"A burden carried without complaint does not weigh less."
The camp was quieter than it should have been.
Men moved with that brittle energy that followed battle — straps tightened twice over, blades checked three times, laughter short and strained. Smoke from the dying fire curled in the damp air, and mist clung low against the ground as if refusing to lift.
Brittany stood a little apart, arms folded tight across her chest. Her eyes tracked Henry, though it was impossible to tell whether the heat in them was anger or shame. I told myself not to stare, but I couldn't help wondering what place I truly had here. If I faltered, if I failed as a mage, what reason would they have to keep me?
Rowan's voice cut through the haze.
"Not that way, you'll snap the reins clean off!" He pestered one of the drivers, earning a swat and a curse for his trouble. Namen laughed and clapped Rowan on the back, diffusing the moment, though the laughter that followed carried little warmth.
I sank lower into my cloak, wishing to be invisible. That was when George lowered his book.
"I saw you earlier," he said.
My stomach tightened. "What do you mean?"
He studied me in that unblinking way of his. "The surge during the ambush. Not ordinary spellwork." His tone was flat, but the words pricked like needles.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I muttered.
His mouth twitched — not a smile, more like annoyance smoothed over. "Mana blessed. You may pretend otherwise, but it was plain enough to me."
The words lodged in me, strange and heavy. Mana blessed. I'd never thought of myself that way. Never dared to.
George considered me for another beat, then let out a dry little laugh.
"Of course you wouldn't know. They don't teach real foundations where you came from. Too busy dressing you up and calling it 'discipline.'"
I frowned, each step driving a needle into the raw skin of my heels. "You don't even know what they taught me."
"I don't need to." He tapped the spine of his book against his palm as we walked. "Academies like yours polish mages into ornaments. Train them to recite, to bow, to glow prettily in front of nobles. But to bleed? To break? To endure—" He flicked a hand toward me without even looking. "That part, they leave for the world to teach."
Linette stirred in me, a small flare of heat curling through my calves and heels. We learned. Faster than they ever meant us to. For a breath, it dulled the ache, but the march pressed on and the pain crept back heavier than before.
I bit back the urge to agree aloud. "And your books make you any different?"
George's lips quirked, almost a smile. "Books don't lie to me. People do." He moved ahead, book opening again like a door he could step through, leaving me to chew on his words in silence.
My legs screamed with every rise and fall of the road. I wanted nothing more than to stop — to sit, to peel off the boots biting into my skin. But every time the thought came, my eyes flicked back to Namen, steady as a wall at the rear of the column. His presence pressed between my shoulders: I wouldn't be the one who slowed him down.
So I forced my stride back into rhythm, breath ragged, the sting of my sores beating in time with my heartbeat. The forest path dipped, then rose again, and my steps grew clumsy. I nearly stumbled once, catching myself before my knees buckled. The murmurs of the soldiers ahead blended with the drone of insects, until Henry's voice cut through it all.
"Time for chow, everyone!" he called from up ahead.
Like water spilling downhill, the company flowed toward the horse-drawn carriage. Jerky and apples were passed from bags near the back. My stomach cramped at the smell, but before I could push forward Namen's hand settled firmly on my shoulder.
"Go sit, kid," he murmured, then strode off to collect food. The touch lingered even after he'd gone, a wordless permission to stop fighting.
I found a stone at the roadside and lowered myself onto it, prying off my boots with stiff fingers. Bright red sores marked my heels, angry and wet where the leather had rubbed them raw. My calves twitched with spasms when I tried to rub the ache out, each knot only half-unwinding before the pain returned.
The others sat together in clumps, jerky between their teeth, voices carrying in easy banter I couldn't follow. The sound pressed against me, warm but distant, like a fire I wasn't close enough to feel. All my will went to staying upright, to not folding sideways into the dirt and showing them just how weak I truly was.
Through the blur of branches I glimpsed the edge of a ravine ahead — vague shapes, gray and deep. It meant we'd put good distance between ourselves and the school. That was the thought I clung to.
Namen came back with food in both hands. He dropped onto the ground in front of me, bit into his apple with a loud kerchunk, then tossed the second apple and a strip of jerky into my lap. I scrambled to catch them before they fell into the dust.
My stomach did the rest, devouring the jerky in greedy mouthfuls. The apple slowed me down — crisp, sweet, a little miracle. I savored each bite until nothing was left but a bare thin core, seeds sticking out like broken teeth. Even that I studied for a moment, strangely proud of the neat work I'd made of it. Namen just chuckled under his breath.
A bit of strength trickled back, enough to sit straighter, enough to notice Brittany and Henry quarreling a few paces ahead. Their voices spiked sharp, though the words blurred in and out. George, further up, perched on a fallen log with his book half-shielding his face. Every so often he lowered it just enough to bite into an apple, never looking at anyone.
"Book must be better company than us," I muttered without thinking.
He glanced up, eyes catching mine. "For now, yes." Then his gaze flicked to my discarded boots. "Blisters already?"
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "The march is—"
"Too much for someone the school bred to be ornamental?" His words came soft, but sharp as a knife.
I stiffened. Linette stirred inside me, her voice low and proud: You are not weak. You survived what broke others.
"I wasn't ornamental," I shot back.
George's lip curled faintly. "Maybe not. But they trained you to obey. To endure silence. To carry voices not your own." He tapped the book shut, eyes narrowing. "That inner whisper you cling to? That's no gift, Magelet. That's what trauma leaves behind."
Linette flared again — not with shame but with defiance, fierce and burning: He doesn't know. We are stronger because of it.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and said nothing more. George returned to his book, and I returned to rubbing my calves, both of us stubborn in our silences.
"Seph!" Henry's voice cut through, waving me over.
I hurried to jam my boots back on, leaving the laces untied, and joined him. Brittany was at his side, arms crossed, eyes flicking over me in disdain.
"We'll need you in shape for the next stretch," Henry said, gentler. "Why not ride in the cart?"
I didn't argue. I climbed into the carriage, wedging myself between sacks that made a soft enough nest. The horses shifted as I settled, then the wheels lurched forward again.
The cart rocked with each rut in the path, rhythm tugging at my weary body. Heat pressed close, heavy with damp air, and my eyelids grew stubbornly heavy. Out the back, I caught glimpses of Namen at the rear of the line — steady, watchful.
Still, the sway of the wheels began to lull me.
Henry's face suddenly leaned into view at the carriage's edge. "Rest, Seph. Don't fight it. You'll need your strength." He smiled, but unease lingered in his eyes.
I nodded, letting the world blur — until Linette stirred.
Something feels wrong, she whispered inside me. The voice trembled, not in fear but in warning.
My breath caught. The cart kept jostling forward, steady and ordinary, yet every sound of the forest felt muted, hollow.
Before I could question her, Linette retreated into silence.
I shifted uneasily against the sacks, listening to the creak of the wheels, the hush of the forest, and the sudden, inexplicable quiet.