ShadowBound: The Need For Power

In the same way Liam had spent his time preparing for Eldervale by writing down phases, flaws, and every obvious way the second-years could ruin themselves before the assessment even properly began, his peers spent the rest of the weekend preparing in their own ways.

Some focused on weapons. The academy had made it clear that only approved personal weapons would be allowed, so students spent hours checking edges, tightening grips, testing bowstrings, inspecting spearheads, polishing shields, cleaning daggers, balancing throwing knives, and making sure nothing about their gear could be questioned during inspection.

Others focused on allowed accessories, simple enough not to count as artifacts but useful enough to matter in the field. Gloves, reinforced belts, spare straps, water-resistant pouches, whetstones, empty journals, writing materials, small medical wraps, and anything else the academy permitted became objects of sudden importance.

A few students took Thion’s Command Log explanation seriously enough to buy or prepare journals, even if they were not going to be official scribes. Some wanted personal notes. Some wanted threat records. Some simply wanted something to do with their hands once the pressure became too much.

Forgemastery students spent time arguing over what counted as a tool and what counted as an unauthorized utility. Alchemy students complained because half the useful things they could make would definitely be considered cheating. Archers checked their quivers three times. Knights checked armor fittings. Magic-focused students reviewed restraint techniques and Myst conservation principles. Those with healing knowledge reread first-response procedures until their heads hurt.

The rest of the weekend was anything but restful.

The second-years did what they could to convince themselves they were ready, and the entire academy carried similar tension.

First-years trained in anxious clusters, trying to pretend they were not frightened of their own upcoming practicals. Third-years moved with a sharper purpose, some quiet, some intense, some already wearing the distant expressions of students who knew their final-year assessments would not be forgiving. Every year prepared differently, but the academy as a whole had become one machine pointed toward practical examination.

Then the weekend ended.

A new day began before the sun had even properly touched the sky.

One hour before dawn, the second-years stood in front of the Eastern Grand Hall, arranged into five separate queues beneath the cold, dim light of the academy lamps. The air was sharp enough to bite, and Liam hated it immediately.

Around him, students shifted in place, their field uniforms rustling softly, weapons held or strapped in ways that would soon be inspected. At the front of each line stood an academy mage beside a long table and a glowing sigil drawn onto the stone ground. The sigils pulsed faintly in pale blue and silver, already active and waiting to judge every student who stepped onto them.

The process was simple.

One by one, students stepped forward. The mage before each line instructed them to place their weapons on the table. The weapons were examined, recorded, and checked for unauthorized enchantments, hidden mechanisms, forbidden modifications, or any material issue the academy considered relevant.

After that, the student stepped onto the sigil. The first layer checked for concealed weapons or hidden blades not presented for inspection. The second layer searched for accessories, artifacts, advanced utility tools, personal supply charms, storage items, and anything else that could be considered cheating.

Most students passed without issue.

When a student was cleared, an academy-issued field bag appeared before them in a small shimmer of light. The student collected their inspected weapons, took the bag, and entered the Eastern Grand Hall to wait for the rest of the year.

Liam had expected his weapons to cause more trouble.

They did not.

When his turn came, he placed his dual daggers and Grandpa Billy’s longsword on the table without comment. The academy mage, a lean woman with silver spectacles and a tired expression, examined them with the careful focus of someone who had already seen too many questionable weapons that morning.

Liam waited, face blank, while her detection spell moved over the blades in a low hum. For a moment, he thought she might pause over the material. Demon stone was not ordinary, and if she decided to ask where he had gotten the weapons or who had forged them, the morning would become more annoying than it needed to be.

She did not ask.

The spell passed. The weapons were marked approved. Liam stepped onto the sigil, endured the brief crawling sensation of the detection layers moving over him, and was cleared.

The entire process barely took two minutes.

He retrieved his weapons, stored them back into his void storage the moment he was permitted to step away, then picked up the academy bag that appeared before him. It was dark, reinforced, and heavier than it looked. He swung it over his back and walked into the Eastern Grand Hall without wasting another glance on the inspection lines.

Eventually, all hundred second-years were checked and cleared. There were a few issues, mostly regarding weapons. One student’s spearhead contained an embedded charm that the academy ruled unauthorized. Another had modified a gauntlet in a way that came dangerously close to an advanced artifact.

A third had tried to argue that a hidden blade inside his boot was "part of his personal fighting style," which failed as an explanation with impressive speed. None of the problems took long to resolve. Unauthorized items were removed, approved alternatives were issued where necessary, and the students involved entered the hall looking annoyed but not disqualified.

Soon enough, the Eastern Grand Hall was filled with second-years.

They all wore academy-issued field uniforms, but the uniforms did not make them look identical. The academy had clearly designed them around combat type and class style rather than forcing every student into the same cut.

Frontline knights wore sturdier reinforced jackets, heavier bracers, stronger shoulder protection, and boots suited for rough movement. Archers had lighter, flexible uniforms with open shoulder mobility and fitted quiver straps. Magic-focused students wore uniforms with fewer heavy plates and more channel-friendly seams, allowing easier Myst movement through the body.

Forgemastery students had reinforced belts and practical tool loops, though the tools themselves were academy-issued. Assassin-type students wore darker, fitted uniforms that allowed silent movement, flexibility, and close-body weapon access without loose cloth catching on movement.

Liam’s uniform was built in that style.

It was dark, fitted without being restrictive, and designed to move with him rather than against him. The material clung cleanly at the arms and torso but loosened enough around the lower body to allow speed, crouching, and sudden direction changes. Reinforcement sat lightly along the forearms, shoulders, ribs, and shins, not bulky enough to slow him down but present enough to soften glancing blows.

Unlike most academy gatherings, the hall was not loud at first.

Usually, students talked while waiting for authority figures to appear. They complained, joked, argued, flirted, challenged one another, or filled silence with whatever nonsense made nerves more bearable. This time, many were quiet. The reality had arrived too fully.

Any moment now, they were going to be sent into the realm they had spent nearly two weeks studying, discussing, fearing, and preparing for. Eldervale was no longer a diagram in a guidebook, no longer an announcement, no longer a debate topic in an arena. It was waiting on the other side of whatever spell Mystica would cast.

Still, silence had natural enemies.

Dylan Wellington was one of them.

"I am just saying," Dylan declared, standing near Maxwell and Asher with his field bag slung over one shoulder in a way that was probably meant to look effortless, "this uniform looks better on me than it does on both of you combined."

Maxwell looked down at his own uniform, then at Dylan’s. "That is not even how uniforms work."

"It is how style works."

"You look the same as everyone else assigned to archer-light combat gear."

Dylan’s eyes widened in theatrical offense. "Max, that was cruel. You looked at me and saw everyone else?"

"I saw standard academy fabric."

"You wound me before deployment."

Asher, standing with his arms folded, gave Dylan one glance and immediately looked away again. "You look ridiculous."

Dylan pointed at him. "Is that you, jealousy?"

"You have your collar folded wrong."

"It is called flair."

"It is called dressing in the dark."

"I dressed before dawn. That is close enough."

Maxwell leaned slightly toward Asher. "His belt is uneven too."

Dylan gasped. "Now both of you are attacking me because I have what you lack."

"Delusion?" Asher asked.

"Presence."

"Same thing, in your case."

Dylan turned to a nearby student who had made the mistake of listening. "Tell them I look heroic."

The student blinked. "You look... ready?"

Dylan placed a hand over his heart. "Cowardice has infected the witnesses."

Maxwell sighed. "Stars help us."

"They already did," Dylan said, spreading his arms slightly. "That is why I am here."

Asher’s eye twitched. "I swear, if Eldervale has anything that eats loud things first, I am throwing you toward it."

"That would be poor command discipline."

"You are not command."

"I am morale."

"You are a warning."

Before Dylan could respond, Charlotte arrived.

And for a brief moment, even Dylan forgot what he had been saying.

Charlotte’s field uniform followed the assassin-type design like Liam’s, but where Liam’s looked functional and restrained, hers looked as though the academy had lost a private battle against her personality. The dark fitted material followed her shape with a dangerous elegance, reinforced where it needed to be but flexible enough to make every movement look intentional.

Her sleeves were cut close, the waist secured neatly, and the lower half allowed her to move freely without sacrificing the sleekness of the design. The uniform was practical. It had to be. The academy would not send her into Eldervale in something useless. But on Charlotte, practical somehow became indecently distracting.

Dylan stared openly.

Maxwell, despite every piece of experience that should have prepared him for Charlotte being Charlotte, went quiet for a second too long.

Asher turned his head away almost immediately, but not before a faint trace of fluster crossed his expression. He buried it quickly beneath irritation, because Asher treated embarrassment like an enemy to be incinerated before witnesses could confirm it existed.

Charlotte noticed all of it.

Of course she did.

Her smile bloomed with shameless satisfaction as she stepped closer, letting herself drown in the attention like it was warm water. More than a few boys across the hall had glanced her way, and several were now pretending not to glance again. Their imaginations were probably committing crimes of ambition. Charlotte did not mind. If anything, the way she lifted her chin made it clear she considered the attention a tribute owed to her by reality itself.

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