The sun hadn't even risen by the time they were dragged to the Field of Attrition.
Aster stood among the groggy first-years, still sore from yesterday's chaos. The field was a stretch of uneven stone and worn earth, surrounded by obsidian pillars. Cold mist clung to the ground. No birds. No breeze. Just silence and the distant sound of something growling underground.
'chilly'
"Today we will be doing Morning drills," barked a tall instructor with a voice like gravel and a face carved from old leather. "If you think you're here to learn, you've misunderstood. We train. We test. We thin the herd."
Aster blinked. "Charming," he muttered
For the first year at the academy i heard that they only test people and at the second ti third year they start teaching stuff so untill then this will be my everyday morning
We were split into rows, then into pairs.
"Footwork. Sword form. Ten drills. Repeat."
Aster glanced at the dull training sword in his hand. It felt awkward. Heavy in the wrong places. Like it knew he had no idea what he was doing.
His partner, a quiet girl with short, dark hair and sharp eyes, raised her blade.
"Ready?"
"Define ready," Aster said. She didn't smile.
What followed was pain. His legs burned. His arms screamed. He slipped three times and earned a barked correction from the instructor every single time.
"You move like a corpse with a limp!"
Aster wheezed. "Thanks. That's actually high praise where I'm from."
Some students were clearly trained. They flowed through the drills like dancers, sharp and efficient. Others were barely scraping by.
He was in the latter group. Not the worst, but close enough to smell their sweat.
By the time the drills ended, his shirt clung to his back and his limbs felt like noodles. He bent over, panting.
Then the instructor spoke again.
"Pair combat assessment. One bout. No killing. First hit wins."
Groans. Aster didn't even have time to straighten before names started being called.
Then—
"Aster. Lane Tovak."
Lane? He looked up.
Oh.
Broad shoulders. Blunt features. A blade that looked much more natural in Lane's grip than it did in his own. The guy was three inches taller, built like a boulder, and already smirking.
"Try not to cry," Lane said, stepping onto the dueling platform.
Aster followed with all the enthusiasm of a man heading to tax court.
They squared off. The instructor raised a hand. "Begin."
Lane lunged.
Aster jumped back. Not gracefully. More like tripping in reverse.
He blocked. Pure luck. The force rattled up his arm like a firecracker.
Lane pressed forward, aggressive. Confident. Aster barely kept up, parrying in a wild scramble. No rhythm. No form. Just instinct and panic.
He rolled to the side and came up panting.
"This is ridiculous," he hissed.
Lane grinned and charged.
Aster swung. Missed.
The sword slipped from his hands and skittered across the stone. Lane raised his blade—
—and then slipped.
On what? A patch of frost.
The stone was glistening beneath him. Aster blinked.
There hadn't been frost there a second ago.
Lane fell hard. Aster, wide-eyed, scrambled to his feet and grabbed his sword. He tapped Lane's chest before the other boy could rise.
The instructor raised an eyebrow. "Winner: Aster."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Aster didn't say anything. He just stepped down, still confused.
The frost was gone.
He found a bench and collapsed onto it. The cold sweat on his skin had nothing to do with fear.
What the hell was that?
---
From the shadows, someone watching him
He narrowed his eyes. That boy… had no stance, no training—but he adapted.
And that frost.
"Interesting," he murmured.
---
The rest of the session was a blur of drills and exhaustion. Aster barely stayed upright. But even with how little he knew, one thing was obvious:
They weren't training them to fight. They were training them to survive.
Every drill pushed the body and mind. Every instruction was barked, never explained. They didn't teach form—they tested for it. Mistakes weren't corrected. They were punished.
By the end, Aster's legs barely worked.
When they were dismissed, he limped toward the showers, dragging his sword behind him.
Someone walked beside him.
"You actually beat Lane?"
Aster glanced up. It was Ben Harker. Rank 4. Big, broad, friendly.
"Kinda? I think gravity helped."
Ben laughed. "Or luck."
Aster nodded slowly. "Yeah. Let's go with that."
But his hand was still cold. And deep inside, something was humming.
He didn't understand it yet.
But something had changed.
Something was waking up.
And next time, he might not survive on luck alone.