***
The sky had begun to bleed into violet when Kael walked back toward the house, his steps silent against the loose gravel path. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of smoke from hearth fires. Dusk was falling fast, shadows bleeding long across the dry earth.
The house stood dimly lit ahead, the orange glow of its interior spilling through half-closed windows. As Kael approached, voices drifted through the walls—gentle, rhythmic. He pushed the door open quietly.
Veila stood just outside the doorway, sleeves rolled up, her focus on the wooden bowl in her arms. Mira knelt beside her, stirring a pot with practiced hands, and between them was the little boy, squinting hard as he tried to peel potatoes without ruining them. Kael slowed his steps. He hadn't planned to stop. But something about the moment—this soft pocket of life—drew him in.
Kael paused at the doorway, unseen for a moment, his gaze settling on the quiet rhythm of this life. Simple. Untouched. Real.
"Oh, Kael." Veila turned at last, offering a tired but warm smile. "You're back just in time. Come sit—you're earlier than I expected."
"I didn't want to wander too far," Kael said, his voice measured. "Didn't feel necessary."
She smiled faintly and stepped aside.
Mira glanced at him briefly, a flash of recognition in her eyes—not the wary gaze of before, but something easier now. Familiar.
He joined them without another word, settling beside the boy, who gave him a shy glance before going back to his task. Kael said nothing. Mira kept working, her silver hair tied back, strands slipping loose and catching the firelight. Eventually, they moved inside, the warmth of the small home wrapping around them like a quilt.
The table was worn, the bowls chipped, the spoons mismatched—but when they sat down, it felt whole.
"We've got four days left," Veila said, breaking the quiet as they began eating. "After that, the gates open."
Kael nodded slowly. "Anything I need to prepare?"
"I was going to take you myself," she replied, "but I'll be tied up tomorrow. Mira can go with you. She knows what's required."
Kael's gaze shifted to Mira. She met it without hesitation.
"I don't mind," she said simply. "We'll find everything. I know where to go."
The little boy leaned forward, eyes wide. "Can I join too when I grow up? I'll be strong like you!"
Kael blinked. He hadn't expected it. Something about the boy's earnestness—so raw and unfiltered—disarmed him.
"You will," Kael said, and then, without thinking, he added, "But first you gotta eat properly, grow tall, and stop peeling potatoes like they're your enemies."
The boy burst out laughing, eyes shining.
But the table went quiet.
Veila's spoon paused mid-air. Mira's lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Kael didn't realize what he'd done until the moment stretched too long.
He'd sounded like someone else. Like… a brother.
The silence pressed in gently, not uncomfortable, but heavy with something unspoken. A shift. Kael reached for his cup with slow precision, masking the unease threading through his ribs.
"I'll step out a bit," he murmured.
Veila gave a soft nod, but Mira was still watching him as he stood.
---
The rooftop was cool under his hands, rough with age and streaked with dried moss. Kael sat cross-legged, staring out across the horizon. The stars had started to emerge—faint, blinking, distant. The wind was still.
He leaned back slightly, closing his eyes.
It came uninvited.
A memory.
Two boys running down a hill, laughing like the world belonged to them. The older one—taller, louder, always just ahead—looked back and shouted something Kael couldn't remember, but the warmth in his chest did. That laugh. That reckless smile. The sound of footsteps behind them.
And then the memory darkened. Another figure, colder. Sharper. The second oldest brother—face unreadable, voice colder than steel. A betrayal sealed in silence. Screams Kael never let himself remember fully.
He opened his eyes.
The stars looked different now.
---
Morning came with a pale sky and the scent of dew still clinging to the leaves. By mid-morning, Kael and Mira were already deep in the city streets.
Their first stop was a modest sewing shop run by a middle-aged woman with quick hands and a sharper eye.
"Measurements first," she muttered.
Kael allowed it, arms out slightly.
She measured Kael without a word, adjusting pins and cloth as Mira stood back and commented every so often.
"He doesn't need anything flashy," she said. "Something functional. He won't say it, but he likes to move freely."
"No armor?" the old woman asked.
"He won't need it," Mira answered before Kael could. "Something light. Unrestricted movement. He's the kind that doesn't like being weighed down."
Kael tilted his head slightly. He didn't correct her. She wasn't wrong.
The woman looked at Kael, then back at Mira.
"You could tell that? Or did he say as much?"
She smirked without looking at him. "Didn't need to. He walks like someone who's never liked being bound."
Next came the weapons shop. Rows of blades, spears, and staff-forms lined the walls, glinting under the lantern light. Kael barely glanced at them.
The owner, a thickset man with a booming voice, pushed a polished longsword toward him. "Solid choice. Balanced. You'll get used to it."
Mira tilted her head, watching Kael handle it. Then she stepped in.
"It's too heavy," she said. "And too rigid. He's not the type to rely on brute force. None of these suit him," Mira said flatly.
The man raised an eyebrow. "You think so?"
"I know so."
The owner blinked. "You a smith now?"
"No. Just observant."
She turned to Kael, hands on her hips"Try something lighter. No armor. Maybe... this." She picked out a short sword with a narrower grip and handed it to him.
"This one. You'll barely notice it's there. Feels more like your kind of fight."
Kael examined it, and for the first time since they left the house, a faint sound escaped him—a quiet chuckle.
Mira's eyes widened slightly.
But she didn't comment.
She turned away with a small, hidden smile—quietly victorious.
------
They found themselves seated at a small eatery tucked between alleys, a little sun-warmed place with wooden benches and fogged-up windows.
Kael sat near the window, eyes distant, watching the bustle of the street without really seeing it. Mira didn't ask what he wanted. She ordered without a word and returned with two plates, one placed before him.
He blinked once, then looked at the food. His hand stilled mid-reach.
She raised an eyebrow. "Figured it might be something you liked."
Kael said nothing, but he started eating.
Mira leaned back against the bench, letting the silence stretch before she broke it.
"There are three divisions," she began. "Attack, Custom, and Research. Each with their own color. The Attack Division wears crimson—everyone respects them. Or fears them. They're the front line."
Kael didn't look away from the window, but he was listening.
"The Research Division," Mira went on, "wears a blue uniform. Most people call them cowards or scavengers. But they're the ones who uncover what no one else dares to look into. The Custom Division... that's somewhere in between. They tailor their skills. One foot in theory, one in field. They wear green — a mix of earth and discipline. Not as feared, but always watched."
She reached for her drink. "You'll figure out where you fit soon enough."
He didn't respond, just let the information settle.
Once they finished, they walked back slowly through the winding streets. Mira carried a bag over one shoulder, the other weighed with wrapped cloth.
Kael took the heavier set from her without asking.
She looked at him, surprised.
"It's the least I can do," he said quietly.
For a moment, Mira just watched him, something unreadable passing across her face.
Everyone had always looked at him like he didn't belong. Like he was a mistake, or a burden waiting to happen. But right now, with the sun behind them and their shadows long on the road, she could feel something solidifying between them.
In Kael—subtle, but unmistakable—a shift was taking place.
And for the first time in a long while, Mira smiled—not out of politeness or amusement.
But out of something real.