Half a year had passed since the Hollow of Stilled Glass incident.
The seasons had shifted, and with them, the undercurrents of Primordial Academy.
Gone were the days of chaotic ambition and petty bullying. What stood in its place now was something much sharper, quieter, and far more focused—like a blade freshly honed. Instructors observed the change in silence. Those who had doubted now watched carefully. The academy had taken a different shape, and at the center of this new order stood one student.
Dawn.
On a crisp morning, as the light of Solara began to bleed over the mountains, the academy's southern training ground stirred to life.
Students moved in rhythmic patterns, each exercise leading directly into the next. Their bodies ached, faces strained, but no one faltered.
In the eastern quadrant, they ran the Crag Path, a steep incline of jagged terrain that tested balance and stamina. A single misstep could lead to a fall—and many had. But they kept running.
To the west, a series of Vault Lines had been set up—precise footwork drills across narrow beams and angled platforms, with sandbags tied to their backs. The exercise demanded grace under pressure, speed, and explosive strength.
Scattered across the central arena, pairs grappled, learning to shift momentum and break balance. No weapons. No flashy power. Just weight, leverage, and grit.
But it wasn't the drills that made the scene remarkable.
It was the discipline.
There was no shouting. No complaints. No casual banter. Only breath, grit, and motion.
And above it all, perched on a flat stone pillar at the edge of the grounds, stood Dawn—watching.
He didn't command. He guided. When someone erred, he descended, corrected, then returned to his silent vigil.
He was the storm's center.
And the storm had taught them all to obey.
It hadn't always been like this.
In the early days of training, a group of students—emboldened by pride or perhaps threatened by the new structure—had rebelled. They believed Dawn's calm demeanor to be a weakness, a front. They challenged him openly during morning drills.
They thought he'd hesitate. That he'd be merciful.
He wasn't.
He didn't yell. He didn't draw it out.
It was swift. Precise.
He struck like a warrior—not with cruelty, but with control, as if they weren't classmates but soldiers in training in the middle of a warzone. By the time they hit the ground, breathless and humiliated, none dared to question his place again.
That moment became the legend.
Since then, no one disobeyed. Not because they admired him—but because they feared what lay behind those calm eyes. That kind of control only came from experience—real experience.
War-born.
It was into this environment that Princess Luna Ashbourne arrived once more.
Her silver-white hair was tied into a braid, gleaming under Solara's touch. She walked slowly, her entourage flanking her with soft steps, eyes widening at the sight before them.
She had heard whispers of the new discipline. Of the silence that followed Dawn wherever he walked.
But she hadn't expected this.
A battlefield in everything but name.
"Not quite the academy I remember," she murmured, amused.
A student passing by offered a brief bow. "Lady Ashbourne. Overseer Dawn set the new standard."
"Overseer?" she repeated, eyebrows raised.
Her eyes found him, standing like a sculpture carved from dusk. He watched her approach but didn't move.
They had spoken once since the Hollows—briefly, in the courtyard under the second moonlight. Dawn had told her plainly that he had no intention of hiding his ascension. Not from her. Not from the holder of a transcended form.
She hadn't pushed further. She respected the clarity in him.
Now, as she joined him at the base of the pillar, she gestured to the scene unfolding around them.
"So… this is your rebellion?"
Dawn stepped down fluidly, landing with silent grace. "It's Valeris' punishment."
She smirked. "He left you in charge."
"He said I was 'qualified' in a note. Then disappeared. I assume he's sipping fire-leaf tea on some rooftop, pretending not to enjoy his break."
Luna studied his face. "You've changed."
Dawn's expression didn't shift. "I've adapted."
Her gaze swept the arena again. "Where are Gary and Ingrid?"
"In the Archives ," he said. "Shifting the form of training daily.Meditation and training should be done harmoniously. Daily training includes introspective meditation as well."
"And Cedric?"
"Stable. For now."
He didn't elaborate, and Luna didn't ask further. There was still a heavy silence whenever Cedric's name came up. The boy hadn't fully recovered—not physically, nor mentally. But he was still present. Still watching from the shadows.
As Luna prepared to say more, something shifted in the air.
Barely perceptible—but enough to quiet her lips.
A presence.
Hostile. Heavy.
It wasn't from within the training grounds.
Dawn noticed it too. His posture straightened, eyes narrowing. Luna's guards immediately stepped forward, hands drifting to hidden weapons.
"Friend of yours?" she asked, tone even.
"No," he said. "But they made a mistake."
"What kind of mistake?"
"They think the battlefield starts when they make their move."
He stepped forward slowly, the shadow of a smile playing at his lips.
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To be continued