The command tent smelled of oil, ink, and cooled Axiom.
It was quieter inside than I expected—no raised voices, no hurried footsteps, no immediate judgment. Just silence, thick and deliberate, pressing down harder than any shout ever could. The canvas walls muted the outside world, turning every movement into something exposed. Even my breathing felt loud.
I stood beside my captain, boots aligned, back straight, hands clenched at my sides.
Across the long command table stood those who decided futures.
Court Mage Roseanne watched us with folded hands, her expression perfectly composed, unreadable. The faint glow of her Axiom conductors pulsed beneath her robes, steady and controlled. General Ignis stood slightly apart, arms crossed, posture relaxed—but only on the surface. Several officers flanked them, brows raised, eyes sharp with restrained disbelief.
Ignis spoke first.
His voice did not rise.
That alone sent a shiver through my spine.
"Elrin Mornye," he said calmly, each word measured. "Do you understand that even with regeneration fields deployed above the training grounds, a concussive release of that magnitude can still cripple—or kill—a fellow cadet?"
The words settled slowly, sinking into my chest like weight.
Not anger.
Fact.
"Yes, sir," I said, bowing. My throat felt dry. "I—"
Court Mage Roseanne turned her gaze fully to me.
"Have you been listening during my classes," she asked evenly, "or merely surviving them?"
Her eyes flicked—just for a moment—to my right hand, still wrapped in fresh cloth.
"Limiter discipline. Output calibration. Anchor reinforcement. We have spent weeks breaking those fundamentals into you."
I bowed deeper. "Madam. General Ignis. I am—"
Before I could finish, Captain Renia stepped forward.
Her boots struck the ground once as she crossed the invisible boundary between subordinate and command. Then she bowed—low, formal, without hesitation.
"This responsibility is mine," she said.
Her voice was steady. Firm.
"I am the acting captain of Cadet Squad Twenty-Eight. Cadet Elrin's output instability was not addressed sufficiently under my supervision. The resulting surge depleted his Axiom reserves almost entirely. I respectfully ask that you consider the circumstances."
She did not raise her head.
"If penalties are required, they should be directed at my squad."
The silence stretched.
I could feel it pulling at my nerves.
General Ignis studied her, then shifted his gaze to me. His eyes were sharp, but not unkind—more like a blade assessing a flaw in its edge.
"Reckless casting in a live simulation is not a minor error," he said at last. "Your squad will receive a point deduction."
"Yes, sir," Captain Renia replied immediately.
I bowed as well. "I humbly apologize."
Ignis waved us off with a short gesture. "Dismissed."
—
Outside the tent, twilight draped the camp in long shadows.
We walked side by side, boots crunching softly against packed earth. Lanterns flickered on one by one, their warm glow doing little to ease the tightness in my chest.
"Elrin," Captain Renia said without looking at me. "Listen."
I straightened instinctively.
"You're young," she continued. "And strong. There's no denying that. But strength without patience is just another kind of danger."
I nodded slowly.
"Mistakes happen," she said. "What matters is whether you learn from them. Standing beside your subordinates—that's a captain's duty. So act like the youngster you are… and grow."
She finally turned, smiling at me.
"Brilliance can wait. Discipline cannot."
And in that moment—
Something inside me cracked.
The shape of her smile. The steadiness in her voice. The way she stood between me and consequence without hesitation.
It reminded me of—
No.
My chest tightened.
A memory surfaced unbidden: a tall figure casting a long shadow, a firm hand resting on my head, a voice calm even when correcting me.
Father.
My vision blurred.
I lowered my head quickly, breath hitching.
"Eh—hey," she said awkwardly. "Don't cry on me now, youngster."
She laughed, rubbing the back of her neck. "I'm terrible with tears."
I wiped my eyes roughly. "Sorry."
"Just don't make me regret covering for you," she said, lighter now.
But her hand rested on my shoulder for a moment longer than necessary.
—
I walked alone after that.
The camp had settled into uneasy calm—cadets returning to barracks, instructors debriefing, Axiom pylons dimming as the day's strain faded. The air smelled of sweat, metal, and lingering magic.
That was when I saw them.
Two cadets near the supply tents.
One turned.
"Elrin Mornye!"
Tairi Enon grinned and clasped my hand eagerly. "It's been a while!"
"Tairi," I said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"Document delivery," he replied. "Command tent. We're heading back now."
He studied me for a moment.
"…You okay?"
"I'm fine."
His eyes drifted to my right hand. His smile faltered. "You used it again, huh."
He frowned. "Don't push yourself too hard. One day, that hand won't recover so easily."
I didn't answer.
The other cadet shifted uneasily and grabbed Tairi's shoulder. "Careful. That's him."
"The berserker," he muttered. "Heard he nearly wiped half the field."
The words stung more than I expected.
"That's not true," Tairi snapped. "Elrin's reckless sometimes, but he's not like that."
The cadet hesitated. "…Sorry."
"We should go," Tairi said quietly.
He turned back to me. "See you around."
I nodded.
I didn't trust myself to speak.
—
When I reached the barracks, the entire squad was waiting.
Twenty-five figures stood beneath the lantern light.
Some avoided my gaze.
Some watched me carefully, unsure.
I stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"I humbly apologize for my rash actions on the battlefield," I said. "I endangered coordination and trust. I will accept any judgment you deem fit."
Silence.
Then—
"We don't need that."
I looked up.
"It already happened," someone said.
Another laughed nervously. "Besides… that explosion was insane."
"Yeah," another added. "You gonna teach me that someday?"
Laughter followed—uneasy, but real.
The tension didn't vanish.
But it loosened.
I exhaled slowly.
Eight months.
That was how long we would serve together.
Maybe—
I had judged them too quickly.
The First Lie taught me survival.
The Vanguard Concord was teaching me restraint.
And restraint, I was beginning to understand, was not weakness.
It was the discipline to endure being feared—
and still choosing to stand among others.