Rowan panted, resting his hands on his knees as Egil called an end to the day’s exercises. The grip of the wooden sword in his hands was slick with sweat from nearly an hour of non-stop sword drills, and it was a relief to finally be allowed some rest.

Around him, the other first years were in no better shape than he was. While they might have the edge in terms of skill, technique, and experience, fifteen years on the streets had kept Rowan’s body lean, and three months of good food and a solid exercise regime had packed on some much needed muscle. Although his frame was still skinny, it was no longer the gaunt skeletal form of a street-rat, but rather the wiry build of a swordsman, which was of course the aim of this hellish training.

With one last exhale, Rowan stood up, casting a glance towards the professor. At the moment, Egil was surrounded by several students that Rowan recognized from Dugan’s house, all keen to prove their toughness to the stern combat instructor by pretending not to be winded after the exercises he had just put them through.

Keeping one eye on the professor, Rowan busied himself with returning the training sword to its barrel, wiping the sweat from his brow as he did. Although the morning was chilly, the feeling had quickly faded after class had begun, and it was only now that the sweat coating him had started to cool that Rowan realized he was cold.

Hurry up, Rowan urged the students, mentally commanding them to depart so that he could approach the teacher before the chill really began to sink in. Obviously, no one heeded his plea, completely silent and ineffectual as it was, and Rowan was forced to wait as they slowly dispersed naturally.

Finally.

“Professor,” Rowan called out as the last of the Hafgufans surrounding Egil faded away.

“Rowan,” Egil responded evenly, turning his attention towards him. This was by no means the first time that Rowan had approached the combat instructor after class, though he did so far less often than he did with his other professors. The lessons Egil taught were much more straightforward and obvious in their applications than Professor Dahlren’s history lessons, or Kanna’s magical equations. Swing sharp thing, hurt enemies. Easy.

“I just had some questions for you, if that’s okay,” Rowan began, not bothering to beat around the bush. Unlike Typh, who liked talking about school life, or Kanna, who was always keen to hear how he was progressing with his studies, Egil preferred to get straight to the point, something Rowan admired on a day like today.

Egil nodded, motioning for Rowan to continue.

“Well, sir,” Rowan began, running through the question in his mind. “I was hoping to get your advice on a training regimen.”

“For yourself?”

It was Rowan’s turn to nod. “Yes, sir. I’ve been training myself independently outside of class, but I feel like I’m not catching up fast enough. I was hoping you could help me figure out what I should change in order to progress.”

Egil paused at this, his gaze fixated on Rowan as he appeared to consider the matter. As he did, Rowan was forced to stand awkwardly in front of him, unable to move as his professor contemplated the issue. Egil’s eyes were a bright grey, seeming to pierce out from under heavy brown eyebrows. His beard was the same colour as his hair, with some silver mixed in, braided in the manner of northern men.

Yeah, if he was my enemy I’d be shitting myself right now, Rowan admitted to himself. Egil was one of the most intimidating men he had ever met, towering over the other professors, and it had taken Rowan nearly two weeks to gather enough courage to stay behind after class the first time and ask for some pointers. Fortunately, Egil was also one of if not the most professional of all his professors, and he had quickly and succinctly solved the problem that Rowan had faced. Since then Rowan had made it a point to stay behind whenever a combat related question arose, usually on the first day of the school week following a weekend of dungeon diving.

“You only received real combat training for the first time recently, correct?” Egil inquired.

Rowan nodded. “About a month before I came to the academy.” Similar to Kanna, Egil was aware of Rowan’s background, though his knowledge was not quite as in-depth as the mage’s. As far as Rowan could tell, Egil knew that he was from a very poor commoner’s family and had received very little in the way of training of any kind before attending the academy, similar to some of the other scholarship students.

“What training are you doing on your own?”

Pausing for a moment, Rowan outlined the exercises that he had done with Tethis, and continued to do to this day. As he finished talking, Egil seemed to reach an understanding.

“You’re not catching up fast enough because you’re ten years behind most of the other students,” Egil informed him. “You can’t expect to make up for a decade’s worth of experience in a single semester, no matter how hard you try.”

Upon hearing these words, Rowan deflated. Although he had known deep down that that was the case, to hear it stated so bluntly by the man responsible for training him still stung. However, Egil’s next words caused him to glance back up.

“With that said, I can certainly give you some exercises that will help you make up for that lost time. You have good fundamentals movement-wise, so the exercises you’ve been doing were clearly aimed at building up your strength. Whoever your teacher was they knew what they were doing.”

Rowan felt a rush of pride at these words, as Egil praised Tethis’ teachings.

“You’ll want to continue those,” Egil said. “As there’s still quite a bit of muscle-building to be done yet, but I’ll also show you a few moves you can practice that should help to bridge the gap between you and your more experienced classmates.”

Five minutes later, Rowan bid Egil goodbye, several sword drills now ingrained in his mind. The exercises Egil had showed him focused primarily on defence, a stark contrast with the offence-first style that Tethis had exhibited. Doing his best to commit them to memory, Rowan headed for the Draigwyn tower, eager to peel off his armour and rinse off the sweat that coated him before heading to History class.

Emerging from the washroom, Rowan patted his hair, the strands hanging damply across his forehead, now from moisture rather than sweat. From experience, he still had roughly twenty minutes before his next class: History.

The common room was full when Rowan returned, more than a dozen of his fellow Draigwyns clustered around the notice board on the wall next to the fireplace. Craning his head, Rowan attempted to see what it was that so enthralled his housemates, but they were standing too closely for him to make it out.

“You gonna try out?”

“I might; I’ve been doing pretty well in combat class recently.”

“Think Thenn’s gonna make it this year?”

“No way, not while Alfrid’s on the team.”

The discussion was loud, multiple people talking at once, and more were approaching even now, replacing those that left and swelling the crowd even more. Interested, Rowan attempted to get closer, but the thicket of bodies in front of him made that difficult.

“Piss off, foreigner,” one of the bystanders snarled, pushing Rowan back as he tried to get closer to the board.

Taking the hint, Rowan backed away. Foreigner was the term that some of the Draigwyns had taken to calling Rowan, a nickname of sorts, targeting his accent and tanned skin. All things considered, it was far from the worst thing Rowan had ever been called, and it was far from the worst thing they could have called him. Plus it was easy enough to ignore, so he did just that, simply ducking away to grab his books from upstairs before heading out.

Resolving to find out the cause for the gathering later, Rowan departed the common room, headed for history class where he was set to receive the results of the test he had written the week before. Something he was not looking forward to in the least.

“How’d you do on the test?” Dugan asked, biting into his stuffed pastry as he did.

They were together in the cafeteria, sitting at one of the end tables that Rowan preferred. In front of them lay two papers, one of which had considerably more x-shaped marks across it than the other. With an exaggerated sigh, Rowan buried his face into his arms, eliciting a chuckle from his friend.

“That bad, eh?”

“I mean, it went better than it could have,” Rowan admitted, taking a bite of his own pastry. The cafeteria was serving Tirsiog Pasties for lunch, and the meat filled pastries were surprisingly delicious for how simple they seemed. “You were right about there being questions on the formation of the Valendian Empire, and my studying of the Beast Wars paid off as well. But I wasted a day studying the Girscaw Uprising, and I totally flubbed the question on Valendian Emperors.”

Dugan gave him a sympathetic look. “At least you got a passing grade this time, that’s progress.”

Rowan laughed hollowly, casting an annoyed glance at the paper next to him. The number sixty-three gleamed from the top of it, written in red ink directly over the hundred below it. Across the table Dugan’s paper had an eighty-nine scrawled in the same place, evidence of his friend’s proficiency with the subject.

Rather than give a bitter response to his friend’s encouraging words, Rowan opted to take another bite of his pastry. Dugan was his only friend in his year and his advice was always helpful; he couldn’t afford to go pushing him away now.

Taking the hint, Dugan dug into his own lunch, the two boys eating in silence for a minute, both savouring the delicious meat and vegetable filled pastries they had been served.

“Ah, that hits the spot,” Dugan said appreciatively, pushing his empty plate to the side. Across from him, Rowan nodded in agreement, pushing the last bite of his own pastry into his mouth.

While the meals served at the cafeteria did not include nearly as much apple pie as he would have liked, they were always damn good. The cooks here at Faebrook really knew what they were doing, and he had eaten the food from enough restaurants back in Taureen to know that that was never a guarantee. Though the dumpster flavour that many of those meals had taken on did make that evaluation difficult.

“So,” Dugan began, meeting Rowan’s eyes. “What are your plans for this afternoon?”

“Study,” Rowan replied. “I’ve got Etiquette class later, and a test in Magical Theory tomorrow.”

Dugan shook his head. “I don’t know how you’re surviving Professor Soreth’s class. I’ve got a friend in it and she swears it’s the hardest thing she’s ever studied, and she went to a pretty prestigious school before making it in here. She gets better marks than me in our other classes, but apparently her marks in magic theory are like, twenty points lower. How the hell do you have an eighty in that class, and freakin sixties in everything else, man?”

Rowan shrugged helplessly. “Don’t ask me. I just get what Ka- errr… Professor Soreth teaches better than I do the others, I guess.” Well, that and the fact that Kanna personally tutors me and would kill me if I underperformed in her class. Dugan didn’t need to know that second part though. His relationship with Kanna was one of Rowan’s most closely guarded secrets. The last thing he needed was for other students to think he was being favoured because of his mana pool, even if it was true.

It wasn’t as if Kanna gave him any preferential treatment when it came to marking his work either. Quite the opposite in fact. More than once, Rowan had tried to indignantly protest the partial marks she loved to give him, only to be told that if he wanted full marks he just had to do better next time.

That was Kanna’s favourite bit of advice, ‘Just do better next time.’ It was as if she thought that everyone in the world was like her, and with just a little more work they could achieve the same results she did. A laughable notion to those without her considerable talents.

“Damn prodigies…” Rowan muttered under his breath. If Dugan heard him, he gave no indication, yawning broadly as he glanced around the room.

“What about you?” Rowan asked.

Dugan smiled. “I’ve got a free period after this, thinking of using it to apply for the Hafgufa Dungeoneering team. Shame you’re not part of my house, or we could try out together.”

“The what?”

“Did your house not post the tryout sheet?” Dugan tilted his head. “It’s been all that the guys in my house have talked about for the last day.”

“If they did, I didn’t see it,” Rowan confessed, his mind wandering back to the crowd at the notice board earlier. That’s probably what that was about.

“There’s no way I’ll make it as a slayer or vanguard,” Dugan said, his tone resigned. “But I might be able to make it as the archaeologist or dungeon master.”

“What is the dungeoneering team?” Rowan asked. Dugan looked at him strangely, and for a moment Rowan was afraid he had messed up.

“Right, I keep forgetting you’re a scholarship student,” Dugan replied, giving Rowan an indulgent smile. “Dungeoneering is a sport that the top academies partake in, kind of like a mock dungeon simulator. Each house has a team, and each team maintains a dungeon beneath the academy which they stock with monsters, arm with traps, and just generally do their best to make it as difficult as possible. In a match, two teams go head to head to see who can clear their opponent’s dungeon the fastest.”

“There are dungeons beneath the school?” Although Rowan posed it as a question, he wasn’t too surprised to learn that the academy was built atop actual dungeons. Darm had already told him that Faebrook had been founded because of its location atop a nexus of dungeons; Dugan had simply confirmed the fact.

“Yup. I think there’s like eleven?” Dugan said, sounding somewhat unsure of himself. “Something like that. Five of them are used by the houses for the competition, though I’m not sure if those are artificial dungeons or not. The others are maintained by the academy for training purposes. But anyways, that’s not the point. The point is that the Dungeoneering team tryouts are this month, and we should both totally try out.”

Rowan tilted his head, an unsure expression on his face. Trying out for a team would cut into his study time, not to mention his availability as a porter. And then there was the fact that doing so went completely against his desire to maintain a low profile.

As if reading his mind, Dugan grinned. “Joining the team has benefits, you know? Not only does winning bring prestige to your house, but professors are more willing to give good grades to members of the dungeoneering teams, and you can earn gold based on your performance. Plus, girls love guys that can perform.”

Dugan waggled his eyebrows suggestively at this last part, which caused Rowan to roll his eyes. He didn’t have time for a girlfriend right now, and even if he did, there was no way he had the gold needed to date the rich nobles’ daughters that populated the academy.

The rest of what Dugan had said, however, caused Rowan to perk up. One could never have enough money, and any way to increase his grades was something to take note of. “I’ll consider it,” Rowan told his friend, who smiled knowingly.

“If we make it, we’ll be rivals,” Dugan said, rising from the table with his plate in hand. “Though first years don’t normally make the team.”

Following after Dugan, Rowan deposited his plate in the stone plinth at the centre of the cafeteria, watching with interest as it shimmered briefly before disappearing in a flash of light. Even two months in, he had still not grown numb to the casual use of magic for so many day-to-day tasks at Faebrook. From the showers to the heating, everything used magic, and it was amazing to watch.

Dugan on the other hand merely placed his plate and turned away, not even bothering to watch as the magic took hold and transported the plate back to the kitchens. Nobles really did live in another world, Rowan thought as he followed Dugan outside, elbowing their way through the crowd of students just arriving for lunch.

“If first years don’t make the team, why even bother trying out?” Rowan asked, resuming the conversation once they made it clear of the throng of students at the cafeteria doors. “Sounds like it would be a waste of time.”

“They don’t generally make the team,” Dugan corrected. “There have been exceptions in the past. And you’ll never know if you don’t try out, you know? Think about it: you’re one of the only first years to actually have experience in dungeons. That’s gotta raise your odds of making it.”

“And also one of the only ones with grades in the low sixties,” Rowan countered.

“Better than the forties and fifties you had last month,” Dugan replied with a slight smirk.

“Yeah, I doubt they want people with either sets of grades. Plus my skills in combat are pretty well-known among the other first years by now, so there’s no way I’m making it based on my incredible martial prowess.”

Dugan had no response to this, having actually sparred against Rowan twice now in order to give him pointers. Both times had resulted in Rowan’s humiliating defeat, and as it turned out, Dugan was far better at doing than teaching, at least when it came to fighting.

“Come ooooon,” Dugan wheedled. “You’re never gonna get anywhere with your head in the books all day. What’s the point of even coming to the academy if you’re not gonna experience life?”

I’ve experienced enough life for a lifetime, thanks. Rowan bit back the response that rose to mind, instead opting to exhale loudly. Dugan was just trying to look out for him; it wasn’t Dugan’s fault that his supposed friend was keeping him in the dark about his sordid past.

As the guilt began to creep up on Rowan, he changed tack. “I really just can’t spare the time, man. I need to revise for my Magic test this week, and Professor Soreth has really been piling on the homework recently.”

“Fine,” Dugan said, visibly deflating as he abandoned his quest to convince his friend. “I’ll stop pushing. But you gotta promise me that once your grades are finally out of the hole, you’ll join me for some fun. A night out, a double date, something!”

“It’s a promise,” Rowan vowed, earning him a grin from the tall northerner. “Now then, I’ve got a magic class to prepare for, and I believe you had a tryout to sign up for.”

“That I do!” With a smile, Dugan waved goodbye, jogging off into the distance as Rowan departed for the Draigwyn dorms.

Typh was easy going for the most part, but the one thing he detested was lateness. Somehow, the fluffy-eared professor was harsher on latecomers than the etiquette teacher, Professor Samecks, whose first lesson had in excruciating detail covered the number of social contracts that were broken by arriving late to an appointment.

Picking up the pace, Rowan hurried to get his books. The magic professor’s knowledge of the arcane was enormous, and he did not want to find out what it contained in order to punish tardy students.