The silence of predawn graced the academy as its denizens slumbered inside their dormitories, save for one woman in particular. Rarity splashed water on her face in an attempt to wake up and face the day. She yawned and glanced past the open lavatory door and over at Twila. The scholar was still blissfully asleep, wrapped under three blankets and snoring slightly. Not surprisingly, an opened book peeked out of the sheets—she must have fallen asleep reading.

Again.

Work is the bane of the sleeping class, Rarity suddenly mused. What she would give to be in her own bed right now, wrapped up and in her pajamas. But, alas, she had to prepare the shop to do business at odd hours thanks to school beginning. Granted, her dear friend Spike was adequate for running the business while she attended class, but there were still things that required her presence and input; things that, no matter how much the boy knew, she'd have to take care of.

Rarity glanced over at her digital alarm clock. Five-twenty. She'd best get dressed if she was planning on joining Chylene for breakfast like usual.

With that in mind, she turned to her walk-in closet and began the long and arduous process of selecting something to wear.

Jack made it to the dining hall at five minutes to six. Not surprisingly, Dash had threatened to kill the farmer when the alarm went off earlier, but Jack had already been out of her dormitory before the athlete even had the strength to sluggishly raise an arm in protest.

With a quick glance at the nearly empty room, Jack spotted Rarity and Chylene.

“Mornin', ya'll,” she announced, moving over and plopping down next to the seamstress. Rarity coyly raised a brow at this, but said nothing.

“G-good morning, Jack,” Chylene quietly said, smiling slightly and playing with a loose strand of her pink hair. “Did you sleep well?”

“Dash is a bit of a night owl—her lookin' over some books kept me up fer a bit, but eventually I nodded off. Yerself?”

“Uh, yes.” She nodded. “I slept just fine. Angel slept like a baby, too.”

“Your bunny woke up every two hours and cried?” Rarity asked, offering a rare quip.

“N-no,” Chylene quietly protested.

“I know dear, I just couldn't resist.” The classy woman smiled, showcasing her perfectly white teeth.

Jack held back a yawn. “So, what classes ya got today, Chylene?”

“I-I have Radiology study all day.”

“Do what now?” Jack replied, squinting at the timid woman. “Like, HAM radios, or...?”

“N-no,” she stammered. “Radiology is a new way to see inside animals and people, without having to get a soul folk to help. You use a kind of light to look inside them, and you can see where they're hurt at on their bones or organs.”

“Neat.” Jack put her elbow onto the table and leaned on her hand.

“Oh yes,” the timid girl agreed, smiling warmly. “It's amazing what medicine's evolving into after that trade opened between the norfolk and our country ten years ago.”

“Norfolk?” Jack repeated, her expression suggesting the word had a strange, unfamiliar taste to it. Then it dawned on her. “Oh, ya mean the minotaur's?”

Chylene's eyes snapped open in surprise. “Jack. That's not very nice.”

“What's wrong with it? It's what my grandpa called 'em back when I was a young'in. 'Sides, their boys fit the part, ya know? Hairy, tall--”

“Smelly, boorish, rude, uncouth,” Rarity added, wrinkling her nose. She quickly changed her expression when a waiter arrived with two steaming bowls of oatmeal and placed them in front of Rarity and Chylene. Jack decided to go ahead and eat; she asked for an order of eggs over easy and a steak.

“How 'bout you, Rare? What ya got goin' on?” Jack questioned.

“If by 'goin' on,' you mean to ask what sort of classes I have today, well...” The proper woman put a napkin around her neck and blew delicately into the warm oatmeal. “History is my morning's schedule, unfortunately. I find it dreadfully boring.”

“Makes two of us.”

“W-what about you, Jack?” Chylene asked. “Where you going today?”

The farmer shrugged, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out a note. “Says here fer my class ta meet at the track at nine.”

“A class meeting outside?” the well-dressed woman pondered briefly. “Oh. You signed up for that foolish fighting course, did you?” Rarity put a spoonful of oatmeal to her violet colored lips.

Jack shrugged. “Dash got me curious, mostly. Seems like it'd be a fun thing ta do when I ain't havin' ta work on my gen-ed things.”

“You would like something so brutish.” Rarity scowled. “Do you not realize how much dirt, and grime and, and dirt you'll be around?!”

“Golly, an' here I was thinkin' you'd jus' be scared of me gettin' hurt or somethin',” Jack dryly retorted.

“Well, that can happen in any profession or teaching, darling. Why, gracious, the amount of times I've cut or punctured my hands when I first began tailoring? I still have a few small scars on my fingertips.” She splayed her hands and held them under Jack's eyes to demonstrate. The farmer saw a few slight scuffs and smirked.

“Ya think that's bad?” Jack laughed, slightly muting her volume once she saw Rarity's disapproving glare. “Girl, I've wrote the book on scars. Ya never wanna see my thighs if what's on yer hand scares ya—I ran inta a barbed wire fence when I was a runt, jus' 'bout cut me ta pieces.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Rarity coquettishly replied, a sly smile on her face. Jack looked incredulously at the classy woman.

“Uh...” the farmer trailed off, unsure how to answer the other's words. She nervously scratched at her face while Rarity returned back to her meal with a small shake of her head.

“Take notice, Chylene. That is how you quiet a southerner up.”

“I-I'll, um, keep that in mind,” the pink haired woman quietly said, eating at her own halfway forgotten oatmeal.

Jack found herself helping Chylene once more take care of the stables before class started. It felt good still being able to take care of a few chores in the early morning—it made her homesickness a small painful throb, rather than a seeping wound.

Neither woman spoke much, which was fine with Jack. It was about what working with Macintosh was like on a normal day. As the clock struck eight-thirty, Jack left and headed towards her very first class at the Academy.

Like everything else at the school, the track was pristine; free of litter and immaculately painted to such a precise degree and calibration, it made Jack just a bit sick in her gut. Polished metal stands rose around the field, and an electric scoreboard towered over the entire area, the technology a stark contrast to the heavy woods in the western distance.

Bet that didn't come cheap, the farmer thought.

Towards the center of the track, a throng of students had gathered in a messy cluster, some talking to one another, others casually tossing a baseball, a select few on bulky cellphones. Jack was admittedly curious about the devices; it was a neat idea, being able to call someone anywhere like that. She doubted it'd ever catch on, though.

Jack merged into the crowd, waiting as patiently as she could for the class to start.

“You, huh?” a scratchy woman's voice asked from her side. Jack smirked.

“Hey Dash. Helluva crowd, ain't it?”

“Natch,” Isabelle said, stifling a yawn. “Name me any other class that involves learnin' how to fight monsters. Heck, I'd be in for it just for a chance to smack some rich kid's head in, you know?” She scratched at her neck. “I'm impressed you got in, really, signing up so late and all.”

Jack looked once more at the group of people. “So, uh, where's the teacher?”

“He's probably running late. Wouldn't be the first time.”

Jack used her height to look over the cluster of people. “You've been around him before?”

“Sophomore, bro.”

“Oh yeah, forgot,” the farmer said.

The sound of drums pounding in synchronization from the west silenced everybody present. Emerging from the woods like the spirit of a nightmare was the outline of a person, who continued to steadily walk towards the scattered group. As the outline got closer, Jack was able to identify it a bit better.

A powerfully built man came walking forward, his shirtless chest gleaming with an oily sheen in the morning sun, showcasing dozens of scars all along his torso. His dark skin contrasted the off-white satchel he wore at his hip—he appeared to be slightly straining under its weight, judging by the slight pause in his steps. From behind him, several more figures emerged from the woods, each playing the drum.

As he marched closer, Jack could see the well trimmed mustache and goatee on his chin, and the coarse, black hair he kept in a messy ponytail at the side of one shoulder. She could also tell the man was clearly norfolk—he towered over everyone in the area, standing far taller than her or even Big Macintosh.

The giant marched until he arrived at the dead center of the track and unceremoniously took of the satchel with one powerful hand. The 'minotaur' eyed the group and dropped the satchel. It slammed into the ground, embedding itself into the earth and creating a small crater at its point of impact. Jack felt a slight tremor from the weight of it landing.

By this time, the drummers had arrived to stand perfectly still by his side, each seemed to be wearing an ornate brown mask to cover their jaws. Dash flinched upon seeing the masks, but offered no explanation why.

The gigantic man looked over the motley crew in front of him then cocked a thumb towards his bare chest. “Kids. Welcome to my world.” He began to slowly pace back and forth, crossing his arms behind his back and staring straight ahead as he made his rounds. “It's not a pretty place—it's a dirty, grimy, rough and tough thing, but it's what keeps your squeaky clean world so nice and pleasant. Me and my boys? We're the oil greasing up the gears of society.” The scarred man bumped his chest. “My given name is William Kalaallit, though you may know of me by the nickname Celestia gave me: Iron Will.”

That drew a few gasps from the crowd; even Jack, with her limited knowledge of history, knew of the minotaur called Iron Will—The Beast who Speaks, as he had been called during the war.

He was a braggart, confidant and sure of himself, but he had every reason to be. Iron Will was one of the key instruments in driving the cult of the Griffon back from the county's borders during her father's youth. William was an unstoppable juggernaut on the battlefield, able to mow through people with the flick of a musclebound wrist, hell, the guy was able to even hold his own against soul-folk in battle, due to a technique he dubbed 'the Iron Mind.'

It was understatement saying Jack was excited to be training under the giant.

“All of you? Your country's fate hinges on your skills in combat.” He snapped his finger and thumb together, and one of the mask wearing men brought over a canteen. Iron Will drank deeply from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and nodding his thanks. “Now, you might be saying, 'Iron Will, we haven't had a war for thirty years now,' or 'Iron Will, why should we train? We have soldiers to take care of problems!' or even, 'Iron Will, I signed up for the wrong class!'

He pounded a fist onto his pecs and smirked. “Well! Let me answer the first two questions with ease!” The man's face quickly shifted into more neutral ground. “And if you think you have signed up for the wrong class starring me, Iron Will, go see the receptionist—he'll get you enrolled for either my 'Norfolk history and legend' class or my 'Critical analysis of modern and historical philosophy' class I teach on B days. Or, as Iron Will calls it, 'Friedrich Nietzsche is a bigger tool than Ayn Rand could ever hope to be.'” He gave an intense cross of his arms at the front of his torso, bending slightly at the knees and gesturing his index and middle fingers to his side. “Represent!” he bellowed.

A few men and women gave surprised gasps, quickly leaving the field and making a run towards the Academy. William returned his attention back to the group.

“Now, for the rest of you... there's a reason you should consider how quickly the Griffon Wars escalated on the eastern borders—the battles began in not months or weeks, but days after the cult declared war on your kind. Who made up the backbone of the defensive line until the soldiers arrived?”

He neither waited for, nor expected an answer.

“That's right,” Iron Will said, pointing at the gathered men and women. “It fell to the civilians, and, by my ancestors, they did a good job until Celestia's men—and yours truly—made it to the front lines.” He extended his arms at his side, as if inviting the entire throng of students to join him. “And that's why Iron Will wants you to prove yourselves to me. Show me that your generation still has the same ingenuity and grit that made me respect your fathers and your fathers before them.” He pointed to the cratered satchel. “Iron Will dropped his bag. Can it be picked up?”

A soul-folk scoffed, taking a step forward. “Easy.” He smirked, crossing his arms over his jacket.

“Show me,” William commanded.

With a small gesture of his finger, the soul-folk pointed to the bag, surrounding it in red aura. He casually gestured upward and frowned when the stubborn package refused to budge. He extended his whole hand, putting his palm upwards and strained to bring his hand up, as if hoisting an imaginary weight. The straps of the satchel rapidly flapped in an unseen breeze, but otherwise did not rise.

The man dropped his hand and bent down, panting as if he had just ran a mile.

“Wh—what's in that thing?” he gasped.

“Lead,” Iron Will said, looking over the young man. “It might have been hoisted up by a stronger magic than yours, but I doubt it. Lead does a good job filtering spells.” He glanced among those in attendance. “How are you going to solve this?”

Dash seemed like she wanted to answer, but just smirked towards the giant.

“When you don't have a plan, better get to running, man!” he called, pointing to the track. the farmer held back a laugh—the rhymes reminded her of somebody that lived near the farm. “And don't stop until you think of how to lift that bag up.”

The group grumbled, all beginning to jog. All save for Jack and Dash. The rainbow haired woman stretched her legs. Once that was done, she grabbed her torso in her hands and twisted until she heard a satisfying pop.

“What you think about it?” Isabelle asked, smirking. “Do you follow what he's trying to say?”

“What's there ta follow?” Jack questioned, taking off her overshirt and tossing her hat to the side. “Jus' gotta hoist up the bag an' we'll be golden, right?”

“Well, kinda,” Dash admitted, jogging in place and itching to start running. “I mean, what he's actually trying to do with it is make it a--”

“I got this,” Jack said, walking past the track. The farmer soon found herself standing directly over the bag. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Iron Will watching her intently. She took a breath and spat into her hands. After vigorously rubbing her two palms together, she bent her knees, grabbed the straps and lifted up. The satchel held fast to the ground, Jack stumbled briefly in surprise at the bag's weight, nearly falling flat on her face. With a scowl, she grabbed the straps more securely, and hoisted her arms upward once more, straining hard against the bag.

“You're not moving it like that,” Iron Will said, moving closer to the woman.

“I... said... I got this...” Jack spat out, the tendons in her body standing out and strained. Her arms shook, her legs quivered, and her teeth were splayed out in a feral snarl.

William was about ready to move over and physically stop her, when something happened.

Jack let out a loud grunt, and managed to lift the bag up to her knees. She quickly adjusted her grip, and rose the bag to her hips. From there, she gave one last straining push, and put it onto her shoulder. The farmer could barely move under her load, but she took a single small step towards the nearly disbelieving Iron Will.

“S—see? Told ya,” Jack panted. She reached up and took off her burden, intending to hand it over to the stunned Norfolk. A sudden bolt of pain erupted through her shoulder as she lifted the satchel in her hands. She swore, instinctively recoiling and reaching for her injury--this caused her grip to slip from the bag. The farmer watched with a shocked dread as the hefty satchel traveled on a collision course with her foot. At the last second, she shut her eyes.

The horrific impact on her foot never happened. After a tense moment, she opened one of her eyes.

Iron Will had closed the small distance between them and now held the bag easily with one hand, just inches away from Jack's boot. He tossed it to the side, and it once again landed with a quaking thud. “Let's have a look at the shoulder,” he said.

Jack rolled up her sleeve, hissing as her fingers touched the tender flesh. He examined it carefully, taking a few steps around to observe her from different angles.

“Acromion fracture, I bet,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “Let's get you to the nurse.” Iron Will glanced over toward the school. “Can you walk?”

“Y—yeah. Just hurts like hell,” Jack panted, sweat forming at her brow as her shoulder continued to throb.

They arrived at the nurse's office about ten minutes later—Jack got quickly taken care of, though there wasn't much that could be done. Her left shoulder was wrapped tightly with gauze and the nurse gave her a handful of pain pills for later on that Jack didn't intend to take. Iron Will sat in the corner of the room, casually reading a book entitled 'Thus spoke Zarathustra.' Well, as casually as a nine foot tall brick of muscle could sit in a normal chair, anyway.

“Just take it easy and don't use that arm much,” the nurse cautioned.

“Don't worry, sir, I'm a lefty anyway,” Jack said, sickly smiling.

The nurse gave a glance over to Iron Will. “Make sure she doesn't overdo it, chief.”

“Gonna try not to,” William replied, licking his thumb and folding a corner of the page he was on. “Can you give me and the squirt a moment, Nick?”

The nurse nodded, stepping easily out of the small room.

Iron Will gave a shake of his head, and wearily laughed. “I didn't expect anyone would be able to move that, kid. Fracture on your shoulder from the weight or no, you're a tough customer.”

“Then why tell us ta move it?” Jack questioned, rolling the small bottle of painkillers in her hands.

“Because I wanted everyone to pitch in and help move it. It was a group exercise—one to teach unity, until you blew away my expectations.” His expression turned wistful. “Though I should have expected as much from the daughter of Johnny Apple.”

Jack raised a confused brow. “Ya knew my pa?”

Iron Will bridged his sausage sized fingers and started twiddling his thumbs. “Knew him? He was in one of the platoon's that saved my hide twice during the Griffon Wars. You don't forget someone like that. How's he doing, anyway?”

“He's with God,” Jack automatically replied, the years dulling any hurt she used to have talking about it. “Lost his life in a stampede when I was jus' a youngin'.”

William shook his head, scowling. “Guy deserved better. He was one of the good ones,” he muttered in a far more reserved tone than Jack expected.

“You said it.”

Iron Will sat for a minute, stewing in thought. He chewed his lower lip, staring off into the imaginary distance. Finally, he stood, offering a hand. Jack took it and rose off the bed. “We won't have class together again until Monday. You'll be excused from any upper body exercises we do, but I expect you to work on positioning and leg strength. We have a deal?”

The dark-skinned woman tilted her trusty stetson back with a flick of the thumb. “Deal.” She turned to leave, eager to salvage what she could of the rest of the day.

“Jack,” William called out. She glanced behind her. “Last thing: when we get to weapon training, Iron Will's got a surprise lined up for you. Be prepared, alright?”

She rolled her good shoulder. “Got yerself another deal, coach.”

With her battle expertise class behind her, Jack decided to go help out at the theater for a bit. She wouldn't be able to handle a ton of grunt work, but the farmer had enough experience handling chores with a broken arm to know her limits. She got to work painting some of the landscape, while Rarity and Twila worked on the high walkway above the stage.

After about an hour of work, Chylene and Pinkie both showed up to help, and they busied themselves with building set pieces.

Jack stopped briefly, wiping at her brow with her right hand. A quick throb of pain warned her against anything rasher than that motion. “So, what kinda play ya'll puttin' on anyhow?”

“A classic, darling,” Rarity called down from the catwalk. “'The Count of Monte Cristo.' It's one of Princess Luna's favorites.”

“Book's better,” Twila called to the group, to nobody's surprise.

Meanwhile, Pinkie skipped around the stage, clutching an armload of construction tools. Chylene watched, stammering out quiet warnings and following the enthusiastic woman like an unsure duck following its mommy. They both disappeared behind the curtain leading backstage.

“Geez Twi, you're a total egghead,” Dash said, stepping boldly across the empty room, her tennis shoes making an obnoxious slapping noise with every step on the wooden flooring. She hopped up from the floor and easily hoisted herself up onto the platform. After wiping her hands on the back of her pants, she gave Jack a concerned look over. “Hayseed, you alright?”

“Ain't nothin' that'll kill me. Jus' a fracture,” Jack answered. She ran a hand across her mouth. “So, uh, 'bout that bag...”

“Yeah...” Isabelle trailed off with an unbelieving shake of her head. “Uh, how much can you lift? I've never seen anybody but Iron Will move that bag.”

“I ain't got a clue, Dash. I jus' kinda move things as needed on the farm.”

“Fine. Don't even guess,” Dash pouted, crossing her arms.

Pinkie poked her head out from behind the curtain. “Chylene brought snacks! Come on and eat!”

“Don't have to tell me twice.” Dash smirked, lazily walking towards the girl.

Jack watched the athlete head to the back—she cupped a hand to her mouth, intent on calling the other two down from the catwalk.

She never got to say anything.

The farmer heard a noise that filled her with dread. The snapping of a rope. Rarity cried, “Look out!” There was a sound of impact; Jack saw Rarity launched off the side of the catwalk, the soul-folk screaming as she plunged towards the floor.

There wasn't time to think. Wasn't time to speak. There was only time to act.

Jack sprinted towards the falling woman, making a mad dash to the far end of the stage. Without any hesitation, the farmer leapt off the platform and caught Rarity in her arms. Jack twisted while in the air, putting Rarity on top of her.

A breath later, the blonde slammed into the ground, landing hard on her injury.

“Rare, you ok?!” Jack questioned, the surge of adrenaline stopping her shoulder from screaming in pain.

“The sandbag...” the tailor trailed off, weakly raising a hand above them. Jack spared a glance upward and noted a bag freely swinging nearby the catwalk; sand continued to slowly spit and dribble out of its ruptured side. Nearby, Twila sat mutely on the metal pathway.

“Holy shit,” Jack whispered to herself. It must have snapped off from the rest of the bags an arm's length away from the catwalk and swung forward, knocking Rarity off.

“What's going on?!” Dash said, running out from the back. Pinkie and Chylene peeked out from behind the curtain.

“A sandbag broke an' nearly got Rare killed--someone keep an eye on her; I'mma check on Twi,” Jack ordered, rising and placing Rarity gently on the ground. The woman seemed hesitant to leave Jack's grip—her hitching breath and trembling lips suggested the gravity of what could have happened was just now sinking in. Jack bent down and grabbed Rarity's hand. She squeezed it tightly, looking at the woman square in the eyes. “Yer alright now. Don't worry,” Jack reassured, using her other hand to beckon Chylene over. The silent girl did quickly, crouching down by Rarity's side, and patting the frazzled woman on the back of the hand in an attempt to comfort her.

Jack took off, climbing back onto the stage and moving to a ladder that was built on the concrete wings of the stage. She quickly scaled it and jogged over to Twila, her footsteps clanging on the metal catwalk every step of the way.

The soul-child remained stationary, sitting on the walkway and staring at her own hand laying on the grating with a mute fascination.

“Uh, Twi? Ya alright?”

The scholar didn't answer—didn't even twitch. Jack moved over, putting a hand onto Twila's shoulder.

The girl shrieked at the sudden touch, rising in a blind panic from the ground and clutching tightly at the neck of her dress. Her bewildered eyes came back to reality, and she slowly clutched at her forehead before her legs gave way and she pitched forward like a drunk.

“Twila—stay with me,” Jack said, putting her hands out to the girl's side in an attempt to balance her.

“She-she-it was coming for me. Rarity knocked me away--” The dark skinned woman blubbered, tears streaming down her face. “She fell, Jack! She fell an--”

“I caught her. Rare's fine.”

Twila stared blankly at Jack, unbelieving. She finally slumped down to her knees in relief.

After a beat, Jack reached forward and patted Twi softly on the back. Jack wasn't the best at comforting people—her brother and father's reserved manners had rubbed off on her a bit, for better or worse—but she tried. She looked over, past the shuddering woman and her eyes were drawn towards the sandbag swinging with the slow, dreadful sway of a hung man—she had long since learned to listen to her nagging suspicions, and by God, that bag was all but calling to her to check it out.

“Can ya make it back down on yer own? I need ta look at somethin',” Jack said. Twila weakly rose, nodding once. She gripped the railing tightly, walking at the pace of a woman far beyond her prime. Once Twila slowly began to descend down the ladder, Jack got to work, leaning over the right side of the railing to look over the bag.

It seemed normal enough. The bag was a good sized cloth pouch designed to hold a large amount of sand—regulation was about fifty pounds, if Jack remembered the last time she had to use 'em on the farm right.

At the top of the bag was a wide, circular hole, where two ropes wrapped around like ivy on a branch. One still supported the bag—it rose up high to the roof and joined a collection of other ropes from different sandbags, all tied around a single horizontal pole.

What drew her attention, however, was the second rope attached to the sandbag. She reached out and tugged on the rope, pulling it up to get a clear view of what made it snap, be it rot, or age.

The cause of the rope break made Jack shake her head in an angry disgust.

The rope had obviously been tampered with—there was no mistaking the clean cut through almost the entire rope, leaving only a hair's breadth to hold against the strain of the bag's weight. Whoever had tampered with this had intended to hurt someone.

And considering that it swung down at the exact time Rarity and Twila were up here, that could only mean one thing...

“Dash!” Jack loudly barked, “Get yer ass up here, pronto!”

In a heartbeat, Dash had flown up to the catwalk. She casually flapped her wings as she floated in the air by Jack.

“What?!” the sky-child asked urgently, the situation making her as tense as a pulled wire.

“Someone was tryin' ta hurt Rare an' Twi.”

“Seriously?” Dash retorted, “Who would wan--”

“Dunno. I think he may be in this room right now—it's the only way he'd be able ta time the damn thing not jus' fallin' on nothin'.” Jack made a circle in the air with her finger. “Sweep the place, Dash: every box, every aisle, every part of the ceiling an' floor. I want this guy found.”

“On it,” Isabelle instantly said, summoning her ethereal wings and taking to the air once more.

Blueblood quickly focused, bringing forth a camouflage spell from the recesses of his mind. In a mere second, the color of his posh clothing and fair skin morphed, becoming nearly translucent and blending with the high-class theater box he sat in, just as a sky-child streaked by.

The spell would never stand a chance to intense scrutiny, but as fast as the woman shot past his hiding spot, he didn't have a fear of being found.

This isn't happening, his mind repeated once more, still stuck on an endless loop of guilt. He hadn't meant to hurt anyone—the sandbag was supposed to be a close call; a near miss—a scare tactic. The first of many, until she left the school.

He had screwed up big time—Mr. Dorcis didn't tolerate screw-ups.

This isn't happening, he thought desperately, taking a few breaths in a vain attempt to calm himself down.

Dorcis... when Dorcis heard of this...

For a brief moment, Blueblood considered turning himself over to the bird girl and mud woman. He could go quietly, get arrested, and spend several years behind bars, away from Mr. Dorcis and what he could do to punish a failure.

Except he's got to have men inside. People more than willing to gut you if he ordered it, the panicked part of his brain warned. He agreed to the cold logic. His only hope was to ask the man for a second shot. It was the only course of action that wouldn't involve his potential death or horrific maiming. He nodded to himself. Took a breath. Nodded again.

Blueblood would ask for his second chance tomorrow, when Dorcis arrived at the school.