“Kaid…”
The whisper was soft, insistent, accompanied by a gentle rocking. I groaned, deep in sleep, slapping blindly at the intruding hand before burrowing deeper under my covers. Silence. Then, the rocking started again.
"Hey Kaid, wake up.” Elijah’s voice, low but persistent. Moonlight slanted through the window, painting stripes across the floor. My internal clock screamed it was far too early.
"Nooo… sleep… stop,” I mumbled, swatting again, more forcefully this time.
A soft groan from Elijah, the sound of retreating footsteps. Peace settled back over me, warm and heavy. It lasted only seconds. The covers abruptly tightened along my right side, the familiar comfort of the mattress vanished beneath me, replaced by… nothing. Just empty air.
Annoyed, I wrestled my eyes open, struggling to turn in the disorienting void. My blanket slipped away as I grappled with the sudden weightlessness. Elijah stood beside my bed, bathed in the dim moonlight, a faint, mischievous grin playing on his lips as he held me suspended with his power.
“Elijah! Put. Me. Down!” I whisper-shouted, acutely aware of the late hour. If Erica caught us… well, Elijah would bear the brunt, but his moods always spilled over onto me.
He chuckled, a low, childish sound that grated on my nerves. I flailed uselessly. Tiny blue sparks began to prickle along my skin, an unspoken warning.
"Okay, okay,” he whispered quickly, gently lowering me back onto the rumpled mattress. Relief washed over me. I immediately grabbed my cover, pulling it over my head, ready to reclaim sleep.
A long, exasperated sigh followed, and then the distinct dip of the mattress as he sat beside me.
"What?!" I snapped, throwing the cover off and sitting bolt upright, glaring at him in the near darkness.
"I can't sleep.” His voice was flat, tired. Usually, I was the one plagued by sleepless nights, haunted by memories I couldn’t shake. Him waking me felt like a betrayal of some unspoken rule. But then, guilt pricked at me. He had stayed up with me countless times, listening quietly while I wrestled with ghosts – the ghost of my parents' shattered marriage, the ghost of Gaben's hands, the ghost of the little brother I barely knew. They always stressed we were family here, but the word felt hollow when my real family felt worlds away.
I sighed, consciously pushing my irritation aside. “What’s wrong?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“Ian… he said something today,” Elijah mumbled, staring down at his hands. “Said we’re just… tools. Weapons for them to use.” He looked up, frustration clear even in the dim light. “Which is it? Are they protecting us, or just… using us?”
The question resonated deep within me, articulating a vague unease I hadn’t been able to name. "I don't know…” I whispered back. “Maybe… maybe it’s both?”
"What do you mean?” he asked, incredulous.
"Well… if we weren't here… where would we be?” The unspoken answer hung heavy in the air between us – hunted, dissected, dead. We sat in silence, the weight of that reality pressing down.
"Are you scared?” Elijah asked finally, his voice barely audible.
"Of what?” The list felt endless. Being different. Hurting someone. Being hurt again.
"Of… being thrown away?” He turned his head, hiding his face. “Like… if we’re not good enough?”
The fear hit me then, sharp and cold. Abandoned by parents, tormented by Gaben, taken from my father… the pattern felt terrifyingly real. “Yeah…” I admitted, picking nervously at a loose thread on my blanket. We sat there, two boys adrift in the dark, grappling with fears too big for our small room.
Suddenly, Elijah stood, the mattress springs groaning. His voice, though still quiet, held a new, steely resolve. “Then let’s get stronger.” He spoke a little too loudly, energy crackling around him. “One day… one day we’ll be so strong that no one can throw us away. No one can stop us.”
His conviction ignited something in me. Maybe it was shared fear, maybe it was the desperate need to believe in something, maybe it was just following the lead of the boy who felt like the only brother I had left. I scrambled onto my mattress, standing tall, flexing nonexistent biceps.
"Yeah!” I yelled, forgetting the late hour entirely. Protect what’s mine. Never be hurt again. Never be abandoned. The path felt clear, forged in shared desperation. Get stronger. Be indispensable. Be unbreakable.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Our newfound resolve immediately translated into a clumsy, whispered wrestling match at three in the morning, which earned us a swift, sharp reprimand from Erica and orders to get back to bed.
The next morning, Jae-yoon and Lydia teased us mercilessly over breakfast. Despite the embarrassment, a new fire burned in both Elijah and me. After eating, our mentors arrived.
Cyrus stood waiting for me near the training grounds, dressed in his usual practical attire: black t-shirt, dark green camo pants, sturdy combat boots. His muscles weren’t for show; they were built for purpose, for action. His eyes, though, held that familiar weight, as if observing me through a lens of past battles. He calmly sliced an apple with a small knife as I approached.
“You’re small, skinny,” he stated, his voice calm, matter-of-fact. “Being Unveiled gives you an edge over Veils – stronger, faster, smarter. But compared to other Unveiled? Right now, Kaiden, you’re weak.”
The word stung, but fueled the fire lit last night. “Help me get stronger,” I blurted out, meeting his gaze directly.
He paused, mid-slice, studying me. A slow chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Where did this fire come from?” he asked, taking a bite of apple. “Why the sudden urgency?”
The reasons churned inside me – my father’s weary face, Kora’s lost potential, Gaben’s suffocating grip, the fear of being discarded. “I don’t want to be hurt again,” I said slowly, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “And I don’t want to lose what’s mine anymore.”
A genuine smile touched Cyrus’s lips. He tossed the apple core into the blackened earth of the training field. “Alright then,” he said, wiping his knife clean on his pants before pocketing it. “If that’s what you really want… run laps around this field until I say stop.”
“Yes, sir!” I yelled, adrenaline surging, and sprinted. Black ash puffed up with each footfall across the scarred hundred-yard expanse. The initial burst of energy faded quickly. By the third lap, my lungs burned. By the fifth, they felt ready to explode, each gasp feeding the fire. Cyrus watched silently from the center field, arms crossed. On the seventh lap, my body mutinied. My left leg buckled. I pitched forward, rolling through the soot and grit.
The world spun. Ignoring the dizziness, I pushed against the ground, trying to force myself up. My arms trembled violently. Through the pounding in my ears and ragged breaths, I barely registered Cyrus walking over.
“That’s enough, kiddo,” he said, patting my back lightly. It was enough to break my resolve. My arms collapsed, dropping me back onto the ash-covered ground.
After a brief rest, the real work began. Weeks blurred into a cycle of relentless, excruciating exertion. Push-ups, sit-ups, runs, swims, pulling weights, pushing sleds – my body existed in a near-constant state of soreness. Only my accelerated healing allowed me to recover by morning, ready to face it all again.
“Feeling chipper today?” Cyrus remarked weeks later, a familiar, challenging glint in his eye as he settled into a low fighting stance. “Come at me whenever you’re—”
I didn’t let him finish. Driven by weeks of frustration, I launched myself forward, a flying right kick aimed at his stomach. He caught my foot effortlessly, spinning me off balance, sending me crashing into the ash once more. I scrambled up instantly, fueled by sheer tenacity, and rushed him again.
Land one hit. That was the goal. Simple, yet impossible against his experience and size, especially with the frustrating restriction against using my powers – a rule he freely ignored.
I feinted left, then snapped a punch with my right. He batted my hand away without shifting his stance, a light push to my head sending me stumbling back.
“Footing’s sloppy. Stay light. That feint was pathetic, saw it coming a mile off,” his critique echoed across the field. Gritting my teeth, I charged again, staying on the balls of my feet. He barely moved, parrying, blocking, redirecting every attempt. How do I get past his reach? The thought sparked a reckless idea. Smirking, I faked another high punch, then dropped low, sliding hard between his legs.
A grinding, cold fire ripped through my right leg as it scraped across the scorched earth. I stumbled coming up, wincing as the wound throbbed, but ignored it, driving an upward punch.
He stepped back effortlessly, my fist striking empty air. The usual light mockery was gone from his face, replaced by dark eyes filled with stern reproof.
“What?” I gasped, frustrated tears pricking my eyes at the constant failure.
“Look at your leg,” he said simply. I followed his pointing finger. My pant leg was torn, the skin beneath raw, bloody, embedded with dirt and ash. It looked bad. It felt bad.
“It doesn’t even hurt,” I lied, testing my weight on it. He waved me closer, crouching to inspect the damage. His light touch sent a jolt of pain through me, making me inhale sharply.
“High risk, high reward…” Cyrus murmured, his voice oddly tight as he stared at the wound. My own unease grew at his sudden shift. “Fighting forces choices, Kaiden. Sometimes you gamble. A win can be huge. But lose…” He trailed off. “Even when you win, sometimes the price is too high. Was getting behind me worth this?”
Embarrassed, hurting, I shook my head silently.
“Don’t stop taking risks,” he said after a moment, his voice regaining its usual firmness. “Just weigh the damn consequences first.” He crouched lower, holding his hand inches from my leg. A strange warping sensation emanated from him. Tiny balls of flame danced around his fingers, radiating intense heat onto my skin. Just as quickly, the flames vanished, the burning heat replaced by a deep, soothing warmth.
He stood. “Your movements are wild, unrefined, predictable. But you’ve got tenacity. I like that.” He looked me straight in the eye. “Why the slide?”
Testing my leg, I found the sharp pain gone, only the pleasant warmth remaining. I blinked, realizing he was waiting for an answer. “Umm… sorry, what?”
“Why the reckless slide?” he repeated, impatience clear. He already knew.
“You’re too tall! I can’t get close enough to hit you!” I burst out, sinking back onto the ground in frustration.
“Exactly,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m bigger. Faster. Stronger. Sliding on the ground like a fool doesn’t beat reach or skill. It just makes you vulnerable.” He paused, a rare, almost encouraging look entering his eyes. “You won’t be a little pipsqueak forever, though.”
Hearing that, a flicker of grim satisfaction cut through the exhaustion and pain. Pipsqueak now, maybe. But bigger, stronger – that was the goal. That was the promise I’d made with Elijah in the dark. It was the only way
to ensure nothing, and no one, could break me again.
Should I Merge Chapter 12 with Chapter 11?
