Chapter 47 #3
But Cassara barely registered the words. Her thoughts drifted like smoke, spooling back through recent memories of lightning and chaos, the wind screaming in her ears during their desperate flight, the sharp echo of a voice that would never get the chance to say a proper goodbye.
She sat perfectly still in her chair, hands folded carefully in her lap, eyes fixed on some point in the distance that she couldn’t quite identify or describe.
It wasn’t until the headmistress’s voice rang out again, clipped and final with administrative efficiency, that Cassara stirred from her reverie.
The announcement echoed across the Great Hall with practiced authority—students were to have their trunks packed and ready for transport by first light.
The airships would depart promptly at noon, carrying them back to their families and whatever awaited them during the summer months.
Cassara stood with the rest of her unit as the formal dismissal was given, her legs carrying her automatically as the crowd began to file out of the hall.
The movement flowed like a slow current, students clustering in groups as they made their way toward the exits, their voices rising in a mixture of excited chatter about summer plans and melancholy farewells.
She followed the stream of bodies, moving in silence among her chattering classmates. Not lost, exactly, but not entirely present either.
Which is why she wasn’t sure how she ended up outside the training annex.
One minute she was walking across the outer corridor past the north wing—her boots echoing against stone worn smooth by centuries of academy students, her mind deliberately blank as she focused on the simple rhythm of her steps.
The next, she was standing in front of the door to Auren’s training room.
No. Not Auren’s anymore.
The brass plaque still gleamed beneath its spell-polished runes—Advanced Combat Theory - Instructor A. Veth. Someone would come to change it soon, she supposed. Replace his name with another, as if switching out plaques could fill the space he’d left behind.
The chamber beyond was dark.
Cassara reached for the handle. The metal was cold beneath her palm, colder than it should have been. She pushed the door open.
Silence greeted her.
The room was bigger than she remembered.
The practice dummies had been cleared away, leaving pale marks on the floor where they’d stood for years.
The sparring circles had been wiped clean, their intricate geometries reduced to faint chalk ghosts.
His desk sat bare in the corner—no scattered reports annotated in his precise script, no half-filled mugs of tea growing cold while he demonstrated a particularly complex maneuver, no trace of the man who once filled this place.
She could still see him there, standing in the center circle with that particular stillness he had—like a blade at rest, ready to move at any moment. Could still hear his voice, low and measured. Could still feel his hands on her waist, his mouth against her lips, burning with want.
He told her he was leaving. She hadn’t wanted to believe it. A part of her hated him for it, for the growing ache in her chest, for the emptiness, the hurt. Maybe that was for the best because hating him would cost less than loving him.
She told him she understood. But standing here, in the absence he left behind, she realized she hadn’t understood at all.
It hurt. Gods, it hurt.
The pain caught her off guard with its intensity—a physical thing, sharp and immediate, as if someone had reached into her chest, grabbed her heart, and twisted.
She bit down on the emotion swelling in her chest, the pressure building behind her eyes. She didn’t cry.
You’ll lose more important things in life. Better get used to it.
She hated that her father had been right about so many things.
Cassara’s fingers curled at her sides, knuckles tight enough to ache. She sucked in a breath, shaky and thin, tasting dust and old magic on her tongue. Still not crying. Not yet. She was stronger than this. She had to be.
But the room seemed to press in on her, all that empty space where life used to be.
Her eyes burned. She blinked hard, fast, refusing to let the tears fall.
She was alone here. She could allow herself this moment of weakness, then pack it away with all the other things she didn’t let herself feel. Tomorrow she’d be fine. Tomorrow she’d—
The air shifted. A whisper of warmth against the chill. A quiet presence behind her that she recognized before he spoke.
She turned.
Gideon stood a few paces away, framed by the doorway she’d left open. He must have followed her here. He always seemed to know when she needed him, even when she didn’t know it herself.
He didn’t speak, the silence stretching between them, full of all the words she couldn’t bring herself to say.
I’m not okay.
I don’t know how to do this.
I’m so tired of being strong.
And something inside her cracked.
The sound that escaped her throat was small, broken. A child’s sound from a woman who’d forgotten how to be anything but composed. She saw his expression shift, surprise, maybe, or concern, before her vision blurred.
She closed the distance without conscious thought, walking straight into him, not caring how she must look, how vulnerable, how broken, how utterly unlike the Cassara everyone expected her to be.
His arms came around her without hesitation, solid and sure, wrapping her in a quiet embrace that didn’t ask anything of her.
He felt familiar. Safe. Real in a way that nothing else felt right now.
She pressed her face to his chest, fingers clutching at the fine fabric of his coat, and the tears came.
Silent at first, and then in soft, shaking waves that seemed to pull from somewhere deep inside her.
Years of unshed grief, maybe. Years of loss packed away and ignored, demanding their due at last.
His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, fingers gentle in her hair. The other arm curled around her, holding her steady as tremors ran through her. She could feel the solid beat of his heart against her cheek, steady as a drum, anchoring her to the moment.
He didn’t flinch at her tears soaking through his shirt. Didn’t stiffen at this unprecedented display of weakness from someone who’d faced down a leviathan just days before.
He just held her.
She didn’t know how long they stood there. Long enough for the tears to run their course and for the crushing weight in her chest to ease, just a little.
When she finally pulled back, just far enough to look up at him, his eyes were soft with an understanding, a gentleness, that made her chest tighten in an entirely different way.
“Thank you,” she whispered, voice raw.
He brushed a tear from her cheek with careful fingers. “Always,” he said simply.
And she believed him.