Yarik struggled through the moon's exercises. He cramped up while doing push-ups, and his back gave out while he was trying to hold a pike. He mentally cursed his friend:

The Black take you Cavaar, if it wasn't for you we might have been able to make it to the flag in time.

“Yarik!” The instructor of squad four barked at him through a course, black beard. “Is there something the matter?”

“No Dmitri.” He struggled to raise himself back up, shaking like a madman.

Later, during hand to hand grappling he lost four straight matches to his opponent. Hob seemed to think that it was entirely due to his own skill and not Yarik's exhaustion.

“They must not teach bastards to wrestle.” Hob said, holding Yarik in a headlock with meaty arms. Yarik ignored it. He could never figure out why the big ones always went for the head lock, the Blades had taught them much more effective techniques. Yarik threw a punch as hard as he could at the bigger boy's groin. Hob howled in pain, but kept his grip. Yarik worked his left hand around and stuck his finger in Hob's eye. This elicited another howl. Yarik pushed back with his left hand and kicked at his opponent's feet. Hob fell to the ground and stayed there, clutching his eye.

“You cheated! Bastard!” He whined. The other students stopped what they were doing and stared at them.

“This is Dawn Castle Hob!” Yarik yelled. “Most of us are bastards. Just because your father was some lord doesn't mean he wanted you any more than the rest of our parents did.” Yarik looked around at the others, then he was blind sided. 

Hob bowled him over and sat on his chest, pushing the air out of his lungs. Hob's big fist crushed his nose. Yarik tasted blood. He tried to put his hands up to defend himself but the bigger boy was too strong. Hob brushed them away and sunk another meaty fist into Yarik's face. His vision darkened.

“Stop!” Dmitri's voice. The weight was lifted from Yarik's chest, but he couldn't get up. The world was fading away now. The instructor's scolding of Hob faded with it.

Yarik woke in his bunk. Dmitri's bearded face floated in front of him. “How long?” Yarik asked.

The instructor raised a bushy eyebrow. “Long enough. Though not long enough to miss your squad's post evaluation.” Yarik groaned. Dmitri grunted. “Hob punched your face, not your mind. Trust me when I say I've seen a lot worse.” Moonlight cast the shadow of Dmitri's stocky frame against the stone wall of Yarik's bunk. His blue eyes were sympathetic, but they were not soft. The instructor's scarred and calloused hands rested on his knees. Yarik did not doubt Dmitri had seen worse, but that didn't make his face hurt any less. He got out of bed and followed the instructor to class.

The Prelate of the Blades of Dawn greeted them with a cold gaze. Black eyes froze Yarik in his tracks. What is he? It was no secret that the head instructor had endured the last Cataclysm and joined with the Black, but beyond that the students only knew his name: Mareth. He gestured for Yarik to sit down and continued. Dmitri walked to his side.

“Seventy fulldays. It has been seventy fulldays since the last Cataclysm. That means the next could occur in your generation, and what do you do?” Mareth scanned the ten students in the room, drawing their reluctant eyes to his own. “You enter the maze during your evaluations with no plan other than running aimlessly and hoping you win, you fight among yourselves like infants, you lag behind all three of the other squads in every measurement.” He let the words sink in. Yarik's neck bent under the weight of the silence. “There are thirty moons before dawn comes and your last evaluation of the day. You will need a near perfect score to redeem yourselves. I expect you to use that time wisely.” Mareth started to leave when a hand went up.

“Why do we need to score well on the evaluation as a squad? I mean… only four people will be chosen to join with the Black.” The voice was Cavaar's. Everyone shifted in their seats. Cavaar stared at the instructor, waiting for an answer.

“Do you know the purpose of the Blades, Cavaar?” Mareth's mouth was all that moved.

“To ensure that Dawn follows night.” If Cavaar was unsettled by the Prelate's dark eyes, he didn't show it.

“Do you know how?”

“We deal with the beasts that come out of the Convergences, that appear after the Cataclysm happens.”

“And how do Blades do that?”

“We learn to do it after we join with the Black during a Cataclysm and become a Blade, though you haven't told us how that works. Just that you are going to choose four of us, even though you are the only Blade with black eyes that any of us has seen… It's like you're keeping us in the dark.”

The weight of the silence that settled on the classroom made the first seem like a feather. Dmitri, who had been a statue throughout the exchange suddenly shifted his weight between his feet. He gave Mareth a worried look.

 The Prelate just stared at Cavaar and let the silence drag out before cutting it with a curt answer. “We are keeping you in the dark.” 

Dmitri's eyes widened.

Cavaar opened his mouth to protest. “But-”

“Some truths are not meant for the inexperienced. You will learn them if you are ever ready.” Mareth's gaze swept the room. “Five laps around the castle for your squad's performance in the evaluation, and an extra five to contemplate my reply to Cavaar's inquiry.” 

Yarik cursed his friend again: 

If I could throw you into the Black right now Cavaar, I would. You deserve whatever the squad decides to do to you while we're running.