The day began like any other.
Morning sunlight spilled through the towering arched windows of the Imperial Academy's Comun Hall, casting long, golden bars across the polished marble floor. The air was cool, faintly tinged with the scent of parchment and ink drifting from the nearby study alcoves.
Adjusting the crisp collar of her navy-accented uniform, Riley joined the steady stream of students weaving through the corridor. The low murmur of voices and the echo of boot heels against marble filled the hall in a rhythm that had become familiar. Her schedule today was the same as any other Friday: one mandatory course in the morning, her elective—War Tactics—just before lunch, followed by two more required classes in the afternoon.
She met Ace at the courtyard near the central fountain, where the sunlight caught in his crimson hair, making it shimmer like embers caught mid-spark. His easy grin was already in place, the kind that made him look like he had never once taken a morning seriously.
"Ready for another round of old men talking about old things?" he teased, referring to their shared History of Governance class.
Riley chuckled, tugging her satchel higher on her shoulder. "Only if you promise to wake me up if I fall asleep."
The morning rolled forward predictably. In Professor Glass's class, they discussed the allocation of military funding across the empire's provinces and how it had shaped centuries of expansion. Riley could have drifted off, but Ace's occasional, perfectly timed murmurs—just sharp enough to make her suppress a laugh—kept her engaged. Even in the slow pace of Professor Glass's lectures, she found herself smiling more than stifling yawns.
But the true highlight of the day came after that peaceful class, just before the lunch break.
War Tactics.
She walked alongside Ace until they reached the wide archway that marked the mixed elective wing. They parted ways there with a casual wave, and Riley's steps slowed without her meaning to. Her heartbeat picked up in that odd, uneven way it always did when she crossed this threshold.
As always, her seat was at the very back. Because her partner was Riellischus Desillix.
He was already there when she arrived, his chin resting on one hand, gaze fixed somewhere near the front of the room but clearly unfocused. His black-and-crimson thriver uniform sat perfectly on him—polished boots, precise folds, and the gleam of the acknowledgment pin on his collar catching the light each time he shifted.
"Good morning," she greeted quietly, sliding into the seat beside him.
Riel inclined his head in acknowledgment, his eyes flicking toward her for the briefest second before returning to the front. But in that moment, she caught it again—that almost imperceptible pause, as though her presence had brushed against some buried memory in him, leaving ripples he couldn't quite name.
The low chatter in the room faded as Professor Helstam strode in, his presence alone enough to command silence.
"Today," the professor began, "we examine river terrains. Slow-moving currents versus rapids, bridge stability, the effect of fog density. Adjust your strategy maps accordingly."
Riel unrolled the sketch they'd been refining over the last few weeks. Riley leaned in—not so close that their shoulders touched, but close enough to read the fine inked lines marking units and supply routes. Their plan was solid: balanced forces, fallback positions, a clear rotation schedule.
Still, she felt like the junior partner in this duo.
"You think we need more ranged placement near the upper bank?" she asked, tilting her head toward the cluster of tiny symbols she'd drawn earlier.
Riel's gaze lingered on the map for a moment, then he gave a slow nod. "Good thought. Could collapse their supply route."
Their rhythm was steady now—efficient, unspoken. Riel wasn't talkative, but he never dismissed her contributions. He listened. Fully. Even if his replies were brief, his attention was never shallow. Yet something in him seemed... different today. When she reached over to adjust the miniature archer unit symbols, his eyes followed her face, as if trying to look for something that wasn't there. Not just glanced—watched, for a beat too long.
It left a strange weight in the air.
---
Later that afternoon, as Riley and Ace headed toward the courtyard, a sharp voice cut through the hum of the hallway behind them.
"You think your silence makes you better than everyone else?"
Riley slowed and turned. Lady Selanne— Count Elowen's daughter—stood with two companions. In front of them was a small, pale student clutching a stack of books so tightly the edges bit into her arms. Riley knew that girl. Raya. They shared one class together.
"I asked you a question," Selanne pressed, her words sharp enough to draw blood. "Or are you too common to even speak?"
Ace sighed under his breath. "Again?"
He stepped forward, his smile carrying the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly how to disarm and irritate in equal measure.
"Lady Selanne," he said pleasantly. "Maybe save your critique for debates class?"
Selanne turned, her irritation sharpening when she recognized him. Her gaze flicked briefly to his hair, that unmistakable flame-red marking him as a Sweinz.
"Lord Sweinz," she replied, her tone cooling but not softening. "I was merely offering guidance."
"Well, maybe offer it less loudly next time."
Selanne's lips pressed thin. She said nothing further, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her annoyance. She turned sharply, and the girl, Raya, seized the moment to slip away, disappearing down a side corridor without a word.
As they resumed walking, Ace gave Riley a sidelong look and a shrug. "Don't worry about her. She'll get tired eventually."
Riley wasn't so sure. The girl's face lingered in her mind—the tight jaw, the darting eyes. This wasn't the first time, and Riley doubted it would be the last.
---
Days passed. Selanne didn't confront Raya in public again, not when Ace was nearby. But Riley noticed her nonetheless: the way she scanned the edges of the hallway before turning a corner, the subtle hunch of her shoulders as if making herself smaller.
And then, one afternoon, Riley overheard it—a pair of second-years whispering near the stairwell.
"They dragged her again. That quiet girl. Took her to the old training hall in the north. You know, the one that's being rebuilt."
The words hit like ice water down her spine.
She didn't think. She ran.
The corridors seemed longer than usual, each echo of her boots against stone urging her faster. She cut through the abandoned forge wing, the air here colder, stale with disuse, until the crumbling archway of the old training grounds came into view. The space beyond was choked with scaffoldings and beams, dust hanging in the shafts of pale light filtering through broken windows.
And there they were.
The same girl, Raya. Cornered. Selanne and her two shadows forming a half-circle around her. But it was the boy beside them that froze Riley mid-step—a male thriver, his uniform marked with crimson accents but missing the acknowledgment pin. His hand glowed faintly, flame licking up from his fingertips in a slow, hungry curl.
"One little burn won't kill her," he said with a smirk.
"Don't!"
Her own voice cracked through the air before she even realized she had spoken.
All eyes turned to her.
The boy's grin widened. "And who are you? Another charity case?"
He took a step forward, flame brightening.
Riley's body moved before her mind caught up.
One heartbeat—two—and she was in motion.
Her foot crossed the distance, her hands finding his wrist, twisting with precise force, pivoting her body so his own momentum betrayed him. He hit the ground with a hard, breath-knocking thud, the fire sputtering out on impact.
The others stumbled back in shock.
Riley froze, chest heaving. Her stance was still defensive, knees bent, weight balanced perfectly as though she had trained for this exact moment.
How did I—
"That move," a quiet voice carried from the shadow of a half-collapsed wall.
Riel.
He stepped forward slowly, his expression unreadable but his eyes fixed on her with a piercing intensity that seemed to strip away the noise and dust around them.
"Where did you learn that?"
---
Riel couldn't help but notice it—the faint shadows under the violet-haired girl's eyes since the first war mock exam two weeks ago. Even though they only shared one class a week, he could sense it in her posture, in the way her focus sometimes drifted just long enough for her expression to tighten before she reeled it back in.
Something was keeping her awake at night.
And if it was connected to her macht—which, in this timeline, seemed to surface far more often than before—he couldn't ignore it. Not when he knew the risks. Not when this very Academy had also seen fit to enroll Nave within its walls.
A fragment of thought had just begun to form when a voice nearby caught his ear.
"That violet-haired girl before—do you think she's okay?"
The idle conversation between two navy-accented first-years pulled him back to the present. Only then did he realize his steps had carried him into the Comun Wing. He wasn't supposed to be here.
But—violet-haired girl?
"That girl's a first year, right? She looks like a noble," the second girl replied, though her tone lacked conviction. "She's always with that Sweinz boy... she should be fine. Probably."
Probably.
Riel was already moving.
He approached without hesitation, ignoring the ripple of silence that spread down the corridor as students noticed him. The two girls froze, their hands tightening over the books they held. His blue eyes locked onto them with a weight that made it difficult for anyone to look away.
"Spill everything you were just discussing," he said, voice low but carrying.
They stammered through what they'd heard—fragments of rumor, a mention of the old training hall in the north wing. It was enough.
Moments later, Riel was running.
The half-deserted north wing was colder, the air carrying the dry tang of old dust and stone. Shadows pooled in the gaps between the scaffoldings and piles of construction timber. But ahead—through the jagged arch of a collapsed wall—movement caught his eye.
And what he saw made his chest seize.
Riley—his Riley, even if she didn't know it—had just executed a throw. Not perfectly. Her pivot was fractionally off, her stance needing adjustment to match her current frame. But the move itself... precise enough that he recognized it instantly.
It was his move.
One he had taught her himself. Not here. Not in this lifetime.
And in that instant, every lingering doubt he'd carried dissolved.
She was real. Undeniably so.
"That move..." The words left him before he could stop them, his voice lower than he intended.
He stepped out from the shadows of the half-collapsed wall, the fractured sunlight catching the edge of his uniform's crimson trim. Each step was deliberate, but his hands curled tightly into fists at his sides, fighting the raw pull in his chest—the urge to close the distance and hold her just to confirm she was solid, here, alive.
She looked back at him, unreadable. Still breathing fast, still in the aftermath of a fight she hadn't planned for.
Then he saw it. A subtle flicker of crimson in her left iris. Glimmering fadedly beneath her purple color. One so subtle he didn't pay more attention to. Probably just some reflection, or he might be seeing it wrong.
He brushed off that crimson fade and brought his focus back to the move he just witnessed.
"Where did you learn that?"
Her lips parted, but before she could answer, the male thriver snarled from the side. "Who are you?!" Flames leapt to life again at his fingertips, brighter and hotter this time.
Ah. Right. The vermin.
Riel's gaze shifted to him without warmth, and he began to walk forward. Slow, steady, each step carrying the weight of someone who had never once needed to raise his voice to command a room.
Selanne was the first to react. Recognition flashed in her eyes, blanching the edges of her composure. "You lowly—We'd better get out of here," she hissed to her companions. "Or else, even with plenty of lives, it still wouldn't be enough."
The boy faltered, confused, but followed when she grabbed his sleeve.
Normally, Riel wouldn't have let it go so easily. But the sound of someone trying—and failing—to steady their breath pulled his attention back. The ache in it was enough to stay in his hand. These weren't worth his time.
He turned, closing the last few steps between himself and Riley. His voice was quieter now, but no less firm.
"Are you okay? Hurt anywhere?"