Rain hammered the training yard in blunt, impatient fingers. Water spattered off the rim of Aurelia's hood, ran down her forearms, and mingled with the thin smear of blood where a misjudged strike had nicked her palm.
Each arc of her blade was a mark against the dummy, short, furious sentences written into wood and soaked burlap, until her muscles trembled and the blade thudded into the straw.
"Don't." Sebastian's voice was near but not close enough to startle her; it carried the dry steadiness of a man used to keeping men alive. He stepped into the spray in his riding cloak, sodden but composed, the leather of his boots leaving dark prints on the wet stone. "Don't blame yourself for what others did."
Aurelia ground her teeth, feeling the weight of guilt pressing down, as if the world had decided, without asking, to put her on a plinth and call her a savior. Her hands tightened on the hilt until the bone whitened. "I should have been there sooner," she said, low. "If I'd—if I had the strength—" The rest of the sentence collapsed under everything she could not bring herself to say.
"You were the reason the Imperial Spire could recover," Sebastian said. He stepped closer and put a hand on her shoulder; his warmth was a fulcrum under the cold. "You ended the core. You saved—" He stopped, as if the list of lives was too long to pronounce. "You did what you could."
Her laugh came out sharp, a short, brittle thing that the rain swallowed. "Hero," she spat the word as if it were a physical thing lodged in her teeth. "I hate that word."
Sebastian's jaw tightened, he had rarely lost patience with her. Now, though, it softened.
"What kind of hero lets people die?" she continued, not waiting for him. The words were a tumble of accusation and confession. "What kind of hero kills someone? They call me that, and I—I can't make it mean anything good."
For a heartbeat, the yard held its breath. The dummy slumped under the weight of her unspent intent. Rain traced tracks across her face, and in the sheen her eyes looked older than her years.
Memories, not just the afterimage of battle but the small faces, the hands she had failed to save, rose.
Power thrummed under her skin with the same cold logic as a blade. Finality, an absolute, a severing whispered from the edge of that hunger, promising an end to not just pain but to the uncertainty that braided through everything.
The thought should have terrified her, instead, it felt, for an instant, inevitable.
Sebastian saw that look. Whatever his broader strategies as a cavalry officer, he was her brother first. He reached out, quick and decisive, and took the sword from her hands.
Not roughly, there was no anger in the motion, but with a steadiness that told her he would not let this become a performance of self-destruction.
"Dinner's ready," he said simply, as if the most urgent thing in the world could be bread and stew and a table. "We'll talk about the rest later."
Aurelia exhaled, setting the blade back in its rack. The metal left a cold ring on the wood and left her hands empty.
They walked back toward the Caelistra manor together, shoulders brushing under the shared cloak.
The path was slick, the lamplight turning puddles into sheets of molten gold. Sebastian glanced at her, then at the house looming ahead, warm windows promising shelter.
"We're having your favorites tonight," he said, softer now. "Rowena insists on the lemon tarts. Just…come inside."
Aurelia kept her face neutral, but her heart was a small, uneven drum. She wanted to believe that a dinner could stitch her back whole. She wanted, too, to believe that the thought of Finality was only a fevered thing in the dark. Both hopes felt fragile.
She let herself be led. The manor's door closed behind them with a solid, ordinary click, and for one transient evening,
Aurelia allowed herself to be simply a daughter, not a savior, not a verdict. The rain kept falling, and under its steady beat, memories still rose, but at the table, with steaming bowls and the careful faces of family, they would be only memories, things she could touch and name, not the shapes of decisions she had not yet made.
The Caelistra dining hall shimmered with warm lamplight, the long table lined with roasted vegetables, spiced meats, fresh bread, and the bright citrus perfume of Rowena's lemon tarts.
At the far end sat Duke August Caelistra, posture straight, eyes sharp, and beside him Duchess Diana Caelistra, whose gentle presence softened the room more effectively than any candle.
Aurelia took her seat between Sebastian and Rowena. Rain still clung to her hair and sleeves, running in cold threads down her arms.
Rowena immediately pushed a plate toward her. "Lia, you're soaked. Did you train outside again?"
Before Aurelia could answer, August snapped his fingers.
A controlled gust of wind, precise, warm, clearly shaped through years of practiced Aether discipline, whirled around Aurelia. In a breath, her hair and clothes were dry, the chill lifted from her skin.
August smiled, ease touching his features. "That's better. Don't overwork yourself to the point of illness. The Academy will survive if my daughter doesn't spar with thunderstorms."
Diana added gently, "He's right. Please, rest while you can."
Aurelia nodded, though her muscles still hummed with the aftershocks of training. She forced a small smile and picked up her fork.
Sebastian watched her closely. "You're pushing too hard again."
"I'm fine." But the words tasted thin, almost transparent.
Conversation drifted as dinner continued, Rowena recounting an alchemy mishap involving singed eyebrows, Sebastian offering his usual dry commentary, Diana asking after Aurelia's studies, and August making quiet, measured remarks about the Spire's recovery.
But Aurelia only half-listened.
Every clatter of cutlery felt distant, faint, as if heard through glass. Her thoughts were still trapped in the rain, in the echo of the Spire collapsing, in the memory of the core's last shudder.
When dinner ended, August excused himself to his study, and Diana gave Aurelia a soft kiss on the head before moving toward the drawing room. Rowena stayed behind to guard the lemon tarts "from any potential dessert thieves," while Sebastian followed Aurelia into the garden.
The rain had softened into a silver mist across the stones.
"You know," Sebastian said, stepping beside her, "training in the rain doesn't make you invincible. Just cold."
Aurelia didn't answer at first. The memories pressed too close.
"I have to be stronger." The words spilled before she could hold them back. "If I had been, none of it—none of it—would have ended the way it did."
He swallowed. Rain clung to his lashes. "No one can save everyone."
"But I could save more," she whispered. "If I was stronger. If I had more power. Enough that nothing like that ever happens again."
Sebastian stepped in front of her and gently reached for the sword still at her side. He unbuckled it with a quiet, practiced motion.
"You've done enough for today," he said. "Come inside. Mother will fuss if she sees you like this."
Aurelia gave a shaky, reluctant laugh. "She always does."
"And she's usually right," he replied, nudging her lightly toward the manor.
Warmth wrapped around her the moment she stepped inside. She could hear Diana speaking softly to a servant, Rowena humming in the kitchen, the calm domestic cadence she hadn't realized she missed.
The hunger for power, the need to never fail again, pulled at her bones like a tide. But the glow of the manor's lamps softened the edge of it.
Upstairs, her room waited with its soft lamplight and shelves cluttered with runes, notebooks, and half-finished diagrams. She set her sword on the stand by the window.
For a moment, she simply stood there, listening to the rain, feeling the weight of the day settle into her bones.
Then she sat at her desk and unrolled one of Rowena's old rune guides, an oilskin-wrapped treasure full of stabilizing methods and delicate diagrams.
Slow, careful study. Work that did not demand heroism or sacrifice, only patience.
She copied a sigil line by line until her heartbeat slowed.
When she finally lay down, she stared at the ceiling and breathed out.
For the first time in months, she drifted into sleep not imagining endings, but imagining the long, winding road toward becoming someone stronger without losing herself in the process.
Morning arrived soft and sure. Maids moved through Aurelia's chamber with the practiced hush of people who knew which ribbons to pull and which pins to fasten.
They braided her hair back from her face, smoothed the damp collar of her blouse, and anchored the last strip of ribbon with an efficient fingertip.
Aurelia watched them work with a small, private gratitude that weighed less than the things she hadn't managed to say.
She stepped into the corridor, the house settling around her like an old story.
Sunlight pooled in the stained-glass at the stair landing and painted the floor with shards of color.
Aurelia rounded the corner, expecting only servants and the distant clink of breakfastware, and found Lysandra grinning at her from beneath a cascade of ribboned curls.
"Aren't you a sight," Lysandra said, wide as a spring.
Aurelia let a smile ease over her face despite herself. Lysandra's presence was like a bright, unplanned note in a steady chord.
"You could have sent a messenger," Aurelia said, though the reproach was soft. "Or I could have sent for you."
"Pfft." Lysandra bobbed a slight curtsey. "Who sends messengers when one may drop in and demand tea?"
She peered past Aurelia toward the windows. "Are you actually staying at home now? I haven't seen you in months, ever since the Academy ordered the year-long leave for everyone tied to the Spire."
Aurelia's fingers curled around the strap of her satchel. The memory of the Spire hummed low, but she breathed anyway. "I've been with my family," she said. "Training with Sebastian mostly. Quiet. Less—everything."
"That sounds…civilized." Lysandra's smile pleased Aurelia. "I mean, I've been enjoying my family too. No lectures, no early drills. Mother is practically giddy at having me around, can you imagine?" She nudged Aurelia's elbow. "I hate the lectures, Aurelia. They drone. I'm glad to be free of them for a while."
Aurelia laughed, short, genuine, "It's been good. Quiet does things to you."
"Downside, though," Lysandra added, folding her hands. "We're not in the dorms, so we can't see each other all the time."
Aurelia's smile faltered. A ribbon of guilt tugged at her. "I should have invited you to the manor," she started, then checked herself. "I wanted space after everything. I'm sorry, Lysandra."
Lysandra blinked, then shrugged with theatrical severity. "Space is fair. You should have also invited me, though. I know how to coax people out of their brooding. I have a specialty in pastries and terrible advice."
Aurelia's mouth twitched into a genuine grin this time. "Pastries and terrible advice," she repeated. "Dangerous combination. I forgive you."
They fell into step together down the hall. Aurelia's fingers lifted and flicked in the practiced gesture that summoned the nearest maids. Footfalls answered, and the servants moved with efficiency.
Aurelia nodded. "Set out tea in the garden," she told them. "And bring the lemon tarts."
"Yes, milady." The women bowed and swept away like a braid of cloth.
As they walked toward the garden, Lysandra fell into easy conversation, small talk that grew teeth around the edges, asking after teachers, gossiping about quiet politics at the Academy, and, gently, probing how Aurelia had been, really.
Aurelia answered in the parts she could, family, training, the slow, deliberate work of being less frantic. She left out the sharper things for now, the sleepless arithmetic of what she might have done differently, the private hunger for power that would not be named at a shared table.
Lysandra regarded her with an affectionate impatience that Aurelia found almost as comforting as the manor's heat. "Next time," Lysandra said with a waggle of fingers, "invite me. Or I'll turn up with a basket and stage an intervention."
Aurelia glanced at her friend, the corner of her mouth lifting. "That might be exactly what I need."
They reached the garden to find the servants already waiting, silver tray handles cool in their gloved hands, porcelain cups steaming on a small table beneath the arbour. Lysandra clapped once, delighted. "That was quick."
Aurelia gave a faint, proud smile. "It's only natural. To be part of the Caelistra manor, you must be efficient in what you do." She inclined her head toward the maids. "You may go."
The servants bowed and melted away along the gravel path. Once they were alone, the two girls settled into the wrought-iron chairs.
Lysandra popped a lemon tart into her mouth and closed her eyes, blissful. "The Caelistra cooks are excellent," she declared around a crumb.
Aurelia's answering look made her friend blink. "These were made by my sister," she said, a little amused.
Lysandra's fork paused midair. "Rowena? Really?"
"Just because we're nobles doesn't mean we can't do normal things," Aurelia replied, level. "Rowena likes to bake. It's a hobby." There was the faintest glow of pride in her voice. "She takes it seriously."
Lysandra grinned. "Hobbies that involve tarts should be encouraged. Very civilized." She wiped her mouth with her napkin. "But what about Kael? And the others, how are they doing? I haven't seen anyone from the academy in months."
Aurelia shrugged, a shadow crossing her features. "I don't know much. I've mostly been with family and training with Sebastian."
Lysandra sighed. "Kael's a commoner. it's tricky to reach him, no notable family to send messages through. Lucien's probably buried in royal duties, or training, or whatever mischief he and Cassian and Mirielle get up to."
She lowered her voice, leaning in like she was passing on gossip. "But get this, after the Spire incident, I heard Victoria was offered an apprenticeship at the Spire itself."
Aurelia's spoon froze. "Victoria?"
"The very one." Lysandra's eyes shone. "Her rune work was impressive, she helped in destroying the core. It makes sense they'd want her there."
Lysandra nudged her hand. "Don't worry. We'll all be back together after the break. The Academy will call everyone back once things settle. It's only a matter of time."
A gentle breeze threaded through the hedges, carrying the scent of damp grass and the sharper citrus of the tarts.
Aurelia let her fingertips rest on the rim of her teacup, the warmth grounding her. Lysandra stretched her legs under the table, relaxing like a cat in a sunspot.
"Still," Lysandra said, tilting her head, "it feels strange. Everyone scattered. No training halls echoing with spell misfires, no Kael brooding in corners, no Lucien pretending he's not watching you—"
Aurelia shot her a flat look. "Lysandra."
"What?" Lysandra blinked innocently. "I'm only saying the halls were less dramatic with you two in different wings. Much quieter. Honestly, I was getting bored."
Aurelia looked away, pretending to inspect the pattern on the tablecloth. "The quiet has been…necessary."
Lysandra didn't tease her this time. Her smile softened. "I know. You don't have to explain it."
They drank in silence for a moment, the kind that felt like a blanket rather than a wall. Aurelia watched the tea ripple in her cup with each shift of the wind.
For a heartbeat, she imagined the pale glow that sometimes flickered at the edges of her vision, moonlit, memory-laden, and blinked it away.
Lysandra broke the quiet first, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "So. When the Academy summons us back, what's your plan?"
"I don't know." Aurelia traced the rim of her teacup. "I should think about it, but…"
"But?" Lysandra prompted, gentle but curious.
Aurelia exhaled slowly. "I'm not sure who I'll be when I go back."
Lysandra sat back, her expression surprisingly perceptive. "Then you'll figure it out there. People change. Things change. The Academy may have shifted, but so have we."
Aurelia met her gaze, surprised by the steadiness in it.
"And besides," Lysandra added, brightening, "you won't be alone. You'll have me. And Kael. And Lucien, even if he's infuriating. And Victoria, if she ever looks up from a rune long enough to notice us. We'll all make it work."
Aurelia felt the tiniest thread of warmth uncoil inside her, tentative, but real. "You make it sound easy."
Lysandra shrugged, lifting another tart. "That's my job. Optimism and pastries."
Aurelia raised an eyebrow at Lysandra's enthusiasm. "You talk a lot about pastries," she said, tone dry, "yet I haven't actually seen any from you."
Lysandra gasped theatrically. "Who doesn't have pastries?" She dove into the small basket she'd brought, and triumphantly shoved a paper-wrapped bundle onto the surface between them. "I come prepared."
Aurelia stared at it, unimpressed but faintly amused. "I'll be the judge of that," she murmured. "Let's see if anything you make is still edible after a few months away."
Lysandra placed a hand over her heart as if wounded. "Rude. Try it and repent."
Aurelia broke off a small piece, cautious, and tasted it. The flavor bloomed, warm spice and a hint of sweet berry, and she blinked despite herself. "...It's good," she admitted.
Lysandra's grin burst across her face like sunrise. "Ha! I knew it. See? I haven't been wasting my break. I'm getting better."
Aurelia shook her head, but her smile gave her away. "You have improved."
"We'll all eat together again when we're back at the Academy," Lysandra said, leaning back in her chair with an air of certainty. "Pastries, tarts, stolen snacks from the kitchens, everything. Like before."
Aurelia looked at her friend, at the crumbs on the table and the sunlight threading through the garden leaves, and felt a quiet, steadying warmth. She nodded. "Yes. When we're back."
The breeze stirred the edges of the tablecloth, carrying the faint scent of lemon and spices.