Chapter 6.
The crowd murmured behind her as Aeliana stepped off the mat, chest heaving, pulse still high. Her opponent lay flat on his back, staring up at the rafters with a dazed expression.
Another win.
Liam caught her eye from the side of the gym and gave her a small nod — not gloating, not surprised. Just... acknowledgment. She returned it with the faintest tilt of her chin and moved toward the edge of the mats, rolling her shoulders out as she stepped into the fringe of a growing circle.
A group of third-years was sparring at the far end — quick, brutal strikes, their bodies moving with lethal efficiency. They weren't sparring to prove themselves. They were sharpening blades already forged in fire.
Aeliana stilled at the edge of the crowd, eyes narrowed. She tracked each movement, noting what worked, what didn't, how the third-year on the left kept his elbow tucked tighter in his guard — more compact, more energy-efficient. There was something to learn here.
"Cadet."
The voice cracked like a whip behind her.
She turned.
A man stood just a few paces away, tall and broad-shouldered in his black uniform, a silver pin at his collar glinting in the light.
Fourth Wing. Tail Section.
Section Leader.
"Sir," she said, back straight.
"What are you doing?" His voice was cold, bored.
"Observing, sir."
He glanced over her shoulder, saw the mat where Vessa was working with the rest of their squad's first-years.
"Your squad leader is instructing your fellow cadets," he said. "Have some respect and join your team."
"With respect, sir," Aeliana said carefully, "they're working on the basics. I already know those. I was hoping to watch the upperclassmen — learn something new."
Something in his jaw twitched.
"So you think you're better than your squad mates?"
She blinked. "No, sir. I just—"
"Let's see about that." He turned toward the mat as the current bout ended and stepped closer to her, his expression unreadable. "On the mat. Now."
Aeliana's breath caught. "Sir, I—"
He grabbed her arm — not hard, but firm — and guided her toward the center.
A third-year nearby scoffed. "Sparring a first-year?"
The section leader didn't even glance his way. "This one needs a lesson in humility."
Aeliana's stomach coiled, but she said nothing. She didn't dare. Around her, cadets were already turning, forming a loose ring around the mat.
He didn't give her time to prepare — no introduction, no warning. Just movement.
They circled.
Then he struck.
Fast. Brutal. Efficient.
Aeliana managed to deflect the first blow and duck the second, but his third caught her across the cheek, and the room tilted. She gritted her teeth, grounded herself, tried to recover — but he was already behind her.
She ducked, twisted, struck back.
He parried lazily, like she was barely worth the effort. "Not bad," he said, circling again. "Where'd you learn to move like that? A dance hall?"
Laughter stirred in the crowd.
She kept quiet. Focused.
He jabbed low — a feint. She went for it and caught a hard backhand to the side of her head that sent her stumbling.
He didn't let her reset. Came at her with quick, punishing strikes, enough that she was moving just to keep up, breath catching.
"You're slower than I expected," he said conversationally. "Less talk, less bite."
Aeliana ground her teeth and darted in with a strike of her own — but he caught her wrist and spun her hard to the mat.
Pain flared down her side.
She rolled, tried to get up—
—but he dropped his knee across her throat.
Air cut off in an instant.
Her vision blurred.
Pressure. Sharp, cruel pressure. Her lungs screamed, and suddenly she wasn't in Basgiath anymore.
She was fourteen again.
Cold stone beneath her. Blood in her mouth. Her mother screaming somewhere in the dark.
Aeliana's hands clawed at his knee, but he didn't move — not until he leaned down and said, low and clear:
"I don't want to hear you asking anyone for help again while you're clearly still lacking, Cadet. Back to your mat. Leave the real work to your elders. Understood?"
She nodded frantically, eyes wide, panic bubbling in her chest.
He rose, finally. Air rushed in. She coughed hard, rolling onto her side, one hand instinctively flying to her throat.
Some of the crowd laughed. Others just looked away.
A hand appeared in front of her.
She looked up, vision still swimming, and saw a tall third-year with brown hair and a sharp profile. If she wasn't mistaken he was the Section Leader for Fourth Wing, Flame Section. Garrick Tavis was his name.
Her stomach dropped.
She looked away immediately, lowering her head. She didn't take the hand. Didn't say a word. Just forced herself to her feet, trembling slightly, and moved through the crowd toward her own mat.
Liam jogged toward her. "What happened?" he asked, his eyes darkening as he saw the bruises already blooming across her jaw and neck.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice low and urgent.
"I'm fine," she said, but her voice was hoarse.
He stepped closer, tilting her chin gently. The skin around her throat was angry and flushed, her breathing tight.
"This is not fine."
Behind them, Garrick was still watching — unmoving. Liam's eyes flicked past Aeliana, meeting his gaze briefly. The two locked eyes.
Liam's hand dropped slowly.
"So," he said, voice even, "asking for help didn't go as planned?"
Aeliana's jaw clenched. "No."
Vessa approached a moment later, eyes narrowing as she caught sight of her. "Aeliana, what happened?"
"I got called onto a mat and lost," she rasped.
Vessa's gaze sharpened, but Aeliana lifted a hand. "It's okay. I'll stop by the Healing Quadrant."
The squad leader nodded slowly, but her expression remained unreadable.
As Aeliana walked off, the burn in her throat wasn't the worst of it. It was the quiet echo of that memory — the one she had buried — dragging itself to the surface again.
She didn't look back at Garrick.
And she didn't know that he was still looking at her.
The corridors between the sparring gym and the Healing Quadrant were quiet this time of day. Most cadets were still training or scattered through the mess and study wings. Aeliana kept her gaze fixed forward, her steps brisk.
Her throat throbbed.
Every breath scraped along tender tissue, and the side of her face pulsed with the dull ache of forming bruises. Still, it wasn't the pain that made her move faster — it was the image burned into her head: her body on the mat, exposed, pinned. Just like before.
She stepped through the heavy doors of the infirmary, blinking at the brightness. The air was cool, sterile. It smelled of old herbs and iron.
A healer in deep green robes looked up from behind a partition. "Cadet?"
"Training accident," Aeliana said quietly, her voice rasping.
He motioned her forward, eyes flicking over her with efficient concern. "Sit."
She perched on the edge of the stone bench as he retrieved a cold compress and gently pressed it to her cheek.
"Looks like you took a hard hit." His tone was neutral.
She didn't respond.
After a minute, he swapped out the compress for one chilled even more and handed it to her.
"Hold this on for a few more minutes. You'll bruise, but not too badly. Keep your neck wrapped if it swells. Any sign of voice loss or breathing issues, come back immediately."
"Thank you," she said, taking the pack and standing a little too fast.
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.
Aeliana left without lingering.
The hallway outside was dimmer now — shadows lengthening along the stone. She moved toward Central Issue on instinct, turning left at the next junction and heading for the familiar storage alcove two levels below the mess hall.
The quartermaster barely looked up when she walked in.
"Need a replacement?"
She nodded, stepping to the counter. "Crew neck. Long-sleeved. Black."
The quartermaster gestured to a crate near the back. "Sizes are labeled. Take one."
She found her size quickly, feeling the fabric between her fingers.
Soft. Sturdy. Higher collar. Good.
She hesitated, then added, "Do you have one with a reinforced neck seam?"
The quartermaster looked at her for the first time — just for a moment. Then nodded and dug into a folded stack behind the desk. "Used for winter runs. They're tighter. Hotter."
"That's fine," Aeliana said, already reaching for it.
She nodded her thanks, took the folded shirt, and left Central Issue with quick, steady steps.
By the time she reached the barracks, the long corridor was still and silent. Most of the squad was either at dinner or scattered between lectures and the mess. Just as she hoped.
She stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her.
No one.
Aeliana moved to her bunk in the corner and set the shirt down, carefully unfastening her belt and the lightweight tunic she still wore. Her throat burned as the fabric passed over it, and she caught her reflection in the narrow shard of mirror nailed above the row of footlockers.
Red. Raw. Angry.
Her jaw clenched.
Turning away, she checked the wraps around her hands — snug, still secure. Then she pulled the new crew neck shirt on, tugging the hem down and adjusting the high collar until it hugged just above the bruised skin of her neck.
Better.
Covered.
She sat for a moment on the edge of the bunk, hands resting on her knees, exhaling through her nose. The cloth was soft. Heavier than her tunic. More structured. It felt like something solid in a day that had spiraled.
Outside, the wind shifted, and the door creaked faintly.
But Aeliana stayed still — wrapped in silence, and a little more protected than before.
~
The dining hall thrummed with end-of-day noise — trays clattering, boots echoing off stone, voices rising in bursts of laughter or low, tired debate. It was always too loud. Too much.
Aeliana sat on the far edge of a long table, her tray mostly untouched. She picked absently at a piece of bread, fingers still stiff from the tension of the afternoon.
She'd managed to slip in after most of her squad had already come and gone, finding a spot that wouldn't draw attention. Just enough distance from the crowd to breathe — not enough to look like she was hiding.
But her ears still caught everything.
Her gaze drifted without focus across the hall, scanning the movement, the sounds. Until one voice, familiar in tone, rose above the others.
"...Yeah, someone said a first-year got called up and taken down hard by a Tail Section leader today." It was a girl's voice — wide-eyed, uncertain.
Aeliana's head turned slightly.
The words came from a nearby table — not too far, not too loud. Ridoc sat among them, his usually loose posture more upright than normal. He blinked at the girl, frowning. "Wait, what?"
"I don't know the details," the girl went on, "just that someone asked to train with the upperclassmen and got..." she hesitated, lowering her voice, "well, choked out on the mat."
The table quieted. Someone else muttered, "That's messed up."
Even Ridoc looked... unsettled. He glanced down at his tray, brows furrowing.
Then — laughter.
Loud, sharp, and completely out of place.
It snapped Aeliana's attention toward the far right side of the hall.
Imogen.
She was leaned halfway over her tray, giggling with two of her friends, completely unbothered — clearly amused by whatever comment had just been made.
Across the room, Ridoc's head jerked up at the sound too. His eyes landed on the source — and then flicked sharply to the figure rising from a table along the wall.
Aeliana.
She pushed back her bench with controlled precision, picked up her tray, and moved for the disposal line — not rushed, not visibly upset — but her spine was straight as a blade, her eyes fixed ahead.
He watched her shoulder blades shift beneath her long-sleeved shirt as she walked.
Watched the way she didn't look at anyone.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't slow.
Something cold settled behind Ridoc's ribs.
~
The hallway was silent.
The kind of silence that hummed behind your ears — the kind that only settled when the rest of the world had collapsed into sleep.
Aeliana padded barefoot down the stone corridor, her soft-wrapped hands tucked into the sleeves of her long tunic.
The torches lining the walls had burned low, casting deep shadows and flickering golden light across the archways.
She moved like smoke between them, weight light, footfalls barely audible.
No patrols.
She'd memorized the shift schedules a week ago.
The healing quadrant's side entrance wasn't locked — it rarely was — and the herb stores were kept separate from the rare inventory that required special permission. The things she needed were common. Easy to overlook.
Which made them perfect.
She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, careful not to let the latch click.
The scent of crushed lavender, charred comfrey, and dried citrus hung faint in the air. It was strangely comforting — cleaner than the stables, sharper than the dorms.
She moved to the back shelf, scanning quickly until she found what she needed: Powdered bark for the base. Crushed madder root for tone. A pinch of burnt salt and vinegar solution to help it bind. A few drops of oil — because otherwise, her scalp would itch for days.
She gathered it into a small pouch, tucked it into the folds of her tunic, and slipped back into the hall.
Not a single soul stirred.
Back in the barracks, the lights were long out.
Her fingers worked silently — mixing the ingredients with a bit of water from her flask into a thick, brick-red paste. The smell was earthy and pungent, but familiar.
She untied her hair with slow precision, the strands falling in soft, tangled waves around her shoulders. In the low light, the lighter roots were harder to see... but she saw them. Every inch of difference. Every mark of what tied her to before.
Aeliana dipped her fingers into the bowl and combed the paste through with deliberate strokes. From root to tip. Again. Again.
She worked like she always did: in silence.
By the time she was done, her fingers were stained, her shoulders ached, and the burn of vinegar lingered under her nose.
But her hair was whole again.
Auburn brown.
She rinsed in the basin by the far wall, quietly scrubbing out what she could, then twisted her hair into a loose braid and tied it off. The towel she used to dry it would have to be hidden — she'd deal with that tomorrow.
She crawled back into her bunk just as the sky outside began to pale hoping for a few hours of sleep.
~
The first light of morning crept along the edges of the citadel, soft and golden, brushing the stone walls with warmth that hadn't yet reached the air. A hush still blanketed the upper courtyards — that brief window when Basgiath was neither sleeping nor awake.
Garrick stood in the shadows beneath one of the archways that overlooked the outer training loop, a tin mug of too-strong tea cooling in his hands. He hadn't planned to be here. He told himself he just wanted the stillness before the day began.
But when he saw the familiar figure jogging along the far curve of the path, his thoughts stilled.
There she was again.
The girl with the auburn-brown hair — pulled back now, swaying behind her in a loose braid. She moved with purpose, steady and measured, the way someone did when they weren't just running for fitness but running to keep something inside from rising.
Garrick didn't move. Just watched as she crested the hill and kept going without pause, barely noticing the mist still clinging to the grass or the faint shine of dew on the stone.
Alone again.
She always ran alone. Same hour. Same rhythm. He'd seen her yesterday, too, cutting across the eastern edge of the path just as the bell tower had struck the sixth chime.
He hadn't meant to remember that. But he did.
This morning, something was different. Her shoulders were straighter. Her stride more controlled. The bruises from yesterday's fight — if they were there — were hidden now under a clean, high-collared shirt. The color of her hair looked darker somehow. Fuller.
She didn't look around.
Didn't glance at the rows of windows or the corners where others might be watching.
She didn't need to.
Because she didn't expect anyone to see her.
And Garrick wasn't sure why he was watching — only that he couldn't seem to look away.
When she finally turned a corner and disappeared behind the stone garden wall, he looked down into his mug and exhaled.
Still warm.
But the quiet had changed.
~
The gym pulsed with motion and heat, every mat alive with sparring cadets. Aeliana tightened the wraps at her wrists as she stepped up to the chalked edge of her squad's sparring ring, Vessa watching from nearby.
"Gamlyn, you're up," Vessa called.
Aeliana's gaze found him immediately. Ridoc Gamlyn — all wiry limbs and smug energy, bouncing forward like he was already winning.
He tilted his head at her. "Sorynne, right?"
She didn't answer, just moved to center.
He grinned. "Didn't think we'd get paired so soon. Let's see what you've got."
They circled.
The first clash was fast — Aeliana darting forward, testing his guard, Ridoc parrying with a flick of his forearm.
He was loose, improvisational, but skilled.
Each of his attacks forced her to adjust, and she countered with precision, reading him quickly.
He fought with flair; she fought with control.
They matched.
Cheers and catcalls echoed from the edges of the mat as the rhythm built — two first-years, evenly matched, fighting like they'd done this for longer than anyone expected.
Aeliana spun low and swept — Ridoc jumped back, laughing under his breath. "You're quick."
"Keep talking," she muttered.
Their footwork quickened, both landing light taps, neither gaining the upper hand. The crowd around the mat thickened slightly. First-years muttered guesses about who would win. A few second-years raised eyebrows at the pace.
Ridoc ducked low, swept for her legs — she jumped.
He twisted up behind her, arm snaking around her torso, and she spun, breaking free.
Then he feinted — and caught her clean across the ribs with his shoulder, taking her to the ground.
She hit the mat hard, air whooshing from her lungs — and in the next heartbeat, Ridoc was on top of her, pinning her with one arm across her collarbone and the other bracing against the floor.
And her body froze.
Just like that.
Not pain — not yet — just the memory. The press of a knee. The grind of bone against her throat. Her mother's last scream. Her own choked one.
"Yield?" he asked.
But something shifted.
Her shirt had shifted, too.
Ridoc's brow creased as he glanced down — then froze. Faint bruises were beginning to bloom just under her collar, shadowed and red. His gaze snapped to her face — her wide eyes locked on his, breathing hitched, still.
Recognition hit him like a strike to the ribs.
"...It was you, wasn't it?" he said quietly, his voice nearly lost beneath the din of the gym.
Aeliana tapped out, hard.
Once. Twice.
Ridoc sprang back instantly, hands raised. "Shit."
She scrambled to her feet, hand going to her neck, not looking at him. Her throat moved as she swallowed, like the memory was still lodged there.
She turned without a word and walked off the mat, cutting through the edge of the watching crowd.
Liam was already stepping toward her, jaw tense, gaze flicking from her face to the redness blooming at her throat.
On the mat, Ridoc stood frozen, staring at the spot she'd just vacated.
Then, almost to himself, he said, "Gods... it was her."
Ridoc stepped off the mat, his chest still rising with the rhythm of the fight — but his thoughts weren't on the match.
They were on her.
The way she'd stilled under his arm. The way her eyes had blown wide with something deeper than surprise. Something closer to terror.
He joined Rhiannon and Violet at the edge of the mat.
"Nice," Rhiannon said, bumping his shoulder. "That was sharp. You two were toe-to-toe for a while there."
"Yeah," Violet added. "She's quick. Smart footwork."
Ridoc nodded absently, eyes scanning the gym. Aeliana had already made it halfway across the floor, pacing like she was trying to remember how to breathe. Liam flanked her quietly, keeping a respectful distance as he walked at her side.
Ridoc's brows furrowed.
Rhiannon followed his gaze. "She okay?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I think she's the one from the rumor," he said finally. "The first-year who got beat down by their section leader a few days ago."
Violet's eyes widened slightly. "That was her?"
"Yeah. I saw it — just now." He dropped his voice. "Her collar shifted while we were on the mat. I saw bruises. Deep ones. Around her neck."
Rhiannon's expression tightened.
"And when I pinned her..." Ridoc exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "She went still. Like, full freeze. Then she tapped out fast."
He glanced down at his hands.
"I saw the fear in her eyes when I pressed across her throat. It wasn't me she was reacting to — it was something else. Something already there."
The girls went quiet.
Across the gym, Aeliana sat down slowly beside her pack. She didn't speak to Liam — just leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, palms pressed over her mouth like she was holding something in.
"She's been through something," Ridoc muttered. "I didn't know. And I sure as hell didn't mean to trigger it."
"You gonna talk to her?" Rhiannon asked.
"I think I have to," he replied, eyes never leaving her. "She deserves that."
"Yeah," Violet said quietly. "She does."