Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
KAY
We walk to the barracks in silence. It isn’t awkward, just the kind of quiet that comes when too much has changed and we’re desperately trying not to acknowledge it.
Caziel moves beside me with measured, deliberate steps.
His shoulder just ahead of mine. His hands behind his back like a soldier on patrol.
He hasn’t looked at me since we left his quarters.
I don’t blame him.
The satchel slung across my chest feels heavier than it should.
There’s barely anything in it—just the basics I was told I’d need.
A comb. A flask of something that smells vaguely like pine and fire.
My blade from Caziel. George trotted ahead for the first few paces, then doubled back and now stalks behind us, his white tail flicking low and slow, eyes narrowing at anyone who stares too long.
They all stare too long. Caziel assured me he’d be welcome wherever I am.
I choose to believe him, mostly because George has significantly better survival skills than I do, but also because I cannot explain the relief that at least someone will be with me.
We pass a few small training courts, sand pits, sparring rings edged in stone and blood. There’s a group working with spears to our left. Two stop mid-thrust when they see me. Caziel’s presence earns them a sharp bow. Mine earns a sneer. I pretend not to notice.
“You’re walking me in like a prized goat,” I murmur.
Caz doesn’t laugh. “Not a prize.”
“Ouch.”
“A disruption.”
Something molten rises in my veins. “Oh, good. Love being a category.”
Still no smile. Just the steady beat of boots on sun-warmed stone.
After another dozen steps, he says, “You want to survive?”
I glance over. “Bit late for that question.”
He stops. So, I stop too. He turns to face me, finally, and there’s something cold in his expression. Not cruel. Just… calculated. Like he’s measuring whether to hand me a sword or walk away.
“The rules,” he says. “First: always tell the truth...”
I arch a brow. “That’s your survival advice?”
“…because the Realms lie.”
The words fall between us like a drop of molten metal. Immediate. Final.
He watches me absorb it, then adds, “Second: go for what you want.”
“Hesitation costs.” I finish.
He blinks. Not in surprise—just in acknowledgment. “Good.”
I roll my eyes. “You gonna tattoo that on me too?”
“No,” he says. “The mark and your other pictures are enough.” He keeps walking. I follow.
The hill crests faster than I expect, and suddenly the barracks are right there, rising out of the slope like they were carved from the bones of the realm itself.
The walls are dark stone, streaked red where heat has glazed the surface, like something half-melted and reforged.
It doesn’t look like a building so much as a creature that learned how to stand still.
An open courtyard spreads wide beneath a massive awning of interlaced metal and flame glass.
It throws a shimmer of red-gold light across the ground, fractured and alive.
Even from here I can see figures moving beneath it—sparring, circling, blades catching the light like veins of fire.
The sound drifts up in pieces: steel striking, breath, the low thrum of power.
Past the courtyard, a long hall opens wide—tables and benches scattered with scrolls, half-eaten bread, empty cups.
A place that smells like ink and spice and exhaustion.
It’s all open—no doors, no curtains—just archways along the sides leading into smaller rooms. Each entrance is framed in faintly glowing script, soft as candlelight.
Private spaces, maybe. Or at least as private as this place allows.
The whole structure hums. Not with magic exactly, but with purpose—heat radiating from the stones, the kind that seeps into your bones whether you want it or not.
I can feel it even from here: the weight of what waits below.
Training. Watching. Testing. It’s beautiful in a brutal sort of way.
And as I look down at it, I realize—this isn’t a home.
It’s a crucible. Contenders linger in the open—some stretching, some sharpening weapons, some just watching me.
Caz slows as we near the others.
“You’ll have your own space. Keep it tidy.”
“Yes, sir,” I mutter, just to see if he flinches. He doesn’t.
“You’ll receive a schedule by nightfall. Rotating drills, realm theory, evaluations. Everyone is watched, but you’ll be watched harder.”
“Because I’m human?” I want to tell him his people are idiots. I have no intention of winning anything, just surviving, so they should be looking for their future ruler. I don’t.
“Because you’re unknown.”
I lift my chin. “You still my mentor, then?”
“I am.”
“How sure are you?”
His mouth tightens. “Sure enough to make it so.”
The answer makes my heart kick up in a galloping rhythm. I swallow the lump in my throat.
He steps back, motioning ahead of him with one strong hand. “Go on.”
I don’t hesitate or look back. I cross the threshold.
Eyes turn. Conversations pause. I feel the air shift around me—not fear, not quite hate.
Like something waiting to see what shape I will take.
Behind me, Caziel doesn’t follow, but I can feel him watching.
And for some reason, that helps. He’s proud of me. I know it.
The barracks swallow sound the moment I step into the courtyard, like the outside world is muted.
No echo, no draft, just a low ambient heat that seeps from the walls the way steam seeps from fresh bread.
The main hall is wide enough to ride a war-beast through, but it’s broken by pillars and half-curtained alcoves, each marked with a faintly glowing rune.
From the ceiling, chains of black iron dangle empty hooks where lanterns used to be.
Now the light comes from thin braids of flame that snake along the ceiling joists, pulsing red gold each time someone passes beneath.
I keep my stride even, satchel snug against my ribs.
Left side, second alcove—Caz’s instructions ring in my head like they’ve already been carved there.
Lyra Iskar stands a few paces inside, arms folded, weight balanced on the balls of her feet the way dancers rest between sets. She doesn’t speak, just tips her chin. A nod. Acknowledgment, not greeting. It’s enough. I return it, then move on.
A trio of contenders repair practice spears near the hearth and I recall their names from the flame situation: Sevrik, smile bright enough to burn the dust motes, Rhovan, brooding and scowly even from a distance, and Caelthar with the gold rings, working the shaft of a spear like it personally insulted his mother.
None of them pause their hands, but they all watch me—quick flashes of eye, little hitches in breath, as though I’m a knife being unsheathed mid-sentence.
I don’t let my shoulders hunch. I count alcoves. One, two, mine is the last one.
A rune flares the color of hot coal when I step in front of the lintel.
There’s no curtain or door, but the room is L-shaped with a narrow bunk carved directly from the cliff face just out of sight.
There’s a storage chest at its foot, and—of course—George, immediatley sprawls full-length across the mattress like he paid for the real estate.
His tail flicks once when I follow him in, but he doesn’t move. Typical.
I drop the satchel and crouch to scratch behind his ears. He squints at me, yawning so wide I can see the tiny black freckles on the roof of his pink mouth. Eventually he hops down, sauntering to the footlocker as if to inspect the craftsmanship
“Make yourself at home,” I mutter.
No reply but a rumbling purr.
I peer out of the doorway into the hall.
Varo lounges against the center table, one boot on the bench, flipping a dagger between clever fingers.
Each rotation glints firelight along the edge.
When his gaze meets mine, the corner of his mouth lift.
It’s not a smile, more a personal joke he’s not ready to share.
I give him nothing in return, hoping he’ll drop the knife and embarrass himself.
The blade’s rhythm stutters once before he looks away, but he keeps it under control.
Elira sits cross-legged on his bunk, shoulders rounded, scribbling in a battered notebook.
The quill scratches steadily as if he’s pouring out one continuous line of thought.
Every so often he glances up, cataloguing something only he can see, then bends back to the page.
At the far wall, Nyxen Vale dismantles and cleans a gauntlet with surgeon precision.
They never turn their head yet seem preternaturally aware of each person who passes behind them.
I file that away for safekeeping. Lyra, having drifted closer, starts unwrapping new practice blades from oiled cloth.
She catches me looking, meets my eyes. There’s curiosity there, but no invitation.
Just awareness—an acceptance that we both watch because we can’t afford not to.
I step back into my room. Inside the alcove, quiet swells like held breath.
My pulse finally slows enough to hear it.
Allowed, not welcomed. That’s the temperature in here.
Warmer than hatred, cooler than fellowship.
They don’t know what I am to them yet—threat, pawn, anomaly—so they slot me in the one space they reserve for mysteries: observe now, decide later.
Fine. I can live with that.