[Present Day: Twenty Years After Black Spire War]

  They were not students anymore. They were soldiers.

  If Macus was the mind of the unit, Caelthon was its beating heart.

  They were on a routine patrol near the Riverlands, the air heavy with the smell of wet earth. The storm had passed days ago, but the mountains were still draining.

  It happened without warning. A natural dam of debris upstream gave way. A wall of brown, churning water crashed down the canyon.

  "Move! High ground!" Caelthon roared, his voice cutting through the roar of the water.

  Most of the squad scrambled up the rocks. But Torg, the heavy-set captain, paused. He reached back for a lagging recruit, hauling the younger man toward the safety of the ledge with a grunt of effort. The recruit found his footing, but the sodden bank gave way beneath Torg’s boots.

  He tumbled into the churning brown water, his heavy plate armor dragging him down like an anchor.

  Macus froze.

  His mind instantly began calculating. Current speed: seven knots. Weight of armor: sixty pounds. Distance to bank: thirty feet. The equation flashed in his mind, cold and absolute. Survival probability: Zero.

  "He's gone!" Macus yelled, his voice tight with logic. "The current is too strong!"

  Caelthon didn't calculate. He acted.

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  "No one is gone!"

  Caelthon moved to the edge. Macus saw the intent. He didn't stop him. He reached into his bandolier.

  "Catch!" Macus barked, tossing a small, crimson vial.

  Caelthon snatched it from the air. He didn't ask what it was. He knew the drill.

  "Adrenal Burst," Macus warned, his voice cutting through the noise. "Half-dose only. You need to swim, not explode. Do not swallow the whole thing."

  Caelthon nodded. He bit the cork, took a precise, measured swig, and spat the rest into the mud. His veins bulged instantly. His eyes sharpened.

  He dove.

  He plunged into the mud-choked river, disappearing beneath the surface. The squad watched, breathless, for ten agonizing seconds.

  Then, a hand broke the surface. Then a head.

  Caelthon erupted from the water, gasping, his arm locked around Torg's chest. He wasn't just swimming; he was fighting the river, stroke for enhanced, powerful stroke. He dragged the captain to the bank and hauled him onto the mud with a strength that shouldn't have been possible after such a swim.

  Torg coughed up water, alive.

  Caelthon collapsed beside him, laughing. He was soaked, his hair plastered to his face, his skin flushed a healthy, vibrant red from the stimulant.

  "Told you," Caelthon wheezed, slapping the mud. "Not on my watch."

  Macus stared down from the rocks. He felt a pang of something that wasn't quite jealousy, but close. He had done the math. He had accepted the loss. Caelthon had taken the potion, defied the math, and saved the man.

  The squad cheered. They rallied around Caelthon. Macus stayed back, checking the supplies, ensuring the dry herbs hadn't been soaked.

  He is the Champion, Macus thought, watching his friend shine in the sun. I am just the one who carries his bags.

  It felt right. It felt like the natural order of the world. Caelthon would save them all. Macus would just make sure he had the right dose ready when he did.

  He didn't know then that the Sun can still burn when it gets too close to the Sun.