Aether is it?

Aethercrest Academy was no longer a place for quiet observation and self-taught experimentation. With the second term came sweeping changes—especially in the way combat was taught. No more unguided spars in back courtyards or whispered strategies between untrained peers. Now, the instructors carved discipline and power into their students, shaping them into proper wielders of Aether.

Though Lyra and Vale had once trained side-by-side, the specialization of weapons demanded different classes—and thus, different worlds.

Lyra's Class – The Hall of BladesLyra's classroom wasn't a traditional one. It was an open, echoing stone hall bathed in natural light, flanked with weapon racks and full-length mirrors. Tapestries bearing ancient sword forms hung from the walls, embroidered in gold and blue. This was the Hall of Blades—the designated arena for those who wielded swords, both one-handed and two.

The sword students were considered the "pillars" of Aethercrest's combat division: poised, powerful, disciplined. There was an unspoken pride here, a culture of elegance as much as efficiency. Students stood tall and spoke in hushed, respectful tones. Every movement was intentional. Precision was sacred.

Lyra had quickly learned that the sword was far more than a weapon. In this class, it was a philosophy.

Their instructor, Mistress Seraphine, led with quiet authority. She didn't shout. She didn't need to. Her presence alone could still an entire hall.

"Your sword is a conversation," she said on the first day. "Not a demand. You speak to your opponent with every strike—make sure you're saying something worth hearing."

Their lessons began with slow, meditative movements—forms. Dozens of them. Lyra spent the first week practicing a single downward arc until her arms shook from repetition. Then came footwork drills, breath control, and Aether channeling. Only when they showed proper form did Seraphine allow sparring.

Sword sparring in the Hall of Blades wasn't chaotic. It was measured. Timed. Every bout began and ended with a salute. Even injuries were treated with solemn acknowledgment, like the price of progress.

Lyra found herself drawn to the discipline, even when frustrated. She struggled to match the strength of some of her heavier-set classmates, but Seraphine noticed her nimble footwork and precise timing.

"You are not the largest in this class, Lyra," Seraphine once said, adjusting Lyra's stance. "But if you make your blade lighter than air, faster than thought—you won't need to be."

The students here weren't all noble-born. Many came from military families or warrior lineages. Lyra often partnered with a stern girl named Selis, daughter of a baronial knight commander, who sparred like she was already on a battlefield. Another, Donelle, was from a merchant background but had the sharpest Aether-enhanced thrust in the class.

The only thing that mattered in the Hall of Blades was how you fought. And Lyra was rising quickly.

Vale's Class – The Shadowed YardVale's training area couldn't have been more different. His class met in the Shadowed Yard, a large enclosed courtyard surrounded by ivy-covered walls and thick patches of artificial fog generated through Aether-infused runes.

Unlike the grandeur of Lyra's sword hall, this place was almost forgotten by the sun. The light here was dappled and low. The temperature always ran a few degrees cooler. Most students wore dark training clothes rather than the polished uniforms of other divisions.

This was the domain of the Close-Combat Adaptive Class—for those who wielded smaller weapons like daggers, claws, or throwing knives. And the style here was just as chaotic as the tools.

Their instructor, Master Corven, was a grizzled man who looked like he'd crawled out of a warzone and decided to keep going.

"You don't get the glory. You don't get the cheers," he said. "You get in. You end the fight. You get out. That's your life now."

Combat classes started with basic drills: rolling, dodging, and silent movement. Then came knife work—grips, pressure points, misdirection. While Lyra practiced flow and rhythm, Vale's lessons were closer to ambushes and survival training.

One day they practiced disarming a spear-wielding opponent by flipping a dagger backward and striking the tendon behind the knee. The next, they climbed up the academy's walls under cover of mist.

"You are ghosts," Corven said. "You don't fight fair. You don't get to."

Vale had to unlearn a lot of what he'd assumed about fighting. The elegance of duels had no place here. His classmates were cunning, often cocky, and more than a little unhinged. Reeves, a lanky boy from the north, fought with twin blades and always smiled when he lost. Mae, a tiny girl with zero interest in talking, had already beaten Vale three times in sparring.

It was brutal, dirty training—but Vale thrived in it. His mind worked fast, and Corven noticed.

"You think before you strike. That'll save your life more times than you'll know."

Theory vs ApplicationBoth Lyra and Vale still attended three hours of theory every day—shared classes that focused on Aether history, principles of elemental merging, and combat strategy. Here, they occasionally crossed paths, trading glances across rows of students or sneaking quick conversations between lessons.

Yet the contrast between their combat training left them with different perspectives.

Lyra's world was measured. Controlled. She was being taught to lead formations and duel with dignity.

Vale's world was shadowy. Quick. He was being shaped into a ghost—a weapon wielded silently.

But despite the divide, they both noticed a strange change in themselves.

Their bodies moved more naturally in combat now. Reflexes sharpened. Strikes landed more cleanly. It wasn't just training. It was almost like something deeper was settling into place.

Their synchronisation continued to rise.

Whispers of PotentialAfter one exhausting day, Lyra stood outside the library's rear exit, stretching her sword arm. Vale appeared moments later, fresh from his own brutal sparring.

"You look like you were thrown off a roof," she said.

"I was. That was the lesson," he replied, deadpan.

They both laughed, worn but satisfied.

"I miss training together," she admitted.

"Same. But we're learning more this way," he said. "And… I feel it. That weird bond of ours. It's still there."

"Yeah," Lyra agreed, touching the spot on her chest where her Synchronisation percentage floated—now hovering around 32%.

They didn't speak more of it. But they both wondered.

What were they becoming?

And who—if anyone—had ever made it this far?