Chapter 19 - Avilyna
Avilyna
SMALL VICTORIES
We end up in the cafeteria. The place is massive, with towering windows overlooking a courtyard dotted with tables and quiet corners. Some students are huddled in booths, buried in books, while others crowd the food stations, picking through an array of unfamiliar meals.
As I pass by, I catch glimpses of dishes I can’t even begin to identify, glowing fruits, steaming meats wrapped in leaves, and something that looks suspiciously like fried tentacles.
Eventually, I grab my plate, a mountain of chicken pesto pasta.
Well, what I hope is chicken. Either way, I’m going to need the carbs if I have any hope of surviving whatever this class throws at me next.
Nalaka and I sit down at one of the tables, and we start chatting.
I learn that as long as you're a student here, your needs are covered by the Institute.
Insane, right?
Apparently, this policy is standard across all the learning academies in Elgar.
No one ever argued about it because, in the end, an educated population is a less impoverished one.
But more importantly, it gives those in charge an easy way to control what people learn.
Not that anyone says it out loud. They just let the kingdom's taxes cover the cost for every school—free education, with a side of control.
Once we’re done eating, we have exactly eight minutes before class restarts, just enough time for me to find the library.
I’m in desperate need of some escapism. It sucks that I can’t use my e-reader, and the one book I managed to bring with me is not what I’m in the mood for right now.
But at least the food here is better than anything I could’ve imagined.
The library is only one hallway to the left of the cafeteria.
It’s almost too convenient, like they’re trying to tempt me.
The urge to dive into the shelves, searching for my next cozy read, because, honestly, I need a break from all this fantasy shit.
The real world’s starting to hit a little too close to fiction.
But I show self-restraint, which, let’s be honest, is fucking astonishing when it comes to books.
As I walk into the training area, my eyes are immediately drawn to the sparring matches happening all around me.
But then, there’s Kai.
He’s impossible to miss. The guy radiates this presence, as if he’s meant to be the center of attention.
God, he moves as someone who’s got power and control down to an art.
It’s mesmerizing, even though I’d never admit that out loud.
His opponent is a literal beast. Tall, broad-shouldered, muscles straining beneath his training gear like he’s carved from stone.
He radiates raw, brute strength, the kind you can’t fake.
His opponent lunges forward in a flurry of strikes, each one heavy and precise, trying to obliterate whatever’s in front of him.
But Kai moves with a fluidity that borders on unreal.
Every step, every shift is sharp and deliberate.
Clearly, he’s been doing this his whole life.
There’s a quiet, unnerving power in the way he counters, making it look effortless.
Heat coils low in my gut as I watch Kai dismantle his opponent with such ease. There’s a calm arrogance in his movements, a confidence that flirts with smugness. He’s reminding everyone, me included, that the Brackwells really are untouchable.
“Who’s Kai fighting?” I ask, eyes still locked on the match.
“That’s Liam. You’ve already met his cousin,” Nalaka replies. I shoot her a confused look. “The lycan who attacked you?”
The realization hits me, smouldering air from my lungs, shit, the guy whose hand Kai cut off. Then I recognize him as one of the boys snickering in the hallway. In all the chaos, I hadn’t really processed what happened until now.
“Yeah, Liam is Michael’s cousin. That’s why he’s going all out,” Nalaka adds, her tone a little more serious.
Liam’s punches are heavy, deliberate, and aimed to overpower.
But despite his size, he moves with surprising agility, closing the gap between him and Kai faster than I expected.
I catch the flash of his pointed ears; he’s an elf.
That explains the speed.
“How is he Michael’s cousin if he’s an elf?” The question slips out before I think better of it. Nalaka glances around, making sure no one’s listening, before leaning in and answering quietly.
“It’s rare for us to mix, but when it happens, the next generation’s race isn’t guaranteed.
It could be a mundane or one of the parents’ races.
That’s why it’s prohibited and looked down upon.
” I slowly process her words, the idea that fear of a mundane child, someone seen as lesser, has turned love into something shameful.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Nalaka asks, her voice flat, but I can see the edges of her indifference slightly cracking. She knows it’s wrong, too.
“It’s horrible,” I breathe out.
“It is,” she agrees, her voice hardening a little. “A mundane child with only the sight would have a hard life in this world. Always vulnerable.” She delivers it, a fact, no room for debate, a well-known speech.
But I can’t help myself, “aren’t we all?”
Nalaka hesitates, her eyes locking with mine. There’s something there, resting on the tip of her tongue, but at the last minute, she holds on to it. “But at least we have a chance. A chance to make it.”
“So I guess same-sex couples are frowned upon?” I ask, one brow raised.
“Well, if it’s just for fun, go ahead. No judgment there,” she says, too casually.
“But if you plan to wed? That’s a whole different story.
Why waste a bond when you could be procreating the future together?
” Her words are flat, rehearsed. Something heard a thousand times and now repeated by muscle memory.
But underneath it, there’s bitterness, subtle yet real.
It stops me cold. Nalaka rarely shows emotion, but this?
It slips through a crack in the armour she’s been holding.
I can’t help but scoff, feeling a little fed up with this narrowed view.
“That’s pure bullshit,” I fold my arms on my chest. “There are other ways to procreate, you know. And with whatever that magic’s called, Kvirr?
I’m sure someone could work a miracle or two.
And hell, there are plenty of kids out there who need homes.
” I shake my head. “Life’s too damn short to live it miserably, clinging to some outdated idea of what should be. ”
Her expression doesn’t budge, but I see something flicker in her eyes. Maybe she’s heard that too, before, but it hadn’t sunk in yet.
“Life’s not that short when you’re an elf,” Nalaka says softly, her tone thick with something unspoken.
“We live for centuries, Avilyna... Centuries to watch things fade, to see people pass. Sometimes it feels like the world moves in slow motion.” She pauses, her gaze distant.
“And there aren’t as many orphans anymore. The Bloodmoon War took care of that.”
I shake my head. “A day, fifty days, a hundred years. It’s all the same,” I say, my voice steady, cutting through the heaviness. “Your life is still yours. Still worth living. And there are people out there who need a family.”
Life’s too fleeting to waste, no matter how long it lasts. It’s meant to be lived, fully—freely.
The atmosphere in the room shifts like a current, drawing my attention back to the fight.
Kai moves as lightning; his strikes are a blur of controlled power.
A quick combination, and then a perfectly timed kick that takes Liam’s legs right out from under him.
He crashes to the mat with a heavy thud, the sound of it deafening, almost satisfying.
The crowd responds, but it’s not a roar.
It’s more of a hushed murmur, the kind of respect you give when someone’s just proven they’re untouchable.
Kai stands tall, unimpressed, offering his hand out to Liam as if it’s nothing more than a polite gesture.
But his opponent slaps it away, his face twisted into a sneer as he shoves himself up from the mat, his voice low.
“This isn’t over, Brackwell.” Fury simmers beneath every word.
Liam might have the size, but Kai? He stands eye to eye with him.
It’s not just the height, though. It’s something else; the air around Kai shifts when he’s like this.
You don’t just see him, you feel him, in the air, imposing.
And right now, everyone does. The lycan in him, pulsing, his wolf tattoo taking the same glow as his eyes.
“I’m looking forward to it, Zenik,” Kai’s tone is laced with that trademark arrogance. “How’s your cousin’s hand, by the way? Still twitching, or just decorative now?”
Liam snaps; he throws a punch, all fury and no aim, but Kai was practically begging for him to act. He dodges without breaking a sweat, then clocks him square in the jaw. One clean hit, and Liam hits the mat like a collapsed wall.
Brackwell doesn’t even glance down. He straightens, rolls his shoulder as if the whole thing bored him, then lifts his head and locks eyes with me. The smile he gives me is pure trouble, and then, he winks.
Winks.
Without a word, Kai turns and strolls off to join Wyll, all swagger, as if knocking a guy out cold was just his warm-up act. And I just stand here, mildly flustered and incredibly annoyed that he got under my skin, again.
Nalaka leads me over to another duel, tells me to watch and actually pay attention to the maneuvers this time.
So I do.
The two in the ring move with fluidity. Dodging brutal counterattacks, all wrapped in some deadly ballet of power. There’s a kind of elegance to it, sure, but it’s the brutal kind. The kind that’ll break your nose and somehow make you feel like it’s your fault.
I try to keep up, mentally cataloging their movements, imagining how I’d handle myself in the ring with that kind of attack.
But here’s the truth: yes, my dad taught me how to fight, and yes, I know how to land a punch.
But I spent years sparring with the same partner.
I didn’t learn to adapt; I learned to predict.
Memorize my dad’s habits, his tells. Got good at exploiting them.
But now, I am slower at spotting the patterns.
These students?
They don’t wait to memorize your next move. They react, they adjust, they evolve, fast. And because the universe loves me, Kazuki Sato decides to pair me with none other than fucking Heather, of course.
By the time our turn rolls around, the only good news is that I’ve managed to get my breathing under control. Which means I won’t immediately pass out, small victories. I kinda regret my pasta, though; oh, god, I’m gonna be sick.
The duel starts fast. I’m barely in position before she’s throwing combos.
Her movements are sharp, clean and infuriatingly perfect.
We trade strikes, punches, and blocks, doing everything I can to not lose ground.
I channel every ounce of frustration into my hits, trying to break through her perfect little warrior-girl facade.
But Heather?
She doesn't break. She absorbs my hits and throws them back harder. Calm, deadly, like this is just another afternoon for her. The room quiets, attention shifting toward us as the intensity ramps up. She throws punches after punches as I block and parry. I can feel eyes on us, watching, judging. Probably placing bets. My breathing is ragged, my limbs are screaming, but I don’t stop.
I won’t stop.
I’m still standing, which is more than I can say for my pride. But Heather… she just keeps coming. And then I see it, her eyes flash, sharp and not human.
Fuck.
She’s using her goddamn lycan’s abilities.
And that’s when I falter, just for a second.
But it’s enough. Heather lands a heavy blow that sends me flat on my back, the wind knocked clean out of me.
I hit the mat, fuming. Less from the pain and more from the sheer cheating of it all.
Quickly pushing myself up, I get into position for another round.
“That’s enough! See you all tomorrow.” Sensei Sato’s voice cuts through the tension, shutting it all down like a kill switch. Heather strolls past with that smug look, tossing over her shoulder in a sing-song voice.
“Liar.”
Her little entourage giggles as if it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all week. I roll my eyes and turn right into the solid presence of Mr. Sato.
“Miss Rey. A word. ”
Ugh, perfect. Stepping off the mat, I follow him like I’m being called into the principal’s office.
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Sensei.”
“Yes, Sensei.” I correct myself quickly.
“Good.” His gaze sharpens, pinning me, curious, as if I’m some half-finished riddle he’s trying to solve. “You’ve shown real potential. But your endurance is weak. Your precision? Sloppy. And you’re too slow at reading your opponent.”
Ouch. I swallow back the eye roll and go with, “Seems like it,” then catch the flicker of disapproval in his eyes. And quickly add, “Sensei.”
He nods in approval. “You’ll train with Nalaka. When she becomes easy to beat, at her full potential. You’ll move to field training. And when you’ll find your calling, you’ll train with me.” The way he says it, it’s not a suggestion. It’s a promise, as if he knows something I don’t.
“My calling?” I ask, arching a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That’s for you to discover. Now go. Rest.” His tone ends the conversation before I can even think about pushing back.
As I leave the training room, limbs aching and ego bruised, one thought clings to me. The Satos are so weird. Sharp edges wrapped in mystery, but somehow, I trust them, even if their methods feel ominous.