After everything I’d been through, going home didn’t feel right. It felt like the easy way out. When I told Mrs Lunga how I felt, she gave me another option that appealed to me more: returning to the school as a mentor.
The idea of coming back as one of the guardians of Whispering Woods and a big-brother figure to the new students was supposed to give me purpose, some direction that I desperately craved after Imani went over that cliff. Losing my best friend left me feeling hollow inside. I thought signing up for the mentors’ training program was a way to fill that emptiness.
When I first arrive, I’m supposed to enroll in “Magical Defences”, the usual path for mentors-in-training. But the class is full. So I find myself staring at the only other option on the sign-up sheet: Combat.
Part of me hesitates, but another part — the part that wants to feel something real again, even if it’s pain — pushes my pen to check that box on the mentor enrolment form. At 17, I’m technically too young to enroll, but I check the box that asks if I’m 18 anyway.
The next day, a small ferry takes us to one of the remote islands offshore, the training grounds for Combat. The island is wild and untamed, its rugged cliffs cutting sharply against the sky, with the scent of salt and strange herbs mingling in the wind.
I take a deep breath, feeling the hairs on my neck stand up as the ferry pulls to shore. We’re all wearing the same leather combat boots. I thought they’d be waterproof, but as I jump into the shallow water and walk the rest of the way, the icy cold seeps in, chilling my feet with every step.
As we gather, I count exactly 20 of us, and I can’t help but wonder why the others decided to stay. Did their tests break them too? I recognise a few students, faces from before who must’ve signed up as well. But it’s the trainers who stand out, each one a force of nature in their own way.
They’re nothing like the teachers at Whispering Woods; they’re hardened, fierce, like living weapons themselves. We’re told to call them Vanguards, and one of them, Wes, zeroes in on me almost immediately.
Wes surveys us with a cold, calculating gaze, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence. He begins to walk down the line, stopping to look each of us over with a stare that seems to reach straight through my skin.
I feel a fly land on my forehead, its legs tickling my face, but I’m too scared to move lest I draw his attention again.
“You’ve signed up for Combat,” Wes finally says, his voice as steady as his gaze. “But don’t let that word fool you. This isn’t just about fighting — any fool can swing a sword. This is about survival, about pushing past every limit you thought you had. Out here, the stakes are real.”
He pauses, and his eyes linger on me for a split second longer, as though daring me to flinch. I hold my breath.
“You’ll face things you can’t imagine,” he continues, stepping back to look over the group as a whole, “things that won’t just test your strength, but your will. If you want to stay here, to fight with us, you’ll need to prove that you’re more than just a student. You need to be ready to become something…harder. Stronger.”
The weight of his words settles over us. Wes’s expression remains hard, his eyes unblinking.
“Remember, once you’re out here, the only thing standing between you and death is what you’re willing to do to survive.”
Wes is at least two heads taller than I am, with muscles that make him look like he was carved from stone. His long dreadlocks are tied back, and his piercing green eyes are as cold as the ocean we just travelled across. There’s no softness to him — he looks like he belongs on this rugged island, like he’s part of the rocks and trees, as wild and unforgiving as the landscape.
“Kat, right?” he says, his voice deep and steady.
I nod, feeling a chill run down my spine.
“Hope you know what you signed up for,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. “Combat isn’t for everyone.”
We’re given our training leathers: tough, slightly stiff armor that smells of oil and sweat, each piece made to fit snugly over our shoulders, chests, and legs. I slide my arms into the jacket, feeling the weight settle onto my shoulders. The thick leather pants are meant to protect, but every step feels heavy, reminding us that the path we’ve chosen is not an easy one to walk.
We lace up our boots, fastening buckles and adjusting straps, the tension in the air growing as we prepare for…whatever awaits.
Wes strides over to the rack of weapons, his eyes scanning the rows of wooden training swords. Without warning, he reaches up and grabs a real sword, its metal gleaming cold and sharp in the morning light. He turns, and before I know it, he tosses it to me. I barely catch it, the weight pulling my arm down.
“Wait!” Aleesha, one of the other instructors, steps forward, her expression tight with concern. “Wes, he’s not ready for that. He should be using a practice sword — like the others.”
Wes doesn’t even glance her way, his eyes fixed on me. “He signed up for Combat,” he says, his tone flat. “Let’s see what he’s made of.”
Aleesha’s jaw clenches. “This isn’t how we train new recruits, Wes.” Then she drops her voice. “He won’t last and you could get into trouble for this.”
But Wes just shrugs. “Then he doesn’t last.”
He gestures toward the sparring ring, ignoring Aleesha’s frown, and I know there’s no way out of this.
Swallowing hard, I grip the sword’s hilt, feeling its rough texture dig into my skin. Imani and I would often watch the guardians of Whispering Woods spar at the far edge of the forest. I wonder what she’d say if she could see me now, stepping into the ring with this man who’s more beast than human.
From the first moment we spar, it’s clear Wes isn’t going easy on me. His sword clashes against mine with a force that knocks the wind out of me. Within moments, I’m on the defensive, barely holding my ground, my arms shaking from the exertion.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he sneers. “You wanted to feel something, right?” He laughs, the sound eerie as it echoes off the still water around us.
I grit my teeth, pushing back with everything I have, but his strength is overwhelming. Every movement is precise, controlled, as though Wes has done this in his sleep before. I can’t keep up and my lungs are on fire. I take one wrong step and I stumble.
Before I know it, I’m down, gasping for air as he plants the tip of his blade against my throat, the sharp edge grazing my skin, drawing blood at the slightest touch.
“Keep your stance balanced,” Wes warns. “Or this will keep happening.”
He sheaths his sword with a smooth, practiced motion, giving me a hard look. It’s as if he’s daring me to get back up, to show him I belong here.
My body throbs with bruises, fine cuts, and the sharp burn of muscles I haven’t used in months. A couple of the other students help me up, steadying me, and I’m sent to the infirmary with no more than a dismissive shrug from Wes.
***
The infirmary is surprisingly quiet, peaceful even. I’m settling on to a narrow bed, still trying to process my defeat, when I feel someone’s presence beside me. I turn — and my heart nearly stops.
It’s Imani. Alive, right here, but somehow different. Her eyes are blue now, but I could have sworn they were brown before.
She looks at me for a long, tense moment, pretending not to recognise me at first. I want to speak, but the shock and disbelief tangle the words in my throat.
Finally, she breaks the silence, her tone light but tinged with something darker.
“You look like hell, Kat,” she says, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
My voice is just a whisper. “You’re…alive.”
She raises an eyebrow, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “They didn’t want us to meet again. I was supposed to stay far away from anyone I knew before. And they told me you were dead.”
She reaches for a small jar of ointment and begins dabbing it over my bruises, her hands steady, like she’s done this a thousand times.
“How are you here?” I ask, feeling the words tumble out. “I thought…”
She cuts me off, her voice lowered. “And you ended up here, of all places? They must’ve messed up the files.”
Her words twist something deep inside me. “Why wouldn’t they want us to meet?” I ask.
Just then, Wes walks in, his gaze flicking between us, his presence immediately filling the room. But something shifts in him when he looks at Imani — a hint of warmth in his eyes that I hadn’t thought possible. He strides over, examining me with a clinical detachment, but then he touches Imani’s forearm gently, almost protectively. He’s standing too close to her, his bulk towering over her small frame.
“Don’t exert yourself,” Wes tells her, his voice softer. “You’ll be back out in the field soon enough. Away from all this…medical stuff.”
Imani gives him a faint smile, and I catch the look they share — brief, almost unreadable, but enough to make my stomach twist. I lean over the bed, looking for a bucket in case I need to throw up. Though I don’t have time to dwell on what I’ve just witnessed, because as soon as he leaves, Imani’s focus is back on me, her expression serious.
“We’re having a meeting tonight,” she whispers. “Some of us — there’s a boy, do you remember him? He failed his test, that one who stormed into the dining hall with a mouthful of blood? He’s here, working in the supply restock department. They didn’t send him home either, even after he passed his test.”
I stare at her, the weight of her words sinking in. “But why? I thought for sure he’d be eager to go back. That boy was traumatised!”
Imani’s eyes darken with fear. “Kat, I don’t think anyone ever goes home. And we need to find out why.”
She stands, and through the infirmary window, I catch a glimpse of the island: waves crashing against jagged rocks, the towering cliffs cloaked in mist, and the dense forest sprawling toward the horizon. The place feels like a living thing, holding its secrets tight, watching us with an unblinking eye.
Then I sit up in bed, flinching against my fresh injuries.
“What time do we meet?” I ask.
Tell us: How would you feel if you suddenly met a friend that you thought was gone forever? What did you think of the story?
