You know what's worse than being burned alive by your own summon after miscasting a fire spell? Written exams.

  Yes, the kind with pens. And paper. And rules.

  And no, “incinerating the paper” with my fire spell did not count as an acceptable form of submission. I checked.

  So, there I was, sitting in the academy’s grand hall—because of course it had to be “grand”—next to my teammates, all of us suffering through the magical equivalent of standardized testing. Behind me, Gram was muttering potion formus like he was trying to seduce the paper. Eli had her head on the desk like it owed her money. Rielle? Oh, she was doing battle with a quill like she was stabbing someone who insulted her sword skills.

  Me? I was busy wondering if there was a way to fake magical dyslexia.

  See, the theory exams weren’t just written by some overpaid old farts in administration—they were drafted by sadists with PhDs in obscure arcane logic and an unhealthy obsession with ethics, magical jurisprudence, and something called “inter-dimensional etiquette.”

  I failed to see how “Don’t throw fireballs at nobles” needed a 500-word essay, but here we were.

  As we suffered, the staff joyfully announced the next phase of finals—a grand international inter-academy practical exam. Because obviously our brain cells weren’t enough of a sacrifice; now they wanted our bodies too.

  And the cherry on top?

  The Academy gates would be opened to “civilians”. You know—peasants, nobles, merchants, drunk uncles, the bakery guy, and that weird cat dy from three streets over. A live audience. Just in case we wanted to humiliate ourselves in front of people who’d bet money on how quickly we’d get our limbs rearranged.

  But that’s not all.

  No, no.

  Enter the Sarnhild Academy students.

  The delegation from the neighboring empire. Guests. Allies. Rivals. Foreign prodigies sent here to “forge bonds of friendship”—which totally didn't transte to “assess your combat capabilities before we eventually go to war.”

  These bright little killers would be living on campus for a month. And of course, guess who got assigned as their official babysitters?

  Yep. Squad 7. Us. The so-called “Squad of Misfits.” The “Dungeon Delinquents.” The “Academy’s Ongoing Administrative Headache.”

  Apparently, nothing screams diplomacy like having your country's most unpredictable squad guiding foreign prodigies around your school like you’re on a magical field trip. Because clearly, we were the image of responsible ambassadors.

  Seriously. Who makes these decisions?

  The headmaster, in all his bearded, twinkle-eyed, Dumbledore-lite glory, stood at the podium and addressed us after the written exam results were collected.

  “You have shown tremendous growth, but the world does not wait for students to mature. It demands you adapt, improvise, and engage... together.”

  Oh, that’s rich coming from a guy who probably hasn’t lifted a wand since the Great War. Still, I appreciated the theatrics.

  As he rambled on about unity and cross-border friendships, I leaned toward Gram and muttered, “So, we’re the welcome committee and the entertainment?”

  He nodded solemnly. “Warm-up clowns before the real match.”

  Perfect.

  As we filed out of the exam hall, I noticed the banners of Sarnhild being hung around the Academy. Rich deep red with golden dragons. Subtle. Real subtle.

  We had about three days before the visitors arrived. Just enough time to:

  Regret all of our life decisions.

  Get “groomed” for diplomatic representation.

  Avoid accidentally insulting any royal offspring from across the border.

  Oh, and study. Apparently, we still had one more written subject to go.

  Kill me.

  Later that night, we were gathered in our common room, our glorious little chaos den, Squad 7’s HQ.

  “I’m not doing this,” Eli said ftly, smming the etiquette book on the table. “Why do I need to know which side the fork goes on?”

  “In case you stab the wrong diplomat,” I offered helpfully.

  Gram, who had been sketching explosive potion diagrams on the back of his history notes, didn’t even look up. “Do you think if I made a memory-enhancing tonic, I could make Rielle memorize protocol through osmosis?”

  “I’m not your test bunny,” Rielle shot back. “Also, we are not guides. We’re warriors. Fighters. Future legends. Not babysitters.”

  “You do remember we’re doing this so we can legally hit them ter, right?” I said.

  That got her attention.

  “And besides,” I added, “this is still a test. They’re watching how we interact with foreign students. If we screw this up, we’ll probably be put on some kind of ‘potential international incident’ list.”

  Eli raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t already exist?”

  We all paused. Realized it probably did.

  And went back to studying.

  Or, in my case, doodling a fire-breathing Ember doing a suplex on a stick figure beled “Leonhart von Dresner,” the foreign student leader we’d be assigned to tour around.

  Nothing could possibly go wrong.

  Right?