A hardened fist met cold steel.
The clash rang out through the training hall—loud, metallic, jarring—like two blades grating against each other. Jayden watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
Tarrin and Riko moved with practiced ease, each strike clean, each step deliberate. Their Gifts flowed effortlessly into their combat, like an extension of their will.
Jayden's jaw clenched.
His own Gift—constructs of light and shadow—was supposed to be exceptional. That's what they'd told him. Rare. Powerful.
A bloodline-worthy ability, the kind the elite clans salivated over. They said he wouldn't even need a Legacy.
But he didn't feel powerful.
Right now, he could barely summon a single construct. And when he did, it flickered, fragile, only responsive within a small radius.
His fists curled tighter as the weight in his chest grew heavier—an old, familiar pressure. Inadequacy.
He thought back to the promise he made—silent, sacred, and burning in the back of his mind. That he'd become strong. That no one would suffer what he had. Not again.
But reality mocked him. What if he died before a Legacy ever chose him? And even if one did... what if it wasn't enough?
He exhaled through gritted teeth.
All he had was his will. And sometimes, that didn't feel like much.
A loud thud snapped him back.
He looked up.
Riko lay flat on the mat, breathless, with Tarrin's training blade pressed firmly against his neck. The spar was over. The winner clear.
Jayden's gaze narrowed. If he wanted to catch up... he'd have to stop thinking—and start moving.
Tarrin extended a hand, helping Riko to his feet. The latter grinned through his panting breaths.
"That's seven to nine. You're catching up, bro."
Tarrin smirked, pride flickering behind his sweat-drenched face. At the start, he couldn't win a single exchange. Now, four wins in a row. Not just catching up—closing in.
"How much time we got left?" Jayden asked, jogging over with his usual urgency.
Tarrin picked his Telcom off the mat, tapped the screen, and scratched his head.
"Thirty minutes. Maybe."
All three froze. Then, like a hive mind sparked into motion, they scrambled. Equipment was tossed into racks, weapons shelved with barely a second thought.
In less than a minute, the trio was sprinting out of the training hall like it was on fire.
A blur of showers. Barked curses about hot water. Uniforms pulled on mid-run, armored plates clicking into place.
Their black-and-silver suits gleamed under the harsh lights, the newly minted Private insignias catching the light on their shoulders. Freshly upgraded. Official now.
This was it. The final day. The last breath of peace before it all began.
As they neared the ceremonial hall, the tension mounted. Jayden fumbled with his collar. Riko kept flattening his hair. Tarrin just exhaled, smoothing his shirt and wiping sweat off his brow.
'A month already?' Tarrin mused as they reached the tall doors. 'Feels like I just got here.'
He pushed the door open.
Silence fell.
Thousands of eyes turned.
Three minutes late—and the crowd noticed. Their stares were sharp, judgmental, like knives wrapped in polished etiquette.
The cameras turned toward them, beams of light like spotlights in a prison yard.
Jayden flinched. Riko looked like he might bolt.
Tarrin? He straightened his back, smiled like he owned the stage, and walked forward with measured confidence.
They found their place beside Celith and Lena, who leaned in with a whisper sharp enough to sting.
"You three were training... weren't you?"
Tarrin didn't respond, but the look in his eyes said enough.
They were always training now.
Ever since that cursed simulation, one truth had embedded itself in their minds like a blade to the gut: they were weak—and if they stayed that way, they would die.
The past two weeks had blurred into a cycle of sweat, bruises, and bone-deep exhaustion. No more bar nights. No more idle talk or wasted hours. Just drills and sleep, and even that came with nightmares.
Then the ceremony began.
The first group was called, fresh soldiers stepping onto the stage, medals gleaming under the lights. Their faces were pale, expressions tight.
Some looked like they might throw up. Legs trembled as applause echoed around them—half celebratory, half funereal.
Another group followed. Then another. Battalion after battalion, names called and bodies marched forward in sequence.
And then it came.
"Next up, we have the new additions to the Thirty-first Battalion. Please, a round of applause."
The crowd clapped, but there was a shift in tone—just a little quieter, more curious. The Thirty-first had a reputation, and not a gentle one.
Tarrin, unsurprisingly, stood at the front of the line.
He stepped forward, boots striking the floor with a crisp, hollow rhythm. Camera shutters clicked like distant gunfire. Spotlights tracked his every move.
Inwardly, he grimaced.
He felt stronger—more composed. But ready? No. Not even close. The nerves were still there, hiding behind the mask he wore, coiled like a viper in his gut.
But despair? That had died weeks ago. He didn't have room for it anymore. Only focus.
Only calculation.
When they reached the stage, Tarrin stared out at the sea of reporters, high-ranking officers, and polished boots. Flashbulbs burst like tiny stars, but he felt nothing.
A month ago, he would've bathed in the attention—smiled, posed, maybe even cracked a joke. But now? Now it felt hollow. Meaningless. A quiet prelude to the war that waited just one day away.
The medal clipped onto his chest barely registered. He walked off the stage with calm, deliberate steps. Riko and Jayden stumbled a bit under the weight of nerves, but Tarrin moved like a ghost—silent, measured, detached.
The rest of the ceremony blurred into static. Applause. Hollow speeches. Forced encouragement. Click. Flash. Repeat.
And then they were outside.
The crisp air hit him like a slap—sharper, cleaner than the suffocating press of the hall. But even then, Tarrin didn't really breathe. He just stared forward, eyes empty, thoughts spiraling.
A sharp poke between his shoulder blades snapped him back.
He turned and found Celith standing behind him, her usual cool expression softened, just barely. Golden eyes met hazel. For a second, he forgot to blink.
She smiled—faint, almost imperceptible. More twitch than curve. But to Tarrin, it might as well have been Spire-light through clouds.
His eyes widened slightly. Strange, how one look could cut deeper than a blade. And stranger still, how badly he wanted to see that smile again.
Then the moment passed, reality slammed back in, and the familiar ache returned—tight, stabbing, worse the closer they got to deployment.
It was the pain of knowing. Of not knowing. Of everything in between.
So, like always, he wrapped himself in indifference.
It was easier that way.
"Yo," he said, raising a hand in lazy greeting. "What's up?"
"Take a walk with me," she said—firm, no room for debate.
Tarrin raised a brow, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Sure, why not?"
He turned slightly, catching Riko in the corner of his eye. His friend gave him a mock-formal nod, one of those silent messages between soldiers. Tarrin returned it with a chin lift, then followed Celith without another word.
The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was charged. He walked beside her, glancing at the way her golden hair drifted freely behind her. The ponytail she usually wore was gone. Somehow, it made her seem… softer. Less like a weapon, more like a person.
"What did you want to talk about?" he asked, slicing through the quiet with a directness he didn't bother to mask.
Celith opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the words slipped out of his own.
"You look good with your hair down."
She turned to him slowly, eyebrows twitching upward in the briefest flicker of surprise. A rare crack in her usually unreadable expression.
"What?" Her voice was quieter than usual, not cold—just caught off guard.
Tarrin chuckled under his breath. "Sorry. It just kind of slipped. You were saying?"
But she didn't answer. Not yet. Instead, she studied him, gaze sharp and searching.
"Are you okay?" she asked finally.
Her words hit harder than he expected. He didn't answer right away.
A pause stretched between them.
He forced a smile—weak, paper-thin. "What's that about? Something happen I should know about?"
But they both knew what she really meant. And he wasn't ready to answer. Not yet.
Celith let out a sharp breath. "You've been off lately. Reserved. You sure everything's fine?"
So much concern all of a sudden. I'm almost touched.
Tarrin didn't want to answer—not honestly. So he leaned on the one thing he understood better than most: deflection.
"Sorry if it feels that way," he said with an easy shrug. "Been training so much I barely have time to think."
She didn't respond, not verbally. But the look in her eyes spoke volumes—quiet disappointment wrapped in quiet restraint.
His brow twitched, the gears in his head turning. 'Is it the last day here ? Or just one of those days? So emotional.'
He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against something familiar. A smirk touched his lips as he pulled it out and handed it to her casually.
"Anyway, gotta bounce. See you tonight?"
She said nothing. Just stood there, expression neutral. But the slight twitch in her brow gave her away.
Then she looked down at what he'd given her—a pink painkiller, smooth and stupidly symbolic. Her fingers closed around it, knuckles tight.
A beat passed.
She crushed it in her palm without hesitation, the dust slipping between her fingers like something she'd long outgrown.