The "First Lesson" at Aurelius Academy wasn't held in a classroom with books. It was held in the Cinder-Pit, a sunken arena of scorched earth where the air smelled of ozone and sweat.
"Listen up, whelps!" Instructor Grog, a man whose scars had scars, barked at the thirty initiates. "You've got your beasts. You've got your mana-signatures. Now we see if you have the guts to use them. Today is simple: King of the Hill."
He pointed to a raised stone dais in the center of the pit.
"One student stays on the platform. The rest of you try to knock them off. Use your beasts. Use your fists. Just don't kill each other—healing magic is expensive, and I'm a cheap man."
The tall boy from the ceremony—the one with the silk cape—stepped forward with a smirk. His name was Julian, the third son of a Count. Beside him stalked a Flare-Hawk, its feathers flickering with orange embers.
"I'll start," Julian announced, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Since most of you are commoners, I'll try to be gentle."
He leaped onto the dais, his Flare-Hawk let out a screech that made the other students flinch. One by one, kids tried to charge him.
Whoosh! The hawk would dive, batting them back with wings of heat. Within ten minutes, five students lay in the dirt, their clothes singed, their pride shattered.
"Next!" Grog shouted, looking bored. "Is there anyone in this lot who isn't afraid of a little singe?"
Kael stepped forward.
The grey blob on his shoulder—which he had quietly named Varg—rippled. It was currently the size of a melon, clinging to his tunic like a wet shadow.
"Oh, look," Julian laughed, leaning on his practice sword. "The farm boy wants to play. What's your puddle going to do, Kael? Splash me?"
Kael didn't answer. He walked into the pit, his eyes locked on the hawk. He wasn't looking at the fire; he was looking at its hollow bones and the way its neck tilted when it prepared to dive.
"Varg," Kael whispered, so low only the creature could hear. "Don't look at the bird. Remember the shadow of the Fenris-Wolf from my dreams. Give me... that edge."
The blob shivered. It didn't transform into a giant wolf—it didn't have the mass for that yet. Instead, it flowed down Kael's arm, wrapping around his hand and hardening into a jagged, obsidian-black blade that looked like a shard of a nightmare.
"What is that?" Grog sat up, his eyes narrowing. "A Shifter forming a weapon? That takes years of mana-control..."
"Go, Cinder!" Julian yelled, pointing.
The Flare-Hawk dived. It was a blur of orange light, aiming its talons at Kael's face.
In his past life, Skane had fought harpies in the mist-mountains. He knew that a flying enemy relies on its momentum. He didn't retreat. He stepped into the dive.
At the last second, Kael dropped to one knee. He swung his arm—not at the bird, but at the air just below it. The Varg-blade suddenly extended, turning into a whip-like lash of grey fluid that snagged the hawk's leg.
Yank.
The bird was slammed into the dirt with a sickening thud.
Julian gasped, his connection to the beast sending a jolt of pain through his own mind. "You! You cheated!"
"In a real hunt," Kael said, standing up and walking toward the dais, "the only cheat is dying."
Julian panicked. He drew his steel practice sword and swung wildly. He was fast, trained by the best tutors money could buy. But to Kael, he was moving in slow motion. Skane had fought men who could cleave a horse in two; Julian was just a boy with a toy.
Kael parried the strike with his bare forearm—Silas's training had toughened his skin, but it was the Viking's "Ignore Pain" mindset that did the work.
Thwack.
Kael punched Julian in the gut. As the noble doubled over, Kael grabbed him by the collar and whispered in his ear, his voice as cold as a northern winter.
"Next time you laugh at me, I won't just take the hill. I'll take your tongue."
Kael shoved him. Julian tumbled off the dais, landing face-first in the soot.
The arena went silent. Instructor Grog began to clap—a slow, heavy sound.
"Well, well," Grog chuckled. "It looks like we have a wolf in the sheep-fold. Kael, stay on the dais. Let's see who else is brave enough to face the 'Puddle'."
Kael stood at the top of the stone platform. Varg flowed back onto his shoulder, shifting its texture to match the grey stone of the dais, making Kael look like a ghost standing in the center of the pit.
He looked out at the students, but he wasn't seeing them. He was seeing the face of King Harald in every one of their frightened eyes.
One step closer, the soul of Skane whispered. One step closer to the throne.