They called the practice yard "the Pit," though it wasn't a pit at all. Just a sunken courtyard ringed by observation alcoves and shallow wards that would bruise, not kill.
Unless you meant it.
Kael had spent the better part of a week eating dirt in it.
He was the last to arrive that morning—again—and the first to get knocked flat during blade drills. His shoulder still ached from yesterday's failed disarm. His ribs—bruised from a shadow-warped push that hadn't looked quite legal.
"Quit blinking like a mole," the instructor barked. "Whispers need to see before the killing starts."
Kael got up, spat out grit, and kept going.
Bran fell in beside him during the sigil sprints—flashing his usual half-smile, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead.
"You know," Bran said, "if you trip again I'm legally allowed to harvest your boots."
Kael grunted. "You want boots that bad?"
"Mine squeak. Yours smell like tragic poetry. Big difference."
Kael didn't smile, but some corner of him wanted to.
Bran elbowed him. "You hear about Eline's team rotation?"
"I'm on it."
"You poor bastard."
They lapsed into silence as they traced the next sequence—a Whisperer's field-gesture code meant to conceal movement behind flickering wards. Kael's fingers slipped. Again.
The instructor didn't yell this time. Just sighed like the wind before rain.
They worked from sunrise until the light turned amber.
Blades. Footwork. Whispercraft sigil-chants drawn in invisible chalk. There were fifteen trainees left in Kael's cohort. Eight of them didn't talk to him. Three stared at him like he was contagious. The others watched and waited, as if measuring how far down he'd fall before the ground stopped taking him.
Only Bran seemed untouched by it.
Only Bran didn't flinch when Tenebris pulsed.
Because sometimes Kael's shadow twitched when he got tired. It rippled in ways it shouldn't. Flickered like something with its own breath.
Even when he didn't ask it to.
After sunset, Kael sat alone in the edges of the Pit, unlacing his boots. Bran dropped beside him, tossing a bit of cloth at his face.
"Wipe the blood off. You're scaring the birds."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "There are no birds."
"Exactly."
Bran fished a handful of dried fruit from his pocket and offered it. Kael took one. Chewed slowly.
Bran asked, "You ever think they'll stop watching you like you're about to explode?"
Kael swallowed. "No."
"Good. You're not delusional."
He leaned back, eyes to the stars.
"They watch you because you don't flinch. Even when you should."
Kael said nothing.
"Doesn't scare me, though."
"You sure?"
Bran turned his head. "I've seen what real monsters look like."
Kael held his gaze.
After a beat, Bran grinned. "They smile more."
Later that night, Kael returned to his bunk and found the coin.
It hadn't moved.
Still Veilbound-marked. Still dulled with age. Still heavy with implication.
But tonight, he traced the symbol with a slow finger and realized something else.
The mark wasn't etched. Not exactly.
It was grown.
Laced with some trace of sigilcraft—but older. Not ink. Not magic. Something… in between.
Like a whisper made solid.
Kael turned it over. Something shimmered faintly at the edge of sight. A flicker.
Tenebris stirred. Not hostile. Curious.
Kael pressed the coin to the wall beside his bed. Held it there.
And for a breathless moment, the wall forgot it was stone.
It shivered like shadow, and a single word unfurled across the surface—too fast to read, too ancient to repeat.
Kael snapped his hand back.
The wall returned to stone.
But now he was sure.
This wasn't just a coin.
It was a key.
And someone had left it behind… knowing he'd understand it.
Eventually.