The courtyard had been transformed.
No longer just a training ground—it was now a mock battlefield.
Wooden barricades, colored flags, obstacle mounds, and designated 'safe zones' marked the terrain. The academy's instructors stood on raised platforms, scribes beside them, watching and noting.
Cohort Seven had been split into two teams.
And Leon Thorne had been made a captain.
"Don't speak unless it's useful," he said to his group, voice low but firm. "Riva, you're my blade. Jameson, left flank. Cedric, rotate to the rear. If you don't understand something, watch what I do and adapt."
A few mutters. Some narrowed eyes. But no one challenged him—not after yesterday.
The bell rang.
War began.
They spread like chess pieces across the broken ground. Leon darted low, taking cover behind a barricade, eyes scanning.
Rellan was on the opposing team. That alone meant no wasted moves.
From a rise on the left, an opponent raised their blade and called for a charge.
