One month after the trial, Ezra realized no one sat within three benches of him in the mess hall. Laughter died when he entered courtyards. Professors paused mid-lecture when his shadow crossed the threshold. Even the stone archways seemed to constrict as he passed beneath them.
His new schedule arrived etched on a slate of black obsidian:
05:30 - Physical Conditioning
07:00 - Arcane Theory
09:00 - Historical Strategy
13:00 - Resonance Refinement
16:00 - Combat Applications
All instructors listed simply as: T.
The first morning, Ezra arrived at the training grounds to find Theodore leaning against a weapons rack, twirling a practice spear with bored precision. The morning mist curled away from the blade's edge as if repelled.
"You're late," Theodore said without looking up.
Ezra checked the position of the dawn bells. "By twelve seconds."
"Twelve seconds is the difference between a slit throat and a clean kill." The spear stopped mid-rotation, point hovering an inch from Ezra's left eye. "Again."
By week's end, Ezra could chart every bruise Theodore's training had left on his body like a constellation of failures. The man fought like nothing human—his polearm strikes arriving a breath before the wind of their passing, his footwork tracing patterns older than the Academy's foundations.
"What are you?" Ezra panted during one water break, nursing what might be a cracked rib.
Theodore smiled around the rim of his canteen. "Disappointed."
The arcane lessons proved worse. Where other professors droned about controlled spell matrices and approved incantations, Theodore conjured flames that burned in frozen shapes, made shadows dance to forgotten dirges, and once—when Ezra failed to properly contain a containment sigil—unleashed a scream from the empty air that left his nose bleeding for hours.
At night, the brand beneath Ezra's collarbone pulsed like a second heartbeat. He'd lie awake tracing its nine-pointed edges, listening for the footsteps that never came. The king remained as absent as spring in deep winter, leaving only the sharpened edge of Theodore's teaching in his place.
And his old squad...
Ezra turned the thought away before it could fully form. Cassian's empty seat at meals, Rin's missing boots by the door—these were facts now, like sunrise or gravity. To dwell on them made the brand burn hotter.
Outside his window, the twin moons cast intersecting shadows across the courtyard. Somewhere beyond them, the king's mask watched. Waiting.
Ezra closed his eyes.
Tomorrow's training would begin at 05:30.
The turning of seasons marked Ezra's progress more than any instructor's praise. When the first frost painted the training yard's stones, he could finally parry three of Theodore's strikes before disarming. By the time cherry blossoms littered the courtyard like blood spatter, he'd learned to hold a containment sigil for precisely seventeen minutes before his nose bled.
Control came in increments.
Mornings began before dawn with meditation in the eastern pavilion, knees going numb against bamboo mats as Theodore's voice slithered through his consciousness:
"The flame doesn't answer because you keep begging. Command it."
Ezra would clench his jaw until his teeth ached, imagining his power as a snarling beast on a fraying leash. Some days it obeyed. Most days it didn't.
His body told a different story. The boy who'd arrived at the Academy could hardly lift a practice sword; the young man who trained now moved with lethal grace, muscles carved by Theodore's relentless drills. When he caught his reflection in the armory's polished shields - taller, broader, the baby fat gone from his cheeks - he barely recognized himself.
The changes unsettled him more than the brand ever had.
At sixteen winters old, Ezra Valentine was becoming exactly what the Crown wanted.
And he hated how little he hated it.
The absence of his squad ached in unexpected ways. No one stole his boots now that Rin was gone. No one challenged him to stupid dares in the mess hall without Cassian's snicker. Even Silas' infuriating perfection would've been welcome - anything to prove he hadn't imagined that brief, fragile camaraderie.
Theodore watched these unspoken thoughts play across his face with feline amusement.
"Missing your little friends?" he'd taunt during spear drills, the blunted tip pressing between Ezra's ribs. "How touching. Now show me that disarming technique again."
On the last day of term, Ezra stood at his dormitory window watching first-years stumble through basic stances in the courtyard below. Their clumsy enthusiasm made something twist in his chest. He flexed his hand, summoning a lick of flame that danced obediently across his knuckles - a trick that would've left him unconscious with exhaustion a year prior.
Ezra's practice sword clattered to the stones, his palms slick with sweat. Another morning spent chasing Theodore's shadow across the training grounds, another failure to land a single blow. He collapsed onto the sun-warmed steps, his ribs heaving.
"I don't want to do this anymore."
Theodore didn't pause in cleaning his spear blade. "Your complaints are falling on deaf ears, little torch."
Sunlight caught the man's unnatural eyes as he turned—that reptilian green that always made Ezra's skin prickle. At twenty-seven, Theodore carried himself with the weariness of someone far older, his dark green hair tied back in a messy knot that did nothing to tame the wild strands framing his sharp features. The stubble along his jaw only accentuated the cruel curve of his smirk.
Ezra wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I want...something exciting."
Theodore's spear point came to rest beneath Ezra's chin, tilting his face upward. "Exciting?" A slow, dangerous smile. "Was burning down half the Academy not thrilling enough for you? Becoming the king's personal weapon not sufficiently dramatic?"
The blade pressed harder.
"Or perhaps," Theodore murmured, leaning down until his breath ghosted over Ezra's cheek, "you're bored of merely playing with fire."
Ezra swallowed. "I heard...it's possible to talk to the celestials."
The words hung between them, quieter than a breath.
For the first time in all their months of training, Theodore went utterly still.
Theodore's spear clattered to the stones.
For three heartbeats, the training yard held its breath. Then Theodore threw back his head and laughed—a sound like shattering glass that sent sparrows fleeing from the courtyard walls.
" Celestials burn me," he wheezed, wiping at his eyes, "of course you'd latch onto the one lecture where I wasn't actively trying to kill you."
Ezra bristled. "You said—"
"I know what I said." Theodore's mirth vanished like a snuffed candle. He crouched suddenly, gripping Ezra's chin with calloused fingers. "But tell me, little torch—when I mentioned celestial communion, did I also mention how many initiates burst into holy flames during the attempt? Or how the survivors usually wish they had?"
The brand beneath Ezra's collarbone pulsed in time with his quickening heartbeat. He held Theodore's serpentine gaze. "You said it was the only way to learn true fire magic."
A muscle twitched in Theodore's jaw. His thumb brushed the brand—once, lightly—before he shoved Ezra away and stood.
"Fine." He snatched up his spear, spinning it in a vicious arc that carved the air between them. "But when your bones are kindling and your screams make the angels weep, don't come crying to me."