Vane returned to the fog the next day.
He had spent the morning in Mana Control Lab, where Elara had officially split the class. He was now part of the "Body-Aspect" group, a small collection of students whose internal channels were built like fire hoses rather than delicate instruments. They spent the hour learning how to cycle high-pressure mana through their own tissues without rupturing anything.
Valerica was there, of course. She was the star pupil of the Body group, her internal reinforcement so dense that the air around her shimmered with heat haze even when she was standing still.
Vane was...adequate. His channels were scarred and tough from years of abuse, so he could handle the pressure, but his control was still binary. Either he was off, or he was flooding his system with everything he had.
By the time he reached the forgotten sector in the afternoon, his body was humming with residual energy, and his mind was foggy with frustration.
He found the rusted gate, pushed through the thorns, and entered the overgrown meditation garden.
Senna was on the balcony, just as he expected. She was wearing the same thin hospital gown, the same worn broom across her lap. She didn’t turn when he arrived.
Vane stopped at the edge of the flagstones. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, waiting.
After a long minute, Senna sighed. It was a wet, rattling sound.
"You’re persistent, freshman," she rasped. "I’ll give you that. Most people take the hint after I draw blood."
She slowly turned her wheelchair to face him. Her gaunt face was pinched with pain, but her dark eyes were still sharp enough to cut glass.
"So," she said. "You came back. You want me to teach you how to hold a stick."
"Yes," Vane said.
"Why?" she asked. "The academy is full of instructors. Go bother Rowan. Go bother the beastkin. Why are you out here in the cold with a dying cripple?"
"They won’t teach me," Vane said, his voice flat. "I asked. They told me it’s not their job. They said Zenith isn’t a preparatory school. I have to figure the basics out myself."
Senna let out a short, bitter laugh. "Of course they did. ’Zenith is a crucible.’ ’Sink or swim.’ It’s their favorite line."
She spat on the stone balcony floor.
"It’s bullshit. That’s what it is. They call themselves an academy, but they don’t teach. They evaluate. They take the children of the rich and powerful, who have already had millions of credits pumped into their training, and they polish them. If you show up raw? If you don’t fit their little molds? They throw you in the trash."
She gestured around her with a skeletal hand, at the crumbling buildings and the swirling fog.
"This whole sector is proof of that. This is where they put the things they don’t know how to fix. Broken equipment. Broken buildings. Broken people."
She looked back at Vane, her expression hardening.
"So you’re raw. You cheated your way in, didn’t you? Lied on your intake forms about your training."
"No," Vane said. "I didn’t lie. The System gave me the skills. I just... didn’t earn them the hard way."
"Ah," Senna nodded slowly. "A thief. I see. You stole the answers to the test without learning the subject."
She rolled her chair forward a few inches.
"And now you’re finding out that in a real fight, knowing the answer isn’t enough. You need to know why it’s the answer. You need the foundation."
She pointed the broom at him.
"You want me to build that foundation for you. You want me to take my art, the thing I gave my life for, and hand it to a parasite who’s looking for another shortcut."
Vane didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to deny it.
"Yes," he said. "That’s exactly what I want."
Senna stared at him for a long time. The silence stretched, heavy with judgment.
Then, she smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was the smile of a wolf that had found a particularly interesting bone.
"At least you’re honest about it," she murmured. "Most of them try to wrap it up in duty or honor. You just want power."
She tossed the broom toward him. It clattered on the flagstones at his feet.
"Pick it up," she commanded.
Vane bent down and picked up the worn wooden broom. It was light, balanced poorly. It felt ridiculous.
"Now," Senna said, her voice dropping into a low, commanding register that seemed to belong to a different person entirely—a commander on a battlefield, not a patient in a chair.
"Stand there. Don’t move your feet. And draw a line."
Vane looked at her, confused. "Draw a line? With the broom?"
"With your intent, you idiot," Senna snapped. "A spear isn’t just a weapon. It’s a declaration. It says: ’This is where the world stops. Everything past this point belongs to me, and if you cross it, you die.’"
She gestured to the space between them.
"That’s your line. Your border. You don’t chase people across it. You don’t run away from it. You hold it. Show me you can do that."
Vane adjusted his grip on the broom. He tried to settle into a guard stance, remembering what he could of Rowan’s brief demonstration and the flashes of posture he got when he used [Gale Thrust].
He stood there, holding the broom out in front of him, trying to project an aura of "do not cross."
It felt ridiculous. He felt like a child playing soldier.
Senna watched him, her face unreadable. After a minute, she shook her head slowly.
"Garbage," she pronounced. "Your feet are floating. Your grip is choked. Your shoulders are up by your ears. If I sneezed on you, you’d fall over."
She rolled her chair forward until she was right in front of him. She reached out with a surprisingly strong hand and slapped his lead knee.
"Bend it," she ordered. "Drop your center. You’re not a bird perched on a branch. You’re a stone sunk into the earth."
She grabbed his hands, forcing them to shift their grip on the broom handle.
"Loosen up. You’re choking it. The spear needs to breathe. It’s an extension of your arm, not a prisoner."
She adjusted the angle of his elbows, the tilt of his pelvis. Every touch was clinical, rough, and absolutely precise.
"Now," she said, backing her chair up a few feet. "Hold that. Don’t move. Don’t think about stabbing me. Just exist in that space. Draw the line."
Vane stood there. His muscles started to burn. His legs began to shake. It was just standing, but it was the hardest thing he had ever done. He had to constantly fight the urge to shift his weight, to drop his guard, to relax.
Senna watched him, her eyes hooded like a hawk’s.
"You’re full of ghosts, boy," she murmured. "I can see them. Little twitches in your muscles. Habits you picked up from... wherever you stole your tricks. They want you to move differently. They want you to be faster, flashier."
She leaned forward.
"Kill them. Right now. There is no one in that body but you. There is no skill, no shortcut. There is just you, the ground, and the line. Hold it."
Vane gritted his teeth. The burning in his thighs was becoming agonizing. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He focused on the tip of the broom, on the empty air in front of it.
This is where the world stops.
He held the line. He held it until his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the flagstones, gasping for air.
Senna looked down at him, not with pity, but with a cold assessment.
"Pathetic," she said. "Come back tomorrow. If your knees still work."