Chapter 538. Pastry Is Apparently a Combat Strategy

Chapter 538: 538. Pastry Is Apparently a Combat Strategy

After twenty minutes of escalating debate, they finally settled on orange.

It was a compromise that satisfied neither Lia nor Kaela completely. Lia found it garish and unprofessional, while Kaela found it lacked the aggressive punch of crimson, but because both felt equally slighted, it was deemed perfectly fair.

William watched them retreat to their respective tasks, privately noting that this petty concession was likely the most mature display of diplomacy either of them had managed all week. He was also fairly certain neither of them would ever realize it.

The morning progressed into the brutal labor of logistics.

The group moved out to the sun-drenched courtyard to begin hauling crates of supplies, supplies that felt heavier with every passing hour.

The air was thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and the distant promise of autumn.

Ellie stepped forward to help, reaching down to lift a particularly cumbersome wooden box packed with dozens of delicate tea tins. She braced her core, gripped the rough grain of the wood, and began to pull.

Then, the world tilted.

Halfway through the motion, Ellie’s equilibrium simply vanished. It wasn’t a stumble or a trip; it was as if the very ground had betrayed her, her balance evaporating like mist.

Her vision swam with sudden, nauseating darkness, and her legs felt like water beneath her.

"Ellie!" Olivia’s voice cut through the ambient noise.

Olivia, who had been standing close behind her, reacted with instinctive reflexes. She lunged forward, catching Ellie under the arms just as her knees buckled.

The effort saved Ellie from a bone-jarring impact with the cobblestones, but the crate was lost. It crashed to the ground with a splintering crack, sending dozens of metal tea tins skittering across the stone courtyard like deadly projectiles.

The metallic clatter clatter clatter echoed off the academy walls, harsh and jarring.

For two excruciatingly long seconds, Ellie hung suspended in Olivia’s arms. She was panting, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps that rattled in her chest.

A cold, sickly sweat broke out across her forehead, and her skin took on a waxy, pallid sheen. Inside her mind, there was only a terrifying, ringing silence—the sound of her body failing her.

’Not here,’ she screamed internally. ’Not in front of them... Not now.’

Then, she forced the mask back on. She pushed against Olivia’s grip and forced a laugh, a sound that was too high, too bright, and utterly false.

It sounded like breaking glass.

"Oh gods, I’m so clumsy today," Ellie said, her voice wavering despite her best efforts.

She forced a self-deprecating smile that didn’t reach her hollow eyes. "I’m so sorry... Really."

"I’ll... I’ll get these... Just let me pick them up."

But nobody laughed. The courtyard had gone unnervingly still.

The usual chatter of the other students seemed to muffle, replaced by a charged, uncomfortable tension. They had seen the way her eyes had gone blank; they had seen the way her body had simply given up.

Lia didn’t say a word. She didn’t offer a patronizing smile or a comforting platitude.

Instead, she crossed the courtyard with purposeful, measured strides. She reached for a water bottle at her own belt, unscrewed it, and pressed it firmly into Ellie’s shaking hands.

Her touch wasn’t soft; it was commanding, an order to drink. Without waiting for permission, Lia bent down, seized the fallen crate, and hoisted it onto her shoulder with a grunt of effort before marching toward the transport cart.

Even Kaela, whose default mode was to puncture any moment of vulnerability with a sharp edged joke about Ellie’s supposed ’delicate constitution,’ remained uncharacteristically silent.

She didn’t make a comment about grip strength or clumsy feet. She simply stepped into the space Ellie had vacated, gathering the scattered tins with efficient, grim movements.

"Sit down," Kaela said, her voice uncharacteristically rough, almost gruff. "I’ll handle the rest of this load."

Ellie flinched at the directness, her fingers tightening around the water bottle. "I can help, Kaela."

"Really, I’m fine... Just a dizzy spell... I can—"

"I know you can," Kaela interrupted, finally looking up.

There was no mockery in her expression, only a rare, fierce protectiveness that demanded compliance. "But you’re going to sit down anyway."

"That’s not a request."

William stood at the periphery of the courtyard, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, but his posture lacked its usual casual confidence. Something in his chest had gone quiet and unnervingly heavy, a cold, sinking sensation that always preceded disaster.

He watched them from a distance. His students were closing around Ellie without a single word being exchanged, a spontaneous formation of bodies forming a protective ring around her.

It was the way pack animals do when they sense the sudden shift in barometric pressure before a lightning strike or the way people gather around a guttering candle in a draughty room. They didn’t know what was wrong, not exactly, but they sensed the storm brewing.

’None of them are fooled,’ William thought bitterly.

He could see it in the way Lia avoided Ellie’s eyes and the way Kaela worked with unnecessary force. They didn’t ask questions because they loved her too much to force her to articulate the truth.

It was a profound kindness, but to William’s pragmatic mind, it felt like a trap. Kindness was a temporary salve; it could only cover for a secret for so long before the secret outgrew the protection and tore through it.

A few yards away, Olivia knelt to gather the final scattered tea tins. Her movements were mechanical, her mind elsewhere.

When she had caught Ellie moments before, her fingers had brushed against the girl’s forearm. The contact had startled her. Ellie’s skin hadn’t just been warm; it had been burning, as if someone had pressed a white-hot stone against her flesh from the inside out.

The heat had been unnatural and invasive. Olivia said nothing.

She didn’t know what to ask, and beneath the surface of her calm exterior, she was terrified that asking would give the fear a name and that naming it would make it real.

By late afternoon, the oppressive heat of the day had begun to mellow into something softer, though the tension in the academy remained coiled tight.

Grock arrived in the back courtyard, his massive frame cutting an imposing figure against the setting sun. In one arm, he cradled a wicker basket covered with a linen cloth; in the other, he carried a long, rolled leather case.

The case contained the specialized oils required for the maintenance of Aetherion, but as Grock approached William, he seemed almost entirely uninterested in the weapon. His focus was entirely on the basket.

"You’re late," William said, though there was no real heat in the accusation.

"A man who moves with purpose cannot be rushed by impatience, boy," Grock rumbled.

He set the leather case on a stone bench and began unwrapping the basket with uncharacteristic delicacy. "Besides, this required careful handling."

He pulled out a golden brown honey cake, the aroma of caramelized sugar and wildflower honey immediately cutting through the metallic tang of the training yard.

"This," Grock said, holding the cake up like a sacred relic, his voice dropping into the reverent tone of a general describing a perfect flanking maneuver, "is a lesson in strategy."

"The secret to this particular sweetness is the second layer of syrup."

William raised an eyebrow. "I’m not sure I follow how pastry applies to combat."

"Most people make the same mistake, whether they’re baking or bleeding," Grock countered, pointing a thick finger at the cake. "They pour all the syrup at once... They rush the process."

"A fool’s mistake... You wait until the first layer has settled, until it has soaked deep into the crumb."

"Patience, boy. Patience makes the sweetness absolute."

William sighed, rubbing his temple. "I thought you came here to scold me about the sword’s maintenance."

"Oh, that too." Grock’s demeanor shifted instantly.

The warmth left his eyes as he reached for the leather case. He unrolled it with a snap, revealing vials of precious oils, and then pulled out a clean whetstone and a polishing cloth.

He stepped toward Aetherion, which lay across the bench, and jabbed the cloth at the blade with obvious displeasure.

"Look at this edge," Grock growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "Look at it properly."

"You treat this blade like it’s some crude stick you found rotting in the forest."

"This isn’t just steel, William... It’s an extension of your will."

"And right now? Your will looks neglected."