It was early morning, and the grasslands still carried the cold left behind by the night. The air had not warmed yet. It rested low over the open land, thin and quiet, brushing against the tents and the damp ground around them. For a while, there was only the faint grey of dawn, the kind that made everything look unfinished. Then the sun finally appeared over the horizon, pale at first, shining with the steady purpose of something that had a job to do.
Despite the quiet of the morning, the camp was not completely silent. Outside the tents, armour shifted and clicked in small, uneven sounds. Low voices passed between people as they moved about, careful and tired, their words never rising enough to disturb the stillness entirely. Inside, the students remained where they had been placed the night before. Even though they were only a small group, the boys had been paired up with one another, and the girls had been paired in the same way. It was not because there were not enough tents. There were. The choice had been made for another reason, one that seemed simple only on the surface. They were being prepared for the future, and in war, not everyone could expect to live lavishly.
Cur slowly opened his eyes to the beige colour of the tent above him. For a moment, he did not move. He simply stared at the canvas, watching the faint morning light press against it from the outside. He did not feel anything in particular, not surprise or fear, not even relief. Still, the small sounds beyond the tent reached him one by one—the scrape of armour, the murmur of voices, the movement of people already awake—and together they confirmed what he had already known. The day before had been real.
It was not that he had hoped it had been a dream. He had not wished for it to be unreal, nor did he feel disappointed that it was not. The thought only settled there in his mind for a while, plain and heavy, as if it needed no answer from him.
After some time, his eyes shifted slightly to the left. Markus was still asleep beside him, lying close enough that Cur could hear the calm rhythm of his breathing. Cur stayed as still as he could, careful not to wake him, and watched for a moment. It was strange, in a small way. Markus was not the kind of sleeper Cur had expected. With the way he acted during the day, with that excitable attitude that appeared from time to time, Cur had imagined him as someone who would turn restlessly through the night, limbs thrown in odd directions, no concern for where he ended up by morning.
But the reality of it was different. Markus slept extremely still, almost unnaturally so, as if even in sleep he had decided not to take up more space than he needed.
Cur's eyes drifted back to the top of the tent. He remained like that for a few more breaths, listening to the morning move around him in muted fragments. Then, slowly, he lifted his right hand from where it rested beside him. The movement was small, almost cautious, as though the quiet inside the tent deserved to be preserved.
The ring sat on his middle finger, dark enough to make the pale light around it seem weaker. Its abyssal black surface held against his skin with a clean, quiet contrast. Cur turned his hand just enough for the band to catch what little dawn had managed to seep through the canvas, and the markings along it became clearer: thin lines of encryption running through the metal, patient and precise, as if they had always been there and had only been waiting for him to notice them again.
At the centre, the slate-coloured stone remained dull and still. It did not shine. It did not answer him. Even so, Cur kept looking at it, his fingers tightening little by little until his hand closed into a fist. The pressure helped. It gave the thought forming inside him somewhere to settle.
Today was a day he had been waiting for longer than he could properly measure. Not with calendars, or lessons, or the number of mornings he had woken up behind the safety of the city walls, but with stories. His mother's voice, his father's voice, the monsters they had spoken of as if they were distant and inevitable things. The battles they had survived. The scars they did not always explain. All of it had lived somewhere beyond him, close enough to shape his thoughts, yet far enough away that it had never truly belonged to him.
Now, lying there in the thin morning light with the ring pressed into his palm, Cur felt that distance begin to narrow. He did not feel excitement in the loud, easy way Markus might have shown it. It was quieter than that. He simply understood, with a steadiness that made his chest feel heavier, that today might bring him closer to the world his parents had known. For the first time, it might stop being only a story.
The quiet did not last much longer. From somewhere beyond the tent, a voice cut through the muted morning, clear enough to reach them even through the canvas.
"Alright! Everyone up! You've slept long enough, and we have a busy day ahead of us!"
Cur knew the voice before the words had fully settled. Professor Slaine. There was no urgency in the recognition, only a small shift inside him, the kind that came when the world reminded him that stillness had only been temporary.
For another moment, Cur remained where he was. Then he loosened his hand around the ring and drew in a quiet breath. The command had been given, and there was no reason to delay. He pushed himself up slowly, first onto one elbow, then upright, letting the cold air inside the tent settle against his face and neck as he sat there.
Only after that did he look to his left. Markus was beginning to wake, his eyes opening with visible effort, as though he was being pulled out of sleep one piece at a time.
"Time to go, buddy," Cur said, keeping his voice low.
Markus answered with a small grunt. He sat up a little after Cur, slower than he probably meant to, and pressed both hands to his face. His fingers dragged over his eyes and cheeks as if he could push the last pieces of sleep away by force.
Cur gave him a few seconds, then leaned forward toward the tent opening. The fabric was cool under his hand when he took hold of it. He moved it aside carefully, but even that small movement was enough to let the morning in. Sunlight slipped through first as a thin line, then widened at once, bright and sharp after the dimness of the tent.
Both boys narrowed their eyes against it. Warmth followed the light, gentle but sudden, touching Cur's face and hands as he stepped out. For a brief moment, he did not look at the camp. He only stood there and stretched his arms, then his shoulders, feeling the stiffness left behind by a night spent close to the ground. The tent floor had been the only thing between them and the grass beneath, and while it might have seemed harsh for students, it was part of what they were being made to understand. For combatant-type Flame Bornes, comfort was never something they could afford to depend on.
His eyes took a little longer to adjust than he expected. The brightness thinned gradually, and the camp began to return to him in pieces: the pale shapes of tents, the movement of people between them, the dull glint of armour catching the morning sun. Sound came with it as well, not all at once, but layer by layer. Soldiers spoke to one another in low, practised voices. Teachers gave short instructions. Researchers moved through the camp with papers and equipment held close against the cold. Students murmured nearby, their excitement kept just beneath the surface. Cur drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly.
Around him, most of the students had already left their tents. Some were stretching, some were adjusting their clothes or rubbing sleep from their faces, and others had already started watching the centre of the camp with open curiosity. They all looked awake in different ways. Some carried the morning easily. Others seemed to be standing only because they had been told to.
Markus emerged behind him a few seconds later. Cur felt his hand land on his left shoulder, warm and heavy enough to make him shift his balance. Markus used him without asking, leaning just enough to stretch one leg, then the other, his movements still slow from sleep.
"Sleep well?" Markus asked, his voice rough around the edges.
Cur glanced at him, then gave a faint smile. "As well as we could."
Markus lowered his foot back to the ground and blinked toward the tents. "Did I wake you at any point?"
"No," Cur said. "You were fine."
For a short while, neither of them said anything. Markus finished stretching and looked out across the camp, his attention drifting in the same direction as the other students. Then, with more hope than confidence, he asked, "Wonder what's for breakfast?"
Cur followed his gaze. Near the centre of the camp, the students were beginning to gather in uneven lines rather than spreading toward any cooking fires or supply tables. No one seemed to be carrying trays. No smell of food moved through the air. Cur noticed those things slowly, one after another, and understood them before he wanted to say them aloud.
He looked back at Markus. "I… don't think we'll be having any."
Markus went still for half a second. Then he bounced twice on the spot, as if trying to shake the disappointment out of himself before it had a chance to settle. His hand tapped Cur's back, lighter this time, while his eyes remained on the gathering students.
"Well…" Markus said, letting the word hang there for a moment. "Let's go, then."
As the two of them approached the gathering students, Markus let out a long yawn beside him. It was loud enough to be noticed, but not enough to break the low murmur moving through the group. Cur glanced at him briefly, then let his eyes wander ahead again. He looked over the students one by one without meaning to search for anyone in particular, only taking in the small details that came with the morning: loosened collars, tired faces, hands rubbing at arms against the cold.
Then he saw her. White hair, clean and bright against the duller colours of the camp, as unmistakable as fresh snow.
She got ready pretty quickly, Cur thought.
The thought passed through him quietly and left just as quickly. He did not look at her for long, and he did not try to turn it into anything more than what it was. Around him, the small movements of the students began to slow. Conversations thinned. A few heads turned first, then more followed, until the attention of the group gradually drew itself toward the same point at the front of the camp.
There, raised above the students on two small wooden boxes, stood Professor Slaine and the officer who had accompanied the trio during the carriage ride. From below, the height was not much, but it was enough to make the space feel ordered. Enough for everyone to understand that whatever came next was meant to be heard clearly.
Professor Slaine looked over them for a moment before speaking.
"Good morning, everyone."
The answer came almost at once, carried by habit more than energy.
"Good morning, sir!"
The words rose together, then faded into the cold morning air. Slaine gave a small nod, as if the response was less a greeting and more the first sign that they were ready to listen.
"Today is the day you prove yourselves," Slaine said. His voice was not loud, but it reached them easily. "Everything you have trained for this year has brought you here. From this point on, you will listen carefully and follow what you are told."
He turned slightly toward the officer beside him. "This is Centurion Knight Officer Sammus Orson. He will brief you on your task and the rules of the test."
A quiet reaction moved through the students, not quite loud enough to become speech. Eyes widened here and there. A few shoulders straightened. Cur felt the change more than he heard it. None of them had expected the military officer to be the one giving the test instructions.
Officer Orson stepped forward by a small measure, and the camp seemed to settle around him. When he spoke, his voice was firm, even, and stripped of anything unnecessary.
"Good morning. Your task today is to hunt one of these."
He lifted a sheet of parchment for them to see. At the same time, several soldiers began moving along the front of the group, distributing copies with quiet efficiency. The papers passed from hand to hand, soft against the sharper sounds of armour and boots.
"This creature is known as a Fernmail," Officer Orson said, his voice carrying cleanly over the gathered students. "It is a chaotic entity classified at B-minus range. The documents being distributed contain the relevant behavioural notes, weaknesses, and identification markers. Read them carefully. You will be expected to know what you are facing before you enter the forest."
"Your objective is simple. Each candidate is to hunt and retrieve the head of one mature Fernmail. One head per person. No shared kills. No substitutions. Your quota is individual, and it will be assessed as such."
"You will have thirty-six hours from the moment the test begins. Once you cross into Lament Forest, you are not permitted to leave its territory until your quota has been met, the allotted time has expired, or you have determined beyond doubt that continuing would be impossible under the circumstances. Do not mistake discomfort for impossibility."
"Each of you will be issued a survival pack before departure. It will contain food and water for the duration of the test, basic medical supplies, and research notes intended to assist with tracking and engagement. You will be responsible for your own equipment. If you lose it, waste it, or fail to use it properly, that failure will be yours alone. Your pack will also contain… this"
He raised a small spherical beaker sealed with a metal lid, holding it high enough for the entire group to see.
"This is a chaos collector. If you encounter chaotic creatures during the test that are not Fernmail, engagement is at your discretion. You may withdraw, or you may fight. If you choose to fight and succeed, remove the core and secure it inside the collector. Additional cores will be counted for extra credit. That is an opportunity, not an order. Your primary objective remains the Fernmail. Do not lose sight of it."
When Officer Orson finished, he did not move on immediately. He allowed the silence to remain for a few seconds, letting the weight of the instructions settle over the gathered students. His eyes moved across them in a measured sweep, checking faces, posture, and attention with the same quiet discipline he had carried through the briefing. Only then did he notice a hand rising near the back of the group.
"Questions?" he asked.
He pointed toward Markus without changing expression.
Markus lowered his hand only after he had been acknowledged. "Yes, sir. Will extra credit be awarded for hunting more than one mature Fernmail?"
"No."
The answer came too quickly for Markus to hide his confusion. He hesitated, then tried again. "What about a youngling?"
"No."
Markus's brow tightened. "May I ask why, sir?"
For the first time, Orson paused before answering. It was not a long pause, but it was enough for the students to feel the shift in the conversation.
"Fernmails are a rare breed of chaos," he said. "We do not want to destabilise their existence."
At first, no one answered. The words seemed to take a moment to reach them properly. Then the reaction began to spread through the group in small, visible ways. A few students looked at one another. Someone near the front shifted their weight. Markus was the first to speak, and this time he did not bother raising his hand.
"Are we not trying to rid our country of these things?"
"We are not."
Orson's expression did not change. His answer had been short, but there was no uncertainty in it.
The whispering started almost immediately. It moved through the students in uneven fragments, quiet at first, then gathering enough volume to threaten the order of the briefing. Orson lifted one hand, not high, only enough for the motion to be seen.
The whispers died down. He waited until they were gone completely before speaking again. "Tell me. Do you know why we want their heads?"
No one answered him. The question remained there, plain and uncomfortable, with no student willing to reach for it.
"Behind each eye of a Fernmail is a mineral pocket containing a substance called Ferronium," Orson said. "Perhaps you have heard of it."
Cur did not speak, but he knew the answer at once.
Who hasn't? The single rarest substance in existence.
"Each head contains roughly 5.6 grams of Ferronium. That may sound insignificant to those who have never seen what it can do, but it is not. Ferronium is the single most important element in existence, and these creatures provide it to us in a way no mine, refinery, or human invention ever has. So long as their population remains stable, that supply continues."
A few students looked angry. Cur could see it in the set of their jaws and the way their eyes held on Orson a little too long. Some of them clearly wanted to argue with him, not about the facts, but about what those facts meant. Still, no one spoke. Ferronium was not an ordinary resource. It was the kind of substance that could build nations, ruin them, or make them impossible to ignore. Savanna's strength had grown around it, and behind the Architect King stood a country that controlled more than half of the continent's Ferronium production.
For several moments, no one spoke. The silence that followed was heavier than the one before it, not because there was nothing left to ask, but because everyone seemed to be deciding whether they wanted to hear the answers. Cur could feel the unease around him in small ways: a shift of boots against the grass, a breath drawn in and not quite released, the faint rustle of paper being gripped too tightly. Then, from within the gathered students, Calliarna raised her hand.
Orson looked toward her and gave a short nod. "Yes?"
Calliarna lowered her hand before speaking. Her posture remained straight, and her voice carried without effort.
"We are expected to kill a Fernmail alone," she said. "Are we also prohibited from forming groups before that point?"
"No," Orson replied. "You may group with one another as you see fit. You may travel together, make camp together, and engage other creatures together if you choose. The Fernmail kill, however, must be carried out alone. That condition is not flexible."
Calliarna did not look away from him. "May I ask how you intend to confirm whether a kill was made by one person alone?"
For the first time since the briefing began, Orson's expression changed. It was slight, no more than a narrow pull at the edge of his mouth, but on a face that had remained so still, it felt sharper than it should have.
"You will answer that question for yourself soon enough."
Calliarna's expression did not change. Her composure remained exactly where it had been, graceful and still, as though the answer had given her nothing worth showing.
Cur raised his hand.
Orson's eyes shifted to him. The faint trace of amusement left his face, and his expression returned to its earlier discipline. He gave Cur a single nod.
Cur lowered his hand. "What should we do if a student becomes incapacitated?" He paused, correcting himself before the question could sound too loose. "Or, more precisely, what is the protocol if someone is unable to retreat from a fight?"
"Academy staff and military personnel will be patrolling the perimeter and interior routes of Lament Forest," Orson said. "If a student's life is placed in fatal danger, intervention will occur. If the danger is judged to be survivable, you will be expected to resolve the situation yourselves."
Cur absorbed that in silence, then asked, "And if the allotted time runs out?"
"You will be collected promptly."