Later in the evening,

Author

The training grounds smelled like sweat and old magic.

Aria leaned against the eastern wall, her arms crossed, her black military crop top leaving her midriff bare to the morning chill.

The tight shorts were tactical - no fabric to snag, no excess to slow movement - but she had learned long ago that utility and provocation were not mutually exclusive. Her blonde hair was swept up in a loose high ponytail that swayed when she moved, a metronome of indifference.

Around her, the class assembled in clusters of privilege and desperation. Nobles who needed combat credits to maintain status. Scholarship students who needed them...