Everyone jumped. Even the air snapped to terrified attention.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. Her voice was small. She had gone bloodless, her usual fire doused beneath layers of quiet dread. She looked... young. Breakable.
Collin wanted to stand. To protect her. To do something—anything—but his limbs refused him. His hands sat useless in his lap.
“Captain Kyle reported that the sword you currently have in your possession is unsuitable.”
A beat.
Sol waited, as if expecting her to defend herself. She said nothing. Her eyes stayed fixed on her folded hands. The silence made her look even smaller.
Collin’s heart bruised his ribs, aching. If he could shield her from the eyes burning into her, he would. But there was no shield to offer. Only stillness.
“I have a sword to spare,” Aries said suddenly, voice firm.
Every head turned. Even Sol looked up.
“That will not be necessary,” he said coolly, his attention returning to Dragonfly. “You will report to the armory when I dismiss you. They will issue you something appropriate.”
Another scratch of ink against parchment. Another slow turn of the page.
“Clive of Black Timber Forest,” Sol said next, without looking up. “It is correct you do not have a sword?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will also report to the armory when we are finished here.”
Sol pushed his chair back with a sharp scrape that echoed across the stone like the drawing of a blade. Collin tensed instinctively. The sound carved straight down his spine.
The head captain moved to the front of the table and began pacing—measured, methodical—down the center aisle between the two rows of seated recruits.
“You have all been hand-selected,” he said, his voice low but crisp, “because we saw the potential each of you possess.”
Collin leaned forward slightly, listening. Finally, an explanation. Something concrete. Each word landed with the weight of stones dropped into deep water, and he didn’t know how deep the well went.
And Sol continued to pace.
When he reached Aries and Gravis, he paused. His eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. He studied them a second longer than anyone wanted, then resumed his slow prowl. Like a lion circling prey too exhausted to run.
“You have the potential to become the best,” the head captain said, his boots tapping steadily across the stone, “but none of you are there yet. Some of you are cocky. All of you are rash. You lack training. You lack control. You lack discipline.”
He stopped behind the table again, hands braced flat against the surface like he could command the entire hall by touch alone.
“You will be shaped,” he said, his voice lowering a notch. “You will be broken and rebuilt until you meet my standards. Until you are exactly what I require.”
Sol’s gaze swept down the row. It landed briefly on Lekyi—who visibly paled—then lingered too long on Nic, then on Niall. When it locked on Collin, his heart went still.
It wasn’t hatred in Sol’s eyes. Nor challenge. It was colder than that. Calculation, perhaps. Measurement. Like a blade resting on the back of his neck, waiting.
And yet—Collin forced himself not to look away.
His instincts screamed at him to drop his eyes, to yield like prey before a predator. But something inside—pride or fear or both—refused.
His heart thundered. The wooden chair felt small beneath him, fragile. He couldn’t tell if he was sweating or trembling or both. Sol’s gaze carved through layers he hadn't meant to expose, prying into all the places Collin tried to keep quiet.
He wanted to vanish. He wanted to stand. He wanted to run. Mostly, he wanted Sol to move on. He held his breath.
And then—Sol’s eyes moved on.
