David died because Aria couldn't ask for help.
Not real death. Simulated. But the failure was just as complete.
Aria's pride was quieter than Yuna's. It didn't climb seventy feet into the sky or attempt impossible maneuvers. It sat in a wheelchair and refused to acknowledge blind spots.
The training simulation had been complex. Four moving targets, seven team members, coordinated assault pattern. Aria commanded from the center, her RIFT Attunement flickering as she tracked everything at once.
"Marcus, position Alpha. Chen Wei, flanking right. Lyric, illusion cover on my mark. David, pattern analysis. Silence, futures. Yuna..."
Yuna stood at the edge of the formation, leg healed but still tender. She wasn't flying today. Doctor's orders.
"Yuna, ground coordination. Adapt."
The simulation began.
Targets moved. The team moved. Aria's voice cut through chaos, directing traffic, anticipating patterns.
But her wheelchair was positioned at the formation's center—perfect visibility forward and to the sides. Behind her was a blind spot.
And Aria refused to acknowledge it.
"Target three coming from..."
Silence's hand shot up. Warning. But Aria couldn't see it. Her back was to the approach.
"Aria!" Yuna shouted. "Behind you!"
Too late.
The simulated target struck David from behind. In a real battle, he'd be dead.
Simulation ended. Failure.
"Again," Aria said. Clipped. Controlled. Angry.
"We need to discuss what went wrong."
"I know what went wrong. I miscalculated the approach vector."
"That's not what went wrong."
Aria's eyes narrowed. "Then enlighten me."
"Your position. You couldn't see behind you. If someone had moved your chair to position Gamma, you'd have had full visibility."
"I don't need someone to move my chair."
"You needed it just now. David got killed because you couldn't see an attack coming."
The RIFT shimmer in Aria's eyes intensified.
"I can handle my own positioning."
"Clearly you can't."
The training ground went silent. The team watched, tension thick enough to taste.
Aria wheeled toward Yuna. Close. Confrontational.
"You want to tell me how to manage my disability? You, who couldn't manage her own ego and fell fifty feet?"
"Yes. Because I learned something from that fall." Yuna didn't back down. "Maybe you should too."
Through the CHORD, Yuna felt everything.
Anger on the surface. Fear underneath. And deeper still, something old and wounded.
Shame.
"Your family," Yuna said quietly. "They told you the chair made you worthless."
Aria flinched. Barely visible. Quickly controlled.
"That's not relevant."
"It's completely relevant. You won't ask for help because asking means admitting they were right."
"They weren't right. I've proven that. Tactically, I'm the most valuable member of this team."
"Tactically, you just got David killed."
"That was one mistake."
"It was pride." Yuna stepped closer. "The same pride that made me climb seventy feet and try a maneuver I wasn't ready for. I know what it looks like—needing to prove you're enough. Refusing help because accepting it feels like failure."
Aria's hands gripped her wheelchair arms. White-knuckled.
"You don't understand. You can walk. Fly. Move through the world without people looking at you like you're broken."
"No. I just have people look at me like I'm insufficient." Yuna held her gaze. "Different word. Same wound."
The anger in Aria's eyes flickered. Something else surfacing.
"I spent three years proving my family wrong," she said quietly. "Three years becoming the best tactical mind in my region. Top scores. Perfect analysis. I earned my place at the police academy through sheer competence."
"And then?"
"And then they rejected me anyway. Because the chair meant I couldn't do field work. Because no amount of intelligence could compensate for legs that don't function."
Her voice cracked.
"Asking for help feels like admitting they had a point. That I'm not enough on my own."
Yuna knelt in front of the wheelchair.
Eye level. Equal.
"The chair limits your mobility. That's a fact, not a judgment. But your mind isn't in your legs. Your value isn't in walking."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because right now, you're treating positioning help as a personal failure instead of tactical optimization."
Silence. Processing. Aria's analytical mind working through implications.
"If Marcus asked you to adjust his position for better sight lines, would you think less of him?"
"No. That's standard coordination."
"So why is it different when it's your position?"
Aria opened her mouth. Closed it.
"Because it's about the chair. And the chair is tied to everything your family said. Every rejection. Every time someone saw limitation instead of capability."
"Yes."
"But here's the thing—your family was wrong about you being worthless. They weren't wrong that the chair affects positioning. Both can be true. You can be brilliant and also need help with logistics."
"That's... logical."
"Your mind is the weapon. The chair is transport. Smart generals use every resource available—including asking subordinates to move them where they need to be."
The team had been watching.
Marcus spoke first. "I need help with control. Yuna guides me through CHORD feedback." He shrugged. "Doesn't make me weak."
Before Aria could respond, Silence held up her notebook: I NEED HELP SPEAKING. YOU TRANSLATE. DOESNT MAKE ME LESS.
"I need help feeling accepted," Lyric added, uncharacteristically quiet. "Asking for it was terrifying. But it made me stronger."
Chen Wei nodded sharply. "Requesting support is standard protocol."
David's voice came last, barely above a whisper. "I need help with courage. Every day."
Aria looked at them. Her team. Her family.
Something cracked behind her eyes.
"I don't know how," she admitted. "How to ask. It feels like surrender."
"It's not surrender," Yuna said. "It's strategy."
Aria's eyes glistened. She blinked rapidly.
"Okay." Her voice was rough. "Let's try again."
The second simulation went differently.
"Marcus, position Alpha. Chen Wei, flanking right." Aria paused. Swallowed visibly. "Marcus—before you engage, can you push me to position Gamma? Better sight lines."
Marcus didn't hesitate. Moved behind her chair. Wheeled her to the new position.
From Gamma, Aria could see everything. Forward. Sides. Behind.
"Better," she said, voice steadier. "Lyric, illusion cover on my mark. David, pattern analysis. Silence, futures. Yuna, ground coordination."
The simulation began.
This time, Aria saw everything. Commands came faster. More precise.
"Target four, incoming left. Marcus, delay intercept by two seconds."
"Target two flanking right. Chen Wei, hold—let it come to you."
"Target three approaching from rear." No freeze this time. "Silence, confirmation?"
Silence nodded.
"David, on my mark. Three, two, one—now."
David moved. The target fell.
Four eliminated. Zero casualties.
Success.
The team gathered around her. Not with pity. With respect.
"Tactical efficiency improved by thirty-four percent," Aria said, slightly awed. "Just from positioning."
"Just from asking for help," Yuna corrected.
"Same thing, apparently." Aria looked at Marcus. "Thank you."
"Anytime. That's what team means."
Lyric draped an arm around her shoulders. "Welcome to the vulnerability club, darling. Snacks and emotional breakdowns every other Thursday."
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
The corner of Aria's mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
Silence held up her notebook: PROUD OF YOU.
The words hit harder than any tactical analysis ever had.
That evening, Aria found Yuna on the dormitory roof.
The access ramp was new—a modification Thess had added after Yuna's fall. They sat together watching the three moons shift through their cycles. Silver. Gold. Faint rose.
"I owe you an apology," Aria said. "What I said about your ego. The fall. It was cruel."
"It was also accurate."
"Still. I used your pain to deflect from mine." Aria paused. "My family used to say the chair was God's punishment. They never specified what for. Just that I must have deserved it."
"That's horrible."
"It's also absurd. But hear something enough times, part of you starts to believe it."
The moons continued their dance.
"I've built my entire identity around being useful," Aria said quietly. "Necessary. If you accept me without requiring that utility... what am I?"
"You're Aria. Brilliant and prickly and loyal and scared. Our tactician. Our friend. Our family."
"That seems like a lot."
"It is. That's the point."
Silence stretched between them. Comfortable now.
"One hundred ten days," Aria said eventually. "Sixty-two percent chance of reaching Sixth Mark collectively. But asking for help increases success probability by fifteen percent."
"So seventy-seven percent."
"With margins of error."
"I'll take those odds."
Aria's mouth twitched again. Twice in one day. Progress.
"I'll work on the asking," she said. "It won't be natural. Possibly ever. But I'll try."
"That's all anyone can do."
"Is it enough?"
Yuna thought about her mother. About falling. About getting back up.
"Enough doesn't mean perfect. It means present. Trying. Willing to keep going even when everything hurts."
"That's not a very efficient definition."
"No. But it's true."
The moons continued overhead. Two insufficient people learning that strength wasn't about needing nothing.
It was about being brave enough to need each other.
Far below, in a chamber beneath the Ashfall Reach, the Herald stirred.
He had felt something shift in the Academy's web of connections. The tactician's walls cracking. The CHORD strengthening.
Seventy-seven percent, he mused. They're learning faster than expected.
That was... inconvenient.
He would have to introduce a variable they hadn't calculated. Something to test whether asking for help worked when help couldn't arrive in time.
The Herald smiled in the darkness.
One hundred ten days was still more than enough.
[END CHAPTER 19]