Period
2: Tactical Theory & War Simulations – 08:20 – 2 Months
Later
The
bell’s metallic toll echoes down the stone corridor like a warning
shot. Cadets file into the Tactical Hall with the subdued dread of
soldiers reporting to a front line. The room itself feels war-carved,
tiered seating of black stone, reinforced desks bolted to the floor,
holographic arrays coiled dormant in the center like sleeping beasts.
Instructor
Malco Renn stands at the podium already, posture immaculate, hands
clasped behind his back. The light from the high windows cuts sharp
across his face, carving hard lines into harder ones. He scans the
room with the precise, predatory attention of someone who has seen
too many battlefields and expects every child before him to die on
one.
Lucille
and Cain slide into their usual seats in the second tier. They don’t
speak, they don’t need to. They’ve sat here every day for two
months, a silent partnership forged in late-night study sessions and
bruised knuckles.
Tiber
Lucan slumps two rows ahead, posture loose but eyes calculating. Rhen
Tiberion sits rigid beside him, jaw clenched like he has something to
prove. Ilara Quint adjusts her datapad with crisp exactness, hair
braided tight like a cord ready to snap.
Renn
clears his throat once, and the room silences instantly.
“Cadets,”
Renn says. His voice is crisp, unforgiving. “We are now in the
tenth week of your eleventh year. That means one thing.”
A
low ripple of tension runs through the hall. Cain leans forward
slightly. Lucille goes still.
Renn
continues, tone even but cold enough to frost the edges of the air.
“The
Trial of Fates begins in four months.”
A
few cadets shift in their seats, some in dread, some in brittle
anticipation, some because the words hit like a hammer and they’re
trying not to show it.
Lucille’s
breath catches. Cain notices, but only in the slight tightening of
his jaw.
Renn
paces slowly along the front steps, hands still clasped behind him.
“You
have undertaken the Trial twice before, and many of you survived it
admirably. This third and final Trial will determine the trajectory
of your careers.” A pause. “Officer tracks. Covert operations.
Command schools. Engineering corps. Diplomatic units. Praevecti
sponsorships.” Another pause, sharper. “And whether any of you
have a place at all.”
A
few cadets flinch.
Renn
does not blink. “Your
instructors will not coddle you. Your mentors will not shield you.
And those of you who’ve coasted on talent will learn—talent ain’t
enough.”
Lucille’s
stomach knots, not with fear, but with that familiar internal voice
whispering: You’re
already behind. You can’t afford another failure.
Cain
shifts just slightly closer to her. Subtle. Protective without being
obvious.
Renn’s
gaze sweeps the room again, cold and exacting.
“Some
of you would benefit from additional tutors. I will not be naming
names. If you don’t know you’re struggling, you’re already
beyond help.”
Lucille’s
fingers tighten around her stylus. Is he talking about her? About the
ones who whisper about her score gaps? Or the ones who notice she
breaks herself in the training yard to keep up?
Cain’s
knee bumps hers under the desk, grounding, deliberate. You’re
fine. She
inhales once. Slow.
Renn
stops pacing. “That concludes the announcement.”
A
holographic map flares to life behind him, harsh white light
illuminating a ruined cityscape. Towers gutted. Streets cratered. A
fog of simulated smoke drifting across broken terrain.
“Today’s
lesson covers small-unit tactical divergence and battlefield role
reassignment under duress. When your squad leader dies, and they
will, who steps in? Who adapts? Who collapses?”
He
turns, eyes landing squarely on Lucille and Cain.
“Cadets
Aurellius and Domitian. You’ll begin.”
Cain
straightens immediately.
Lucille
feels heat prick her skin, but not embarrassment. Anticipation. Fear.
A strange, dark thrill that sits wrong but propels her anyway.
Renn
gestures to the map. “A
four-unit team is pinned behind collapsed infrastructure. Two ranged,
one shield, one medic. Enemy drones incoming from the southeast.
Optimal maneuver?”
Lucille
and Cain move in sync to activate the controls. A projection pad
lights beneath their hands.
Cain
says, “Shift the shield north. Redirect the medic—”
“No,”
Lucille cuts in, sharper than intended, fingers flying across the
interface. “Send the medic south-east with the ranged unit. Draw
the drones to the breach.”
Cain
looks at her, brows raised. “That’s suicide.”
“It’s
bait,” she says, quick and firm. “Drones’ll prioritize
low-armor signatures. Let ’em overcommit.” She marks the
fractured tower. “Collapse this structure. Bury ’em.”
Renn
studies her. Silent. Calculating.
Cain
exhale-laughs through his nose, not amusement; respect, begrudging
and growing. “Risky.”
“War’s
risky,” Lucille replies quietly. “Survivin’ ain’t clean.”
A
flicker of something grim and approving crosses Renn’s expression.
“Proceed,”
he commands.
They
run the simulation.
When
the drones rush the medic, Cain mutters, “Gods, Lucille—”
And
when the tower collapses, crushing the swarm and punching a path to
safety, Lucan swears under his breath. Even Ilara’s eyes widen.
The
simulation ends. Smoke curls upward from the holographic ruins.
Renn
clasps his hands behind his back again. His voice stays level, but
there is now something unmistakably sharp beneath it.
“Domitian,”
Renn says. “Your solution is unorthodox. Brutal.” A pause. “And
tactically sound.”
Lucille
stiffens, stunned.
“A
commander must be willing to spend blood. Even their own.” Another
pause. “But only when the victory justifies the cost. Remember
that.”
Lucille
swallows. Cain watches her carefully, sees the conflict, the thrill,
the fear, the spark he’s both wary of and drawn toward.
Renn
moves on.
“Tiberion.
Quint. Your turn.”
As
the next pair stands, Lucille sits back slowly, pulse still elevated.
Cain leans closer, voice barely audible.
“That
was bold,” he murmurs.
“Too
bold?” she asks, voice small.
He
shakes his head once. “No. Just… you.”
She
doesn’t know if that makes her want to smile or break.
She
faces forward again, back straight, stylus in hand.
Tiberion
and Quint step down to the simulation deck with the stiff, brittle
confidence of cadets who expect to impress. Lucille watches their
backs as they go, Tiberion too rigid, Quint too proud. Neither
flexible. Neither dangerous in the way Renn respects.
Renn
flicks his fingers and the hologram shifts violently. A dense
jungle terrain unfolds,
humid mist curling low, tracer fire slashing between trees. Screams
echo; recorded, but convincing.
“Your
objective is extraction,” Renn says. “Your commanding officer is
down. Enemy forces closing from three vectors. You have one minute to
establish a fallback route.”
Tiberion
snaps to attention. “Understood.”
Quint
nods.
The
simulation begins.
Tiberion
immediately pushes holographic units toward the north ridge, straight
into the densest hostiles. Quint overlays medical triage routes that
look neat, organized… and utterly unworkable under fire.
Lucille’s
brow twitches.
She
leans toward Cain, keeping her voice a ghost-thin whisper. “They’re
chokin’ the center lane. That ridge is a meat grinder.”
Cain
tilts subtly toward her, pretending to adjust his notes. “Yeah,”
he murmurs. “He’s pushin’ straight into a funnel. An’ Quint’s
evac route’s exposed on all three sides. They’re gonna get sliced
to ribbons.”
Lucille
taps her stylus once, frustrated by proxy. “If
they’d shift east, use the natural choke, one fireteam could stall
the push long enough for the medic to drag the officer out.”
Cain
hums softly. “Or drop
thermal smoke right here.” His fingertip hovers above her screen
but doesn’t touch. “Blind the enemy readers. Make ’em relock
targets. Might buy… fifty seconds. Maybe.”
Lucille
nods once, breath tightening. “Enough.”
Down
on the deck, Tiberion raises his chin. “Instructor,
we’re reroutin’ all survivors to the north ridge—”
Lucille
exhales sharply. “Idiot.”
Cain
doesn’t disagree.
Renn
says nothing, face carved of stone.
The
simulation reacts fast, jungle foliage erupting with muzzle flashes,
drones screaming overhead. Hostile fire tears through Tiberion’s
northern push. His entire vanguard unit collapses in a blink of red
overlays.
Ilara
Quint swears under her breath. “Repositioning medical support—”
She
moves too late.
Enemy
units overlap the evac corridor, cutting off the wounded officer. The
simulation registers the failure instantly.
A
warning klaxon blares.
The
hologram goes blood-red.
SYSTEM
FAILURE. EXTRACTION FAILED. COMMAND UNIT LOST.
The
entire map dissolves into static, like the world itself collapses
under the weight of their miscalculation.
Silence
follows, heavy, suffocating. Tiberion’s ears burn. Quint’s jaw
clenches until the muscle twitches.
Lucille
watches without blinking.
There’s
no satisfaction on her face. No pity either. Just cold
recognition. That’s
what hesitation costs. That’s what pride kills.
Renn
finally speaks, voice low and lethal.
“Cadets
Tiberion and Quint.”
They
stand at rigid attention.
“You
did not adapt,” Renn says. “You followed doctrine instead of
reality. You clung to order rather than outcome. And you failed.
Spectacularly.”
Tiberion
swallows. Quint’s eyes flick upward, searching for an excuse she
will not dare speak.
Renn
does not soften. “War will not tolerate your rigidity. The Trial of
Fates certainly will not.”
Lucille
feels a cold ripple run through her. The Trial again. Always the
Trial.
Cain
glances toward her, small, quick, but enough for her to feel him
looking. You
won’t fail like that, his
eyes seem to say. You
bend. You bleed. You survive.
Renn
gestures sharply. “Next pair.”
Tiberion
and Quint return to their seats, faces pale and tight. Lucille tracks
their movements, the slight tremor in Quint’s hand, the too-fast
breathing Tiberion tries to hide.
Cain
leans the tiniest bit closer, voice barely audible. “They
walked in thinkin’ they were untouchable.”
Lucille
hums, low and severe. “War
don’t care how they feel.”
Cain’s
lips twitch, half a smirk, half a grimace. “You
really are terrifyin’.”
She
does not smile. But something in her chest tightens, warm and sharp
and dark.
And
when the next cadets step forward, Lucille sits straighter, her eyes
fixed on the holographic battlefield with a hunger she can’t hide
anymore.
She
will not fail. She cannot fail. Not with the Trial coming. Not with
the blood she already owes.
Survival
& Fieldcraft - 09:50
The
forest outside the Academy walls is not gentle.
The
ground is a tangle of roots and frost-stiff ferns. The trees rise
like skeletal pillars, their trunks black with lichen, branches
stretching overhead like rib cages. Mist curls low between them,
carrying the sharp scent of sap and cold stone.
Instructor
Hara Quintis waits at the trail head, a tall, hawk-eyed woman dressed
in weather-worn field gear. She checks the roster once, snaps it
shut, and begins walking without ceremony.
“Cadets,”
she calls over her shoulder, “keep pace. We’re headin’ to the
eastern run-off basin. Foragin’ conditions change fast out there,
and I want you learnin’ how to adapt instead of memorin’.”
A
chorus of yes,
Instructor echoes
behind her.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The
class forms a loose column along the narrow mountain path.
Cain
and Lucille fall naturally into step beside each other, not by
instruction, but by instinct. The forest suits them both in different
ways: Cain with the calm competence of someone who studies every moss
patch and animal track like a data point, and Lucille with the feral
ease of someone who belongs here.
A
few minutes in, Lucille stops quietly and tugs off her boots, tying
them to her pack.
Cain
glances at her feet. “Goin’ barefoot?”
Lucille
inhales deeply, eyes half-lidded as her toes sink into the cold
earth. “I can feel better
this way,” she mutters. “Hear better, too.”
Cain
shakes his head, a ghost of a smile. “You are impossible.”
“Mm.”
She pads forward again, almost silent on the damp leaves.
Most
cadets struggle with the incline, Maelia Drusus huffs and stumbles,
Selene Dravik mutters about the cold, but Lucille is steady, gliding
between roots and stones as though the forest adjusts itself around
her footsteps.
Instructor
Quintis gestures to the front. “Navigation team. Lead us to the
basin. It’s your test, not mine.”
Ilara
Quint steps forward with the academy map, posture confident,
expression tight. She starts scanning landmarks, announcing each
shift of direction like she’s trying to impress their stern
instructor.
Lucille
sniffs the air once, already knowing: Ilara’s a half-degree off.
Not catastrophic, but enough that the class will lose time. Lucille
keeps the correction to herself for now. Let Ilara sweat. Let her
learn.
Cain
notices Lucille’s expression shift, subtle but sharp. “She’s
off?”
Lucille
nods once. “Smells wrong.”
“Smells?”
Cain asks under his breath.
Lucille
inhales again, slow, focused. “The
moss is wrong on that slope. Too dry. Basin runs wetter.” She tilts
her chin through the trees. “It’s that way. She’ll catch it in
about five minutes.”
Cain
takes that in with a quiet hum, half admiration, half awe. “Your
senses are downright terrifyin’.”
Lucille
doesn’t reply. She just tilts her head, listening to something
distant, the snap of a twig far left, the flutter of wings overhead,
the quiet scrape of claws on bark. Everything alive. Everything
moving. Everything speaking to her in ways no one else seems to hear.
Instructor
Quintis calls out, “Cadets, check the ground for recent tracks. I
want three identified species before we reach the ridge.”
Maelia
and Selene drop to their knees, brushing away leaf litter, muttering
guesses.
Cain
crouches, examining a faint paw print beside a line of disturbed
soil. “Small canid,” he
murmurs. “Mountain fox. Passed through at dawn.”
Lucille
kneels beside him, her toes curling against the earth. She dips her
fingers into the disturbed soil, brings it to her nose.
“Not
dawn,” she says softly. “Maybe an hour before first bell. Mud
ain’t crusted yet. Scent’s still warm.”
Cain
stares at her. “You’re guessin’.”
Lucille
gives him a sideways look. “I ain’t.”
He
laughs under his breath, low, fond, disbelieving. “You’re wasted
indoors.”
Lucille
shrugs. “Classrooms smell wrong. Too many people, not enough
space.”
“People
aren’t that bad.”
“Some
are.” Her voice darkens.
Cain
doesn’t argue.
Ahead,
Ilara Quint abruptly turns, realizing her error. Instructor Quintis
lifts one brow but says nothing as Ilara hurriedly corrects course.
Lucille
and Cain exchange a look. There
it is.
The
column veers eastward, toward the true basin.
As
they descend into the valley, the air grows wetter, colder. Moss
thickens the trees in heavy green clumps. The earth turns soft
beneath Lucille’s feet, sinking gently under her weight.
She
sighs, something uncoils in her chest. This is home. This wild,
dangerous quiet.
Cain
nudges her arm lightly. “You always look calmer out here.”
Lucille
doesn’t deny it. “It makes sense out here,” she murmurs. “No
masks. No Houses. No trials. Everything is what it is.”
“Except
us,” Cain says softly, brushing a branch aside.
Lucille
glances at him, startled by the weight of that truth.
Before
she can answer, Instructor Quintis raises a hand, stopping the class
at the mouth of the basin. Her silhouette is stark against the fog.
“Cadets.
This area’s rich, but volatile. You’ll disperse in pairs. Forage,
track, identify edible plants, animal signs, and threats. Then return
with your findings.” Her eyes sweep, sharp as talons. “And don’t
get lost. Out here, things that wander alone tend to stay that way.”
A
chill runs down several spines. Lucille just breathes deeper.
Cain
glances at her, chin tilted. “Ready?”
Lucille’s
lips twitch. “Always.”
And
together they slip into the undergrowth, silent, swift, and far more
prepared for the wild than anyone trailing behind them.
Cain
spots the berries first. Small, dark, clustered low beneath a tangle
of brambles. He crouches, brushes the leaves aside, and plucks them
with the precision of someone who’s done this his whole life. He
hands two to Lucille without looking up.
She
eats them immediately, sweet, sharp, bursting on her tongue. He
pockets the rest for the Instructor.
Lucille’s
already drifting again, pulled by a scent only she seems to notice.
She moves toward a fallen tree trunk furred with moss and decay. A
cluster of bright orange mushrooms fans out along the wood, Chicken
of the Woods, though here they have a harsher name: Pyre Caps.
She
crouches and runs a thumb along the underside of one. Tender. Fresh.
Safe.
Her
knife flashes, slicing three thick heads free. She tucks them into
her foraging bag, careful not to crush them. She’s smiling faintly,
the rare, quiet kind that curves her mouth more than it reaches her
eyes.
“Fox,”
she whispers, turning to Cain.
Cain
raises an eyebrow.
She
tilts her head, nostrils flaring. “Close.”
And
so they follow the faint prints in the loam, small, neat, moving in a
zigzag dance through underbrush. Lucille steps lightly, barefoot,
toes curling into the cold damp earth. Cain moves behind her with
hunter’s patience.
A
flicker of orange fur flits between two roots. Lucille sucks in a
breath. Cain freezes.
But
before they can get closer….
“Cain!
There you are.” Selene’s voice shatters the quiet like a thrown
stone.
The
fox vanishes into the brush. Lucille closes her eyes, a tiny ache
forming behind them.
Selene
strides in, Maelia and Ilara in tow. Selene goes straight for Cain,
brushing her hand down his arm as though she has every right to. “You
walk fast. Or maybe you’re avoidin’ us.”
Cain
shifts his arm out of her reach. “Just workin’.”
She
steps closer anyway, gaze lingering too long on his face. “You
always work too hard.”
Lucille
watches from two paces back, jaw tight, skin prickling. Something
sour is bleeding through Selene’s scent, sweet, cloying, false.
Maelia and Ilara smell the same, like wilted flowers dusted in sugar.
Pretty, but rotten underneath.
Ilara’s
eyes drift to Lucille’s bag. “Oh,” she says brightly. “Are
those Pyre Caps? Can I see? I’ve never found any this early in the
season.”
Lucille
stiffens. “They bruise easy,” she hedges, stepping back. “Better
not.”
Maelia
tilts her head, smile too soft. “We’re
just curious. You don’t gotta be so possessive.”
Lucille
feels it, wrongness, coiling off them like cold steam. They want
something. They’re lying. She doesn’t know about what, but she
feels the sharp pressure of it against her skin.
Instructor
Marus’ warning whispers in her memory: Stay
clear of antagonistic situations. You can’t afford them.
“I
should check the riverbed for mint moss,” Lucille says quickly.
“Grows thicker near the bends.”
Ilara
smiles wider, hungry. “We’ll come with you.”
Maelia
nods. “Yeah. We were just
sayin’ we wanted to head that way.”
Lucille
shoots a glance toward Cain.
He’s
occupied, Selene now leaning closer, talking too softly. He’s
trying to disengage, but the conversation hooks around him like
barbed wire.
He
doesn’t notice Lucille leaving.
Lucille
swallows and turns away, heading upstream. The bank gradually rises
into a steep, eight-foot drop. Below, a dark river churns between
jagged stones, the current fast and merciless. She walks near the
edge, watching the mossy ground, pretending not to hear Ilara and
Maelia’s quiet steps behind her.
When
their footsteps grow closer, Lucille speeds up.
Maelia
laughs under her breath. “Look at her. Like a little rabbit.”
Lucille
doesn’t turn.
Ilara’s
voice follows, sweet as poisoned honey. “You
always run, Domitian. Is it ‘cause you can’t handle people… or
‘cause people don’t want you?”
Lucille’s
throat tightens.
The
river roars below like something hungry.
“Don’t
slip,” Maelia adds lightly. “It’s a long way down.”
Lucille
stops walking.
Slowly,
she turns, barefoot toes curling into the damp soil at the cliff’s
edge. Her heart thuds, not with fear, but with something darker.
Something that wants to bare its teeth.
She
says nothing.
Maelia
smiles wider, encouraged. “What’s
wrong? Cat got your tongue?” She snorts. “Or fox?”
She
laughs. “Guess wild things know better than to stick with you.”
Lucille
stares at her. Unblinking. Still.
Mountain
wind tugs her braid over her shoulder.
Something
shifts in Maelia’s expression, just a flicker, as if realizing, too
late, that the girl they followed away from the group is not prey.
Not
today.
But
they’re already far, too far, from the class. And the river roars
below. And Lucille’s silence is sharpening into something
dangerous.
Lucille
holds her ground.
Maelia
steps closer, voice dropping into something serrated. “You
think bein’ Cain’s little shadow makes you untouchable?”
Lucille’s
stomach knots. She grips her bag’s strap tighter.
Ilara
circles to Lucille’s right, cutting off her retreat.“Look
at that posture,” she scoffs. “Like she thinks we’re gonna
attack her.” She leans closer. “Relax. We don’t hit pets.”
Lucille
inhales sharply, fighting down the tremor in her hands.
Instructor
Marus… stay out of trouble… don’t give them reason… don’t—
A
finger curls around the edge of her bag. Ilara’s hand. Light.
Testing. Then pulling. Lucille jerks back instinctively, clutching
her bag to her chest.
Ilara’s
smile curdles. “Oh, so now you get brave?”
She
grabs again, harder this time.
Lucille
twists away, heart slamming against her ribs.
“Stop,”
she says thinly. “Don’t touch my things.”
Maelia
laughs, stepping in behind her. “Things?
She thinks she owns things.” A
shove between the shoulders, hard enough to make Lucille stumble
toward the cliff’s drop. She
shoves her. “You don’t own nothin’.”
Lucille’s
bare heel skids against wet moss. Her pulse spikes. “Leave me
alone,” she says, quiet, but shaking.
Ilara
snorts. “Make us.”
She
lunges for the bag again. Lucille jerks left, and Ilara overextends,
foot slipping in the mud. Maelia reaches to steady her, but Ilara’s
hand tears Lucille’s strap, momentum whipping her sideways, weight
swinging past the edge and suddenly there’s nothing beneath her
feet but open air.
Her
scream rips the forest open. She falls. Crashes against rock. Once.
Twice. Then the river swallows her with a violent splash and the
sound of churning current.
Lucille
freezes, bag clutched tight, breath ragged. Her ears ring. Her vision
blurs at the edges. The river roars, uncaring.
Maelia’s
face twists, shock flaring into fury. “You….You pushed her!”
Lucille
shakes her head, voice cracking. “She slipped. I didn’t—she
slipped—”
Maelia
screams and throws herself at Lucille.
The
impact knocks the breath from her lungs. They crash into the dirt,
hands clawing, fingers grabbing hair and skin. Lucille curls in,
protecting her face as Maelia rains blows with frantic, wild
strength.
“You
murderer! You freak!”
Lucille
tries to push her off but Maelia is taller, heavier, fueled by panic
and rage. A fist cracks against Lucille’s cheekbone. Blood fills
her mouth. Her vision flashes white. Then Maelia’s hand goes to her
belt. Her knife.
Lucille’s
body reacts before her mind can catch up. She blocks Maelia’s arm,
shoves upward, fingers scrambling for the weapon. Maelia snarls, knee
driving into Lucille’s ribs. Pain blooms hot and bright.
Lucille’s
hand closes around Maelia’s wrist. They struggle. Maelia gets the
blade halfway free. Lucille wrenches her arm sideways. The knife
slips from Maelia’s grip and clatters into the mud.
Maelia
screams, lunges for Lucille again. Lucille rolls, snatches her own
knife from her boot, and raises it, not to strike, but to ward off
the next hit.
Maelia
sees the blade glint. And something in her eyes turns feral. She
charges anyway.
They
collide. The knife scrapes Maelia’s forearm, opening a sharp,
shallow line of red. Maelia shrieks, grabbing Lucille by the braid
and yanking hard enough to force her head back.
Lucille’s
cry cuts short, choked. Her fingers tighten on the knife’s hilt.
Maelia’s other hand closes around Lucille’s throat.
Lucille’s
vision tunnels. The river roars. The world narrows to Maelia’s
breath in her face, the iron weight of her knee pinning Lucille’s
ribs, the crushing pressure on her windpipe, and the edge of her own
control slipping like sand.
Maelia’s
hand tightens even more on Lucille’s throat.
Lucille’s
vision flickers at the edges, black, then white, then the blur of
Maelia’s face twisted into something almost triumphantly cruel.
“You
should’ve fallen,” Maelia hisses, spittle hitting Lucille’s
cheek. “Not Ilara. You should’ve—”
Lucille
isn’t listening. She can’t. Her body has already retreated into
something deeper, older, nameless. Her breathing rasps shallow; her
limbs feel distant and slow. Her knife-hand trembles as Maelia pins
her harder, knee grinding into her ribs, weight crushing.
Lucille’s
pulse becomes a drumbeat.
Survive,
survive, survive, survive!
Maelia
reaches for the fallen knife again. Lucille moves first. Instinct.
Nothing more. Her arm snaps up with a strength that comes from panic,
not training. The blade punches into soft flesh beneath Maelia’s
ribs, deep, jarring, solid.
Maelia’s
breath stops. Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out,
not at first, then: A high, animal wail tears free, sharp enough to
crack through the forest.
Lucille
yanks the blade back, hands slipping on blood. Reflexive. Pure
self-defense. Pure terror.
Maelia
collapses sideways, clutching her side, blood seeping hot between her
fingers. She gasps wetly, legs thrashing in the mud.
Lucille
scrambles back, heels digging into the dirt, knife still in hand,
chest heaving. Her ears roar. Her vision swims.
She
can’t even think her own name. She only thinks: she
was going to kill me.
Cain
and Selene - Continuous
Cain
steps instinctively back as Selene presses into his space again,
lashes lowered, fingers trailing up his forearm.
“Cain,”
Selene murmurs, lashes lowered, fingers sliding up his forearm.
“Don’t act like you don’t know how many girls would kill for
five minutes alone with you.”
He
shifts away, gently, but firmly peeling her hand off. “Selene,
I told you. I ain’t—”
“Oh,
please.” She laughs, brushing her palm against his chest as she
corners him between two birch trunks. “You expect me to believe
you’re waitin’ around for Domitian? Really? A girl whose House
doesn’t even technically exist?” Her smile sharpens. “You’re
Aurellius. You get to choose the best of us. Not the broken ones.”
Cain’s
jaw tightens. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
“She’s
a stray,” Selene says softly, rising on her toes, fingers grazing
the side of his neck as she leans in. “And you deserve a queen. Not
a burden.”
Cain
catches her wrist mid-reach, stopping her inches from his mouth.
“Selene,” he says, voice razor-flat, “I said no.”
She
blinks, taken aback for only a second, then smiles again. Fake-sweet.
“You’re awful cute when
you pretend you don’t care.”
He
releases her hand. She doesn't stop smiling. Then a scream. Raw.
Terrified. A girl’s scream.
Cain
doesn’t think. He shoves past Selene so fast she stumbles, nearly
falling.
“Cain?”
she calls, startled.
He’s
already running. Branches whip his arms. Mud sprays beneath his
boots. His heartbeat slams into his throat.
Please
be okay. Please don’t be….Please.
He
breaks through the undergrowth and stops.
The
clearing is chaos.
Blood
slicks the mud in wide strokes. Lucille sits half-collapsed against a
rock, shirt torn, cheek split, throat bruised. Maelia’s knife hangs
loose in her hand, trembling. Her hair is wild, braid half-destroyed.
Maelia
lies sprawled on her side in front of her.
Bleeding.
Moaning. Pale.
Ilara
is nowhere to be seen.
And
Lucille looks up at Cain with eyes wide and lost and animal, like she
has no idea how she got here.
Cain
doesn’t breathe.
Selene
skids in behind him, gasping when she sees the blood.
Cain’s
voice is barely a whisper. “Lucille… what happened…?”
Lucille
opens her mouth. No sound comes out. Only a shudder.
Cain
drops to his knees beside Lucille so fast the mud splashes. His hands
go straight to her shoulders, checking for wounds, checking that
she’s breathing,
checking everything.
“Lucy,”
he whispers, horrified. “Gods,
Lucy… what did they do to you?”
Lucille
flinches at his touch, not from fear, but from the raw ache that
radiates down her bruised throat. Her fingers still grip Maelia’s
knife, white-knuckled and shaking.
“That
ain’t yours,” Cain says quietly, eyes dark.
He
doesn’t ask permission.
He
gently, but firmly pries her fingers open one at a time, each touch
sending a tremor through her and when the knife finally slips free,
he throws it into the mud behind him. As far away from Lucille as
possible. As far away from her hands.
Selene
stands frozen for a beat, staring at the blood on Maelia, at
Lucille’s torn skin, at Cain crouched over her like she’s the
only thing in the world.
“Selene,”
Cain snaps without looking back. “Help Maelia. Now.”
The
sharpness of his voice jolts her awake. She stumbles toward Maelia
with shaking hands.
Lucille
swallows, pain shoots bright and hot through her throat. Her voice
comes out like glass scraping stone. “C-Cain.”
He
leans in immediately. “Hey—hey,
don’t talk. Don’t. You’re hurt, Lucy. Just breathe. I got you.”
She
shakes her head, tears mixing with dirt. “N-not… my fault…”
Her voice cracks. “They—Ilara—Maelia—they—”
Cain
cups the back of her head gently, pulling her forehead against his
shoulder, shielding her from the chaos. “I
know,” he murmurs, fierce and certain. “I know you didn’t start
this. I know. You hear me? Just breathe.”
Branches
snap in the distance. Instructor Quintis bursts into the clearing
with three other students at her heels. Her eyes sweep the scene in a
single soldier’s assessment, blood, bodies, weapons, the riverbank,
Lucille’s injuries, Maelia's state.
She
doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t waste time. Quintis drops to her knees
beside Maelia. “Selene, pressure on the wound. Now.”
Selene
does it, barely, hands trembling, eyes huge.
Quintis
looks to the other students. “Go to the bank. Check for Ilara.
Don’t climb down. Just tell me what you see.”
They
sprint toward the drop.
Cain
keeps Lucille anchored against his chest. Her breaths are shallow,
panicked, her eyes darting everywhere, unfocused.
Lucille
lifts a shaking hand, points weakly toward the cliff.
“She
went over,” Lucille croaks, lifting a trembling hand toward the
cliff. “Ilara… I-I didn’t push. She grabbed my bag. She
slipped.” Her voice cracks. “Please. Please believe me.”
Cain
squeezes her shoulder. “I
believe you. Every word.”
Quintis
doesn’t intervene, yet, but her sharp eyes flick to Lucille’s
bruised throat, the torn collar of her shirt, the clear fingerprints
already swelling around her neck. Evidence. The kind only an
experienced instructor recognizes instantly.
A
shout rises from the riverbank. “I see her!” one of the boys
cries. “She’s...she’s down there! She’s on the rocks!”
A
beat of horrified silence.
“Is
she movin’?” Quintis calls.
The
students hesitate.
“Is.
She. Movin’?”
A
girl’s voice answers, small and cracked.
“N-no.”
Lucille’s
stomach drops. Her breath stutters. Her vision tilts sideways for a
moment, nausea rolling through her.
Cain
feels the shift in her body and wraps an arm around her waist to keep
her upright. “Lucy, hey, stay with me. Look at me.”
She
doesn’t. She can’t. Her eyes are fixed on the cliff. On the place
where Ilara disappeared.
Quintis
presses harder on Maelia’s wound, jaw clenched. The bleeding slows,
but it doesn’t stop.
Maelia’s
eyes flutter open, unfocused. A wet sound escapes her throat.
Quintis
speaks sharply to the older students. “Get the emergency beacon.
Now. Run.”
They
sprint off.
Cain
finally lifts Lucille’s chin, gently, trying to meet her eyes.
“Listen to me,” he whispers. “Ilara fell. Maelia attacked you.
Anyone with eyes can see what happened.”
Lucille’s
voice breaks entirely as she whispers, “They’re
gonna say I murdered them.”
Cain
pulls her against him again, fierce, protective, unshakable.
“Let
‘em try,” he says quietly, voice forged and unyielding. “I see
the marks. Quintis saw ‘em too. You survived, Lucy. That’s all
that matters right now.”
Behind
them, Maelia makes a tiny choking sound.
Quintis
snaps to Cain. “Aurellius. Keep Domitian back.”
Lucille
stiffens, not from fear, but from understanding.
Maelia’s
body goes still. Selene stops breathing. Her hands freeze in place.
Quintis
lowers her head for a moment. Her voice is flat. “Maelia Drusus is
gone.”
Selene
screams.
Lucille’s
heart stops.
Cain’s
arms tighten around her instantly, because he feels the way her body
jolts, the way shock slams into her, the way all the fight leaves her
limbs.
Her
knife wound will be covered by “self-defense.”
Ilara’s
fall will be “accidental.” But Maelia? Maelia is blood on her
hands.
And
Cain knows this isn’t going to end cleanly.
