Extra's POV: I am the Sixteenth Son

The infirmary smelled like alchemical solutions and the faint metallic tang of healing potions, a sharp contrast to the muddy chaos of the training field. Ares drifted in and out of consciousness, the lingering effects of the healing draughts making his thoughts fuzzy around the edges. His ribs still ached, but the sharp, stabbing pain from Vael's beating had dulled to a manageable throb.

When he finally opened his eyes fully, the first thing he saw was Roul slumped in a chair beside his bed, looking like he hadn't slept in days. His roommate's usually neat hair was disheveled, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"You're awake," Roul said, sitting up quickly. His voice cracked slightly with relief. "I thought... when Jareth brought you in, you looked half-dead."

Ares tried to sit up, the healing potions making his movements feel slightly disconnected from his intentions. "How long?"

"Two days. The healers had to give you three different potions - one for internal bleeding, another for the broken ribs, and something to help with the concussion." Roul leaned forward, his expression serious. "Ares, what happened out there? Jareth won't tell me anything, and the whole academy is buzzing with rumors."

Before Ares could answer, the infirmary door opened with a soft creak. Maelia stepped inside, her usual confident stride replaced by something more cautious. She was one of his classmates - brilliant, calculating, and someone Ares had always mentally categorized as a friend.

She looked genuinely concerned.

"I heard you would wake today," she said, approaching his bed with careful steps. "The whole school has been talking about it. Some kind of incident on the training field?"

Ares studied her face, quietly before responding.

"I'm fine," he said finally, though his voice came out hoarser than he'd intended.

Maelia's gaze flicked to the empty bed across the room, then back to him. "Vael hasn't woken up yet," she said quietly. "They say he's stable, but..." She trailed off, leaving the implications hanging in the air.

Roul's eyes widened. "Vael was there? I knew it, he was the cause of all these."

Ares felt something cold settle in his stomach. Vael - the boy who'd beaten him senseless, who'd laughed while kicking him in the mud - was lying unconscious just a few rooms away. The healers had mentioned his injuries were more severe, requiring specialized potions that took longer to work through his system.

"It's complicated," Ares said.

Maelia nodded slowly, like she understood more than she was letting on. "Well, whatever happened, half the cradle is talking about it. Some kind of explosion, a mysterious death, instructors running around like the world was ending." She paused. "His reputation is finished, you know. Whatever he did out there, word travels fast in a place like this."

---

Miles away from the infirmary, in a room at the Eisenklinge estate, Cassia stood perfectly still in her private study. The letter in her hands was brief, clinical, and devastating.

'Elyra confirmed dead. Mission failed. Asset compromised.'

Her fingers tightened on the parchment until her knuckles went white. Elyra had been one of her most reliable pieces - patient, skilled, and utterly loyal. The woman had served Cassia a long time.

And now she was dead. Worse, she'd failed to eliminate the target.

"Incompetent," Cassia whispered, but even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true. Elyra had never failed a mission before. Which meant something had gone very, very wrong.

She moved to her desk, pulling out a sheet of fine parchment. Her quill scratched across the surface with sharp, angry strokes. New pieces would need to be moved. More direct approaches would be required.

The game was far from over.

---

In the Eisenklinge estate, Alaric received the news with characteristic calm. He sat behind his massive oak desk, fingers steepled as Veltrissa delivered her report.

"The maid is dead," she said without preamble.

Alaric's expression didn't change, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "And Ares?"

"Alive. Battered, but he'll recover fully." Veltrissa paused. "There's something else. We found this on the body."

She placed a small piece of parchment on his desk. It bore a simple but unmistakable sigil - a serpent coiled upon itself, climbing higher and higher until its head emerged at the top, fangs bared and ready to strike.

Alaric stared at the symbol for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but carried an edge that could cut glass.

"Begin a full security sweep of the Cradle. Every servant, every instructor, every student who's joined us in the past two years. I want background checks going back three generations."

"Brother?"

"Someone wanted my son dead badly enough to plant an assassin in our cradle. That kind of patience, that level of planning..." He picked up the parchment, studying the serpent sigil. "This isn't over. This is just the beginning."

Veltrissa bowed deeply. "I'll begin immediately."

As she left, Alaric remained at his desk, staring at the coiled serpent. The message was clear enough - Someone was making enemies with the warmongers of the east and had the guts to attack an academy filled with the family's kin, more so they attacked his son.

They'd made a mistake thinking he would respond with equal subtlety.

---

Three days later, Ares stood alone in the small washroom attached to the infirmary, staring at his reflection in the polished metal mirror. His face was mostly healed from the bruises. But his eyes held his attention.

They looked different. Harder. Like something fundamental had shifted behind them.

He held his stomach, the place where Vael had landed a particularly vicious blow. The pain was gone now, but the memory remained sharp as a blade.

"I almost died," he whispered to his reflection.

The words hung in the air, carrying weight he'd never felt before. In his first life, death had been a slow, creeping thing - illness and despair taking him piece by piece. But this time, it had come fast and brutal, wearing Vael's face and speaking in his voice.

And it would come again. In this world, weakness was a luxury he couldn't afford.

He turned away from the mirror and walked purposefully toward the infirmary's main door. Jareth was standing in the hallway, reading through what looked like incident reports.

"Instructor," Ares said, his voice steadier than it had been in days.

Jareth looked up, studying the boy's face with those sharp amber eyes. "You should be resting."

"I need to ask you something."

Something in Ares' tone made Jareth close the reports and give the boy his full attention.

"What is it?"

Ares met his gaze directly, no hesitation or uncertainty in his voice. "I want you to train me."

Jareth raised an eyebrow. "You already have classes. Combat training, mana theory, tactical studies—"

"That's not what I mean." Ares stepped closer, his emerald eyes burning with something that hadn't been there before. "I want real training. The kind that turns someone into a weapon, not just a student."

For a long moment, Jareth studied the boy's face. He could see the change - the shift from the somewhat carefree second son to something harder, more focused. The attack had left more than physical scars.

"You know what you're asking for," Jareth said finally. "Real training isn't pretty. It's not the sanitized combat lessons they teach in class. It's pain, failure, and pushing yourself until you break - then doing it again."

"I know."

"Why?"

Ares was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that seemed too heavy for someone his age.

"Because weakness is a luxury I can't afford anymore. Because the next time someone comes for me, I won't be lying in the mud begging for help." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I won't be weak again."

Jareth nodded slowly. He'd seen that look before - in the mirror, years ago, after his own moment of truth. The moment when someone decided they'd rather die fighting than live afraid.

"Alright," he said. "We start tomorrow at dawn. Training field seven - it's isolated, away from prying eyes. Come prepared to hate me by the end of the first week."

Ares almost smiled at that. Almost. "Thank you."

As Jareth walked away, Ares returned to the washroom and stared at his reflection one more time. The bruises were fading thanks to the healing potions, but the memory of that night would never leave him.

He touched the mirror's surface with his fingertips, meeting his own gaze.

"I almost died," he whispered to the boy looking back at him. "That won't happen again."

The promise hung in the air like a sacred oath. Outside, storm clouds were gathering on the horizon, and somewhere in the shadows, new enemies were already making their plans.

But this time, Ares would be ready for them.

This time, he would have teeth.

– – –

A/N – Was it fire or mid? Don't just vanish—powerstone, comment, review. Let me feel your presence.