This time, when the students moved, there was a difference. A hesitant one, like stepping into a cold bath—but a difference nonetheless.
No more Granfire improvisations.
No more sideways glances for unsanctioned cues.
They followed the scrolls now, the official form passed down by the Academy's founders, clumsy as it still felt in their bodies.
Nolan stepped forward, his presence cutting through their line like a blade. His eyes were sharp, precise, but he didn't yell.
Not yet.
His gaze scanned the shifting forms like a master jeweler inspecting flawed gems. He observed everything—the trembling knees, the lifted shoulders, the overextended spins.
"You," he barked, pointing at Thomas, who had just turned too early in the pattern. "Foot late. Again. Left leg leads, not right. Are you marching for war or playing hopscotch? Be a little firmer when you move your right and make the left more stiff…"
