Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn't know I exist.

For the millionth time in forty-five minutes, I sneak a peek in Sam Harvey's direction, and he's so cute it makes my throat close up. Though I should probably come up with another adjective—Stella always says guys don't like being called cute.

But holy hell, there's no other way to describe his soft features and soulful brown eyes. He's wearing his usual green jacket and he's running his hand through his brown hair, the kind that feels silky to the touch and makes you want to run your fingers through it.

Since my mom passed away, my heart has only raced for one guy and he simply ignores my presence.

All right, maybe I'm exaggerating a little bit. Ignoring might not be the right word for it. The thing is, I can never seem to catch Sam in a moment where he's... accessible. Sam is an earth fairy, and his power is to pass through solid matter—which is, honestly, very inconvenient for someone trying to make conversation. Since the whole castle is made of stone, Sam's constantly walking through walls to get places faster, which means he only shows up in the room right before class starts and disappears the second it ends, without ever having to squeeze past a bunch of students trying to get through the door. And even when I do see him outside of class, he's either stepping out of a wall or vanishing into one, so there's never a real chance to actually talk to him.

At the front of the class, Professor Griselda delivers what I've come to refer to as the Disappointment Speech. It's the third one in six weeks.

Surprise, surprise, seventy percent of the class got a C-plus or lower on the midterm.

Me? I aced it. And I'd be lying if I said the big red A! circled on top of my midterm hadn't come as a complete shock. All I did was scribble down a never-ending stream of bullshit to try to fill up the booklet.

Ethical Philosophy of Magic was supposed to be a breeze. The prof who used to teach it handed out brainless multiple-choice tests and a final "exam" consisting of a personal essay that posed a moral dilemma from the Otherworld and asked how you'd react to it.

But two weeks before the semester started, Professor Lane dropped dead from a heart attack. I heard his cleaning lady found him on the bathroom floor—naked. Poor guy.

Luckily (and yep, that's total sarcasm) Griselda stepped in to take over Lane's class. She's new at Alfea, and she's the kind of prof who wants you to make connections and "engage" with the material. If this were a movie, she'd be the ambitious young teacher who ends up at a downtown school and inspires the rebellious students until, suddenly, everyone's dropping their swords and picking up pencils, and at the end, when the credits roll, you discover everyone has found the cure for Burned Ones or something. Instant Oscar for Griselda.

But this isn't a movie. This is a college full of fairies and specialists who've been inspired by nothing but pure hatred for Griselda. And she honestly can't seem to grasp why nobody is excelling in her class.

Here's a tip: it's because Griselda is nothing like that warm, inspiring teacher from the movies. In fact, she's more like a very strict and grumpy old bat who asks the kind of questions that could generate a graduate thesis.

"I'm willing to offer a makeup exam to anyone who failed or received a C-minus or lower." Griselda's nose wrinkles as if she can't fathom why it's even necessary.

The word she just used—willing? Yeah, right. I heard that a ton of students complained to their advisors about her, and I suspect Dean Dowling is forcing her to give everyone a redo. It doesn't reflect well on Alfea when more than half the students in a course are flunking, especially when it's not just the slackers. Straight-A students like Aisha, who's sulking beside me, also bombed the midterm.

"For those of you who choose to take it again, your two grades will be averaged. If you do worse the second time, the first grade will stand," Griselda finishes.

"I can't believe you got an A," Aisha whispers to me, staring at her own test as if it had punched her in the gut. "How did you get an A and I got this piece of shit?"

The sheer weight of her disappointment is so intense that I don't even have room to be offended. I give her a half-apologetic smile, because I know how hard she is on herself—especially because of her parents. Aisha comes from a ridiculously prestigious line of water fairies, responsible for half the Otherworld's energy supply. They'd publicly shame her if they ever found out about this grade.

"I can't believe it either," I whisper back, trying to be supportive. "Seriously. Look at my answers. They're ramblings of nonsense."

"Actually, can I really take a look?" I can sense her interest blooming now. "I'm curious to see what the Tyrant considers A material."

"Here," I hand her my test.

The second Griselda dismisses us, the classroom echoes with let's-get-the-hell-outta-here noises. Laptops snap shut, notebooks slide into backpacks, students shuffle out of their seats. Sam Harvey lingers near the door to talk to someone, and my gaze locks in on him like a missile. He's beautiful.

Have I mentioned how beautiful he is?

My palms go clammy as I stare at his handsome profile. Now that the room's emptier, I can sense him more clearly too. And wow, how I love sensing him.

Yeah, I know that sounded kind of weird, but I swear it's not creepy. I'm a mind fairy, and my power is being able to feel other people's emotions—and I've never felt anything like what I feel from Sam.

He's always so calm, radiating this warm, peaceful energy that draws me in like a magnet. To be honest, that's what initially caught my attention. I felt him before I even saw him. Back during orientation week, before classes started, I was walking through Alfea's crowded halls when I suddenly felt this bubble of calm in the middle of the emotional chaos around me.

But when I turned to look, there was no one there.

I felt him a few more times after that, but whenever I turned around, he was already gone and the feeling had vanished. It took me a while to figure out the mystery. I only pieced it together days later, when Terra — my roommate — and I were decorating our dorm and I got hit with that peaceful vibe again. Someone knocked on our door, and when Terra yelled for them to come in, instead of opening it, Sam just phased right through.

And suddenly, everything made sense. Every time I "ran into" Sam in the hallway, he'd already walked through the wall before I could turn around — so I never could actually see him.

That was also the day I found out he was Terra's older brother.

At first, I tried to hide my little crush on him, afraid Terra would be weird. But apparently, I wasn't as subtle as I thought. She thought it was hilarious. Constantly teases me about it. In fact, all the girls in our suite do. It's practically a rite of passage at this point.

But seriously, what was I supposed to do? It's not my fault he's hot. If he were a troll, maybe I wouldn't be into him, despite the amazing vibe he gives off. But Sam Harvey, as well as being a super nice guy, with a super good and contagious energy, is also super handsome. There was no way I wasn't going to fall just a little bit for him.

"You're staring again."

Aisha's teasing voice brings a blush to my cheeks. Like I said, I'm apparently not very subtle, and the girls are always catching me drooling over Sam. I think the only person who hasn't noticed is him. Either that, or he's just not interested — because to Sam, I'm nothing more than the girl who shares a room with his sister. He's always very polite to me, but our interactions never go beyond greetings. I've never actually had a proper conversation with him.

I stick my tongue out at Aisha, who laughs and turns her attention back to my test. I glance around and realize the classroom's almost empty now. A sudden wave of anger washes over me, and I turn to locate the source. Riven is sitting at the back of the class, fists clenched tightly around his test paper.

He must have failed too, but I don't feel much sympathy for the guy. Alfea is known for two things: combat training and Specialist development, which isn't surprising considering it's basically a military college, focused on turning students into warriors. Specialists at Alfea are almost always recruited into the royal army, and while they're here, they pretty much get a free pass when it comes to theory classes — including grades.

So yeah, maybe it makes me a teeny bit vindictive, but I get a sense of triumph from knowing that Griselda is failing one of the stars of our splendid Specialist Corps along with everyone else. But in my defense, the guy is kind of a jerk. He's always picking on us, first-years.

"Wanna grab a coffee?" Aisha asks, gathering her books and handing me back my test.

"Can't. I've got rehearsal in twenty minutes." I get up, but I don't follow her to the door. "Go on ahead. I need to check the schedule before I go. Can't remember when my next tutorial is."

Yes, another "joy" of Griselda's class: two weekly individual sessions in which we're forced to relate the material to "our experiences." A creative exercise, considering her material almost never connects to real life. I always have to make up a bunch of nonsense, and my supply of it is starting to run low.

"Kay," Aisha says. "I'll see you later."

"Later," " I call after her.

At the sound of my voice, Sam pauses in the doorway and turns his head.

Oh. My. God.

It's impossible to stop the flush that rises in my cheeks. It's the first time we've made eye contact like this, just the two of us. I don't know how to respond. Say hi? Wave? Smile?

In the end, I settle for a small nod of greeting. There. Cool and casual, befitting of a sophisticated college student.

My heart skips a beat when the corner of his mouth lifts in a faint grin. Sam nods back, and then he's gone.

I stare at the wall he just phased through. My pulse explodes in a gallop because holy shit. After six weeks of breathing the same air, he's finally noticed me.

I wish I were brave enough to go after him. Maybe ask him to grab a coffee. Or dinner. Or brunch—wait, do people our age even have brunch?

But my feet are glued to the old stone floor.

Because I'm a coward. Yep, a total chicken-shit coward. I'm terrified that he'll say no, but I'm even more terrified he'll say yes.

When I first got to Alfea, I thought I was ready for everything—even dating.

One step at a time.

Right. Moving forward one step at a time. That was my therapist's favorite piece of advice, and I can't deny that the strategy helped me a lot. Focus on the small victories, Liv always advised.

So...today's victory...I nodded at Sam and he smiled at me. Next class, maybe I'll smile back. And the one after that, maybe I'll bring up the coffee, dinner or brunch idea.

I take a deep breath and walk down the hall, holding onto that tiny, sparkling feeling of success.

One step at a time.

Chapter Text

I failed.

I fucking failed.

For fifteen years, Timothy Lane handed out A’s like mints. But in the exact year I take the class, Lane kicks the bucket, and I have to deal with the heartless Griselda.

It’s official. The woman is my archenemy. Just seeing her ornate little scrawl—filling every millimetre of the margins on my paper—makes me want to go full-on fire fairy and reduce the bloody thing to cinders.

I’m rocking A’s in most of my other courses, but as of right now, I’m getting an F in Ethical Philosophy of Magic. Combined with the C-plus in History of the Solar Dynasty, my average has dropped to a C-minus.

I need a B-minus average to remain in the Specialist programme.

Usually, it's not hard to keep my grades up. Despite what a lot of people think, I’m not dumb. But hey, I don’t mind letting people think I am. Women, in particular. I guess they’re turned on by the idea of screwing the big brawny caveman who’s only good for one thing, but since I’m not looking for anything serious, casual hookups with chicks that only want my dick suit me just fine.

But if I don’t improve this grade, I’m out of the Specialist programme. The worst thing about Alfea? Dean Dowling demands excellence—both academically and athletically. Unlike other schools, which are more lenient with Specialists as long as their practical skills are solid, Alfea has a zero-tolerance policy. Technically, the average to remain in the Specialist corps is C-plus, but I kind got myself into a lot of trouble last year and now I'm having to make up for lost time. The deal I made with Dowling and Silva —the Specialist coordinator — to avoid expulsion was that I’d keep my behaviour in check and maintain an academic average of B-minus or higher.

I’m screwed.

Fuckin’ Griselda. When I spoke to her before class asking for extra credit, she told me in that nasally witch voice of hers to attend the tutorials and meet with the study group. I already do both. So that's it, either I hire some prodigy fairy with the power of metamorphosis to use my face and sit the test for me... or I'm done for.

My frustration manifests itself in the form of an audible groan, and from the corner of my eye I see someone jerk in surprise.

I jerk too, because I thought I was alone here with my anger. But the girl who sits in the back row is still in the room, walking up to Griselda's desk.

Elisha?

Elisa?

I can’t remember her name. Probably because I’ve never bothered to ask for it. Besides being a fresher, she's a mind fairy, and those I prefer to keep my distance from. Which is a shame, because she’s interesting. Way more than I thought, now that I’m really noticing. Pretty face, dark hair, smokin’ body—shit, how have I never noticed that body before?

But I’m noticing now. Skinny jeans cling to a round, perky ass that just screams “squeeze me,” and her V-neck sweater hugs a seriously impressive rack. I don’t have time to admire either of those appealing visuals because she catches me staring and a frown touches her mouth.

“Lost something?” she asks with a pointed look.

I grumble something under my breath. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone at the moment.

One dark eyebrow rises in my direction. “Sorry, was that English?”

I ball up my midterm and scrape my chair back. “I said no.”

“Okay, then.” She shrugs and continues down the steps.

As she picks up the clipboard that contains our tutorial schedule, I fling my jacket on, then shove my pathetic midterm into my backpack and zip it up.

The dark-haired girl heads back to the aisle. Ellen? Evelyn? The E sounds right, but the rest is a mystery. She has her midterm in hand, but I don’t sneak a peek because I assume she failed just like everyone else.

I let her pass before I step into the aisle. I suppose I can say it’s the gentleman in me, but that would be a lie. I want to check out her ass again, because it’s a damn sexy ass, and now that I’ve seen it I wouldn’t mind another look. I follow her up to the exit, suddenly realising how frickin’ tiny she is, just like a pixie.

Just as we reach the door, she stumbles on absolutely nothing and the books in her hand clatter to the floor.

“Damn it. I hate when that happens.”

For a second, I consider just stepping around her and letting her deal with it, but she looks so dazed I end up kneeling down to help pick up the books.

“I don’t need your help. You can leave it," she says, grumpy.

But my hand has already connected with her midterm, and my jaw drops when I see her grade.

“Fucking hell. You aced it?” I blurt out.

She nods, still keeping her head down as she gathers the books.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, awestruck. I suddenly feel like I’ve just bumped into the actual bearer of the Dragon Flame, casually showing me the secrets of the universe right under my nose. “Can I read your answers?

“That’s rather forward of you, don’t you think? We don’t even know each other.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not asking you to take your clothes off, love. I just want to peek at your midterm.”

“Love? Goodbye forward, hello presumptuous.”

“Would you prefer miss? Ma’am maybe? I’d use your name but I don’t know it.”

“Of course you don’t.” She sighs. “It’s Musa.” Then she pauses meaningfully. “Riven.”

Okay, I was waaaay off on the E thing.

And I don’t miss the way she emphasises my name as if to say, Ha! I know yours, arsehole!

She collects the rest of her books and stands up, but I don’t hand over her midterm. Instead, I hop to my feet and start flipping through it. As I skim her answers, my spirits plummet even lower, because if this is the kind of analysis Griselda is looking for, I’m screwed. Bloody hell, my favourite subject is Herbology for a reason—I deal with facts. Black and white. This plant belongs to this species and has this property. Done.

But Musa's answers revolve around theoretical rubbish and how philosophers would respond to various magical moral dilemmas.

“Thanks.” I take my eyes off the paper to hand it back, but as I meet her eyes, I notice they're a shade of lilac.

It get's me pissed.

“Get the hell out of my head,” I bark, taking a step away from her.

She closes her eyes, but when she opens them again, the purple tinge is still there.

“I told you to get out!” I shout, louder and more forcefully.

“I’m trying!” she snaps back at the same irritated volume as me, shutting her eyes again and rubbing her temples. “This is all your fault. You’re so… loud.”

“So stop this! Get the fuck out!”

This makes her open her eyes again, only to glare at me.

“Do you think I’m doing it on purpose? Believe me, I don’t want to be inside your shitty head any more than you want me there.”

“Then stop!”

“I can’t control it!” she yells, her eyes still tinged purple and her breathing short. “Do you think I want to feel all this chaos you call a head?"

“So why are you still fucking there? Just go away!” I roar, feeling my own blood boil.

“Fine!” she shoots back, firm. “If you want me out of your head so badly, just stay the hell away from me. Problem solved.”

She snatches the paper from my hand and turns on her heel, marching down the corridor with tense shoulders. You can see the anger radiating off her like a pulsing magical field.

Shit.

I look at my bag lying on the floor and the rest of the empty classroom. I think about my grade. About the deal with Dowling. About the real chance I’ll get kicked out of Alfea.

Damn it.

I run after her.

“Musa, wait!”

She doesn’t.

I speed up and reach out, catching her arm—not yanking, just enough to make her stop. She turns around so fast she almost hits me with her shoulder.

“What now?!” she snaps, eyes flashing and—thankfully—back to their natural brown. “Gonna scream at me again? Accuse me of invading your head like some fucking blood-witch?”

I swallow hard.

“No,” I say, burying the rest of my dignity to steel myself for the humiliating thing I’m about to do. “I… I need your help.”

She blinks. I can tell she wasn’t expecting that.

“I beg your pardon?"

“You heard me.” I take a step back and let go of her arm. “I’m failing this class. Really failing. And you were the only one who aced it.”

Musa raises an eyebrow. “And where exactly are you going with this?”

I run a hand through my hair in a pathetic attempt to shake off the frustration and nerves. Fuck, I hate having to ask people for stuff.

“Do you...would you consider...” I shrug. “You know...”

Her lips twitch as if she’s trying not to laugh. “Actually, I don't know.”

Bloody hell, she's gonna make me beg.

I let out a breath. “Will you tutor me?”

She crosses her arms, completely unmoved by my situation.

“And why would I help someone who just yelled at me?”

“Because you’re nice?” I try, flashing a charming smile—the kind that always wins girls over.

Musa lifts an eyebrow.

“Does that usually work?” she asks curiously.

“What?”

“The aw-shucks little boy grin... Does it help you get your way?”

“Always,” I answer without hesitation.

She lets out a dry little laugh. "Well. Not today, big boy.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

"What do you mean, what?"

"What do you mean not today? Are you going to think about it? Give me an answer later?"

"No, Riven." She takes a step back, clutching her books to her chest. "I meant it’s not happening. I can’t help you.”

Indignation swells in my chest. "Why the hell not? Are you saying you don't have half an hour free during the week?"

Her answer comes sharp.

“Yeah, I don't! I've got three papers to write, a stage rehearsal every afternoon, and a winter showcase to prepare for. And I still need to get some sleep, if that's not too much to ask."

“Winter showcase?” I say blankly.

“Right, I forgot. If it's not about swords, then you specialists don't know what it is."

“Now who’s being presumptuous? You don’t even know me.”

There’s a beat, and then she sighs. “I’m a dance major, okay? And the arts faculty puts on two major performances every year, the winter showcase and the spring one. It’s kind of a big deal for us, so... as much as I'd love the idea of helping you—”

“You would not,” I grumble. ““You look like you don’t even want to talk to me right now.”

Her little you-got-me shrug is grating as hell. “I have to get to rehearsal. It’s a shame you’re failing this course, but if it makes you feel better, so is everyone else.”

I narrow my eyes. “Not you.”

“I can’t help it. Griselda seems to respond to my brand of bullshit. It’s a gift.”

“Well, I want your gift. Please, master, teach me how to bullshit.”

Musa lets out a long sigh, clearly already tired of this conversation.

“I'll pay you,” I add hastily.

“Well, yeah, of course I’d expect you to pay me. But...” She shakes her head. “I really can’t, okay? The winter showcase is going to take all my free time."

"Oh, that’s fucking great. So you're just going to let me sink while you do your little fairy dances on stage, is that it?"

"You dug this hole yourself." She stares at me a beat longer than necessary. “And, honestly? It’s not my job to pull you out of it.”

She shoots off down the corridor and leaves me behind, staring at the empty space. I'm left standing there, alone, with a lump of words stuck in my throat and a desperate urge to punch the nearest wall.

Nice. Rejected, humiliated, and on top of that, lectured.

Fucking perfect.

Now I’m right back to where I was before Musa-not-with-an-E gave me that faintest flicker of hope.

Royally screwed.

Chapter Text

After the study group, I storm furiously towards the dorm. What a colossal waste of time! No one there had actually done well on the exam—everyone was just as screwed as I was. Shit. The possibility of getting kicked out of Alfea feels more real with every passing second. What the fuck am I gonna do?

In the midst of my desperate musings, I hardly notice my team training on the platform in front of the Specialists' building. Brandon and Sky are locked in a fierce fight while Grey watches from the sidelines, scribbling notes in his little book.

The second Brandon registers my presence, he gets distracted—and pays for it.

"Nice one, Sky!" praises Grey, as the blonde throws Brandon to the ground and points his sword at his throat.

"Ah, damn it!" Brandon accepts Sky's hand to get up and shoots me a murderous look. "For fuck's sake, Riven! I just got my ass handed to me because of you."

I let out a dismissive scoff. "It's not my fault you're so hypnotised by my presence that you lose focus even in the middle of a fight. I already told you that if you want to get it out of your system, just say the word, mate. All that pent-up lust you have for me is going to end up killing you."

He flips me off, and I blow him a kiss.

"If the ladies are done flirting, maybe we can get to what actually matters," Sky cuts in, folding his arms like a commander about to scold his subordinate. Which, technically, he is, since Sky's the team captain. "Where the hell have you been? I've been calling you for an hour for training."

"My bad, Mom," I answer, more annoyed by the memory of my bloody awful grade than by Sky's interrogation. "I shut my phone off because I was at the study group."

"You should have warned me."

"Oh, fuck off, I already said it was my bad! I had a shitty day and forgot about the damn practice, alright?" I end up exploding.

Not at all fazed by my temper, Sky just raises his eyebrows and turns towards the others.

"Well, gentlemen? What do you think we should do with him? Does the defendant truly look repentant to you?"

"Well, technically, he did apologise," says Grey, always the one trying to smooth things over.

"But can that really be considered a proper apology?" Brandon ponders, still looking annoyed for having gotten distracted by my arrival and lost the fight. "I mean, my bad isn't exactly convincing, especially when it comes with a fuck off on the side."

"Yeah, you have a point," Grey assents. "But I'm afraid the usual penalty for missing practice doesn't apply in this scenario. The guy said he had a bad day, and it's written all over his face that he's not lying."

The three of them pause their discussion for a moment to evaluate me.

"Yeah, you're right," Brandon concedes. "He looks like shit."

"Wow, you guys really don't hold back on compliments, huh," I grumble, rolling my eyes.

Brandon crosses his arms, looking at me with that grin that says he's going to torment me. "Don't get me wrong, Riven, but if you genuinely think you're going to escape our justice just because you had a bad day, you're sorely mistaken."

Grey scratches his chin, pretending to be in deep thought, and blurts out, "Yeah... I kind of agree with you, but... throwing him into a lake of crap might be a bit too much when it already looks like his day's been full of crap on its own. Perhaps a symbolic punishment would be fairer."

"Symbolic, my ass! He can't get away with this," Brandon argues, still laughing but trying to sound serious. "We all have bad days and we still have to show up for training. There has to be some kind of punishment, even if it's a lighter one."

Sky crosses his arms, looking at the three of us with that captain's stare as he ponders the matter. "Alright. In light of the facts raised by the gentlemen, I agree that applying the usual penalty for missing training would be excessive. Our boy seems to have had a rough day, and the spirit of camaraderie needs to prevail in this team, since we're all friends before anything else. However, we're also soldiers and we need discipline. So, no throwing him into the lake of crap, but we're also not giving him a free pass. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Grey and Brandon sing in unison, and I prepare myself for my sentence.

"Riven is sentenced to do twice the warm-up exercises we did today," Sky declares. "No whining, no drama, no stalling."

"Twice the warm-up?" I raise a brow, outraged. "That's slave labour, captain."

"It's justice," Sky shoots back with a half-smile. "And if you open your mouth one more time, I'll triple the load."

Brandon lets out a satisfied laugh. "Oh, that's something I wanna see."

"Of course you do," I retort, narrowing my eyes. "Watching me suffer must be the only source of joy in your pathetic life."

"What can I do if watching you get screwed is so much fun?"

"You're a fucking voyeur."

Grey sighs, but there's a faint smile hidden at the corner of his mouth. "See? Deep down, you two complete each other. It's almost sweet... if we forget that half of what you say involves swearing."

"Sweet, my ass," I grumble, but can't hold back the laugh that slips out. "Alright, captain. Triple it if you have to. I can handle whatever you throw at me."

"I want to see if you'll keep that mouth full of confidence half an hour from now," Sky says, pulling my backpack off my shoulders and nodding. "Go on."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"Uh, let's start with push-ups," Brandon suggests, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "How many did we do today again?"

"Thirty-five," Grey promptly answers.

"And since he has to do double..."

"That means seventy push-ups for our grumpy boy," Grey concludes.

My smile vanishes. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Nope," Sky says, trying to hold back a laugh. "And that was just the first exercise."

"Seventy push-ups," I repeat, stunned. "You're going to fucking kill me."

"Relax, I'll sort you out with top‑quality flowers for the funeral," Brandon shoots back, already sitting on the edge of the platform like he bought front‑row seats. "This is going to be good."

"You should at least pay me for this little private show," I retort, planting my hands on the floor. "It's not every day you see a good-looking bloke sweating for your benefit."

"Sweating? Screaming in pain, more like." He grins, clearly hyped.

Sky comes closer, arms crossed. "Enough fooling around, Riven. Let's get going. I've got better things to do."

Rolling my eyes, I obey. The first set is easy; my body's used to the physical strain. But I know the worst part will hit after the thirtieth, when fatigue really sets in.

Grey, sitting on a bench beside us, starts counting out loud, probably to make sure I don't try to cheat. "One... two... three..."

"This isn't counting, it's psychological torture," I grunt between push-ups.

"Ten," Grey ignores my drama. "Eleven..."

"Come on, big guy!" Brandon eggs me on, sarcastic. "Put out all that energy you spend hitting on everyone."

"At least I get laid," I gasp, already at fifteen. "The best you can get is your own hand in the shower thinking about me."

"You wish."

At twenty-five, my arms start to burn. Sky leans down and looks at me with that damn commander stare. "Lower. I want your chest touching the ground."

"Captain, with all due respect," I pant, "go to hell."

He gives a slight smile. "That's the spirit. Keep going."

Grey continues counting with unnerving calm. "Thirty‑two... thirty‑three..."

Around the fortieth, I'm sweating like I've run a marathon. Brandon, of course, doesn't miss the chance.

"Look at that, the tough guy's getting tired."

"Tired of you idiots, maybe," I shoot back, breathless.

Grey shakes his head but can't hide a laugh. "Forty‑seven."

I take a deep breath, trying not to think about the pain, as I carry on. Every number counted feels like my life is getting shorter. When I finally hit seventy, I drop flat on my stomach, completely drained. I already had practice earlier, so this extra warm-up is really getting to me.

"There," I manage to say between gasps. "Where's my medal of honour for surviving this cruel and inhumane torture?"

Sky crouches down again and gives me two pats on the shoulder. "Your medal is knowing you didn't die."

"Terrible prize," I mutter, but even out of breath, I can't help laughing.

Brandon gives me a thumbs‑up with a mocking smile. "Congrats, bitch. You survived your own show."

"And you watched it till the end, like always," I reply, still sprawled on the floor. "Bet you'll be dreaming about me tonight."

Grey sighs. "Don't you two ever get tired of flirting with each other?"

"Why? Are you jealous?" I ask, closing my eyes as if I'm about to pass out.

"No sleeping, Riven. I said no stalling," Sky nudges me from the side. "Up and on to the next exercise."

And so I go.

I run. I jump. I dodge. With every step, the anger and frustration from the grade turned into energy, and suddenly I realised I needed this. I needed to channel everything into something that wasn't my academic despair. And I think Sky knew it too, as he wears an annoying little smirk when I finish everything and asks, "The princess perked up?"

I give him the middle finger.

Sky just lets out a laugh. "That's enough for today. If I keep going, you'll actually die, and then I'll have to fill out a tonne of annoying paperwork."

"He might not be dead, but he stinks like a decomposing corpse," Brandon comments, making a face. "Go take a shower, man."

"Bloody hell, first it was just my looks, but now even my smell is getting you off," I tease, but I stand to grab my bag and head for the dorm because I do smell like death.

When I get to my room, I have a shower and head to the mini-kitchen there looking for food. Exercise always whets my appetite, and I'm happy to discover that there's some leftover fried chicken and rice from Sky, who — besides being my captain, roommate, and best friend — is also the group's chef, because the rest of us are incapable of boiling water without burning ourselves. Sky, on the other hand, was raised by Silva, a soldier who taught him all the survival skills, including how not to fucking starve. So my roommate knows a thing or two about cooking.

I flop down on the couch, shove a piece of chicken in my mouth, and see Sky come over. He had also returned to the room while I was showering and now sits beside me, stealing a forkful from my plate.

"Hey!" I protest, but Sky ignores me and starts chatting.

"I can't wait for the fight with Sebastian's squad this weekend. I'm gonna enjoy smashing that arsehole's face into the mat."

Sebastian Valtor is the captain of another team of Specialists that is tied with us in the rankings. He's also an absolutely despicable creature, with a sadistic streak he makes sure to vent in combat. When our teams faced each other last year, he attacked Brandon from behind and sent him to the infirmary with a broken arm in a totally illegal move, since the fight was already over. The bastard was disqualified from last year's competition because of it, although, if it were up to me, the psycho would have been banned from the Specialist Corps for life.

"Go all in. I've got your back," I assure him.

"Im holding you to that."

"Look at you, spreading the violence. Doesn't even sound like the soft-hearted pacifist I share a room with."

"Too much time around you. It's fucking contagious."

I place a hand dramatically over my chest. "My dear boy is growing up. I'm so proud."

"What can I say? Sebastian has a talent for bringing out the violent side in anyone." He shrugs. "Oh, and next week we've got Craig's team heading our way."

I really should pay more attention to our schedule. Craig's group is number two in our conference (second to us and Sebastian, of course) and our matchups are always nail-biters.

 One of the Specialists' main evaluations is team combat. Basically, they split the class into groups of four and make us duel against each other. Whoever has the highest score competes against the winning groups in their year from other colleges. The overall champion gets a trophy, but that's not really why we push ourselves so hard. Not only do the matches have a minimum number of points your team needs to reach to advance to the next semester, they also get recorded on your resume, and the more wins you have, the better your chances of landing a good job opportunity when you graduate. Last year, we lost because the squad was short-handed without Brandon and I wasn't at my best either, but we still managed to reach the Alfea semi-finals, which isn't bad. But this year, we're committed to making it to the inter-university competition, and that's why Sky has been scheduling extra training sessions left, right, and centre, and he's been quite strict about attendance. The fact that they didn't chuck me in the lake today, as agreed for anyone who missed training without a decent excuse, was an absolute miracle. I must have really looked like shit for them to have taken easy on me.

And shit, it suddenly dawns on me that if I don't ace the Ethics redo, I won't be on the mat.

"Fuck," I mumble.

Sky swipes one more piece of chicken off my plate and pops it in his mouth. "What? You finally gonna tell me why you missed practice today?"

"I already told you I was at the study group."

"Riven," Sky rolls his eyes. "I know all your schedules and commitments so I can set up training when everyone's free, so I know for sure you weren't supposed to have a study group today. What happened?"

I can't help being impressed. Damn, he memorised all our schedules. I don't even know mine by heart. But Sky is like that, always committed to everything he does. That's why he's the best captain we could have. And best mate, too.

I sigh, knowing I'll have to come clean with him.

"I really was at the study group. We met up kind of last minute. It was an emergency."

Sky just raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to continue. I hadn't yet mentioned my grades to any of my teammates, having already given them a lot of trouble last year and hoping not to do so poorly on the tests, but now it seems like I have no way out of the confession. I tell Sky about my F in Ethics and what it could mean for the team.

"Drop the course," he says instantly.

"Can't. I missed the deadline."

"Crap."

"Yup."

We exchange a glum look, and then Sky flops back on the couch and rakes a hand through his hair. "Then you gotta shape up, man. Study your balls off and ace this motherfucker. We need you, Riv."

"I know." I grip my fork in frustration, then put it down, my appetite vanishing. Even if Brandon hadn't gotten hurt, I know —as do the others — that our team wouldn't have made the finals last year because of me. I got a second chance from the college and from the guys and promised I wouldn't waste it. That I'd do everything to get us to the intercollegiate. But how am I supposed to keep that promise if I'm not even on the mat?

"I've got a tutor lined up," I assure my captain. "She's a frickin' genius."

"Good. Pay her whatever she wants. I'Il chip in if you want."

I can't help but grin. "Wow. You're offering to part with all your sweet, sweet cash? You must be really desperate to keep me on the team."

"Damn straight. It's all about the dream, mate. You and me wearing the Solarian army uniform, remember?"

I have to admit, it's a damn nice dream. It's all Sky has been talking about since we were assigned as roommates in freshman year. His enthusiasm about the whole thing is so massive it ended up rubbing off on me too. I have no doubt in my mind that Sky will be commissioned into the army when he graduates. Bloke's a machine, literally the best in our year. As for me... well, I'm trying to play catch-up.

"Get that fucking grade up, Riv," he orders, switching into captain mode. "Otherwise I'll kick your arse."

"Silva will kick it harder," I muster up a smile. "Don't worry, I'm on it."

"Good." Sky steals one last piece of chicken before getting up to shower.

I wolf down the rest of the food and go to my bag to find my phone. It's time to ramp up the pressure on Musa-not-with-an-E.