Chapter — Feeding Secrets
The dorm was dim by the time they dragged themselves inside.
Their feet scuffed across the floorboards like lead, boots half-unlaced, armor stained and stiff with dried blood. It was a silence borne not from awkwardness, but from shared weariness—the kind that seeps into your muscles and bones, that silence of victory wrapped in pain and uncertainty.
Asher collapsed onto the couch face-first with a groan.
Nick kicked off his boots and leaned his back against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes distant.
Ethan was the last to enter. His gaze flicked once toward the side of the room—the hidden chest tucked behind the bookshelf, sealed with a fresh rune that shimmered faintly in the low light.
Still dormant.
Still sleeping.
He allowed himself a quiet breath before stepping into the washroom to scrub off the dirt caking his skin.
By the time they finally crawled into bed, the moon had long risen.
And the eggs remained silent.
The Next Morning
Ethan was the first to rise.
Even in his fatigue, even with his body stiff and aching, something deeper gnawed at him—a responsibility not yet spoken, but already etched into his bones.
He moved silently to the chest, knelt before it, and pressed his palm to the cold metal clasp.
The rune peeled back like dew on glass.
He opened the lid.
The three eggs rested there, nestled in folded cloth. The red-ember one remained slightly warmer than the others now, its glow subtle but present. The others—pale-gray and shadow-veined—still waited, inert.
Ethan took out a thin ceremonial dagger. It wasn't enchanted. It wasn't even particularly sharp anymore.
But it had purpose.
With a slow breath, he pricked his palm just enough to draw blood.
A drop for each egg.
He watched closely. The blood was absorbed within seconds. Like mist into dry stone.
The moment passed.
Stillness returned.
By the time the others stirred, Ethan had already cleaned and rebound his hand.
Asher yawned and stretched, blue hair a tangled mess. "Please tell me we're not training today. I can still feel goblin teeth in my spine."
Nick gave him a look. "No one's making us. But we should."
"Kael said the weapons would take time," Ethan added. "But we can't afford to be useless until then."
Asher groaned again but didn't argue.
Training Grounds – Midday
They stood again on the edge of the arena—but this time without weapons. No Emberfang. No Zephyrfang. No Spellmirror Daggers.
Just them.
Their bodies.
And their flaws.
"I've been thinking," Ethan said, pacing in a slow circle around the sandpit. "We were sloppy. Even with magic, we barely survived. Our weapons weren't tools—they were decorations."
Asher kicked at the sand. "Didn't feel like decorations when Emberfang nearly blew a crater in the wall."
"Exactly," Nick said. "We don't use them. Not really. We react."
Ethan nodded. "We need to learn how to fight—with or without them. Our own style. Our own flow."
They decided to focus on movement, spacing, and strikes—starting with bare hands, slowly integrating magical bursts.
It wasn't graceful.
Asher's swings were powerful, but too wide, too reliant on brute strength. He often overextended himself, leaving gaping vulnerabilities that would've gotten him skewered.
Nick had speed and precision but lacked staying power. His footwork was efficient, but he struggled under pressure—his wind bursts lacked direction without solid strikes to anchor them.
Ethan was methodical—quick feints and sharp counters—but his instincts still pulled him toward shadows he hadn't yet learned to wield, and his reliance on lightning left him open between bursts.
They pushed through failures.
Nick cast small wind blades from his hands, using them like extensions of his fingers. He tried slashing in arcs, spinning mid-step, changing elevation—but lost control halfway through.
Asher slammed his fists into the reinforced dummies, trying to simulate Emberfang's weight. He gritted his teeth and pulled on his fire essence, channeling it into his arms—but it burned unevenly, dancing along his shoulders and searing his skin when he lost focus.
Ethan tried chaining short bursts of lightning from his palms to propel quick lunges. He succeeded—once—before overcharging and slamming into a wall.
By midday, they were drenched in sweat, cut across the knuckles, and breathing ragged.
But for the first time, they were fighting.
Not surviving.
Fighting.
Evening
Back in the dorm, their bodies ached but their minds were sharper.
Before anything else, they returned to the chest.
One by one, they fed the eggs again.
One drop each.
Just one.
This time, the ember-colored egg pulsed in response. A low thrum. Barely audible. But unmistakable.
Nick stared at it. "It's... humming."
Ethan leaned closer. The heat was stronger now. Subtle, but enough to mist the cloth underneath.
"Whatever's inside," Ethan murmured, "is feeding on more than blood."
"Mana?" Asher guessed.
"No," Ethan said. "Instinct. The more we evolve, the more it does too. It's learning us."
Nick ran a hand through his silver hair. "Which means when it hatches... it won't be some wild beast."
"It'll be something linked."
Asher gave a crooked grin. "You saying it's gonna come out swinging a tiny Emberfang?"
"Not funny," Nick said, deadpan.
"Kind of is," Ethan muttered.
They closed the chest again, resealed the rune, and sat down with barely enough strength to lift their arms.
Outside, night settled over the academy.
Inside, three eggs pulsed faintly in the dark—fed by blood, shaped by instinct, and waiting.
Waiting for the weapons.
Waiting for the moment they would hatch.
And become.