Ember paused, her fingertips hovering over the double doors at the entrance to the domed building. She was struck by the memory of her first day on the compound seven months before: how, breathless and jittery, she and Jisu had hidden in the bushes to watch the fighters from the advanced class walk past. She remembered being charmed—and a little unsettled—by Ophelia’s eccentric welcome, and the start of her and Lance’s tentative friendship. Now, Ophelia was ousted, Lance was recovering in the city, and Jisu had abandoned the intermediate class to train with the Ghost Cat again.

Ember’s eyes flicked to the inscription above the door, which read ‘For the Glory of Mendel,’ and bitterness pooled in her chest.

The building, unprotected from the late spring sun, was almost uncomfortably warm inside. The sand floor had been raked and the weapons hanging from the walls polished. Several trainees were already stretching—half of them new to Ember—and she walked briskly to the far corner, where she could warm up unmolested.

As she stretched, her attention was drawn across the room, and she let out an indignant huff as she sighted Roland. She knew from Orthus that Corax had yet to return, and it seemed that in his absence the black-hawk eagle had grown even more arrogant; over his fighter’s uniform, he wore a blood-red jacket emblazoned with the crest of the Martial Eagle, and as Ember watched he ruffled his monochrome feathers in a way that could only be described as pompous. Unlike her first semester, in which she had taken first place, she and Roland had tied after the conclusion of spring finals. At least it was some consolation that she had seen his master treating him as an errand boy.

When Ember’s annoyance subsided, she realized Roland was accompanied by two other Linnaeans: Michael, Ophelia’s carnivore assistant, and a male avian with a moderate build and grey feathers. He held himself with a sort of easy authority, and Ember realized with a scowl that he must be Ophelia’s replacement. What is his relationship to the Martial Eagle? Not an official disciple—that would be too bold, even for him—but an ally, at least.

Roland turned slightly, taking notice of her, and a slight smirk graced his lips. She let her gaze slip to the floor even as her face heated with rage. Better to let him think I know nothing, for now.

With her head to the floor, she watched the three Linnaeans with her infrared. The new instructor gestured toward her, and her stomach dropped; it seemed that he had noticed Roland’s not-to-subtle interest in her. She reached down to touch her toes, hoping the topic would pass quickly, but to her dismay, she sensed the avian approaching only a moment later.

“Miss Ember,” he said, offering her a taloned hand. She managed to school her expression, letting him help her to her feet. Up close, she saw that he was brown-haired and brown-eyed, with the sharp look characteristic of raptors. Like Ophelia, he wore the winged patch on his fighter’s uniform, designating him a top fifty ranker. “My name is Instructor Tarek. I’ve heard you’re one of our top students.”

She bowed her head slightly. “I’m honored, sir.”

His gaze fell on the left breast of her fighter’s uniform, where she wore a golden patch in the shape of the medal of valor, an award the major had bestowed upon her, Jisu, and Gunther (posthumously). “You were injured fighting against the human mercenaries, were you not? Have you recovered fully?” he asked amiably enough, although the cynical part of Ember wondered if he was trying to unsettle her.

“Thank you for your concern, but yes, I’m fully healed.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, looking at her earnestly, and Ember barely stopped herself from shrugging it off. “I understand you were close with Instructor Ophelia,” he sighed, “but you will find yourself equally welcome in my class.”

She made a noncommittal noise, her body awash with adrenaline. “Of course.”

Looking satisfied, he nodded once, then made his way over to another group of students. She took an even breath, feeling as though there was a heavy weight on her chest, and considered walking out of the class that instant. It was tempting, but she did not have a master or a sponsor who would vouch for her, and without evidence of a proper education in fighting she would have no precedent to arrange a debut match.

It was not long before the instructors called for the students to gather in the center of the arena. Ember noticed that many new students were present—presumably recent graduates from Mr. Badger’s class—and that old faces were missing, perhaps having gone to the city for the summer. She stood as far away as possible from Roland, although she felt the weight of his eyes on her.

“Thank you all for joining me today,” the new instructor announced. “My name is Instructor Tarek, and my species is the grey falcon. I know all of you are anxious about training under someone new, but I will do my best to continue Ex-Instructor Ophelia’s work,” he smiled, and Ember’s stomach flipped.

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“Please do not think that I am unprepared, as I have reviewed all of the files that your previous instructor left behind. However, much time has passed, and I have always preferred to evaluate students with my own eyes. Therefore, all of you will spar with an assistant today under my observation. I look forward to getting to know you all.”

Ember surveyed the class’s reaction. Most of the older students looked resigned, while some of the younger looked nervous enough to piss themselves. She spared a little pity for them—sparring Roland was truly a cruel introduction to the intermediate class.

Instructor Tarek counted them off, and Ember was assigned to Michael’s line. She wrapped her knuckles in strips of stained white fabric, watching as the students ahead of her were defeated easily, although the TA let them get in a few blows to show their skills. Meanwhile, Roland’s line dwindled quickly as he defeated each opponent with his precise technique, sand flying as his wings snapped open and closed. Ember rolled her eyes; even against students with a fourth of his skill, he managed to show off, and it was impressive.

Soon, she was next in line to spar Michael. She unclipped her sheath from her belt; although Instructor Tarek had allowed them to fight with weapons and she had re-coated the blade in rubber, the memory of the humans’ blood on the knife was still fresh, and she found herself itching to fight with her hands.

She took her place across from Michael as his previous opponent limped away. Her gaze settled on him, her focus narrowing and sharpening. He had a large build, standing six inches taller than herself. His limbs were dense and muscled, ending in blunt claws, and his fur was coarse and spotted, gathering in a mane around his neck. She remembered hearing that he was a hyena, a carnivore with similarities to both canines and felines. He wore five bands around his arm, meaning that he had progressed to the third level of the advanced class, a well-deserved promotion—he was a consistent, technical fighter. She had never beaten him, although Jisu had managed a draw.

He was looking at her with a sort of hesitant softness, as though he might try to bring up what had happened. “I’m ready,” she said, putting a quick end to whatever he was planning.

The two fighters bowed to each other. Michael circled her, slow and steady, with his upper lip half-pulled back. Ember hung back, scanning his body with her infrared, but she found no weakness: he was a balanced fighter, and he had clearly taken care to develop his body parallel to his skills.

He broke the pattern to make a grab for her, but she backstepped easily. He threw a combination of light, testing blows, which she parried with the palm of her hand. She aimed a roundhouse kick to the left side of his ribcage with about half of her power, her shin smarting as he blocked it with his elbow.

They exchanged another half-dozen blows, and Ember took the opportunity to assess her condition. She was pleased to find that the occasional pang was the only remnant of her injuries, although something felt fundamentally different.

It took her another minute to realize what had changed: the chains of fear, some last preservation instinct from her life as a scholar in Ciradyl, had been unshackled. She had felt the suffocating presence of death, and she had survived—and now, she could face opponents like Michael unflinchingly.

With the fog cleared from her mind, she was five steps ahead of him, and she considered his moves as she might a math problem. He was experienced, but predictable, and a way of setting herself up to prove her abilities was presenting itself sooner than expected—one in which, unfortunately, Miachel would be collateral damage.

At the tail end of another combination, she threw a front kick with her leading leg. She far put more momentum than usual behind it, and her foot sunk into the tissue just below his chest cavity, pushing him back with an ooof.

He weathered it well, spreading his feet and leaning forward. The extra power had unbalanced her, making it impossible to withdraw her leg—the perfect opportunity for him to capture her foot. It was a trap that a prodigy, like Roland, would have read in her movements long before their completion, but Michael didn’t hesitate before locking his wrists around her ankle.

His skin had just made contact with hers, when, using the remaining forward momentum, Ember pushed off her supporting leg with all of her strength. She bent both of her knees, drawing close to him in the air, and drove her kneecap into his chin.

It was a vicious move. His head snapped back and he staggered, losing his grip on her. On any other day, she would have stepped back and let him recover, but now she planted her left leg next to his and used her right to sweep his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling with a thump. She followed close behind, planting a knee on his chest and immobilizing him completely.

They stayed on the ground for five seconds: him on his back, face red and brow wrinkled in pain, and her with heat coursing through her body, the split skin on her kneecap dripping blood. The room was completely silent except for the sound of their breathing.

She stood up, brushing the sand off of her uniform, and helped Michael to sit up. Everyone was watching: the other students, Roland, and Instructor Tarek. It was exactly as she had planned—a decisive, undeniable victory. She only regretted that Michael must feel terribly embarrassed.

“Excellent work, Ember,” Instructor Tarek said at last. “Perhaps it is time we consider your promotion to the advanced class. I will arrange an evaluation once we have all settled in a couple of weeks.”

Does he think he is doing me a favor? Ember looked at him full in the face, and everything seemed more meaningless than ever. She was unwilling to resign herself to another six months in the advanced class, subject to a group instructor’s will, training with strangers and pretending like Ciradyl wasn’t threatening the sanctity of Mendel; like Corax wasn’t missing and the Martial Eagle wasn’t using his domain as a playing field. She could not bear it for another moment.

“No, sir,” she said, mouth twisting into a half-smile, half-grimace. “I’ve just won against a member of the final level of the advanced class. I don’t want to move up, I want to debut.”