Two weeks passed.
Rafael moved like a shadow through the academy halls; sharp-eyed, reserved, every step calculated. He'd spent lifetimes here before, and yet, each stone felt new beneath his boots.
It wasn't déjà vu. It was remembrance. Painful, piercing remembrance. His classmates were children still—unscarred, untested. Some would die. Others would rise. All of them walked blindly toward a storm only he could see.
He stayed quiet. Watched. Listened.
He'd begun rewriting his Apocalypse Diary in secret corners of the library, creating contingency plans for events that wouldn't occur for months.
Even years.
Most nights, he'd stare at the ceiling of his bunk, thinking about Juno. About the Apex Trial. About his comrades. About the way his party screamed as they died beside him. About death.
And about Lira.
She was here. Alive. Untouched by war and tragedy.
But she wasn't "her" yet.
This Lira barely knew him. She treated him with brisk professionalism, like an irritating buzz in her ear. No jabs. No fond insults. No knowing glances across firelit camps. No gentle hand on his shoulder when the weight got too much. No reckless battle cries echoing beside his own.
It shouldn't have bothered him.
But it did.
It made him furious, actually at himself, at fate, at time itself. And most of all, at how fragile this do-over already felt.
***
"Rafael Vagathris," Professor Halvern called one foggy morning, squinting over his attendance scroll, "you've been reassigned to live combat drills. Immediate effect. No complaints."
Rafael blinked. "I passed those already. Last week."
"You're twelve," Halvern deadpanned. "You're going. Put a good example for your juniors."
The training fields were awash with morning dew, the ground slick and treacherous. A dozen students stood in formation, foam practice weapons in hand. Rafael joined them with a quiet sigh.
And there she was.
Lira stood apart, arms crossed, scanning the field like a hawk. She didn't acknowledge him until the instructor barked, "Partner drills! Two per team!"
Rafael stepped forward. So did she.
She groaned. "You again?"
"You should be honored," he said, grinning. "Most people have to wait years to spar with a legend."
"Oh great, you're delusional and cocky."
They squared off. Rafael let her lead.
Her strikes were fast—clean, measured, efficient. She moved like a dancer, precise and lethal in intent. But she wasn't pushing herself. Not yet.
"You're holding back," she accused.
"You are. I'm following your flow."
Lira growled and launched a series of sharp blows. Rafael parried, danced back, and waited. Then struck.
He swept her legs.
She hit the ground with a thud and a gasp, staring up at the sky with wide eyes. Mud caked her uniform. Her braid had come undone.
And then—
She laughed.
It was sudden, disarming. A bright, crisp sound that cracked through the morning chill.
"You're annoying," she said, wiping mud from her brow. "But not completely hopeless, I guess."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"It's also the first thing I've ever said to you that wasn't a threat."
Progress, check!
The instructor let out a sharp whistle. "Good. Again."
They reset. Again, and again. Over the next hour, they sparred through fatigue, mud, and bruises. Their movements grew sharper, more instinctual.
And slowly, Lira's cold exterior began to thaw. She made a few jokes. Rafael mocked her stance. She punched him in the shoulder. He called it careness.
At one point, Lira knocked him flat with a sweep-kick. Rafael groaned, staring up at the clouds. "Remind me to never let you meet my enemies. You'd embarrass me."
She smirked and offered a hand. "You already embarrass yourself."
The class eventually ended with a bell, and students limped off to the baths and infirmary.
***
After the drills, Rafael handed her a flask of water.
Lira hesitated, then took it. "Why are you nice to me?"
"I remember you," Rafael said truthfully. "From… before."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged. "You remind me of someone I trusted. Someone who saved my life."
Lira drank. Then, quieter, "I don't trust anyone."
"You will."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue.
They sat in silence under the eaves of the old watchtower, overlooking the academy walls. The sky was overcast, the wind tugging at Rafael's cloak like a warning. Time moved slower here—before the rifts, before the loss. But he could feel it building. Like pressure behind stone.
Footsteps approached. Two boys—Tomas and Bren—Rafael remembered them both from a past life. Both dead before they hit eighteen.
"Hey, Lira! Want to hit the mess hall?" Tomas asked. Then, noticing Rafael, added, "You bringing your pet along?"
Lira didn't even flinch. "Don't start."
Rafael just smiled. "Depends. Do pets get priority access to dessert?"
Bren chuckled. Tomas rolled his eyes.
As the boys walked off, Rafael turned to her. "Friends of yours?"
"Unfortunately."
"They seem lively."
"They'll grow out of it. Or get eaten."
Rafael's smile faded just slightly. He knew that she - probably - remembered something. A glimpse of it, maybe.
She caught the shift in his face. "What?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. Just… hoping they don't."
Lira studied him again, longer this time.
"You think you can change it?" Lira asked suddenly.
He looked up, startled.
"The future. Whatever's got you so twitchy."
"I have to," he said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
Lira narrowed her eyes. "You talk like you've seen war."
"I have."
"You're twelve."
"I wasn't, once. No. Dozen of times."
More silence. Then, for just a moment, something flickered in her expression—a faint curiosity. A tilt of the head.
"You're weird."
"Thanks."
"I didn't say it was a compliment."
"I took it as one."
She cracked a smile.
And for Rafael, it was like a warm wind had passed through him—carrying with it a glimmer of hope. A spark in the ash.
He would rebuild it all. Friend by friend. Battle by battle. Even if he had to fight time itself.
This time, he wouldn't lose them again.
***