Advanced
Weapons Drills Classroom – One Week Later, 20:20
Evening
settles heavy over the Academy, the corridors quieter, the lights
dimmed to a tired, institutional glow. Lucille steps into Korvin’s
classroom without a sound and shuts the door behind her, sealing the
silence in place.
Korvin sits behind his
desk, data scrolling across his screen. He looks up when the door
closes and offers her a polite, measured smile, the kind reserved for
students he respects.
“Evenin', Lucy,” he
says. “How’s the extra trainin' with Captain Vale treating you?”
Lucille stops in front of
the desk. The fatigue shows now, no matter how straight she stands.
Shadows sit under her eyes, her shoulders tight, coiled. She gives a
small smile that doesn’t quite reach them.
“It’s goin' well,”
she says. “He’s runnin' me through Order special forces drills.
Live-fire simulations. Weapon transitions. Tools we’re not usually
cleared for yet.” A pause. “He don’t go easy.”
Korvin’s brows lift,
impressed despite himself. “I may have to stop by one evenin' and
observe,” he says. “That level of preparation ain’t offered
lightly.”
He studies her a moment
longer, then tilts his head. “You look exhausted. Still up for
drills tonight, or am I pushin' my luck?”
Lucille straightens
instinctively. “I’m ready,” she says at once. But the truth
lingers in her posture, in the way her jaw tightens as if bracing
against the weight of her own body.
Korvin doesn’t call her
on it. Instead, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a small
cardboard box. He sets it between them and slides it across the
polished surface.
He flips the lid open.
Inside, neatly arranged,
are cookies, dark and dusted, rich with cocoa and coffee.
Tiramisu-inspired. Mocha and espresso, layered and precise.
“My wife dropped those
off earlier,” Korvin says lightly. “Made them herself. Said I
shouldn’t eat 'em all 'fore a certain someone got a chance.”
The smell hits Lucille
immediately, coffee, sugar, something warm and grounding. For just a
second, her expression falters. Not weakness. Something older.
Something human.
Lucille takes a cookie. The
moment she bites into it, her eyes close despite herself. Mocha and
espresso bloom on her tongue, bitter and sweet layered together, soft
and rich. For just a second, the tension in her shoulders eases.
Korvin watches her reaction
with quiet amusement. He takes one for himself, closes the box, and
stands. “Eat as many as you like,” he says lightly. “You’re
definitely burnin' more calories than you can replace. Trainin' with
Captain Vale ain't mellowed at all. Still don’t know when to
stop.”
Lucille exhales a faint,
tired huff of a laugh around another bite.
Korvin moves to the
training mat, stopping in front of the weapon racks. Blades, staves,
rifles, tools of different philosophies, all waiting. He chews
thoughtfully, eyes scanning, already building a lesson in his head.
Lucille follows him, cookie
in hand. Her steps are slower than usual. “Sir,” she says
quietly. “All the trainin'… the extra drills. My scores.” She
hesitates. “Is there actually any hope for me? For my future?”
Korvin glances at her.
She keeps going, the words
coming out faster now. “Do you think General Tiberius would take me
when I graduate? As a soldier?”
That stops him. He turns
fully toward her, brow furrowing, not in doubt of her ability, but in
surprise. “Tiberius?”
She nods once.
“What about the Aurellian
army?” he asks. “You were set on that.”
Lucille shrugs, small and
tight. “I never really thought about it. Why would they want me?”
The question lands heavier
than she seems to realize.
Korvin studies her more
closely now. The fatigue. The edge. The way she stands like she’s
braced for impact even in a quiet room. His mind drifts back over the
last week. The silence between her and Cain. The way they pass each
other without meeting eyes. How wrong that feels.
“Did you and Cain…”
He searches for the word. “Break up?”
Lucille blinks, genuinely
confused. “Break up?”
“Yes. You know. Together.
Not together anymore.”
Her frown deepens. “We
weren’t… that.” She pauses. “We’re just… not really
friends anymore.”
Korvin doesn’t respond
immediately. He doesn’t need to. He’s seen the way Cain still
watches her in class, like she’s the only solid thing in a
collapsing room. He’s seen the way Lucille pretends not to notice,
her focus locked forward, jaw set.
Whatever happened in that
forest didn’t end with the test. It followed them back.
Korvin plants the butt of
the halberd against the mat and rolls his shoulders once, settling
into a relaxed guard.
“On me,” he says. Calm.
Measured. Like this is just another drill.
Lucille raises the shield
and takes the sword in her right hand. Her stance is instinctive,
tight, balanced, weight forward. She’s done this a thousand times.
The cookie sweetness still lingers on her tongue, clashing with the
iron smell of the training area.
Korvin steps in without
warning.
The halberd snaps forward
in a probing thrust, not meant to hit, meant to test. Lucille pivots,
shield catching the haft with a solid clang, sword already
moving. She chops down toward the shaft, aiming to control the weapon
rather than overcommit.
Korvin lets it slide,
rotating the halberd and sweeping low.
Lucille hops back, boots
scraping, shield dipping just enough to deflect. She counters with a
quick slash toward his hands.
“Good,” Korvin says,
almost absentmindedly. “You’re angry. You’re not reckless.”
He presses again, forcing
her to give ground. The halberd is reach and leverage incarnate, wide
arcs, sudden jabs. Lucille stays inside it when she can, shield
tight, blade flashing. Every movement is sharp. Efficient. There’s
no hesitation in her anymore. No second-guessing.
Korvin watches her eyes as
much as her blade.
“You’ve been told not
to trust anyone,” he says, as he feints high and snaps the
halberd’s hook toward her shield rim.
Lucille snarls and rips the
shield free with brute force. “I’ve been told it’s how people
survive.”
Korvin lets the hook slide
off. He steps back half a pace, resetting. “You’ve been told that
by people who expect betrayal.”
He lunges. Harder this
time.
Lucille meets him head-on.
Shield up. Sword driving. The impact rattles her arm, pain flaring
through her bruised knuckles, but she doesn’t yield. She shoves in,
closes distance, tries to jam the haft.
Korvin disengages smoothly,
spins the halberd, and knocks her sword wide with the flat of the
blade.
“You think strength means
standing alone,” he continues. “That dependence is weakness.”
Lucille’s jaw tightens.
She recovers fast, shield bashing toward his chest.
“It is,” she snaps. “It
always is.”
Korvin absorbs the bash
with a step back, boots sliding. He doesn’t retaliate immediately.
He studies her, really studies her, then comes in again, slower,
forcing her to think.
“A stranger?” he says.
“Yes. A commander who sees you as a number? Absolutely.”
The halberd presses.
Lucille strains, muscles burning, breath sharp.
“But someone who’s
stood beside you since you were children?” Korvin twists, disarming
the pressure without breaking it. “Someone who froze because he
didn’t know how to choose between rules and you?”
Lucille’s sword
hesitates.
Just for a fraction of a
second.
Korvin taps her shield with
the haft, thump, a teacher’s correction, not a strike.
“That’s not betrayal,”
he says quietly. “That’s fear.”
Lucille jerks the shield
back, eyes flashing. “Fear gets people killed.”
“Yes,” Korvin agrees.
“So does cuttin' yourself off from everyone who might bleed for
you.”
They reset again. Sweat
beads at Lucille’s temples. Her breathing is heavier now, uneven,
not from the fight alone.
Korvin lowers the halberd
slightly. Not fully at ease. But no longer pressing.
“You don’t have to
forgive him tonight,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or ever, if you
truly decide he don’t deserve it.”
Lucille swallows. Her grip
tightens until her knuckles ache.
“But don’t tell
yourself you’re meant to be alone,” Korvin continues. His voice
is softer now. “That ain't strength. That’s a wound pretending
to be armor.”
Silence stretches between
them, broken only by the distant hum of the Academy’s systems.
Lucille raises her shield
again.
“Again,” she says.
Korvin nods, a faint, sad
smile touching his mouth. “Again.”
Korvin presses her harder.
The halberd comes alive in his hands, long haft snapping and
circling, the blade whispering through the air in brutal arcs. He
doesn’t give her time to reset. He doesn’t give her space. He
drives her backward across the mat, forcing her shield up again and
again as the polearm batters at its edge.
Lucille grits her teeth.
Steel rings. The impact
shudders up her arm. Her shield arm burns. Her sword flicks out in
sharp, efficient counters, but the reach is wrong. Always wrong.
Every step she takes in, Korvin slides back or angles the haft,
keeping the blade just out of her killing range.
“Polearms,” Korvin says
evenly, striking low, then high, then hooking for her shield rim,
“are about denial. Space. Control.”
She barely catches the hook
before it tears the shield aside. She twists, slashes at the haft,
but he’s already withdrawing.
“You’re fast,” he
continues. “Aggressive. Deadly up close.” A sharp thrust. She
blocks, feet skidding. “But you let frustration pull you forward.”
Lucille snarls and surges
anyway. She crashes into his reach, shield-first, trying to smother
the weapon. Korvin pivots smoothly, haft slamming into her ribs. It
isn’t crippling, but it’s enough. She stumbles, breath knocked
from her lungs.
He steps back, lowering the
halberd just a fraction. Not mercy. Instruction. “Again.”
They reset. As they move,
he talks, not loudly, not like a lecture. Like something meant to
slide past her guard while her body is busy surviving.
“The other cadets can’t
touch you,” Korvin says. “Not you. Not Cain. They see that. They
feel it every time you outperform them.”
The halberd snaps out. She
parries, shield screaming.
“So they don’t compete
honestly,” he continues. “They sabotage. They provoke. They
attack from the dark.” Another strike. Another block. “Because
they can’t beat you in the light.”
Lucille’s jaw tightens.
She drives forward again, smarter this time. She angles her shield,
catches the haft, and slashes hard at Korvin’s hands. He pulls back
just in time, eyes sharp with approval.
“Have you spoken to him?”
he asks.
The question lands harder
than the halberd ever could.
“No,” Lucille says
immediately. Too fast. Too sharp.
Korvin presses. A sweeping
strike forces her to duck. “Why not?”
“He said enough already,”
she snaps, coming up under the blade, shield bashing the haft aside.
“With what he did.”
Korvin steps back again,
halberd vertical now, grounded.
“And what did he do?”
he asks, not accusing. Not gentle. Just steady.
Lucille’s breathing is
heavy. Sweat beads at her hairline. Her hands tremble, not from
exertion alone.
“He didn’t trust me,”
she says. “He didn’t stop it. He let it happen.”
Korvin studies her for a
long moment.
“You’re certain of
that?”
She hesitates. Just a
fraction. “I don’t want to talk to him,” she says instead. “I
don’t need him.”
Korvin exhales slowly. He
doesn’t argue. He doesn’t push her into a corner she isn’t
ready to face.
“I can’t force you to
reconcile,” he says. “And I won’t.” He lifts the halberd
again, settling back into stance. “But understand this, Lucy,
people like you and Cain will always draw knives. From rivals. From
cowards. From those who hate what they can’t become.”
He steps in, controlled,
measured. “And if you let those knives cut away everyone who stands
beside you,” he adds, “you’ll win every fight… and still
lose.”
Lucille meets his next
strike with a brutal block. Her voice is low. Raw. “I was told
people like me end up alone.”
Korvin’s reply comes with
the next attack, firm and unyielding.
“Then whoever told you
that,” he says, “was wrong, or wanted you isolated.”
They clash again, steel on
steel, the halberd testing her limits, forcing her to adapt.
Halls of the
Academy – The Next Evening
Lucille leaves Vale’s
classroom after her extra training with him. She wants to head to
Korvin’s classroom next. But she is exhausted and walking slower
than normal. Her shoulder is sore, bruised and tender from the
ballistic rifles. Her knee throbs too, abused by repeated drops to
hard deck. She had even tripped during the extra drills with Vale. He
noticed. He said nothing. Just reset the drill and made her do it
again.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Still, she looks forward to
the extra training with Korvin. The familiarity. The quiet
steadiness.
Most of the students have
vacated the halls by now. The academy feels hollow at this hour, all
stone corridors and cold lighting, footsteps echoing too loudly. A
few small clusters move between classrooms, the library, the dorms.
Low voices. Laughter that dies quickly.
Lucille doesn’t pay them
any mind.
At least until Seraphine
Veyra steps directly into her path.
Lucille nearly collides
with her before she stops. She looks up, breath hitching just
slightly.
Seraphine stands too close.
Close enough to invade space. Close enough that Lucille can smell oil
and sweat on her training gear. Her expression is sharp, satisfied, a
thin smile curling at the edge of her mouth.
Before Lucille can step
around her, the hallway shifts.
Another girl moves in
behind her. Three boys fan out to either side. Too smooth. Too
practiced. Hands grab Lucille’s arms, her shoulders, fingers
digging into bruised flesh. Someone laughs quietly.
“Well,” Seraphine says,
voice low and sweet. “There she is.”
Lucille reacts on instinct.
She twists, trying to break free, pain flaring white-hot through her
shoulder. Her knee nearly buckles. She snarls, wrenches an elbow
back, but a hand clamps down harder, forcing her still.
“Easy,” one of the boys
mutters, amused. “You’re tired, Domitian. We can feel it.”
Seraphine circles her
slowly, boots clicking against the deck. She stops in front of
Lucille again, tilting her head, studying her like a flaw in a blade.
“Captain Vale’s little
favorite,” she says. “Extra sessions. Extra attention. Must feel
good.”
Lucille glares at her, jaw
clenched. “Move.”
Seraphine laughs. Soft.
Cruel. “Still pretendin' you’re untouchable.”
She steps closer, close
enough that Lucille has to look up at her. “You humiliated us,”
Seraphine continues. “In the killhouse. In the survival exercise.
You and your shadow.”
Lucille’s eyes flick,
just once, at the mention of Cain. The smallest tell.
Seraphine catches it
immediately.
“Oh,” she murmurs,
pleased. “So that’s still sore.”
Lucille jerks against the
hands holding her. “Get off me.”
Instead, the grip tightens.
Seraphine’s smile fades,
replaced by something colder. “You think skill makes you safe,”
she says. “It don’t.”
Her gaze flicks briefly
down the corridor. Empty. Quiet.
“This is what happens,”
Seraphine whispers, “when you forget your place.”
Lucille’s heart hammers.
Her body aches. She measures distance, angles, numbers, five of them,
one of her, exhausted, injured. Still, her eyes burn. She bares her
teeth in something that is not quite a smile.
Lucille snarls for them to
let her go. Hands tighten instead.
Seraphine doesn’t
hesitate. She steps in close and strikes Lucille across the face,
open palm snapping her head to the side. Pain blooms hot and sharp,
ringing her ears. Seraphine’s voice follows immediately, venomous,
low, meant to humiliate more than to be heard.
“Did you really think you
were untouchable?”
Lucille thrashes, boots
scraping uselessly against the floor as two boys pin her arms. One
grips her shoulder hard enough that she feels something strain. The
other wrenches her wrist back until stars dance in her vision. She
tries to knee, but her sore leg betrays her, buckling before she can
generate force.
Seraphine hits her again.
And again.
A fist this time. Knuckles
into her jaw. Her teeth click together, blood flooding her mouth. The
other girl joins in, slapping and clawing, nails tearing at Lucille’s
cheek.
They’re laughing.
Seraphine leans in close,
breath hot against Lucille’s ear. “You don’t get to look down
on us. You don’t get to be Vale’s pet. Or Korvin’s. Or
anyone’s.”
Lucille roars and wrenches
her arm, muscles screaming. She almost breaks free, almost, but the
boys slam her back against the wall. One punches her in the ribs,
right where she’s already bruised from drills. The pain steals the
air from her lungs in a sharp, choking gasp.
Another strike. Another
insult.
Then they let go.
Lucille drops hard to her
knees, the impact jarring up her sore leg, pain exploding through her
knee. She braces herself on her hands, coughing, spitting blood onto
the polished floor. Her vision swims. Her head pounds.
They circle her.
Someone kicks her in the
side. Not hard enough to finish it. Just enough to remind her she’s
down.
“Look at her,” one of
the boys sneers. “Stupid, worthless little orphan.”
Seraphine steps closer,
looming. “Pathetic.”
Something inside Lucille
snaps. The world narrows. The pain sharpens instead of dulls. Her
breath steadies, low and animal. She doesn’t think. She reacts.
Lucille surges up from her
knees like a released spring.
Her elbow slams backward
into the nearest boy’s gut. He folds with a wheeze. She pivots on
her bad leg, pain be damned, and drives her fist into the girl’s
throat. A wet, choking sound follows as the girl collapses, clutching
her neck.
Seraphine shrieks in fury
as Lucille barrels into her, tackling her into the wall. Lucille’s
head snaps forward, cracking against Seraphine’s face. Cartilage
crunches. Blood sprays.
The boys pile on her.
A fist catches Lucille
behind the ear. Another slams into her back. She lashes out blindly,
biting, clawing, raking her nails across skin. She sinks her teeth
into someone’s forearm and tastes copper. He screams.
She fights like a cornered
animal. Savage. Desperate.
But there are too many of
them.
They drag her down again,
boots and fists crashing into her ribs, her shoulder, her thigh. Pain
stacks on pain until it becomes white noise. She keeps swinging until
her arms are caught, twisted, until someone drives a knee into her
spine and the strength finally bleeds out of her.
Lucille collapses, breath
hitching, vision tunneling.
Cain arrives like a rupture
in the world. There is no warning. No shouted threat. Just the
sudden, violent presence of him crashing into the circle.
The first boy never sees
him. Cain grabs the back of his collar and drives a fist into the
base of his skull. Knuckles crack. The boy goes limp and drops like
dead weight. Cain is already moving.
He pivots and kicks the
second boy hard in the ribs. There is a wet, sickening crack. The boy
folds with a scream, collapsing away from Lucille’s body. Cain
steps over him without looking back.
The third boy turns,
panicked, raising his hands too late. Cain slams into him,
shoulder-first, driving him into the wall. Another punch. Another
crack. The boy slides down, dazed, blood running from his nose.
Only then does Cain turn to
Seraphine.
She is mid-kick, about to
drive her boot into Lucille’s side again.
Cain hits her.
A straight punch to the
stomach, all his weight behind it. Seraphine gasps, folding, and Cain
shoves her into the wall with enough force to rattle the windows. She
staggers, snarling, but she’s off Lucille.
The other girl yelps and
stumbles back instinctively, hands raised, suddenly unsure.
Lucille lies there for a
heartbeat longer, stunned. Her ears ring. Her vision swims. Stars
burst behind her eyes. Pain throbs everywhere, ribs, shoulder, spine,
but she’s breathing. She’s alive.
She drags herself upright,
back against the wall, and looks up.
Cain.
He stands between her and
them, chest heaving, knuckles already bloodied. His expression is
feral. Not angry. Protective. Furious in a quiet, terrifying way.
Lucille stares at him,
confused, disoriented. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He shouldn’t
be here.
And yet...he is.
She watches him move.
Another boy lunges. Cain
ducks, drives an elbow into his gut, then follows with a brutal hook
to the jaw. The boy crumples. Seraphine recovers enough to rush him,
fury twisting her face. Cain takes the hit to his shoulder and
answers with a knee to her midsection, forcing her back again.
Five against one.
For her.
Something in Lucille snaps
back into place.
She sucks in a sharp
breath, pain flaring, and forces herself to stand. Her legs shake.
Her body screams at her to stop.
She ignores it.
Lucille steps forward and
joins the fight.
She grabs the nearest cadet
by the collar and slams her forehead into his face. He howls and
stumbles back. Lucille doesn’t slow. She kicks out, low and
vicious, taking someone’s knee. She feels bone give.
Cain glances at her, just
once, eyes wide with shock. Then relief.
Then they’re moving
together, instinctive, familiar. Back to back. Covering angles. No
words needed.
The hallway becomes chaos.
And for the first time
since the survival exam, Lucille is not alone.
Cain hits like a breaking
dam. He drives forward without hesitation, boots skidding on the
polished floor as he barrels into the last boy still standing. The
cadet barely has time to raise his arms before Cain’s shoulder
takes him in the chest and slams him into the wall hard enough to
rattle the windows. Cain follows with a short, brutal hook to the
jaw. The boy crumples.
Seraphine recovers first.
She snarls and lunges, fast
and trained, trying to catch Lucille’s throat. She twists, takes
the blow on her forearm instead, pain flaring sharp and bright. She
grunts but doesn’t slow. She shoves Seraphine back again, harder
this time, pinning her with her weight and driving her forearm across
her collarbone.
“Enough,” Cain growls,
low and shaking with fury.
Seraphine spits at Lucille,
eyes burning. “She deserves it.”
That’s when Cain snaps.
He slams his fist into her
gut again, precise and controlled despite the rage, knocking the air
from her lungs. She folds, coughing, and he throws her aside like
dead weight. She hits the floor hard and stays there, wheezing.
Lucille doesn’t move.
Cain reaches for Lucille
then. “Lucille.” His voice cracks. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”
She’s breathing. Shallow.
Ragged. One eye is already swelling shut. There’s blood at her lip,
her nose, smeared along her jaw. Her hands tremble weakly at her
sides, fingers curling like she’s still fighting something only she
can see.
Cain carefully slides an
arm behind her shoulders, shielding her. He looks up just as boots
thunder down the corridor.
Instructors.
Vale is first, his presence
a sudden pressure drop in the hall. Korvin is right behind him.
The scene freezes.
Vale takes it in at a
glance: bodies on the floor, blood on the tiles, Lucille broken, but
standing, Cain at her side protectively. His jaw tightens into
something cold and lethal.
Korvin’s face goes white.
“Medics,” Vale snaps
into his comm. “Now.” He points next, sharp and absolute. “You.
Don’t move. Any of you.”
No one argues.
Korvin is already standing
beside Cain, hands gentle but sure as he checks Lucille, murmuring
her name like a prayer. When she finally stirs, just a fraction, Cain
exhales a sound that might have been a sob if he were less stubborn.
She doesn’t look at him.
But she doesn’t pull away
when he stays there, shielding her, shaking with fury and guilt and
relief all at once.
And this time, this time,
he refuses to leave.
Seraphine’s words echo
down the corridor, shrill and venomous, bouncing off the steel walls.
“It would’ve been better if you died out there,” she spits,
blood streaking from her nose to her chin. “Left to freeze like the
animal you are.”
Cain goes still. It’s not
the stunned stillness from before. Not shock. Not hesitation. It’s
the kind of stillness predators get just before they kill.
Korvin’s hand snaps out,
catching Cain by the shoulder before he can move. Hard. Anchoring
him. “Enough,” Korvin growls, low and dangerous. Not loud, but
final.
Cain’s chest heaves. His
knuckles are split. One eye is swelling shut. He doesn’t look at
Seraphine. He looks at Lucille.
Lucille is still standing
by Cain, hands clenched into fists. Her breath shudders in and out of
her lungs. Her vision swims. Blood mats her hair near her temple. Her
ribs scream every time she breathes.
But Seraphine’s words
land anyway.
Worthless.
Pet.
Lucille lifts her head.
Slowly. Her eyes find Seraphine. And something in them is wrong. Not
tears. Not fear. A cold, hollow thing. Like a forge gone dark, still
hot enough to burn. “You don’t get to decide that,” Lucille
says. Her voice is quiet. Flat. Almost calm.
Seraphine laughs, sharp and
broken. “You think you matter? You’re nothin' without him.
Without your little protector.”
“I survived,” she says.
“You didn’t beat me. You never have.”
Seraphine snarls, starting
forward.
Vale’s voice cracks like
a gunshot. “That’s enough.”
He steps fully into the
scene now, boots echoing. His presence changes the air instantly,
rank, authority, consequence. His radio crackles as the medic team
reports they’re seconds out.
Vale looks at the wreckage.
At the cadets on the
floor.
At the blood.
At the bite marks and broken bones.
At
Lucille’s bruises.
At Cain’s shaking hands.
Then his gaze settles on
Seraphine.
“You’re done,” Vale
says. “All of you.”
Vale snaps at Seraphine.
“Enough.” His voice cuts like a blade across the corridor. Sharp.
Commanding. It silences her mid-breath.
She stiffens, blood still
running from her nose, eyes blazing with hate.
“You are cadets,” Vale
continues coldly. “Not animals. You are meant to fight together.
Tear down your squadmates like this in the field and you don’t just
lose the battle, you get people killed.” He steps closer, towering
over her. “Frankly, this explains why your performance in my class
is abysmal. You can’t lead. You can’t follow. You can barely
control yourself.”
That lands.
Seraphine’s mouth opens,
then snaps shut. Her jaw tightens, eyes flicking away. The sting is
worse than the broken nose.
Korvin moves then,
crouching beside Lucille first. His hands are careful, practiced,
checking her ribs, her shoulder, her head. His expression darkens
with every sharp inhale she fails to hide. Then he looks to Cain,
assessing bruises, blood, the way one arm hangs just a fraction too
stiff.
He straightens slowly.
“Who started this?”
Korvin asks. His voice is calm. Too calm.
Lucille lifts her head.
Her eyes lock on Seraphine.
There is no fear in them.
No tears. Just raw, simmering fury.
But Lucille says nothing.
The silence stretches.
Cain swallows, chest still
heaving. He steps forward half a pace despite the pain in his ribs.
“She did,” he says. His
voice is rough, but steady. “Seraphine. All of them.” He gestures
with his chin toward the others. “They jumped her. Five on one.”
Seraphine snaps her head
back toward him. “You’re lying—”
Vale turns on her
instantly. “I said enough.”
Korvin’s gaze hardens. He
looks at the students sitting against the wall, bloody, shaken, one
boy still wheezing shallow breaths on the floor. Bite marks. Broken
noses. Finger-shaped bruises.
He exhales slowly through
his nose.
“Five on one,” Korvin
repeats. “And you still lost.”
That cuts deeper than
Vale’s reprimand.
Lucille shifts, trying to
straighten herself fully. Pain flares, sharp and bright, but she
doesn’t make a sound. Cain notices anyway, instinctively stepping
closer, close enough to shield without touching.
Korvin notices that too.
Down the hall, hurried
footsteps finally approach. A medic’s voice echoes faintly.
Vale keys his radio again.
“Make that two patients priority,” he says flatly. Then his eyes
sweep back over the scene. “And restrain the others.”
This is no longer a
schoolyard incident.
This is a failure of
discipline. A fracture in the cohort.
Lucille leans back against
the wall, breathing slow and shallow, vision still swimming, but her
eyes never leave Seraphine.
The wolf inside her hasn’t
gone anywhere.
It’s just waiting.
Cain steps away from the
knot of bodies and raised voices, boots scuffing softly against the
corridor floor. His chest still heaves from the fight, knuckles
throbbing, blood drying along his jaw. He stops a few meters down the
hall and bends, reaching beneath a low bench where something lies
half-kicked into shadow.
He exhales when his fingers
close around the ribbon.
The bouquet is a little
crushed now. A few petals bent. A sprig snapped. But it is still
unmistakable; carefully chosen wildflowers from the Academy garden,
threaded through with the herbs Lucille favors. Nightbloom. Ashleaf.
Bittermint. Bound together with a red ribbon he must have stolen from
the quartermaster’s stores. It looks painfully out of place in the
aftermath of violence.
He straightens and turns
back just as the medic drops to one knee beside Lucille.
Korvin steps aside to give
the medic room. Vale remains a few paces back, arms folded, jaw
tight, radio still crackling at his shoulder. The other cadets sit
slumped against the wall under watch, bleeding and silent now.
Lucille is sat down on the
floor, hair matted with sweat and blood. One eye is already
darkening. Her ribs burn with every breath. The medic’s hands are
brisk but careful, fingers pressing, lights scanning, adhesive seals
hissing as they close shallow splits in her skin. Lucille stares at
nothing, still half in survival haze.
Cain stops in front of her.
For a moment, he can’t speak.
Then, awkwardly, gently, as
if afraid the motion itself might hurt her, he lowers the bouquet
into her line of sight.
“I—” His voice
catches. He swallows and tries again. “I made this. Earlier. I was…
I was coming to find you.”
Lucille blinks. Once.
Twice. Her gaze drifts down, unfocused at first, then sharpens as
recognition sets in. Flowers. Herbs. Her favorites. Chosen, not
random. Remembered.
Cain’s fingers tighten
around the ribbon. “I wanted to apologize,” he says quietly. Not
to the room. Not to Vale or Korvin. Only to her. “For the exam. For
not being there when you needed me. For everything after. I didn’t
know how to fix it, and I just—” He shakes his head, frustration
and regret etched deep. “I should’ve tried harder.”
The medic pauses briefly,
glances between them, then resumes work without comment.
Lucille doesn’t take the
bouquet right away.
Her jaw tightens. Her chest
aches in a way that has nothing to do with cracked ribs. She looks up
at Cain at last, really looks at him, bloodied, bruised, standing
between her and five other cadets without hesitation. Someone who
jumped into a losing fight for her.
Her hand trembles as she
reaches out. She takes the bouquet. The red ribbon darkens where her
fingers smear blood across it.
Lucille doesn’t speak.
Not yet. But she doesn’t push him away either. And for the first
time in weeks, Cain’s heart loosens just enough to keep beating.
Lucille can’t help but
stare at the bouquet, analyze each herb and flower. Each stem is
deliberate. Each scent familiar. The medic finishes checking her ribs
and shoulder, murmurs something about bruising and cracked cartilage,
then moves on to the other five cadets.
Vale straightens, thumb
tapping his radio. He decides they’re all going to the infirmary.
He’ll call the Praetorians and explain exactly what happened.
Korvin agrees at once, already helping one of the boys to his feet.
Between them, the medic, and the instructors, the corridor slowly
empties, boots scraping, a wheeled gurney rattling away, Seraphine
still seething under her breath.
Then they’re gone.
That leaves Cain and
Lucille alone in the long, dim corridor.
The silence is heavy. Too
heavy.
Lucille’s fingers tighten
around the ribbon until the red bites into her skin. She swallows and
finally looks up at him. Really looks at him. His knuckles are split.
One eye is already swelling. There’s blood drying at his hairline
where someone caught him hard.
Her mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
There are too many things
crashing together inside her: the weeks of cold silence, the memory
of him standing frozen in formation, the voices telling her she was
alone, that trusting anyone was weakness. The realization, sharp and
nauseating, that she listened to them. That they wanted this. That
she let them have it.
Cain watches her face,
searching for something. Anything.
He doesn’t find it.
His shoulders slump, just a
little. The hopeful tension drains from him like blood from a wound.
“I… I just wanted you to know,” he says quietly, gesturing to
the bouquet as if it suddenly embarrasses him. “I wasn’t trying
to— I just thought maybe—”
He stops himself.
His jaw tightens. He forces
a small, brittle smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t
have to say anything. I get it.”
He takes a step back.
Lucille’s breath catches.
Another step. The space
between them opens like a fault line.
“No.” The word finally
tears free, rough and broken. She takes a half-step forward without
thinking, pain flaring through her ribs. “Cain, wait.”
He freezes.
Her hands tremble as she
clutches the bouquet to her chest, petals brushing her bruised
knuckles. Her voice shakes, but she keeps going. “I was wrong,”
she says, the words burning as they come. “I thought… I let them
get in my head. I thought you—” She swallows hard. “I thought
you left me.”
His expression fractures.
Hurt first. Then confusion. Then something softer, fragile and
dangerous.
“I never would,” he
says immediately. “Lucy, I would never—”
“I know,” she cuts in,
voice breaking now. “I know that now.”
She exhales shakily,
shoulders sagging as if the fight finally drains out of her. “I
didn’t wanna believe anyone could stand beside me without wantin' something. Without plannin' to hurt me. And I punished you for it.”
The corridor feels colder.
Cain steps closer, slow,
like he’s afraid she’ll bolt or strike. “You don’t have to be
alone,” he says quietly. “You never did.”
Her eyes burn. She nods
once, sharp and small, because if she tries to speak again she might
fall apart. She lifts the bouquet slightly, as if it’s proof of
something real. Something still alive. She finally looks up at him
fully.
Really looks.
Blood crusted at his
knuckles. A split lip. Bruising already darkening along his ribs
where he took a kick meant for her. He fought five cadets for her.
Without hesitation. Without backup. Just like he always has.
“I’m sorry,” she
whispers. “I should’ve trusted you.”
Cain stares at her for a
long moment, stunned.
Then he lets out a breath
that sounds dangerously close to a sob and pulls her into him before
she can think better of it.
Lucille stiffens for half a
heartbeat then she collapses against him.
Her forehead presses into
his chest, bouquet crushed between them, petals bending and leaves
breaking free. She grips his uniform like it’s the only solid thing
left in the world. Her shoulders shake, silent at first, then not so
silent at all.
Cain wraps his arms around
her carefully, mindful of her injuries, one hand coming up to cradle
the back of her head. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. He
just holds her. For the first time in weeks, Lucille lets herself be
held.
