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"No."

"I felt it happen."

"Up."

Cassian opens one eye. "Do you ever experience compassion?"

"No."

"At least you're honest." He stands.

Nyra looks disturbingly fine. I hate her too.

Rhyven moves between groups with a tablet of schedules in one hand. Not participating. Watching. Correcting. Reorganizing. A student starts favoring one knee. Rhyven notices before the instructor does.

He moves her to a lower-impact station. Another group finishes early. He sends them to balance drills instead of letting them stand. Two third-years begin pushing harder than assigned. He stops them. "Recovery block."

One protests. "We're fine."

Rhyven looks at him. "Good." A pause. "Stay that way." The student leaves. Professor Vayne's argument from last week has apparently stuck. More training. Not stupidity. Interesting.

Our first academic period lasts fifty minutes instead of sixty-five. Professor Aldren looks personally insulted by this. "I would like it formally recorded..." He announces while arranging his notes. "That I consider shortening historical instruction during a potential military crisis evidence that civilization has learned absolutely nothing from history."

Someone near the back says, "Is that going to be on the exam?"

Professor Aldren closes his eyes. "Get out."

The student freezes. Aldren sighs. "Sit down." A few people laugh. For fifty minutes we are students. Not potential soldiers. Not witnesses to disappearances.

Just students terrified of Professor Aldren's essay questions. I didn't realize how much I needed that.

At nine forty-five, we move directly into emergency medicine. No transition. No break. Because the new schedule assumes we are capable of walking and thinking simultaneously. Bold.

The training room smells like antiseptic herbs.

Rows of practice mannequins cover the floor.

Professor Jane stands at the front. "Today..."

She says. "You learn how to keep someone alive when magic cannot." No one speaks. A month ago, that sentence might have sounded theoretical. Now everyone understands exactly why we're here. Pressure wounds. Tourniquets. Airway management.

Burns. Fractures. Dragon-related trauma. That last category takes longer than expected. Apparently being hit by a wing is medically distinct from being hit by a tail. Useful. Terrifying.

Rhyven appears halfway through. Not to teach. To observe the updated curriculum. I don't look at him. At first. Then my partner ties a terrible pressure bandage around my arm. I look down. "This is awful."

"It's functional."

"It's cutting off circulation."

"That's the point."

"No, it isn't."

A hand appears between us. Rhyven. Of course. He looks at the bandage. Then at my partner. "Too tight."

"I thought—"

"Two fingers beneath the wrap."