On the sports field, the uneven footsteps of students as they ran laps around the dirt track of the Igris quarter.
There were only five of them, all affiliated with House Igris, though not all in the same class. Still, they made up a group of sorts.
Their navy-blue tracksuits clung to sweat-drenched skin.
Their breathing was loud, ragged. Some dragged their feet. Others lifted their knees, as if just to avoid collapsing.
Among them, only one kept pace, eyes forward, silent : Dante.
Twentieth lap. Not a hint of exhaustion. Not a bead of sweat. Not a single complaint.
To his right, a boy with tanned skin suddenly crumpled to the ground, collapsing to his knees before lying flat, arms out, gasping.
— "STOP." barked the coach.
IlliasDavis. Tall, lean, and built like a warhorse. The kind of gym teacher pulled straight from nightmares—the type who yelled good morning and laughed when someone puked on the track.
