She didn’t crash.

  Didn’t roll.

  Didn’t scream.

  Her feet touched the ground as if the world had been prepared to receive them.

  Around her stretched a clearing in full bloom.

  Flowers—by the hundreds, maybe thousands. Of every size, every shape—bathed in a milky light filtering down through the treetops.

  She stood frozen for a few seconds.

  It was… beautiful.

  A place stolen from a dream—or from a memory too gentle to be real.

  Even the air felt lighter here. Purer. She felt her shoulders relax despite herself.

  A faint smile escaped her.

  Then she took a long breath, closed her eyes for a second… and regained control.

  “Enough.”

  She opened her eyes and surveyed the surroundings methodically.

  No visible structures. No fresh footprints. No animal tracks.

  Just her, standing at the center of a place far too calm.

  She sighed and started walking.

  “I probably should’ve taken a weapon,” she murmured.

  Her fingers brushed against her bare hip. Nothing. Not even a cheap blade.

  “Idiot.”

  There was no anger in her voice—just a flat, emotionless assessment.

  She walked a few more meters. Still no sign of presence. No voices. No movement.

  No other students around. Nothing. Absolute silence.

  She frowned slightly.

  “This is strange. I thought this would be a chance to… socialize a bit.”

  Her words echoed into the emptiness.

  She let out a soft, almost imperceptible laugh.

  “Vélara told me I should try being more approachable with people.”

  She took another step and added more quietly,

  “I’m starting to talk to myself. I need to get a grip.”

  She decided to circle the clearing, hoping to find other students.

  A logical decision—

  in theory.

  In practice… less so.

  Her fine black boots, issued with her uniform and designed for comfort, sank into the damp earth with every step.

  The flowers—tall and supple—bent beneath her legs like crushed waves.

  With each stride, she left a clear trace behind her: clumsy, uneven footprints, evidence of a walk with no real direction.

  She didn’t notice it right away—too focused on sweeping the field with her gaze, standing straight as a statue, trying to look methodical.

  But her path formed a crooked line, broken by useless stops, hurried turnarounds, and bursts of movement that were far too fast.

  She pushed the grass aside with sharp, graceless motions.

  Petals caught in the folds of her sleeves, stems snagged against her stockings.

  At one point, she stumbled over a half-hidden root, caught her balance with a quick movement, and let out an irritated sigh.

  “Very elegant, Althéa,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  She tried to regain her composure, squared her shoulders—but her gaze was already drifting toward the flowers crushed behind her.

  A floral massacre.

  Every step she took seemed to erase a little more of the beauty she had admired upon arriving.

  She finally stopped, drew a slow breath, and let her arms fall loosely at her sides.

  “Maybe I should stop ‘exploring’,” she murmured,

  “before I destroy the entire landscape.”

  Althéa stood still at the edge of the clearing, her arms still hanging at her sides.

  The flowers she had trampled formed a trail behind her, like a clumsy path sketched at random.

  She studied the damage for a moment.

  A wavering line. Torn petals. Broken stems.

  Everything she usually did with precision—walking, analyzing, managing—seemed here to betray her.

  She clenched her jaw.

  Her fingers, though relaxed, trembled slightly.

  It was ridiculous.

  She hated feeling this way.

  Lost. Isolated. Weak.

  She drew a deep breath, as if she could smother what was rising inside her.

  She had grown up surrounded by walls, by rules, by watchful—sometimes kind, sometimes worried—eyes.

  There had always been someone to supervise, to guide, to protect her.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She was a Soléandre.

  A brilliant student.

  A closely watched descendant.

  But here…

  No one.

  Just her, her breathing, and the ruins of a beauty she herself had damaged.

  She felt her throat tighten—just barely.

  Then she lifted her chin, without a word.

  She straightened her shoulders. Set one foot in front of the other. And resumed walking with the same taut elegance.

  But every step she took now was a silent answer to the fracture she felt—there, just beneath the skin.

  No tears. No screams.

  Only that cold, glacial tension clinging to her like a second suit of armor.

  If anyone had seen her at that moment, they would have thought she felt nothing.

  They would have been wrong.

  After wandering for what felt like an hour—or two—without crossing a single soul, Althéa resigned herself.

  No one. Not a cry. Not a raised voice. Not a student.

  She disliked the word, but accepted it inwardly: she was alone.

  She stopped, looked once more at the silent clearing, and declared—more to convince herself than to organize anything:

  “I need a camp.”

  She moved a little deeper into the undergrowth and began gathering whatever seemed useful.

  But she didn’t know what she was looking for.

  She picked up thick branches—soaked through. Green wood, heavy with moisture.

  Large leaves, riddled with holes. A mat of dead bark that crumbled between her fingers.

  She returned with her clumsy haul, arms scratched by thorns, her uniform trousers torn in several places.

  She dropped everything onto the ground in a shapeless heap. Stepped back. Thought. Then crouched down.

  She had no flint. No matches. Nothing.

  She struck two stones together out of habit. Nothing.

  Again. And again.

  Tiny sparks burst once—but the soaked wood did nothing with them.

  She growled without realizing it.

  Her movements were sharp, broken. Not methodical—desperate.

  She breathed hard. Her hands began to shake. She wiped her forehead, leaving a dirty smear along her temple.

  The moisture clinging to the branches still spilled onto her sleeves.

  Everything she did only made it worse.

  At last, she pulled back, knelt on her heels, and stared at the small chaos of wet leaves, muddy twigs, and branches barely smoking—as if mocking her.

  A sigh escaped her. Long. Held back. Controlled… and bitter.

  She didn’t cry. She didn’t swear.

  She simply closed her eyes for a moment.

  Night had fallen without a sound. A thick, almost liquid shadow settling over the clearing.

  She had kept at the damp wood more out of rage than method.

  One strike too many, one spark misdirected—and yet, the flame had caught.

  Tiny. Fickle. But real.

  Maybe it was anger.

  Or despair.

  Or just… a fortunate accident.

  She hadn’t tried to understand. She had simply sat beside it.

  The fire crackled weakly, sputtered. It barely warmed her fingers.

  She had nothing to eat. And no energy left for self-pity.

  She drew her legs up against her, resting her head on her knees.

  Her eyes fixed on the flames the way one stares at a silent verdict.

  When she finally lay down in the cold grass, she said nothing.

  She didn’t even think anymore.

  She fell asleep with a single sensation:

  The feeling of having failed to be what was expected of her.

  And that feeling—

  she hated it.

  She hated herself.

  By morning, the fire was, unsurprisingly, dead.

  A thin thread of smoke still rose from the cold embers.

  She pushed herself up slowly, muscles numb, mouth dry.

  Her clothes were wrinkled, smeared with dirt.

  Her skin felt sticky.

  And above all—she was hungry.

  A real hunger. Dull. Painful.

  Not a craving. A bite.

  She stood and scanned her surroundings. Nothing obvious. No fruit. No animal tracks.

  She found a half-split stick—long, solid, perhaps a little too light.

  She gripped it like a weapon.

  Then she started walking.

  No grand plan. No analysis.

  Just raw instinct: find something to survive on.

  The undergrowth grew thicker.

  The flowers disappeared. Shadows took their place.

  Althéa moved forward with measured steps, stick in hand, eyes shifting from ground to canopy and back again.

  She was hungry. She was cold. She had slept badly.

  But she was still standing. That counted for something.

  She lifted her gaze toward the sky through the leaves, searching for light—

  —and stumbled hard.

  Her feet caught on a gnarled, slick root.

  She went down full length, leaves cracking beneath her, breath knocked from her lungs.

  For a moment, she stayed there. Face to the ground. Fists clenched. Back rigid.

  Then a muffled sound escaped her—not a cry of pain.

  A rasp. Frustrated. Humiliated.

  She struck the ground with her fist.Once. Twice. Not hard—

  but hard enough to make her shoulders tremble.

  “Damn piece of—!”

  Her voice died among the leaves.

  She pushed herself up, cheeks flushed, jaw tight.

  Her eyes shone with shame and anger—a raw glint.

  A moment without a mask.

  She stood, straightened her clothes as best she could, and swallowed everything.

  The breath. The shame. The failure.

  Her face returned to marble.

  Then she froze.

  A rustle overhead.

  Leaves shifting, just above.

  A beat of wings. Heavy. Grating.

  A warped breath moving through the air.

  She looked up.

  Perched on a high branch—a shape.

  Massive.

  Feathered in an oily black, almost sickly. Oversized wings. A neck too long. A round head with dead-white eyes.

  And a bony mask—like a split beak, pierced, twisted back on itself.

  The creature tilted its head.

  Clack.

  A sharp sound. Almost curious.

  Hideous.

  But Althéa did not move.

  Not a step back.

  She shifted half a step instead, heels digging into the soil. Gripped the stick with both hands. Dropped into a low, compact stance.

  Her breathing steadied.

  Her shoulders lowered.

  Her heart, however, was pounding harder than ever.

  But this was a familiar tension.

  Ground she understood.

  A useful fear.

  A faint smile touched her lips—just enough to lift one corner.

  “At least here,” she murmured, “I know what to do.”

  The creature collapsed with a dull thud, sending up a cloud of dull feathers and churned humus.

  Althéa remained still for a few seconds, the stick still raised.

  Her breath short. Arms extended. Muscles trembling—

  but only from effort.

  Not fear.

  She finally straightened. A thin line of blood cut across her temple, the remnant of a badly taken blow. She wiped it away with the back of her wrist, without a word.

  Then a sound behind her.

  Footsteps.

  She spun on her heels, ready to react again.

  Two figures were approaching between the trees.

  Not furtive. Not rushed.

  Calm.

  Boys—no, young men—in Institute uniforms.

  Black tunics. Matching trousers and boots. No visible ornamentation.

  Standard. Regulation.

  The first, tall and solidly built, moved with a silent presence.

  Green eyes cut through the dimness—hard, direct.

  His jet-black hair was cropped short, without embellishment, sharpening the lines of his face. A lean face, cleanly carved.

  Something in his posture evoked a hunting raptor. Not hostile—

  but impossible to ignore.

  The other, slightly shorter—though still tall—had a looser air about him.

  Light brown hair, mid-length, poorly kept. A messy fringe nearly fell into his eyes.

  His gaze looked tired. Almost empty.

  Dark circles framed pupils of deep, lightless black.

  His fine, almost feminine features clashed with the harshness of the place. He seemed to drift between two worlds—present, yet not entirely there.

  They stopped a few meters away.

  Not a word. Not a wasted gesture.

  Althéa lifted her chin and planted her stick into the ground like a declaration.

  She did not retreat. She had no reason to.

  The sturdier young man took a step forward, almost despite himself.

  “You… it’s you?” he stammered, eyes fixed on her.

  Althéa inclined her head slightly, one eyebrow raised.

  “Yes, indeed. Who else did you expect?” she asked, perfectly calm.

  The other boy—the one with the light brown hair and unruly fringe—lifted his eyes to her with deliberate slowness.

  He radiated a kind of feigned detachment—or perhaps genuine; it was hard to tell.

  “Uh… so who are you, then?” he said casually.

  The sarcasm wasn’t sharp, just unnecessarily familiar.

  Almost provocative, as if he were deliberately trying to crack Althéa’s veneer of control.

  She studied him for a moment. A gaze as sharp as it was silent.

  “I am Althéa of Soléandre,” she said. “That should be sufficient.”

  The tone wasn’t arrogant.

  Just… precise.

  An identity laid on the table like a blade.