Morning training ended the same way it always did now—without him.
Midarion stood at the edge of the stone yard while the others dispersed, steam rising from their bodies in the cool sea air. Blades were returned to racks. Spears clattered. Laughter broke out in short, exhausted bursts. He waited until the noise thinned, until no one was looking for him, then turned back toward the inner halls.
The fragments from the night before lingered like splinters.
…not gone……still here……breathe…
Filandra's voice had not lectured. It had not consoled. It had only existed beside him, steady and distant, like a hand resting on his back without pressure. The rest had been silence.
That silence stayed with him as he moved.
Captain Aelyss's quarters were already unlocked. They always were. Trust was not part of the equation—routine was. Midarion entered, rolled his shoulders once, and began.
Breakfast first.
The tray was simple. Warm bread. Salted fruit. Steeped tea measured to the finger-width she preferred. He checked the temperature twice. Too hot, she would leave it untouched. Too cold, it would be replaced without comment.
He set it down exactly where it belonged.
Then the room.
Every surface was already clean. That did not change the expectation. He wiped anyway. Once, twice. The faintest smear on the metal frame of the window vanished beneath his cloth. He aligned the chairs to the same angle as the tiles beneath them. He folded the spare cloak that had not moved since yesterday.
Aelyss entered while he worked.
Her presence was quiet but absolute, like pressure deep underwater. He straightened immediately.
"Good morning, Captain," he said, voice light. Controlled.
She passed him without looking. Her eyes went to the table. The tray. The room.
He allowed himself a small attempt. A calculated one.
"I tried a different steep today," he said. "The quartermaster said it wakes the senses faster. I figured… busy day."
It was barely a joke. Barely an opening.
She did not smile.
She did not frown either.
She picked up the cup, inspected the surface of the liquid as if looking for a flaw that wasn't there, then set it back down.
"Equipment," she said.
"Yes, Captain."
He moved quickly. Armor laid out in order. Fastenings checked. No dust. No moisture. He adjusted one strap by a fraction of an inch, anticipating the way it would sit against her shoulder.
She watched his hands this time. Not his face.
"Exact," she said. Nothing more.
That was all.
When he was dismissed, he bowed and left without turning his back too quickly. The door closed behind him with a sound too soft to echo.
Only then did he release the breath he had been holding.
The shower scalded his skin awake. He stood beneath it longer than necessary, letting the water run until the ache in his shoulders dulled to something manageable. His hands—once raw and cracked—were healed now. Smooth. Whole. The proof of pain erased as if it had never mattered.
By the time the bell rang for class, he was clean, dressed, and already tired.
The classroom smelled of ink and stone dust. Rows of benches filled slowly, voices overlapping as recruits settled in. Midarion slipped into his place near the back, attendant uniform plain against the carved seats. He sat straight. Hands folded. Eyes forward.
Staying awake required effort. His body dipped toward sleep in brief, dangerous waves. He caught himself each time, jaw tightening, posture correcting. Discipline was a habit now, not a thought.
Reikika glanced back once.
He smiled at her immediately. Wide. Easy.
She frowned, concern flashing across her face, and he leaned closer when she turned fully.
"It's actually interesting," he whispered. "I get to see everything up close. Follow a captain around all day. Not many get that."
Her worry hesitated. She studied him, searching for cracks.
"I'm serious," he added softly. "It's a privilege."
She nodded slowly, not convinced—but less afraid. When she faced forward again, his smile stayed where it was.
The instructor entered.
He was an older man, robes lined with faded sigils, voice usually even to the point of boredom. Today, he did not waste time.
"Today," he said, "we discuss Spirits."
The room quieted—not with excitement, but with expectation.
"You already know the first classification," he continued. "Primary Spirits."
A hand rose. He nodded.
"The most common," the student recited. "Bound by contract. Often mortal."
"Correct," the instructor said. "They are tools you will see every day. Water. Wind. Stone. Force. Some live as long as their hosts. Some do not. Do not underestimate them. A cultivated Primary Spirit can surpass even weaker Legends."
He did not linger. He never did.
"Legendary Spirits," he went on. "Immortal. Eternal. Less than three percent of all known Spirits. They choose their bearers. Kings pray for them. Wars are decided by their presence or absence. You will likely never meet one."
A few students exhaled. A few smiled. The familiar awe settled, then passed.
Then the instructor stopped walking.
His hands folded behind his back.
"And then," he said, voice lowering just enough to change the air, "there are Dark Spirits that we also call Demons."
No one spoke.
"These are not myths," he continued. "They are not beasts lurking beyond the borders. They are contracts. Temptations. Shortcuts. They are desperation given form."
Someone shifted in their seat.
"They were born of corruption a thousand years ago," the instructor said. "They do not obey the order of the stars. Most are immortal. All are dangerous, absolute sinners."
He turned his gaze to the room—not scanning, but fixing.
"Let me tell you a story."
The benches creaked as students leaned in despite themselves.
"A man from the southern marshlands," the instructor said. "A fisherman. No training. No ambition. His child fell ill. No healer could help him. He was offered a voice in the dark. A promise. Power in exchange for something small. one finger."
The instructor paused.
"The child lived," he said. "The village celebrated. The man did not sleep again."
Silence stretched.
"The Spirit asked for more," the instructor went on. "Not all at once. Never all at once. A boundary and choice here. A body part there. Within a year, the marsh was empty. Within two, it was renamed, the old man totally possessed."
A student swallowed audibly.
"Families destroyed," the instructor said. "Not by monsters—but by decisions. By contracts that sounded reasonable at the time."
He moved again, slow steps echoing.
"Thirty percent of all Spirits in Astraelis now belong to this classification," he said. "That number is increasing."
A murmur rippled through the room before dying under his raised hand.
"These Spirits are not born evil in the way you imagine," he said. "They do not always begin as slaughter. They begin as solutions."
Midarion's fingers tightened together.
"Possession is only one method," the instructor continued. "Corruption is another. Some enslave. Some bargain. Some wear their hosts like garments. Others sit beside them for years, whispering."
He stopped beside the window.
"Bastions were not founded for glory," he said. "They were founded because Dark Spirits adapt. Because prisons were needed."
The word prisons hung there.
Midarion felt a flicker—nothing more. A distant recognition that did not form into thought. Filandra did not speak. She did not need to.
"You will be tempted," the instructor said. "Not because you are weak. But because you are human."
He let that sink in.
"Remember this," he finished. "Demons are not the enemy you fight on a battlefield. They are the choice you make when you think no one is watching."
The bell rang.
No one moved for a moment after.
When the room finally emptied, Midarion rose with the others, movements measured. He caught Reikika's eye again in the doorway and smiled—smaller this time, but just as steady.
"See?" he said lightly. "Worth staying awake for."
She laughed, relief loosening her shoulders, and walked ahead.
Midarion followed last.
By nightfall, his legs shook when he stood still. His smile never faltered. He poured water. He carried messages. He waited outside doors that decided the fates of regions.
No one thanked him.
No one needed to.
When he lay down at last, exhaustion pressing him into the mattress, the words from class echoed without urgency or fear.
Bastions were not heroes.
They were cages.
And somewhere beyond them, something was still learning how to ask.