The announcement came before the first bell.

PRACTICAL ROTATION: 2v2 STRIKE TRIALS

PARTNERS WILL BE ASSIGNED RANDOMLY.

OBJECTIVE: COORDINATED TARGET SUPPRESSION. 

Groans echoed across the dorm wing as people read it off their tablets. Most of us were still sore from last week.

“Strike Trials?” Someone next to us muttered through a mouthful of cereal. “Again? We just had them a month ago.”

“We did,” Iris sighed, staring at the assignment. “Let’s see who my partner is this time.”

I didn't say anything. 

I was already scrolling through the roster.

My name was listed in the first block.

TEAM 1: CAEL MERRIN + LEO VAIRE

Iris looked up, eyebrows raised. “Lucky you.”

The Strike Arena was wider than the training bays. It contained elevated walls, steel flooring, and observation platforms above us where our instructors leaning over rails.

Mr. Turner stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed. He glanced at Leo and me as we stepped into the circle.

“Match begins in sixty. Target nodes will appear in randomized sectors. For a target to be scored, both team members have to hit it simultaneously. Style points,” he added dryly, looking at Leo, “mean nothing.”

Leo rolled his shoulders like he was warming up for a casual jog.

“Guess we’re partners now,” he said, grinning.

I kept my stance loose, cautious.

“Don’t get in my way.”

“Oh,” Leo said, still smiling, “I’ll try to leave some behind for you.”

The timer hit zero. Alarms buzzed.

A dozen glowing spheres—Target Nodes—blinked into existence across the field, hovering midair. Each one shifted position every few seconds.

I surged forward with a low burst of lightning, closing distance fast.

Leo mirrored me from the opposite angle.

The first target was going to be mine. I fired off a shot just as it juked sideways.

Miss.

Leo launched a curved fireball that clipped it mid-shift. It blinked red and disappeared.

Tch.

“One-zero,” he said, grinning.

“Shut up.”

We moved as a unit for the next two. The second node appeared near a wall. I pinned it in place with a lightning chain, and Leo followed up with a heat spike that detonated it clean.

The third was faster. Leo hit it with a wide-range flare, and I finished it from its blind side.

The crowd above murmured. Mr. Turner scribbled something down.

We were winning.

But I could feel it: Leo was holding back.

And he wanted me to know it.

“Not bad,” he said, as we ran on to the fifth target.

“Keep your distance,” I said. “You’re crowding my range.”

He raised both hands, mock-apologetic. “Just trying to help.”

Then added, “You’re not as sloppy as I thought.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Call it potential,” Leo said, more serious this time. “You’ve got a bit of edge.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. It didn’t feel like mockery.

It felt honest.

Which was somehow worse.