"Yes, completely destroyed. I don't think they stand a chance." Darius's tone was grim. "Chapter Master, you were admiring the snowfall just now—you should know better than anyone what kind of hell lies beyond these walls. This region is experiencing one of the most brutal winters in recorded history. Even civilians, huddled in their homes, will freeze to death before spring." His eyes narrowed. "And you want to send those children out into that? They are not Space Marines, my lord. They may have trained under you, but they are still human. Many of them have only seen snow a handful of times in their lives. Now, you want them to march into this frozen wasteland—with nothing but cold steel in their hands—to face Velociraptors?"
Kayvaan corrected him absently. "Raptors."
Darius clenched his jaw. Kayvaan continued, almost amused. "Though, 'cunning lizards' isn't inaccurate. Remarkable creatures, aren't they? I've often wondered if they were an import from some long-forgotten colony or if they're native to this world. Either way, they present a perfect opportunity." He smiled slightly. "My warriors should become dragon slayers." His eyes gleamed. "Unfortunately, there are no true dragons here. If there were, I'd have them kill one of those for their graduation exam."
Darius's scowl deepened. "Velociraptors are far from simple targets," he warned. "They are intelligent, they coordinate, they hunt as a pack. They are not mindless beasts. And with winter tightening its grip, their usual prey will vanish. The cold will starve them. Make them desperate."
Kayvaan nodded. "Which means our warriors will face them at their most dangerous. A true test."
Darius's hands curled into fists. "This test will kill them."
Kayvaan's smile didn't waver. "Only worthy foes are worth defeating."
Darius took a step forward, his voice cold. "Then what was this past year for? If we put them through all this training only to send them to their deaths—what was the point?"
Kayvaan exhaled, looking at him thoughtfully. "Darius," he said, his voice almost patient, "you underestimate them."
Darius clenched his teeth. "They are not Astartes."
"No," Kayvaan agreed. "But they are warriors. My warriors." His expression darkened. "As for death—who among us does not die? Our original projections accounted for a sixty percent mortality rate." He gestured vaguely. "Yet, in this entire year, we have lost only three." His eyes locked onto Darius's. "We can afford greater losses."
Darius's lips pressed into a hard line. "If it becomes necessary," Kayvaan continued, "we will intervene. But you must harden your heart. Sympathy and hesitation will cripple them. We are forging soldiers, not children. If they cannot survive this, then they would never have survived war."
Darius's voice was quieter this time. "I understand your reasoning, my lord. But I still believe that if a warrior must die, they should die honorably—not because of an exam." A pause. "But I will follow your orders."
Kayvaan studied him for a moment before nodding. "Then make the necessary preparations. See how we can minimize casualties."
Darius placed his fist over his chest and bowed. "As ordered."
As he turned to leave, Kayvaan muttered to himself, "Little cubs… don't disappoint me."
The news of the final exam spread like wildfire through the common hall.
"What? A final exam? Now?!"
"Oh, God-Emperor, why do you punish us?"
"I hate exams."
"Is this how our instructor celebrates the new year? By making us suffer?"
But amidst the groaning, one voice cut through the noise. "I wouldn't be too worried." The room fell silent. All eyes turned toward the speaker—Sir Tigait, the youngest judge of the Thirteenth Hall of the Holy See. At just twenty, he had already earned a name for himself as a master of the cross sword. His influence within the Holy See gave him access to certain information others could not obtain.
"Tigait," someone asked, "do you know something?"
Tigait smirked and pushed his empty cup toward Lancelot. The White Knight raised an eyebrow but relented, standing to refill the cup. When he returned, Tigait took a sip and sighed theatrically. "An honor, having the great Lancelot pour my drink."
Lancelot scowled. "Just tell us what you know."
Tigait chuckled before leaning forward. "Relax. There's good news."
The others leaned in eagerly. "The final exam," he said, drawing out the words, "is not a written test."
For a moment, the room was still. Then, A cheer erupted.
"OH, THANK THE EMPEROR!"
"This is the greatest news I've ever heard!"
"Kayvaan is a saint! A true angel!"
It was rare for them to praise their instructor, but in this moment, Kayvaan had ascended in their minds—anything was better than a written exam.
During the past year, their training had not been confined to lectures and drills. Kayvaan had devised a series of trials—real, practical tests. Sometimes, they were sent in small teams to eliminate a bandit group. Other times, they had to infiltrate a fortified location and assassinate a target. Some missions required stealth. Others demanded brutal combat.
Each task had been graded—evaluated—by Kayvaan himself. And they thrived on it. This was why they trained. This was why they studied. Not for dusty tomes or theoretical debates. But to fight. To prove themselves. And now, they had their chance.
Tigait leaned back in his chair, smirking as the excitement filled the room. "Of course," he said lazily, "I don't know the exact details of the trial." The room quieted slightly. "But…" He swirled his drink. "Considering how much our dear mentor loves making things difficult… I'd suggest you prepare yourselves."
Lancelot crossed his arms. "And what exactly should we prepare for?"
Tigait grinned. "I'd imagine something that involves survival." His smirk widened. "And a lot of pain."
For a moment, the warriors exchanged glances. Lancelot grinned. "We've trained for this."
Jomina stretched her arms. "Let's hope it's something interesting."
Virgil cracked his knuckles. "Whatever it is, we'll crush it."
And just like that—the tension had shifted. There was no fear. No hesitation. Only anticipation. Whatever awaited them in the frozen wilderness, they would face it. And they would conquer it.
The students were like children desperate to prove their maturity—eager to stand tall before their parents, to show their worth. "You're all so eager to die, are you?" A cold voice cut through the chatter. "At least you'll die happy."
Silence fell as the students turned toward the speaker. Darius. The murmurs shifted immediately. "Teacher Darius is here."
Over the past year, Kayvaan had not been with them constantly. His responsibilities stretched beyond the training grounds—he was not only their commander but the interstellar governor of three star systems. He left for roughly a week each month, tending to matters of governance and war, and during those times, Darius took over their instruction.
Unlike Kayvaan, whose presence was unpredictable and whose authority was overwhelming, Darius was steady—a towering figure of unshakable discipline, yet gentler than their primary instructor. He had, by default, become the most liked among them. But right now, there was no warmth in his gaze. His golden eyes scanned the gathered warriors, settling on the source of the excitement. "Tigait."