The morning light crept through the thin curtain, pale and indifferent. Ryan opened his eyes slowly, the remnants of a dreamless sleep fading into the quiet grey of dawn. For a moment, he simply lay still, listening to the distant sounds of the academy waking around him—footsteps in the corridor, the muffled clatter of dishes from the dining hall, the faint murmur of early risers.
He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. The book was still on his desk, exactly where he had left it. The folded paper rested beside it, its words already etched into his memory.
"Seek it where shadows meet."
But not today. Today was Friday. And Friday had its own rhythm.
He rose, dressed quickly, and headed to the dining hall. The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. Edan was already seated at their usual table, a half-eaten piece of bread in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.
"You look like you didn't sleep," Edan said, eyeing him with mild concern. "Or did you stay up reading again?"
Ryan sat across from him and reached for a piece of bread. "Something like that."
"Anything interesting?"
Ryan paused. The question was casual, harmless. But the words on that folded paper whispered in the back of his mind. Do not speak of this to anyone you do not trust.
"Just old journals," he said finally. "Nothing worth mentioning."
Edan shrugged, accepting the answer without pressing further. "Well, today's schedule is light at least. Theory only."
Ryan nodded. Friday was different from the rest of the week—no physical training, no obstacle courses, no grueling endurance runs. Just lectures. Three of them, spaced evenly through the day. A day for the mind, not the body. And today, he was grateful for that.
*****
First Period: Combat Strategies (Theory) – Hall 5
Professor Darius stood at the podium, his grey eyes scanning the room with the patience of a man who had seen hundreds of students pass through his halls. Today, he was not dressed in his usual battle-worn attire, but in a formal dark blue robe, the eagle on his chest catching the light.
"Last week, we discussed the Hammer and Anvil. Today, we move to something more subtle." He turned to the board and began drawing. "This is the Feigned Retreat."
The students leaned forward, pens ready.
"It is simple in concept, but difficult in execution. You make your opponent believe you are retreating, that you are weaker, that you are afraid. They pursue. And when they are overextended, you turn and strike."
He drew arrows on the board, illustrating the movement. "The key is timing. Too early, and the enemy will not follow. Too late, and your retreat becomes real."
Ryan took notes slowly, his mind half on the lecture. He could feel the weight of the folded paper in his pocket, even though he had left it in his room. Its presence lingered, a ghost of questions unanswered.
"The Feigned Retreat is a test of discipline," Professor Darius continued. "Your soldiers must trust you. They must believe in the plan. If they sense hesitation, the strategy collapses. Victory is not always about strength, students—sometimes, it is about who deceives better."
Ryan wrote down the words: Who deceives better. He looked at them for a moment, then underlined them twice.
When the class ended, he gathered his things quickly, eager to move to the next.
---
Second Period: Advanced Fencing (Theory) – Hall 12
Professor Gareth was in his usual position, arms crossed, back against the wall, watching the students file in with the sharp gaze of a hawk. Today, he was not carrying a sword—a rare sight that made some students exchange wary glances.
"No practical today," he announced, as if reading their thoughts. "Just theory. So you can all relax your muscles and engage your brains instead."
A few students laughed nervously. Professor Gareth was not known for going easy on anyone.
"Last week, I taught you three techniques: The Severing Strike, The Deceptive Thrust, and The Defensive Circle. Today, I want to talk about something more important than any single technique: adaptability."
He began pacing slowly between the rows. "You can learn a hundred techniques. You can memorize every stance, every angle, every step. But if you cannot adapt, you will die. The battlefield changes. Your opponent changes. The weather changes. If you cling to what you know, you will be predictable—and predictability is death."
Ryan listened, his eyes fixed on the professor. He thought about Valeria—how her anger had made her predictable, how he had used that against her. Adaptability. That was what had saved him.
"Your sword is not your weapon," Professor Gareth continued, his voice lowering. "Your mind is your weapon. The sword is just the expression. If your mind freezes, your sword freezes. And if your sword freezes, you are dead."
The hour passed quickly, filled with scenarios and questions. When the class ended, Ryan felt as though he had learned something not just about fencing, but about himself.
******
Third Period: First Aid (Theory) – Hall 6
This was the first time Ryan had attended this class. It was held in a smaller hall, the walls lined with shelves of jars and bandages, and a long wooden table at the front where a woman in her forties stood, her short blonde hair neat, her hands steady.
Professor Mira Warren.
She smiled as the students entered, a warmth in her eyes that was rare among the academy's instructors. "Welcome to First Aid. I know this subject may not seem as thrilling as combat or fencing, but I promise you—there will come a day when you are grateful for every word I teach you today."
Ryan settled into a seat near the back, his notebook ready.
"We will start with the basics: wound treatment. In battle, wounds are inevitable. The difference between life and death is often how quickly and correctly they are treated."
She demonstrated on a mannequin, showing how to clean a wound, how to apply pressure, how to recognize the signs of infection. Ryan took notes, surprised by how much he did not know. He had healed—had been healed—but he had never learned how to do it himself.
"Remember," Professor Mira said, "in the field, you may not have clean water or proper bandages. You must improvise. Use what you have. A torn shirt, a clean leaf—anything to stop the bleeding. The body is resilient, but it needs time. Your job is to buy it that time."
Ryan wrote down the phrase: Buy it time.
For a moment, his thoughts drifted to the book on his desk—the warnings, the symbols, the door. What would he do if he found himself wounded in the desert? What would he do if he found the door, and it opened?
He pushed the thoughts aside. One thing at a time.
******
When the class ended, Ryan walked back to his room through the quiet afternoon corridors. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the stone floor. He passed students heading to the dining hall, laughing and talking, their voices fading as he turned into a quieter wing.
He opened his door and stepped inside. The book was still there. The paper was still there. Nothing had changed.
But he felt different. Lighter, somehow. As if the day's lectures had reminded him that there was still order in his life—routine, structure, purpose beyond the mysteries of the desert.
He sat on the bed and looked at the book. He did not open it. Instead, he lay down and closed his eyes.
Today, he rested.