ShadowBound: The Need For Power

After the gathering at the eastern training arena, the next two days moved faster than expected.

Some students wrote their final theory papers the very next day. Others had theirs the day after, depending on which departments and special tracks they had chosen. Forgemastery students disappeared into workshops and returned with ink-stained fingers and the dead-eyed expressions of people who had been asked to explain mechanisms they usually preferred to build.

Alchemy students walked out of their theory rooms looking as though half the questions had tried to poison them. Tactical Espionage students, few as they were, left their examination with expressions so unreadable that other students immediately decided they did not want to know what kind of paper Professor Kaine and Lady Seraphina had prepared.

The week did not slow down for anyone.

Yet within those same two days, something changed.

It was not formal. No academy announcement declared Sheila Granger commander. No board of instructors stood before the second-years and confirmed Edith Roswell as vice commander. No banners shifted, no titles were written into the official structure, and no ceremony took place.

But among the second-years, the shift became palpable all the same. The debate Chris had created to weaken Sheila had turned into something else entirely. It had become the moment many students needed in order to see her tested in public and not crumble.

Chris had gathered an audience for himself.

By the end, it had served Sheila better than him.

The majority of second-years began falling onto the same page. Sheila was the commander choice. Not because everyone adored her, and not because every doubt vanished in one afternoon, but because she had handled pressure before witnesses in a way that felt real.

She had not dodged Chris’s practical questions. She had not hidden from Percy’s shadow. She had not made leadership sound like popularity dressed in pretty words. She had spoken of structure, roles, discipline, trust, and survival in a way that made students believe she had been thinking about more than winning the title.

Edith’s position beside her also became easier to accept.

Once Sheila explained why Edith made sense, many students seemed to remember things they had already known but had not yet placed into the commander discussion. Edith had always been composed. Edith had led before. Edith was not loud, but when she spoke, people tended to listen. She had the kind of practical steadiness that did not demand attention but earned it by being useful.

In the two days after the debate, Sheila made that more visible. She moved with Edith openly, spoke with her during planning conversations, and allowed others to see the vice-commander shape forming around them without forcing it down anyone’s throat.

Sheila also began holding small gatherings with her peers.

Not speeches. Not rallies. Nothing dramatic enough for Chris to twist easily. She met with groups of students in study rooms, dorm lounges, and open courtyards when the weather allowed. She asked questions about their strengths, classes, affinities, training experience, fears, and what roles they thought they might handle in Eldervale.

She did her best to approach some students individually, especially those who had not clearly accepted her yet. Not all of them warmed to her. Some remained guarded. A few Tempestian students still leaned toward Chris out of habit, loyalty, or pride. But even those students could no longer pretend Sheila was simply waiting for command to be handed to her.

She was preparing.

Chris, meanwhile, was almost never seen outside required settings.

He appeared when he had to write his final theory test. He was seen briefly near the dining hall once, and another time near the training grounds with Logan, but he avoided large conversations. Whether he was sulking, planning, or being forced to rethink his approach after the failed debate, no one could say for certain. His absence did not erase him. If anything, it made some students wonder what he might do next. But the open momentum had shifted away from him, and that mattered.

By the time the weekend arrived, it almost felt as though the second-years were already preparing for the Bastion Assessment.

Not completely.

Perhaps sixty or seventy percent of the way there.

They still had theory results to receive, final instructions to absorb, roles to discuss, supplies to understand, and the true shape of Eldervale waiting beyond the academy’s controlled words. But the year no longer felt shapeless. There was a direction now. Sheila at the front. Edith beside her. Others slowly finding where they might stand when Veyrhold became more than an image in a guidebook.

On the first day of that weekend, however, just after breakfast, the Bastion Assessment briefly became the lesser worry.

The academy bell rang across the grounds.

A formal announcement followed, calling all second-year students to Beacon Hall to receive their theory examination scores and their final briefing on the Bastion Assessment before deployment day.

Nothing ruined breakfast digestion faster than the promise of scores.

Within minutes, the second-years were making their way toward Beacon Hall in loose, anxious streams. Since it was the weekend, most were dressed in casual clothes rather than full academy uniforms, though the academy’s standards of presentation still lingered in the way many carried themselves.

Some wore simple fitted shirts and trousers. Others had light coats, sweaters, or casual dresses suited for the cooler weather. A few looked as though they had barely slept and had only managed to dress because someone knocked on their door hard enough to prevent disaster.

The hall filled quickly.

Students settled into rows while speaking in overlapping bursts of dread, confidence, bargaining, and dramatic resignation. The atmosphere was different from the practical announcement. That had been fear of the unknown. This was fear of known cruelty. The academy’s scoring system was rarely gentle, and theory evaluations had a way of making even strong students feel as though they had accidentally written nonsense in another language.

"I think I did well on Fire Magic," one student said, trying to sound calm.

"That means you failed Core Myst," his friend replied.

"Why would you say that?"

"Balance."

A girl several seats away held her head in both hands. "If I scored below thirty in Alchemy, I am changing my name and leaving the continent."

"You cannot leave the continent before practicals," someone told her.

"Then I will change my name here."

Another student leaned back with terrifying confidence. "I am not worried. I answered everything."

The boy beside him stared. "Correctly?"

The confident student paused. "That was not specified."

Near the middle rows, someone was muttering numbers under their breath, trying to calculate the minimum average needed to survive with dignity. Another student declared loudly that written exams were an insult to warriors, which caused three nearby students to remind him that he had also nearly failed Knight Combat Theory last year.

In one corner, two students were quietly promising one another that no matter what happened, they would not compare scores. The sincerity of that promise suggested they would compare scores within ten minutes of receiving them.

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