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My stomach sinks. "Ahead how?"

She starts counting. "Five disappearances in eleven days. Physical residue. Direct ward interaction. Localized magical depletion. Potential pre-event signatures." She taps the old reports. "At this point in the historical record..." Her finger moves. "...they had two confirmed disappearances." Silence.

Cassian leans back. "So we're moving faster."

"Current activity appears more aggressive." Nyra corrects. "That's not the same thing."

"It sounds the same."

"It isn't."

"Nyra."

She exhales. "No." Then quieter— "No, it isn't good."

Rhyven has gone very still. "What happened between day eleven and day forty-three historically?"

Nyra looks toward him. "Escalation."

"What kind."

"Disappearances increased. Ward instability spread. Livestock deaths. Crop failure. Localized manifestation loss."

"And then?"

Nyra looks toward the final report. "First open assault." No one says anything. Thirty-two days. Not a promise. Not safety. Not even a useful prediction anymore. Just history.

Rhyven stands. "We train faster."

Professor Vayne looks toward him. "We're already accelerating."

"More."

"Students need recovery."

"They need to survive."

Vayne's expression hardens. "So they need recovery."

For a moment, neither moves. Then Rhyven nods. Not surrender. Adjustment. "Then smarter." That I like.

By dinner, new training orders are circulating. Not because an attack will happen in thirty-two days. Because it might happen tomorrow. Or next week. Or forty days from now. Nobody knows. Joint Wing exercises increase. Dragon practicals move forward.

Ward defense becomes mandatory for all second-years and above. First-years begin emergency response drills. Combat assessments are rescheduled earlier. The Academy isn't preparing for Day Forty-Three anymore. It's preparing for any day.

Nyra and I spend the evening in her room. Cassian has siren assessment. Caelen is on patrol.Rhyven... I do not know. And I absolutely do not care. Probably.

Nyra sits cross-legged on her bed with reports surrounding her. I copy depletion times. For almost twenty minutes, neither of us speaks. Peaceful. Productive. Then— "You almost kissed him."

My quill stops. Ink pools against the parchment. Slowly I look up. Nyra continues reading. "What?"

"Rhyven."

"I know who you mean."

"Good."

I stare at her. "What the hell are you talking about?"