Chapter 4: Between Beasts and Bloodlines
---
The first true frost of the season had crept over the Lowmoor academy like a silent thief, sheathing the training yard in thin ice and turning each breath into white mist.
Zephyr tightened the scarf around his neck and hoisted a wooden bucket over his shoulder, his boots crunching across the brittle grass toward Stable Row. His arms were sore from the previous day's rounds, but he welcomed the burn, it meant he hadn't stopped.
The academy had settled into its usual rhythm. New enrolled beast tamer class started. Beast cries at dawn, caretaker bells at midmorning, the echo of instructor orders rolling across the dirt courtyards like drum beats.
Zephyr moved among it all like a ghost. Few spoke to him, but more eyes followed him now. Whispers circulated about the Bristle Fang, about the red-eyed instructor who had backed him, and the F-rank feeder who did what a combat tamer could not.
He'd even caught Callen Dros glaring at him from across the mess hall two nights ago. That alone felt like an achievement.
Today, however, his schedule had shifted.
Stable Row was closed for repairs after one of the Rockhides broke through its gate in a tantrum. Instead, Zephyr was assigned to the Inner Grounds. Specifically the holding stalls near the infirmary. It wasn't a punishment. Quite the opposite. Only those with precision and calm were allowed near the sick or wounded.
He followed Grent through a narrow corridor behind the southern garden. The walls here were built of darker stone, the air thick with herbal fumes, and a steady trickle of heat from the sunstones embedded in the ceiling.
Grent, as usual, led with little care for conversation. "You'll handle Wing Three. Mostly sedated beasts. Still, don't get sloppy. One twitch and they'll have your face for dessert."
Zephyr nodded silently. Grent tossed him a keyring and turned down another corridor, already shouting at someone about spilled gel moss. It's a healing paste for beasts.