Freya was falling.
Not metaphorically—she was plummeting through a vast, lightless pit, the wind slicing past her ears as a familiar female voice called her name.
"Freya…"
It wasn't desperate. It wasn't screaming for help. It sounded… calm. Distant, even, as if the voice stood still while she spiraled downward endlessly.
"Freya… Freya… Freya…"
And then, it changed.
The tone deepened—no longer human. A rumbling growl echoed through the void, inhuman and primal.
"FREYA."
The voice warped into a monstrous echo, guttural and massive. She hit the bottom with a silent thud—not pain, not impact—just black.
Freya jolted awake, gasping.
"Ah… that dream again…" she muttered, wiping sweat from her brow. She blinked—then squinted.
Sunlight poured through the window like a flashbang.
She hissed, shielding her eyes. "Ugh—too bright."
It hit her. The sun is up.
"I'm late!"
She flung the blanket off like it owed her money and bolted to the bathroom. The moment she stepped under the water, she winced—expecting a sting. Her hand shot up to shield wound on her shoulder.
Only… there was no pain.
She felt smooth skin under her fingertips. No rough scab. No puckered edge.
"What?"
She blinked in disbelief, wiping water from her eyes. Glancing at her shoulder, her jaw slackened. The wound was gone. Not even a scar.
But… Daisy hadn't healed her. She remembered—that frazzled voice from yesterday:
"No. I'm running low on aether…"
The rest of the words blurred, but that part rang clear. Daisy couldn't have done it.
Freya leaned against the tile, fingers pressed to her forehead. "Did I dream that too?" She sighed, forcing herself to finish up. Hair scrubbed. Body rinsed. Brain not at peace.
Maybe Daisy had answers. And she was going to get them.
Throwing on her martial arts uniform, she dashed down the hall.
Elsewhere in the Smith estate…
Edmund tugged the collar of his black turtleneck up, damp hair slicked back and still dripping slightly. A cigarette perched between his lips, unlit for now. His faded teal eyes skimmed the mission documents sprawled across his desk, lazily flipping through pages until—
"Cloaked figures."
The phrase pulled his gaze into sharp focus. His fingers tightened around the document. That phrase again.
Luis, Derek, and Desmond had reported the same thing. Cloaked men. Symbols. Conflict near the east jungle—and they were heading toward the northern port.
So why was there now a petition from District 1?
That was west.
Something wasn't adding up.
KNOCK KNOCK.
Edmund didn't move his eyes from the paper. "Who is it?"
A familiar voice grinned through the door. "The light of your dull, nicotine-riddled life."
He sighed. "Fredrick."
Reaching for his lighter, Edmund lit the cigarette without another word. Smoke curled into the air as he dryly exhaled, knowing this conversation would need lung support.
"Come in."
Fredrick swaggered in like he owned the place, scroll tucked under one arm, a stupid grin on his face, and enough energy to wake the dead.
With a lazy flick of the wrist, he tossed the scroll onto Edmund's desk and reached casually for Edmund's pack of cigarettes.
Edmund raised a brow. "Finally admitted defeat?"
"Please," Fredrick scoffed as he lit one. "Mine ran out. Yours still taste like floor cleaner, by the way."
He lit up and collapsed into the chair across from him, legs kicked out.
Edmund unfurled the scroll… and stared.
It wasn't the expected sketch of the attacker. Instead, it was a chaotic drawing—stick figures, angry eyebrows, and what looked like him yelling at a terrified, squiggly Fredrick.
"Very funny," Edmund gave a deadpan expression.
Fredrick bowed theatrically while seated. "I am… an artist."
Edmund crumpled the scroll and lobbed it at Fredrick's temple.
Fredrick threw his head back dramatically. "I've been assassinated, mother!"
With a laugh, he pulled out the real sketch. Edmund unrolled it.
A bald man with broad shoulders, a thick neck, and a jagged blue tattoo that started near his eye and crawled down his cheek.
Something about that mark looked… familiar.
"What are you working on?" Fredrick asked, peering over. "Missions?"
Edmund shook himself from the thought. "Yes."
He slid the District 1 petition across the table. Fredrick scanned it.
"Cloaked figures again. But—"
Edmund nodded. "Could be a different man. Could be a network."
A knock echoed from the hallway. Fredrick suddenly straightened like a schoolboy. The door creaked open, and in stepped a servant—older, maybe in his late-forties, with neat graying hair and a disciplined posture.
"Your breakfast, my lords," the man said.
He rolled in a silver trolley and neatly set down two plates—eggs, sausages, toast—alongside two steaming cups of coffee.
Fredrick gave a grateful nod, already stabbing a sausage with his fork the moment the servant shut the door.
"God bless old men with trolleys," he mumbled around a mouthful. "So—who're we even going to send? Most cadets are on border duty after that mess."
Edmund poured sugar into his coffee, silent for a beat. "Send…" He frowned as he sliced into his eggs. "Freya. And… Daisy."
Fredrick froze mid-bite. "You serious?" he said, chewing slowly like it might help him process "Freya's fresh out of the nest, and Daisy's a glorified snack dispenser."
Edmund calmly sipped his coffee. "Add Alice Groves."
Fredrick blinked at him like he'd just suggested arming toddlers with swords. "You're out of your damn mind."
"Am I?" Edmund said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
Edmund tapped the sketch beside his plate. "You and I will investigate this."
Fredrick looked like he was trying to swallow glass. Then, with a sigh of surrender and a hand to his face, he muttered, "Understood…"
He didn't.
They both drained the last of their coffee. Edmund rose first, shrugging into his coat.
Fredrick trailed behind him, still muttering under his breath. "We're gonna get sued. Or stabbed. Probably both."
As they left Edmund's Room, the corridor opened into a square-shaped courtyard below. From the first-floor railing, they caught sight of someone standing in the center.
James.
He was alone, his broad back turned slightly, hands raised in front of him. His fingers moved in deliberate, intricate motions—weaving activation signs, a form of aether channeling passed down through old military training. Each shape drawn in the air helped focus and awaken the energy inside the user, like striking flint to coax a spark.
"From void, form"
Then—fwoom—a small flame sparked to life in James's palm.
He held it steady, breath shallow. The flame flickered, pulsing like a heartbeat. Slowly, he brought his other hand above it, trying to shape or control it.
It licked the edges of his fingers—then burned. James flinched, his jaw tightening as he shook the sting out.
But he didn't stop.
He watched his blistering skin.
And began again.
From the balcony, Fredrick and Edmund watched in silence. The morning air, crisp and cold a moment ago, seemed to be still completely.
Another spark. The flame appeared again—larger this time. Hotter.
Edmund's jaw clenched. His gaze sharpened.
James has it.
Aether. Weak, yes—but there. Ignitable. Controllable.
And Edmund… didn't.
For a moment—just a moment—something twisted hot in his chest.
Jealousy.
And as that feeling flared—
The flame below vanished.
Snuffed out like a candle in wind.
James blinked at his palm, confused. He tried again. Nothing. No spark.
Fredrick waved a hand in front of Edmund's face. "Hello? Earth to Ed. You zoned out."
Edmund blinked. The tension in his shoulders hadn't left. Fredrick gave him a look, but didn't press.
The flame was gone.
And so was Edmund's peace.
He turned and walked away, coat billowing behind him.
Down below, James remained still for a few minutes disappointed no matter how much he trained his body, his aether wouldn't flow smoothly.
He looked down his veiny and muscular hands
Then, quietly, almost stubbornly, he began again—for the third time.
Fwoom.
The flame returned, this time dimmer. Frail.
James stared at it. His lips barely moved.
"Is this the limit… of my aether?"
As Edmund and Fredrick moved through the estate, their footsteps echoed across polished marble. They passed the grand living room, where Emma Smith stood by the arched windows, tending to her plants in silence.
She was around forty-seven, with long, dark brown curls now streaked with gray. Age had folded fine lines across her face, but it wasn't just time that had worn her down—it was betrayal. Darren's infidelity had drained the light from her eyes long before the wrinkles ever came.
Edmund's relationship with her had always been more formality than family.
"Good morning, Ms. Emma," he said, his tone polite but distant as he walked past without slowing.
She didn't respond. She never did. No nod. No glance. As if he was a ghost she chose not to see.
Fredrick, trailing behind, gave a small wave. "Good morning, Miss Emma," he chimed with forced cheer.
This time, Emma gave the faintest nod. Barely perceptible. But there.
Just as they reached the entrance, someone sprinted up the stairs—blonde hair flying.
"Edmund! Oh, hello! Good morning—" Daisy puffed, nearly colliding into the doorway.
She was clearly late. In the distance, they heard her voice carry toward the hall.
"Good morning, Miss Emma!"
And then—soft and warm, as if from another life—Emma replied.
"Oh child, watch your step. You'll fall running like that…"
Edmund paused. He heard the concern in her voice, gentle and real. The kind of concern she'd never offered him. Not once.
He didn't resent her for it. But it still stung.
He gave a faint smile—bitter and self-directed. A smile of pity.
"Take the sketch," he said suddenly, shaking off the thought. "Make copies. I want them delivered with tomorrow's paper. If anyone's seen the figure, they'll come forward."
Fredrick accepted the sketch with a mock salute. "Aye aye, Commander Cold-Heart. See you later—if I'm not mauled by angry townsfolk."
He peeled off toward the lower corridors, humming some off-key tune.
Edmund stepped outside.
Then stopped.
The sunlight hit harder than it should've. The ground swayed just slightly. He blinked. His pulse thudded in his ears.
Not now.
He raised a hand—and saw the blood running from his nose.
"Not… at this time," he muttered.
Instead of collapsing, he turned and made his way to the quiet backyard behind the estate.
There, beneath the shadow of the tall walls, he leaned his back against the cold stone. The world felt heavy. His breath came slow, uneven.
He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
How long… before death comes for me?
A silence settled around him. Not peace. Just waiting.