Ezekiel was the first to move. Not with the fanfare of someone eager to prove himself, but with the grim determination of someone who already knew what needed to be done.
He stepped forward, boots crunching softly into the snow as he began his attack. The others followed, a blur of cloaks, steel, and defiance moving as one. For all their jokes and jabs as 'classmates', they moved like a unit this time.
East stayed behind.
While the apprentices surged forward, cloaks snapping behind them like war banners, East remained still—his boots anchored in the snow, his eyes fixed ahead but distant in thought. One by one, they passed him—some with nervous energy crackling at their fingertips, others with blades half-drawn and faces half-set in fear. Yet none of them looked back.
And he didn't call out to stop them.
