Final Checkmarks

Orion left the cabin two days before the exam, taking the longer route through the ridge pass where the ground had dried just enough to avoid sliding on every incline. Tyrunt came with him, naturally, though he didn't walk at Orion's side. He never did. He roamed ahead, snapping at low branches, snarling at birds he could never catch, occasionally stopping to bite at a rock just to check if it had earned his disapproval.

The trip was quiet, uneventful. The trail was familiar, though Orion still moved cautiously. Spring had softened the edges of the wilderness, but that didn't mean anything was safe. He kept one eye on the treeline, another on the trail ahead, and let Tyrunt burn energy however he liked, as long as he stayed close.

They made camp before dusk, just off the northern ridge that overlooked the valley. Orion built a small fire, mostly for comfort, and laid out a flat stone slab for Tyrunt to curl around. He didn't bother reading that night. He'd gone over the material a dozen times already. Flashcards, question drills, memory mnemonics—all of it scratched down in the margins of his notebook and half-memorized by habit.

Tyrunt slept curled like a stubborn boulder, head on his tail, twitching once in a while like he was chasing prey in his dreams.

Orion watched the fire burn low and said nothing.

Fallcreek's testing center sat wedged between two administrative buildings like it had been added as an afterthought. The sign read "REGISTRY & EXAMINATIONS – TRAINER CANDIDATES," but the paint was chipped, and the lettering was sun-faded. Inside, it was cooler than the outside air. Quiet. The floor creaked even though it was stone.

He kept Tyrunt outside, tethered loosely beneath the awning beside the front bench. The dragon didn't like being tied, but he tolerated it—barely. Orion knew better than to walk in with him this time.

The woman behind the counter glanced up as he entered, clipboard in one hand, stylus in the other.

"Name?"

"Orion."

She took the ID card from his earlier control test, scanned it, and pointed to the door behind her. "Room two. Clock's on the wall. You have three hours. If you leave early, you don't come back in."

He gave a nod and walked past her without another word.

The room was square, poorly lit, and smelled like pencil lead. Two desks were already occupied—one by a boy barely older than Orion, another by a girl in her late teens who was hunched low over her test and chewing on her thumbnail. There were six seats total, each with a packet, a stubby pencil, and a warning at the top of the page that said "NO OUTSIDE MATERIALS, NO DISCUSSION."

Orion sat, drew in a slow breath, and opened the cover.

The questions began simply enough. Basic classification, wilderness protocol, League chain of command, and type effectiveness patterns. Nothing difficult. He moved carefully, checking each circle twice, not rushing.

The second section leaned into judgment scenarios—multiple Pokémon on a wild route, a dispute between traveling trainers, a collapsed footbridge during escort duty. He chose the cleanest solutions, but not always the ones that looked best on paper. Sometimes the right call wasn't the kind the League liked.

The third section was where things slowed.

Situational ethics. Conflicting orders. What to do when your Pokémon refuses a move mid-battle. What happens when a command protects you but risks another life. Orion didn't guess. He reasoned it out like he had the past two months—balancing instinct with caution, strategy with consequence.

When he finished, the clock read 2:43.

He checked three answers again, darkened a few light marks, then stood and walked his test to the front desk.

The proctor took it with a nod.

"You'll get confirmation in a week. If you don't hear anything, come back."

Orion gave a quiet "Thanks," then stepped back into the light outside.

Tyrunt was still there, teeth dug lightly into the bench post. Not enough to break it, just enough to leave a warning mark.

"Subtle," Orion muttered.

Tyrunt let go with a huff.

They left the town by the south path, no one stopping them. He didn't look back.

The return trip took the usual two days, though they made better time on the second. Tyrunt had more energy. He'd stopped dragging his feet after the first rest. Orion figured he sensed the shift in mood—knew something had ended, even if he didn't understand what it meant yet.

By the time they reached the clearing near the cabin, the sun had dipped low, painting the treetops in gold. Reid was on the porch, sharpening a hooked blade. He looked up as they approached but didn't say anything.

Orion dropped his pack by the door and sank onto the bottom step.

"It's done."

Reid gave a small nod. "You think you passed?"

"Yeah."

Tyrunt stalked past them both and flopped down under the porch, tail flicking against the wood with a solid thump.

Reid didn't press for details. He never did.

Orion started preparing for real that week.

There'd always been planning—maps, lists, ideas. But now that the exam was over, he allowed himself to start treating it like something that might actually happen. He rechecked every piece of gear, trimmed fraying laces, boiled backup water filters, and made two replacement oil cloths for his boots. He repaired the strap on his outer pack and added a loop for an extra knife sheath.

He redrew his route map, plotting each gym's known location. Some were far—weeks of travel, even with luck. But others were accessible. Fallcreek sat on the edge of the circuit, and two gyms fell within a month's distance if the weather held and the terrain cooperated.

He circled one of them.

Not the closest.

The one that made more sense to reach second.

He wasn't going to start easy.

Tyrunt's training picked up again, too.

They shifted from endurance to control—specific command words, reactive behavior, move triggers. Tyrunt didn't recognize official attack names, but he knew tone. He learned to slow his charge when Orion shouted "Brace," and to pull back when Orion tapped the ground twice.

It wasn't polished.

But it was a start.

In the evenings, Orion worked on his team sheet again. He'd narrowed his list: three realistic candidates and two longshots.

Geodude remained the defensive anchor. Easy to find, adaptable, strong with terrain.

Machop was still viable, especially for dealing with normal- or steel-type threats.

A flyer would come later. He didn't need one yet. For now, stability mattered more than reach.