“I passed Second Lieutenant Guten in the hall this morning,” Rantaro—her new first lieutenant—was saying, flicking absently through a sheaf of crumpled notes as he kept stride beside her. “She said—” He cut himself off, yawning and pressing the back of his hand into his mouth. The heat must be getting to him, Kris hummed. “Sorry,” he sighed, pulling himself out of it. “She said that the new training arrangement’s going well. She’s really enjoyed working with the older group, and, from what I’ve seen, they’ve really taken to her. They've grown a lot.”

Kris nodded. “With less trainees to handle at a time, she’s really been able to focus on their individual weaknesses and strengths. They’re improving, and quickly!” She smiled. “I think part of it is that they want to impress her so bad.”

Rantaro snickered. “I wish she’d give me a few pointers.”

“How are you doing with the younger cadets?”

He’d been blasted out when the ceiling above them had collapsed, breaking open the floor with an explosion--Shu’s ankle dangled over the blazing hole now--and freeing a blast of flames and a gale of ripping hot wind from the rooms below.

“Fubuki!” Shu hollered again. His fingers were slick with sweat and soot. The protective seals he’d painted over his skin were running, smeared and useless. Not fireproof. No shield. No amplified strength. Already, his lieutenant’s hand was slipping through his own. In a few more seconds, despite his best efforts, he would let go. “Fubuki, come on!” he screamed, even as he recognized it wouldn’t do any good--the young man had taken a projectile directly to his brow. His head had snapped back and pinched a nerve in his spinal column. He had been forced unconscious, and he was going to stay that way.

Groaning, Shu flicked his gaze up, looking for a safe place to land. If he couldn’t pull Fubuki back inside, maybe he could direct his fall--or even manage to carry him to the ground. The prospects weren’t looking good, however. The garden below was charred black, crunching and crackling with billows of fat red sparks. The bleak stone road after it wasn’t any more promising. And, beyond that… Shu’s eyes widened.

The river?

He calculated the distance frantically. He wouldn’t get a running start, he would be carrying a dead weight, and height wasn’t necessarily on his side. But I can make it, he swallowed, feeling the sting of smog as it dripped down his throat. I can make it.

Digging his fingernails into his first lieutenant’s wrist, Shu drove his weight backward, kicking off his knees and staggering hazardously to his feet. Mere inches behind him, the gaping maw of the shattered floor loomed, jets of flame licking hungrily at his heels. Meanwhile, his lungs suddenly expanded as he wrenched upright, refilling with air--soupy and black though it was--and his impalation scar began to ache. The soreness was dull and familiar, although not the least bit helpful; he tried to ignore it.

With a grunt, he clamped his fists tighter around Fubuki’s slipping fingers and planted his boot over the windowsill.

Just one jump, he thought, squinting as a gust of burnt air whipped against his skin. His tangled hair flipped and turned, caught in the breeze, and the hundred-or-so shards of glass lodged inside it tinkled together like paste jewels. He ducked his head carefully under the window bay, his eyes locking to the river below, and prepared a burst of Resonance, letting it collect in the soles of his feet. Then, with a roar of effort, he leapt from the building.

It was a rush of confusion and chaos.

He managed to secure his grip around Fubuki’s shoulders.

Golden fire screamed out from behind him.

He thrust down his heels.

The magic there activated, wild and untempered, and propelled him higher.

The wind wailed.

His hair flogged his face.

Shadows and light spun together like a kaleidoscope.

He vaguely registered the fact that he was not simply falling, but flipping, rolling through the air.

And suddenly, the water was there.

He locked his arms to protect Fubuki’s skull.

He managed to catch his own breath.

And then the river split against his back.

CRASH!

A split second of thunder was followed by a sudden, oppressive silence as his ears instantaneously filled with water. He felt the raging swarm of surface-bound bubbles as they billowed past his limbs and the frigid cold as it coated him like a paste. Reflexively, he gagged and the air he’d saved burst from his mouth.

He guffawed. “Excuse me?”

“Consider it a testament to your vitality.”

He slumped against his crutch, his hazy indigo shadow mirroring the decompression. “Oh, no. Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“I do give you time off, don’t I? I’m serious. Do you need more? You can have it.”

She snorted, waving away the concern. “That’s not what I meant, Your Majesty. I'm trying to say that, as your captain, it’s my responsibility to worry about you, whether I'm on duty or not. And, as your friend,” she emphasized the word by blowing out her cheeks and Aiger rolled his eyes, “my worrying, frankly, never stops.”

“Even with four grown men constantly babysitting me?”

“Honestly, I don't think Free spends that much time on you.”

And sure enough, standing behind her was none other than the matriarch of the de la Hoya family. Free’s mother. Much like her son, the duchess was tall and lean, and possessed a mane of thick, golden-blonde hair. Hers had been braided back into an intricate, bead-studded weave especially for the ball, and her dress--an elegant red gown with a feathery, cathedral-style train and sleeves slit up to the elbows--had obviously been selected with just as much thought. “Kristina,” the woman bowed, her voluminous skirt swaying forwards like a furling wing.