled, precise. The light didn't flicker—it listened. The air shimmered around her, warmth radiating outward in measured pulses.
She opened her eyes, calm.
The instructor inclined his head. "Fire recognises intent."
Sierra let the flame dissipate cleanly. There was no smoke. There was no residue.
"Easy," she said.
Flint scoffed. "Show-off."
Wanuy hesitated before stepping forward.
Not from doubt. It was from respect.
Death was not violence.
Death was inevitability. It was not something to be wielded.
He closed his eyes. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the air thinned. It became colder. But not darker.
A faint pall spread around him, like the space had decided to hold its breath. The sigils beneath his feet dimmed slightly, not extinguished—subdued.
Wanuy opened his eyes, expression unreadable.
The instructor's voice softened. "Death recognises acceptance."
Wanuy stepped back without comment.
Then it was Arata's turn.
He stepped into the circle without hesitation. The ground beneath his boots felt no different than before, the air unchanged, the steady pulse of the Vein continuing beneath the yard as if he were not there at all.
He inhaled slowly and reached inward, searching for the same pressure the others had described.
Nothing answered.
There was no resistance pushing back against him, no surge threatening to escape, no hollow ache dramatic enough to call it failure. It simply felt as though he had extended his hand into a place where nothing waited.
He tried again, adjusting his focus. He thought of movement, of struggle, of loss. He remembered the way the world had bent when he touched it—how rules had softened, how silence had spoken.
Still, nothing responded.
The circle remained inert. The sigils did not dim or flare. The air did not shift. The ground did not acknowledge him.
The instructor watched without impatience, arms folded, giving him time to either find understanding or accept its absence.
Arata finally opened his eyes.
Silence lingered longer than was comfortable.
After a moment, the instructor gave a single nod. "Step out."
There was no judgement in his voice, and no surprise.
Arata complied and left the circle.
Flint frowned from the sidelines. "That's it?"
"Yes," the instructor said. "Understanding cannot be forced."
Sierra glanced at Arata, searching his face. Wanuy said nothing, but his posture shifted—alert, attentive.
The instructor addressed the group.
"Today proves only one thing," he said. "Your blood remembers something. What it remembers determines what answers."