Chapter 3.
The mats were already slick with sweat.
Aeliana stood just inside the loose ring of cadets surrounding one of the many sparring mats. Her squad filled half the circle, the other half a rotating cast of second- and third-years watching, whispering, assessing.
The gym's heat clung to everything — to the worn stone underfoot, to the back of her neck, to the tight wrap around her ribs. The air barely moved, even with the high doors thrown open. Overhead, mage lights flickered dull gold across the walls, casting long shadows behind every movement.
She flexed her wrapped fingers and kept her expression unreadable.
"Liam Mairi," the instructor called out, voice echoing above the low hum of the gym. "You're up."
Aeliana's eyes flicked sideways.
Liam rolled his shoulders once, then reached down and peeled off his shirt. He dropped it over his bag without ceremony.
Her gaze caught — just for a second — on the black ink curling down his left arm.
The rebellion relic was bold and unmistakable, spiraling from shoulder to forearm, sharp lines curling like coiled wire. It wasn't hidden. Not faded. He wore it like it was his skin.
There was no pause. No shame.
The other cadets noticed, too. A few flinched. One narrowed their eyes.
Liam didn't care.
His opponent stepped forward — a second-year by the look of it. Broader. Older.
They took their places. The whistle blew.
And then it was over.
Liam struck fast — not with brute force, but with clean, brutal precision. A feint, a pivot, and then a sweep that sent the other cadet crashing onto the mat.
He didn't gloat. Didn't smile.
Just stepped back and offered a hand.
"Clean," someone muttered behind Aeliana. "Didn't even break a sweat."
He caught her eye briefly as he walked back, and she gave a small, silent nod.
Then a shout ripped across the gym.
A shriek.
Everyone turned.
Two mats over, Jack Barlowe had a first-year in a chokehold — the smaller boy's face flushed dark, arms flailing.
Aeliana's breath stilled.
Then — crack.
The sound of bone splitting echoed through the space like a whipcrack, and the boy collapsed in Jack's grip.
A beat of silence.
"Sweet Malek," someone whispered.
Aeliana's stomach twisted.
The instructor sprinted across the mats, face white. "What did I say?" he bellowed. "You broke his damned neck!"
Jack dropped the body without blinking. "How was I supposed to know his neck was that weak?"
The words rang out like a challenge.
Liam cursed under his breath next to her. "He's fucking unhinged."
Aeliana didn't speak. Just kept her fists curled tight at her sides.
Then her name was called.
"Aeliana Sorynne."
Her heartbeat didn't spike.
She stepped forward.
Her opponent was already waiting — taller, wiry, with quick hands and too much confidence. Second-year, she guessed.
They nodded.
The whistle sounded.
And she moved.
She didn't fight with aggression. She fought like a scribe reading pressure points — each motion controlled, deliberate. A block here. A step there. She let him come to her, and he did — overextending, swinging too wide.
She ducked under a jab, spun, and drove her knee into his ribs.
He grunted.
Then she hooked his ankle.
He hit the mat hard.
Before he could rise, she stepped onto his chest, her knee braced to pin, her wrapped fist raised — not striking, but ready.
The instructor stepped in.
"Yield?"
Her opponent gritted his teeth. "Yield."
Aeliana backed off, breathing steady. Not a scratch on her.
And not a word wasted.
Aeliana stepped off the mat, heat rising beneath her shirt despite the breeze slipping in from the open doors.
Liam leaned against the bench where she'd left her water flask, towel around his neck, arms resting casually across his knees.
"Okay," he said, tone low and amused. "Remind me not to piss you off."
Aeliana grabbed the flask, uncapped it. "He came at me with his chin up and his feet wrong."
Liam raised an eyebrow. "So you broke him like a bad sentence?"
A corner of her mouth twitched. "Exactly."
He offered her the towel. "You didn't even blink."
"I'll save blinking for the next break."
Liam shook his head, grin lazy and unbothered. "You're terrifying."
Aeliana sipped her water. "You're not the first to say that."
Across the gym, someone called for the next pair to take the mat.
Liam glanced toward the voice, then back at her. "Think we get to sit for a while?"
Before Aeliana could answer, a different voice rose over the noise — sharp, clipped.
"Sorynne. Back on the mat. You've got another round."
She turned slowly.
The third-year standing at their mat gestured toward a second figure stepping forward.
Pink hair. Pale green eyes.
And the look on her face?
Not friendly.
The girl moved like a coiled spring — tall, lean, eyes locked on Aeliana with a focus that wasn't tactical. It was personal.
She didn't speak.
Didn't smile.
Just stepped onto the mat and cracked her knuckles.
Aeliana gave her nothing back. No reaction. She adjusted her wrap, and met the girl at the center.
The third-year barely glanced up from his clipboard. "No blades. No channeling. Go."
The pink-haired girl didn't wait.
She launched first — fast, sharp, a clean jab meant to test distance.
Aeliana deflected with her forearm and pivoted out of range, keeping light on the balls of her feet. No counterattack yet. Just watching.
She always watched first.
The second hit came low — a sweep that Aeliana jumped over, barely missing the brush of the cadet's boot against her ankle. She landed light, spun back, and struck out — elbow-first, aimed for the shoulder.
It connected.
But the taller girl didn't flinch.
Instead, she surged forward, grabbed Aeliana's vest with both hands, and drove her toward the mat's edge.
Aeliana let the momentum carry them — then twisted, dropped low, and used the girl's forward pressure to flip her off balance.
The cadet rolled, recovered fast.
Too fast.
She was already back on her feet before Aeliana could capitalize.
And now she was grinning — just a little.
Like she'd found a worthy opponent.
Aeliana's chest rose and fell with slow, steady breath. Her knuckles ached, but she didn't loosen her stance.
They circled each other again. Two steps, three. Then the pink-haired cadet surged forward, faster this time — more aggressive.
Aeliana caught her wrist, deflected, turned her body sideways to avoid a knee, then struck back — a clean hit to the ribs.
The other girl grunted, but it didn't slow her.
She came harder.
Less clean. Less precise.
Her next hit glanced Aeliana's jaw.
The one after that slammed into her side.
Aeliana staggered back, boots skidding on the mat.
She recovered — barely — and narrowed her stance. Her heart pounded now, sharp against her ribs. Not from fear. From calculation.
The girl was getting angry.
And angry fighters made mistakes.
"You done yet?" Aeliana asked, her voice low, even.
Her opponent's pale green eyes flickered.
Then she lunged again.
This time the girl swept low. Aeliana jumped, landed light, and moved in — elbow to ribs, clean.
A hit. But the girl didn't so much as grunt.
Aeliana deflected, dodged, slammed a palm into the girl's shoulder — only to get caught by a backhand that glanced her jaw.
The mat thudded under their feet as they tangled again, grappling. Aeliana twisted out of one hold, slipped under another, drove a quick strike to her opponent's hip, then spun away.
A grin tugged at the girl's lips.
And then—
Aeliana moved in for another strike — and a flash of silver caught the light.
Pain tore through her right bicep.
She gasped, stumbling back, one hand already pressed over the fresh cut blooming across her arm. Blood leaked through her fingers. Shallow, but sharp.
The girl had drawn a blade.
"What the fuck?" Liam's voice shouted from the edge of the ring.
The instructor stormed forward, eyes blazing. "What did I say about weapons?"
The pink-haired girl didn't look sorry. Didn't say a word.
The third-year's jaw clenched. "I said no blades, Imogen!"
Aeliana froze.
Imogen.
So that was her name.
Imogen just crossed her arms.
"She moved," she said flatly. "Not my fault she got in the way."
"Get off the mat. Now."
Imogen gave Aeliana one last look — no apology in her expression — then turned and stalked off, braid swinging behind her like a banner of defiance.
Blood trickled down Aeliana's arm.
Liam stepped in beside her, brows drawn. "Let me see."
"It's fine," she said, voice cool.
But her eyes didn't leave Imogen's back.
Not for a second.
~
The barracks were quiet when they returned.
Afternoon light spilled through the high slits in the stone wall, cutting across the rows of bunks in sharp gold bands.
A couple of cadets were still peeling off sweat-soaked tunics, and a few others flopped across their beds with towels over their faces, unmoving.
Aeliana headed straight to her corner bunk and knelt beside her pack, unbuckling the flap with one hand. The other still pressed lightly to the cut along her right arm — not deep, but angry and red beneath the wrap she'd tied over it.
She pulled out a small leather pouch, untied it, and set it beside her: a few neatly folded cloths, a slim glass jar of greenish ointment, and a spool of binding tape.
Behind her, boots thudded softly on the stone.
"Seriously?" Liam asked, dropping onto the bunk beside hers. "You're not going to the healers?"
"No."
"They have numbing salves."
Aeliana dipped two fingers into the ointment and spread it along the gash with clinical precision. "I don't need numbing. I need clean."
"You also need that not to get infected."
She gave him a look — not sharp, just firm. "It won't."
He watched her as she worked. The movements were efficient, practiced — wipe, dab, wrap, tie. No hesitation.
"Okay," he said after a moment. "You don't just happen to know how to do that. Who taught you?"
Aeliana sat back, flexing her fingers to test the tightness of the wrap.
"I used to help the village healer," she said. "She was short-staffed, and I had steady hands."
Liam raised his brows. "You stitched people up?"
"Cleaned wounds. Ground herbs. Helped deliver twins once."
He blinked. "That's... not what I expected."
She shrugged. "You learn fast when screaming makes it harder to think."
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, watching her carefully.
"So let me get this straight," he said. "You fight like you've been trained since birth, dodge blades like it's instinct, and patch yourself up without flinching. But you won't let a healer look at a cut?"
"It's not about the cut," she said quietly, tying off the end of the bandage. "It's about knowing I can fix it."
That seemed to land somewhere deep.
Liam didn't argue again.
He just nodded, leaned back on his elbows, and looked across the rows of bunks.
"You're not like the others," he said.
Aeliana slid the ointment back into her pouch and tucked it away.
"No," she murmured. "I'm not."
She paused, then glanced at him — at the lines of his arm where his shirt had slipped, the dark ink of the rebellion relic twisting down his skin like a brand and a banner all at once.
Her gaze lingered for just a second.
"Neither are you," she said quietly.
Liam looked over at her, something flickering behind his eyes — not surprise, not quite gratitude. Just recognition.
She added, more evenly, "You were clean out there. Precise. Like you've done it a hundred times."
"I have," he admitted. "Most of them without mats."
Aeliana's lips tugged into something that might've been a smile. Just barely.
"Well," she said, leaning back against the cool stone wall behind her bunk. "Let's hope we both make it to the next hundred."
~
By the time the evening bell rang, the barracks had emptied into a slow-moving stream of cadets heading toward the dining hall — bruised, bandaged, sweating, and starved.
The vaulted ceiling echoed with sound. Voices bounced from wall to wall — laughter, grumbling, boots against stone, the occasional curse. Long rows of wooden tables ran the length of the mess, benches already packed with cadets shoveling food like they'd fought wars, not assessments.
Aeliana stepped into the room, pulse still even, her arm freshly wrapped and hidden under her long sleeve.
Liam was already beside her, tray in hand.
"Left side's lighter lines," he muttered. "Unless you want to starve behind Jack Barlowe's ego."
"Gods, no," she said under her breath.
They cut across the hall and joined the shorter line — a ladling station of roasted vegetables, shredded meat, and some kind of grain that smelled scorched. Aeliana didn't care. It was warm, and it wasn't moving. That was enough.
She carried her tray toward a quieter end of the table near the windows and dropped onto the bench with a quiet sigh.
Liam sat across from her, elbowing someone lightly down the bench to make space.
They ate in silence for a few moments. The chaos of the hall churned around them — squadmates swapping stories from sparring, complaints about instructors, someone two tables over betting on who'd drop out next.
Across the hall, Aeliana's gaze drifted — uninvited — to the far table where the pink-haired girl sat. Imogen. She was leaned back with a group of second-years, most of them marked. Laughing at something. Eating like nothing had happened.
The cut on Aeliana's arm pulsed beneath the wrap.
Liam followed her line of sight.
"She always like that?" Aeliana asked, quieter than before. "Or does she just have it out for me?"
Liam snorted softly and stabbed a piece of overcooked meat with his fork.
"Don't take it personal. Imogen's sharp with everyone. It's just... how she is."
Aeliana looked down at her tray.
"She pulled a blade."
"Yeah." He winced. "That's... a little extra. Even for her."
She didn't say anything for a moment. Just kept chewing slowly.
"I've had worse," she said at last.
Liam grinned around his cup of water. "I'm starting to believe you."