Blood and Discipline

Three days passed.

Three days since the Crucible bled.

Three days since the survivors were reshaped by fire, bone, and nightmares.

The Dominion Institute did not rest. It did not reward. It only moved forward.

The first bell rang like a warning shot across the campus. Sharp. Brutal. Demanding. It echoed through the stone halls and rippled across the training yards like a signal to war.

Nyra stood at the balcony of her room, chains coiled neatly around her wrists, hair tied back, body bruised but defiant. She watched as the masses below moved with robotic urgency, uniforms crisp, expressions hollowed by survival. The sky above the Academy was iron-gray, the sun little more than a glare of steel. Perfect.

From here, the school looked like a fortress carved from ancient obsidian—towering black spires, jagged walkways, and wards etched into every stone. Barricaded balconies overlooked blood-soaked sparring pits. Gargoyles didn't decorate the edges; they watched.

"Another glorious day in hell," Riven muttered as he joined her, straightening his combat coat.

Nyx strolled into the frame, already twirling a dagger. "You mean glorious day to kill idiots. Don't ruin the poetry."

Their mornings had settled into a rhythm: wake with pain, eat with tension, and walk with purpose.

Today marked the start of classes.

For first-years at the Dominion Institute, 'class' was another word for conditioning through combat, mindfuckery, and magical brutality.

The Curriculum, as carved into the Hall of Records:

Combat Conditioning & Martial Technique – survival-first combat with Master Kael Veyne: bruises mandatory, dismemberment optional.

Magic Refinement & Power Alignment – Grand Magister Orin Kaldros: where screaming in pain during magical expansion was not only allowed but encouraged.

Tactical Theory & Battle Strategy – occasional lectures from Headmaster Xypher Rhaegis himself: silence required, obedience demanded.

Political Espionage & Court Manipulation – Mistress Sylva Noctis: where smiles were daggers and every lesson bled into a threat.

Magical History & Ethics – Professor Thale Verros: the only class where one might survive sitting down… unless the subject involved royal bloodlines.

Assassination & Stealth – invitation only.

As Nyra and her group descended into the main halls, the murmurs began. The stares. The whispers.

"Those are the ones from the Crucible..."

"She's the one with the Crownfire."

"I heard she set people on fire—and healed them."

Nyra ignored it.

Her chains clinked with every step—restrained just enough to avoid dragging, but never silent. A symbol. A threat. A warning.

Voss joined them as they reached the first stairwell. Silent, composed. His eyes flicked once toward Nyra and stayed there a second too long.

Riven caught it.

"So… gonna pretend you're not staring?"

Voss didn't respond. But Nyra's mouth curved into something like a smirk.

They pushed through the heavy stone doors and entered the Arena Hall, where their Combat Conditioning would begin. The room reeked of blood and sweat and old bones. The arena floor was dirt-slick and marked by scars from weapons, bodies, and worse.

Master Kael Veyne waited in the center like a god of violence.

Scarred. Towering. Eyes like iron.

"You lived," he said.

No applause. No praise. Just those two words.

"Now we find out if you're worth the air you're wasting."

He gestured to a rack of weapons: swords, chains, spears, staffs.

"Choose. You bleed today."

Nyra stepped forward first, taking her twin daggers from the rack with practiced ease. Her chains slid loose from her wrists, slithering down like living steel.

One by one, the others followed.

Today, the real war began.

Part II – Teeth and Precision

The arena gates slammed shut behind them with a finality that rattled bone. Overhead, torches flared to life, casting jagged shadows that danced across stone walls like demons waiting to devour the weak.

Master Kael Veyne stood with arms folded, a grim line cut across his face.

"Drop the blades," he barked.

Confused murmurs. Hesitation.

"I said drop them. This isn't about finesse. This is about instinct."

Weapons clattered to the stone.

"Hand-to-hand. No mercy. If you hesitate, you get dropped. If you fall, you get dragged out. Pair off."

Without hesitation, Nyra turned to Voss.

"You sure about this?" he asked.

"Touch me, and you'll find out," she replied, voice venomous.

They clashed.

Nyra spun, her body low and fast, kicking up dirt as she faked left, then twisted hard. Voss reached to counter—too late. She leapt, coiled her thighs around his waist, twisted her hips, and slammed him to the ground with a satisfying thud.

Now she was straddling him, breath ragged, chains twitching, eyes gleaming with predatory amusement.

His hands gripped her thighs, not to stop her—but as instinct.

Her lips curled. "You like it down there, Ruin?"

He didn't answer, but the tension in his jaw, the twitch in his fingers, betrayed everything.

Kael's voice cracked across the air like a blade.

"Switch!"

Nyra rolled off him, slower than necessary, brushing dust from her chest with unbothered grace.

Kael barked out new orders. "Nyra, Seraph. Voss, Riven. Move."

But before Seraph could approach—

Nyx was there.

"You're getting me today, Princess," she purred, violet eyes gleaming. "Seraph's sitting this one out. I need to knock that smug off your pretty face."

Nyra rolled her neck, lips drawn in a wicked smile. "Try it, bitch. But don't cry when I put you down like a rabid dog."

They moved together.

Venom meeting chaos.

They exploded into motion.

Nyx struck first—fast, erratic, brutal. Her fists blurred like a storm of knives, each strike aimed to maim, not bruise. Nyra blocked the first, absorbed the second, dodged the third, then retaliated with a knee to Nyx's side that would've broken ribs on anyone else.

Nyx laughed, even as she slid across the floor.

"Getting soft, Princess."

"Still hit hard enough to knock your insanity straight," Nyra snapped.

They circled.

Nyx lunged again, sweeping Nyra's legs—but Nyra flipped mid-air, landing behind her and hooking an arm around her neck. Nyx twisted, slammed her elbow into Nyra's ribs, then spun them both into the dirt.

They rolled—clawing, striking, grappling. The others had stopped watching their own fights. All eyes were on the two forces tearing through the mat like a storm given shape.

Neither held back.

Every blow was earned.

Every hit returned.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, bloodied, but grinning with a kind of violent admiration, even Master Kael raised a brow.

"Now that," he muttered, "is what I want to see."

The two girls stood there, chests heaving, sweat dripping in trails down their temples and collarbones. Nyra's lip was split, a smear of crimson streaked across her jawline, dark curls clinging damply to her face. Her chest rose and fell in jagged breaths, sweat glistening as it trailed between the curves of her breasts, chains rattling softly with each inhale.

Nyx grinned ferally, a bruise blooming along her ribcage, blood smearing the corner of her mouth. Her violet eyes gleamed beneath lashes wet with perspiration, her body coiled like a blade mid-swing, her breathing sharp but controlled.

Even Voss had frozen mid-spar, gaze locked on Nyra like gravity itself had anchored him there. His breath hitched once, then steadied.

Gods below… she's fire wrapped in blood and bone, he thought, chest tight with something unfamiliar. His lip curled upward—not in amusement, but something darker. Deeper. Fierce.

Riven whistled low from across the arena. "Remind me never to piss either of them off."

Then, grinning at Voss, he added, "You good, Ghost? You look like you saw your funeral and liked it."

Voss didn't respond.

He just kept watching Nyra, a shadow of something electric flickering in his eyes.

Something that felt dangerously close to worship.

The aftermath of the sparring still lingered like smoke—sweat soaking into the stone floor, the scent of blood and pride drifting through the air. Nyra wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand as she stepped out of the arena ring, eyes still burning with the ghost of the fight. Nyx's laughter echoed faintly behind her, feral and unrepentant.

Master Kael Veyne dismissed them with a grunt. "Clean yourselves. Hall assembly in thirty. Don't be late, or I'll make the Crucible look like a fucking nursery rhyme."

The students filtered out, some limping, some too shaken to speak. Riven caught up to Nyra first, his lips twisted in a half-smile.

"That was... vicious," he said, eyes flicking toward the smear of blood drying along her temple. "Hot, but vicious."

Nyra arched a brow. "Which part?" she asked flatly.

Riven's grin widened. "Yes. All of it."

Seraph drifted up beside them, her voice quiet but calm. "You didn't hold back."

"I didn't need to," Nyra replied, voice low. "She wouldn't have respected it if I did."

"You're not wrong," Nyx chimed in through Seraph's lips, smirking. "I like her better bruised. Makes her easier to look at."

"You're one twisted bitch," Riven muttered, but the way he said it was more amused than annoyed.

The corridors twisted as they made their way toward the Grand Assembly Hall—gothic arches of obsidian stone and crimson banners stretched above them like a temple of war. Arcane torches flared as they passed, casting dancing shadows that mimicked the movement of blades.

"So," Riven said casually, glancing between the others, "you all thinking about the factions?"

Voss shrugged, walking a few paces ahead, hands tucked into his coat. "Depends on how useful they are."

"Always so charmingly tactical," Riven muttered. "Care to elaborate?"

Voss's voice was cool. "Alliances can be leveraged. Some faction heads are connected to nobles, to military command. Useful connections."

Seraph nodded once. "Access to advanced technique and archives. Worth considering."

Nyra's lip curled, silver eyes flashing. "I'm not chaining myself to anyone. Let them come to me if they want to matter."

Riven smirked. "Didn't peg you for a joiner anyway."

Nyx snickered. "Join a faction? Please. I'd rather wear one of those frilly noble corsets and sing lullabies."

As they reached the towering double doors of the Assembly Hall, the murmurs of the other students swelled. First-years filled the space, arranged in rows before the central platform. At the back of the room, a large obsidian wall had been veiled beneath layers of enchanted silk—deep crimson embroidered with gold symbols of the Dominion.

The air crackled with tension.

Then the doors slammed shut behind them.

A figure stepped forward.

Instructor Kael Veyne's voice rolled like thunder. "You've survived the Crucible. You've proven you're more than meat for the pyres. Now we see how long you'll last with the rest of the wolves."

With a flick of his hand, the silk veils dissolved into ash.

Behind the platform stood a new figure—masked, tall, and robed in ash-colored cloth embroidered with arcane wards.

The crowd shifted uncomfortably.

"This," Kael said, voice cutting, "is a Warden of the Inquisition. You've heard whispers. You've feared the rumors. Now you get to look one in the eye."

The masked figure stepped forward, utterly silent, and raised one gloved hand. From their palm, black flame licked into the air—cold, soundless, and wrong. Some students recoiled.

Kael's tone hardened. "This isn't a threat. It's a reminder. There are eyes beyond these walls. And if any of you think your bloodlines or your faction loyalties can protect you from failure... you're already dead."

A long silence followed.

Then another voice rang out from the shadows near the wall.

"Well, well," the voice drawled, smooth and poisonous. "So these are the top dogs."

A boy stepped into the torchlight. Tall. Pale. Smiling like a predator in silk. A golden insignia glinted across his uniform.

"Didn't realize the Crown was letting trash into the Academy now."

"Who the fuck are you?" Riven asked, already cracking his knuckles.

"Caziel Vaine," the boy said, bowing with mockery. "Elite legacy. Top of last year's evaluation. Maybe you've heard of me?"

"No," Nyra said simply.

Caziel's smile twitched. "You will. Just don't choke before the next trial."

Kael didn't stop him. Didn't flinch. Just folded his arms and let the tension grow like a tumor.

The room went still, thick with unspoken threats and shifting power. No tests. No warnings. Just silence—and the sense that this place would eat the weak alive.

Outside, thunder cracked across the dead sky.

Class had officially begun.

The students lingered longer than they should have, eyes darting between the Warden and the instructors, breaths held tight as if the very air had teeth. Some whispered. Others remained locked in stunned silence. The torchlight flickered like nervous heartbeats.

Nyra stood still, silver eyes reflecting the dim glow of firelight. Her chains swayed softly as she turned to glance at her companions. Voss was already watching her, unreadable. Riven cracked his neck, pretending to be bored, though his jaw was set tighter than usual. Seraph simply observed it all, eyes moving slowly, thoughtfully, as if memorizing every detail.

The masked Warden didn't move, didn't blink.

Then Kael barked, "Move!"

The hall emptied in a flood of boots and anxiety. Shadows chased the students into the corridors, their footsteps echoing against the marble like war drums.

Nyra didn't look back.

Neither did Voss.

Whatever came next—survival would not be given.

It would be earned in blood, sweat, and silence.

War was watching from the rafters.

The heavy doors of the Grand Assembly Hall groaned shut behind them, muffling the echoes of veiled threats and masked warnings. The students filtered into the corridors in stunned silence, conversations hushed and fragmented. No one wanted to be the first to break the weight of what they'd just witnessed.

Nyra walked ahead of the others, her chains brushing against her calves with that familiar metallic whisper. The tension in her shoulders was unspoken, coiled like a serpent beneath her skin. The others followed in near silence, steps echoing in unison against black marble.

"Next class is Magic Refinement," Seraph said quietly, her tone composed but her gaze sharp. "Grand Magister Orin doesn't tolerate lateness. Or breathing too loudly."

Riven gave a low chuckle, though his knuckles were still flexing from the tension. "He gives me the creeps. Like he's three spells away from burning out what's left of his soul."

"Assuming he has one," Nyx added with a snort. "That man looks like he eats nightmares and drinks ink."

"Eyes forward," Voss said, his voice cold but even. "You'll want every second of awareness in that room."

The Magic Refinement wing pulsed with unnatural energy. Hallways twisted subtly with magical resonance, and violet-glowing runes etched along the blackened stone hummed in time with each step. As they approached the grand chamber, a distant scream echoed from deep within the Institute. No one commented.

Inside, Grand Magister Orin Kaldros stood like a monument of forgotten horrors—cloaked in layered obsidian robes, his pale blue eyes flickering faintly as if lit by inner flame. His hands twitched with every breath he took.

"You're on time," he said, sounding vaguely disappointed.

Without another word, he gestured them to form a wide circle.

"Magic is identity," Orin began, circling them like a vulture. "It reflects what you are—flawed, chaotic, insecure. You will learn to forge it into something sharp. Personal. Indivisible. This class is not about control… it is about ownership."

He snapped his fingers, and the room's runes flared violently.

"Today, you will test yourselves—alone. Not to destroy, but to evolve. Use your magic. Challenge it. Let it become you. If you fail... you will remain forgettable."

The circle slowly widened as students stepped back to begin. A weight fell upon the room. It felt like pressure in the skull—Orin's magic, silently observing everything.

Nyra closed her eyes. Her hands lifted, and the Amethyst Inferno sparked into life across her arms—vibrant violet flames dancing with flickers of shadow. She could feel it again, whispering through her bones, wrapping around her spine like a crown of serpents.

She exhaled, and shadows pooled at her feet. She didn't just wield them now. She wore them.

With a single motion, she activated her Dance of Thorns, her chains and telekinetic daggers orbiting her like a halo of death. Then she began to shape the flame—into a shimmering shield. A spear. A set of wings. Her magic molded itself to her thoughts.

On instinct, she twisted her fingers—and a phantom tendril of flame phased through one of the nearby stone pillars, leaving a soul-burned imprint in its wake.

Orin paused, watching. "Interesting," he murmured.

Riven stood near the shadows of a far wall, where the flicker of torchlight didn't quite reach. With a breath, he vanished—Shadowmeld snapping him into invisibility. Then, a glint.

He reappeared behind his practice target, a stone mannequin.

Six blurred silhouettes flickered into being around it—Fade of the Sixth Blade.

They struck in unison.

By the time the figure blinked, the mannequin had been shredded by invisible daggers laced with green-tinged Whisper Toxin.

Riven grinned. "Still got it."

"Next time," Orin called, "try not to get yourself hallucinating."

"I like a little chaos," Riven shot back.

Seraph stepped calmly into the circle's heart. Her fingers moved with grace as she conjured gentle silver flames—Moonfire, quiet and radiant. She began forming an illusion of a flower garden—floating lights humming with whispers.

Whisper Garden.

Then—Nyx took over. The flames blackened, and the garden rotted into a Carnage Masquerade—nightmare apparitions swirling around her in mockery of beauty.

Students nearby backed away instinctively.

Nyra laughed. "Show-off."

Nyx grinned. "You love it."

As they spun into their Dead Waltz, Seraph regained control, calming the storm into a flicker of silver silence.

Voss stood motionless—until he wasn't.

With a slight twitch of his fingers, he invoked the Graviton Veil. His body lifted slightly off the ground. The air pressure warped around him, compressing sound.

He blinked into the air, flipping over his practice zone before releasing a sudden Black Orbit—a gravity well that collapsed inward and shattered every nearby construct.

Dust rained down.

Orin tilted his head. "You'll be watched closely."

Voss said nothing. But his gaze flicked once toward Nyra—and lingered.

Across the chamber, other students pushed their limits, some with elegance, others with chaos.

Caelia Voren, a flame wielder from the eastern province, sculpted a glowing phoenix from pure white fire. The creature soared in spirals, singing in crackling screeches before exploding into a thousand floating embers that branded sigils into the air.

Thorn Halek, a hulking commoner with blood magic, carved runes into his arms and conjured crimson armor across his body, veins glowing as he punched through a steel shield conjured by his partner.

Liora Maren, a water manipulator, didn't fight—she danced. Her arms moved in liquid grace, forming serpent-shaped currents that mirrored her steps. The creatures slithered mid-air, striking targets with surgical precision.

Jax Veylor, with smoke and ash magic, became a cloud of burning soot, his body indistinguishable from the storm as he reformed behind his enemy and touched their throat with a smoking blade.

The room became a symphony of war artistry. Magic wasn't just power here—it was personality, trauma, instinct. Students screamed or fell into trances. A boy lost control and flooded half the room with ink-black acid. Another girl manifested her nightmares and fainted mid-cast.

Orin let them all burn.

After nearly an hour, Orin raised a hand.

"Enough."

The magic dissipated. Breathing heavy, sweat clinging to skin, the top students stood at the edge of breakthrough.

But something deeper had shifted.

Not just strength.

Identity.

And in the shadows above the chamber rafters, Caziel Vaine still watched—grinning.

Plotting.

And waiting for them to fall.

The energy in the Magic Refinement Hall hadn't yet settled when the Grand Magister's final words echoed in every corner of their minds: "You are no longer learning to survive. You are learning to command."

The students didn't leave right away.

Many stood in silence, their magic still buzzing beneath their skin—residual heat, shadow, and power clinging to their sweat-drenched forms. Others stared at their hands, dazed or humbled, while a few dared glance at those who had outshined them—Nyra, Voss, Seraph, Riven.

Nyra moved toward the exit first, her amethyst flames gently fading from her fingertips, though her skin still glowed faintly, charged with residual fire. Her expression was unreadable, but her shoulders rolled with calm control. Even her walk, hips swaying with confident precision, was a silent declaration: she was no longer hiding.

A few younger students stepped out of her way as she passed. Some watched her with wide eyes filled with awe and unspoken reverence, while others instinctively averted their gaze—too afraid to meet hers. Whispers followed in her wake.

"Did you see what she did?"

"That fire... it wasn't normal."

"She healed them—she saved people."

"I thought she was just a slave girl..."

One timid first-year girl—slim, freckles across her nose, arms wrapped in healing bandages—stepped forward as Nyra passed her.

"Um... excuse me," she said softly, voice trembling.

Nyra slowed.

"I-I just wanted to thank you," the girl said, bowing her head quickly. "You... you pulled me out of the way when that thing almost ripped me apart. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be standing here. So... thank you."

Nyra looked at her for a long moment, silver eyes unreadable.

Then she gave a faint nod. "Don't make me regret it."

The girl blinked, then managed a small, grateful smile. "I won't."

Riven leaned over and whispered, "You're such a softie, Princess."

Nyra gave him a sharp side-eye. "I'll gut you."

"I mean, you probably will," he smirked.

Voss watched the exchange from the back of the group, gaze shadowed but thoughtful. His eyes lingered on Nyra's back a second longer than necessary.

Voss followed closely, his boots soft against the obsidian floor. His gaze never left her back. His jaw twitched—not from tension, but from something else.

A twinge.

He didn't name it.

Behind him, Riven rolled his shoulders and exhaled. "So, was anyone else half-certain Orin was going to explode into smoke and bones by the end of that?"

"He still might," Seraph replied, her tone calm but laced with amusement.

"Can't believe that twisted bastard actually said I 'showed promise,'" Nyx added. "I'm flattered. Should I send him flowers or a live scorpion?"

"Send both," Riven smirked.

Their banter continued as they walked the twisted corridors of the Institute, now lit by the faint violet hue of evening runes. They moved as a unit, flanked by murmurs, glances, and the quiet recognition of their place in the food chain.

They had climbed higher today.

And it showed.

Their next class—Magical History & Ethics—awaited in a towering obsidian structure lined with ghostfire sconces. A tall, robed figure stood at the door: Professor Thale Verros. Tall, slender, eyes like smoldering coal behind wire-framed glasses, he looked as if the grave had denied him entry.

He said nothing as the students filed in, only gestured toward the amphitheater-style seats carved from black stone and laced with protective runes.

A giant mural of the Old World—burning cities, celestial dragons, crowned mages in battle—stretched across the curved back wall.

Verros finally spoke once the room quieted. His voice was gravel and smoke.

"Magic is not a gift. It is a burden. And those who forget that—burn."

He raised a long, skeletal hand, and the mural behind him ignited with golden fire. It came alive—animated images of ancient wars flickered to life: sorcerers falling to madness, cities consumed by their own magic.

"This lesson is not for entertainment," he said, stepping down into the circle. "It is a warning."

As he lectured, Nyra found her mind flickering between words and memory.

Her flames. Her bloodline. The way her magic obeyed and resisted in equal measure.

She flexed her fingers under the desk, feeling the twitch of power still resting beneath the surface.

Beside her, Seraph sat perfectly still, absorbing every word.

Voss didn't even blink. His hands rested on the desk, fingers rhythmically tapping in a subtle pattern—calculating.

Riven... was doodling crude sketches of Professor Verros being swallowed by a dragon.

When the lecture ended, the mural burned itself out.

Verros looked over them with quiet menace. "One of you will lose control before this year ends. Perhaps several. But understand this—when that moment comes, your bloodline won't matter. Your lineage won't save you. Only your discipline will."

He dismissed them with a flick of his hand.

As they stepped into the hallway, the tension from the previous class twisted into something new.

The quiet stretch of corridor was broken by laughter—sharp, cold, unmistakably mocking.

A trio of noble-born students leaned against the far wall, clad in their pristine uniforms. One of them stepped forward—Auren Malrik, a blond-haired serpent with polished boots and eyes like ice chips.

"Well, well," Auren sneered. "The little flame from the gutters. And her circus of misfits."

Nyra didn't stop walking.

"Step aside," she said, voice low, words dripping venom.

"Or what?" Auren asked. "You'll dance at me again? Maybe show us that trick where you pretend to matter?"

Nyra's silver eyes flared.

But it was Nyx who surfaced. "You keep talking like that, and we'll show you a new trick. It involves your intestines, a decorative spike, and exactly three seconds of poor judgment."

Auren's smirk faltered.

"Touch her," Voss said coldly, stepping forward, "and I'll pin your bones to the ceiling and make them sing."

Riven added with a grin, "And I'll make sure your screams are pitch-perfect."

Auren stiffened but didn't respond.

He stepped aside.

"Wise," Nyra said with a grin that could cut skin.

They continued walking, the corridor behind them filled with silence and stares.

Enemies had been made.

But power had been claimed.

And the shadows of the Dominion Institute shifted slightly to make room for new predators.