Then I unpack.

  Each item is a memory. Folded clothes still faintly smell like places I won’t return to. My armor gleams softly in the light, scarred but trusted. My sword—carefully wrapped—is heavier than steel alone, a promise I’ve carried for years.

  I sold my books.

  The thought aches—but I make a list. New ones. A desk. A place to write again.

  Later, dressed in softer clothes, makeup reapplied awkwardly using a mirror propped on my bed, I head back down the stairs.

  As I near the lobby, the noise rises from below.

  Laughter. Voices. Music.

  The sound reaches me before the sight does—voices overlapping, laughter spilling upward through the stairwell in warm, living waves. I pause at the top of the stairs, one hand resting against the railing, knuckles pale where I grip it just a little too tightly.

  My new life is waiting downstairs.

  The thought feels fragile. Like if I say it too loudly, it might crack.

  I hesitate, fingers drifting back to the neat braid at the nape of my neck. I smooth it once, then again, as if confirming that I’m truly here—that I didn’t forget some crucial step in becoming this version of myself. I want this to work. I need this to work.

  I’ve already met kind people. Good people.

  Now it’s on me not to ruin it.

  Perfectly normal.

  Unremarkable.

  Mundane.

  That’s who I am. That’s who I have to be.

  I swallow hard, and the moment my foot touches the first step downward, I let all that fear drain from my face. Whatever churns inside me gets folded away, tucked neatly behind a friendly, unassuming smile I’ve practiced for years.

  The bar opens beneath me.

  It’s warmer than I expected—lamplight glinting off polished wood, the air thick with conversation and the smell of drink and food. Four wide, round tables dominate the center of the room, crowded with bodies leaning close, mugs clinking, shoulders brushing without hesitation. A few stools linger near the bar counter, half-occupied by those who prefer to listen more than shout.

  At the far end, a small stage rises just enough to be seen.

  Someone plays the violin.

  The music weaves through the room effortlessly, steady and rich, guiding the noise rather than competing with it. The player is skilled—confident, unshowy—each note warm enough to settle something in my chest I hadn’t realized was tight.

  My shoulders loosen.

  My gaze flickers instinctively across the room—and brightens when I spot Veil and Cinna waving me over.

  Oh.

  That warmth again. Immediate. Unquestioned.

  I’m welcome.

  My chest feels full in a way that almost hurts.

  Then roaring cheers tear my attention away.

  “Black Lancers!”

  The chant rolls through the bar, loud and jubilant. I follow the sound and spot Saria at the center of it all, face flushed from drink, laughter spilling freely as she throws an arm around one of her squadmates. She started celebrating early—clearly—and judging by the way she leans into every cheer, she has no intention of stopping anytime soon.

  I watch them for a moment longer than I mean to.

  A unit like that. Loud, inseparable. Always together—celebrating victories, dragging one another through losses. No hesitation, no distance.

  A pang of longing tugs at me.

  That must feel so good.

  I exhale softly and turn back toward Veil and Cinna.

  Or at least—I try to.

  I collide with something solid.

  Unmovable.

  I stagger back with a startled gasp, fully convinced I’ve walked straight into a wall. My eyes trail upward.

  And upward.

  Bare, muscular torso. Skin marked with old scars. A chest so broad it blocks out the light behind him. Strong horns jut from his temples, sweeping back with imposing curves. Candlelight casts his features into shadow, making him look far more intimidating than he probably intends.

  My neck actually aches by the time I meet his eyes.

  I suddenly feel very small.

  Did I do something wrong? Why is this Bovaryn giant staring at me?

  Before panic can take hold, a large palm lands flat against my back—firm, steady, not rough. He steps aside smoothly, guiding me around him with an ease that suggests he’s done this a hundred times before.

  “The way you talked,” he booms with a laugh, “I thought she’d be twice as tall!”

  His hand pats my back again, gentle despite his size.

  Cinna is already pulling a chair out beside her at the table, smiling up at me like this was always the plan.

  “She is taller than me, Cove,” Veil replies dryly, leaning back in his chair and tearing into a strip of dried meat. “Just not by that much. Don’t go makin’ it sound worse than it is.”

  I smile brightly as I take the offered seat. “Thank you, Cinna.”

  Why does she make me want to hug her?

  No. Stop. Normal. Remember—normal.

  “Ain’t that nice?” the Bovaryn rumbles approvingly, gaze flicking between Cinna and me. His arm slings over Veil’s shoulders, pulling him close in an easy, familiar motion—one Veil accepts without even thinking.

  “What a day, eh?” he continues. “Didn’t expect the little missy to steal my thunder like that.”

  His arm tightens suddenly, squeezing Veil hard enough that he wheezes.

  “I told you first, ’Ric! You’re the one dead set on that alchemist bein’ involved. You brushed me off, so I went to Saria. Job done.”

  “A fuckin’ shame,” the Bovaryn agrees readily.

  He releases Veil and leans forward across the table, extending a massive hand toward me. The table is wide, heavy—but he makes the distance seem insignificant.

  “Captain Ulric,” he says with pride. “You’ve met two of mine already. We’re the Chariot. Best damn unit in this company, even if others like to pretend otherwise.”

  His voice lifts deliberately at the end, aimed straight at the Black Lancers’ table.

  “Still sore, are you, ’Ric?” Saria calls back with a grin. “Don’t worry—I won’t steal Veil away just yet.”

  Laughter erupts.

  I take Ulric’s hand, smiling. “Imone. New recruit. And… thank you. Everyone’s been very kind so far.”

  He sits back, satisfied, arm returning to Veil’s shoulders.

  “Nice to hear for once,” he says, grin teasing. “Last recruit couldn’t handle us. Packed up and went home. We’re a bit much.”

  But before anyone can add anything, Lucius steps between the tables.

  The shift is immediate.

  Conversation fades—not because he demands attention, but because people notice him. He hasn’t changed his clothes. Hasn’t washed the grime from his hands or the faint scent of smoke from his robes. The embroidery along his sleeves catches the lamplight regardless, rich thread worn with the indifference of someone who has never needed to impress anyone in this room.

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  He waits.

  Not sternly. Simply… patiently. Until he is certain every eye is on him.

  Then he clears his throat.

  “The Aureate was extremely pleased with our results,” Lucius says, voice even, measured. “Returning a trophy they can hang as an example carries weight in certain circles. Enough to warrant a bonus.”

  A ripple moves through the room.

  “One I’ll be redirecting to you,” he continues, hands folded loosely behind his back. “All of you. Though the Lancers’ share will be larger.”

  The announcement is met with an eruption of cheers from Saria’s table. Lucius allows it to run its course, watching rather than reacting. When it settles, he inclines his head once.

  “Very well deserved.”

  His gaze shifts then—not sweeping, not theatrical—just precise. It pauses briefly on Veil.

  “If anyone feels undercompensated,” Lucius adds calmly, “don’t mistake effort for cohesion. You live and die by your unit. Individual success without function is noise.”

  He steps closer to the Black Lancers’ table and places a heavy sack of coin at its center. The sound it makes is dull, final.

  “You may debate philosophy later,” he finishes mildly.

  “For now—coin decides the matter.”

  With that, he turns away.

  Ulric exhales heavily, one large arm tightening around Veil’s shoulders as the shorter man stiffens beside him. Veil’s jaw is locked, teeth clenched hard enough that the muscles stand out beneath his skin. Whatever pride he carried earlier has been struck clean through.

  Ulric murmurs something low, close to Veil’s ear. I can’t hear the words, but the tone is unmistakable—steady, grounding, unyielding in its support.

  Then Ulric straightens abruptly.

  “Oi—boss.”

  Lucius pauses mid-step and turns back without annoyance.

  “We’re one down since last time,” Ulric says, jerking his chin toward me. “Mind if we take the new girl?”

  Lucius studies me for half a second. Not dismissive. Assessing. Measuring something invisible.

  He nods once.

  “Make sure she eats. That meal’s your bonus.”

  And then he’s gone.

  My gaze drifts back to Veil. His expression is tight, controlled, like he’s holding something back by force alone. Cinna steps in without hesitation, clasping his hand between both of hers. Ulric’s arm never leaves his shoulders.

  He isn’t smiling—but the tension is bleeding out of him all the same. Anguish softens into something quieter. Sadder.

  He will be alright.

  “He will,” Ulric says, catching my gaze, echoing my thoughts. “But thanks. I already feel more comfortable havin’ you around. If you care, then… you’ll fit right in.”

  His words settle warmly in my chest, and for a moment, I let myself believe him.

  Just for a moment.

  “Thank you,” I reply softly. “…Captain.”

  The word still feels new on my tongue—but Ulric’s grin makes it easier to say.

  Then something nags at me.

  “So… I’m your fourth, Captain?” I ask. “The Black Lancers have five. So do the other teams.”

  Ulric blinks at me, genuinely puzzled for a beat. Then something clicks, and he lets out a low chuckle.

  “…Right. No way you’d have known,” he admits, leaning back in his chair. He lifts his voice slightly. “Oi—Cat. Come here a moment.”

  I don’t remember seeing anyone behind me.

  Then the violin stops.

  The sudden absence of music is almost physical.

  Oh.

  I turn in my seat.

  A tall Varcen woman stands near the edge of the room, violin cradled loosely in one arm. She is striking in a way that feels deliberate—sharp features softened by makeup, hair arranged with care but allowed to fall half across her face and shoulders. Even her posture is precise, every movement economical. Her tail trails behind her in a soft, voluminous sweep, catching the light as she walks.

  She pauses mid-step, glancing down at her violin.

  “Sorry,” she says mildly. “I lost track of time.”

  She sets the instrument down with almost ceremonial care before approaching the table. When she takes the empty chair beside me, she sits close—close enough that I feel the faint warmth of her through the space between us.

  Her gaze settles on me.

  Not appraising. Not friendly.

  Curious.

  “…You’re new,” she says after a moment. Then, as if reconsidering the thought entirely, “Or we’ve met before and I forgot.”

  The bluntness slips straight past my defenses. I laugh before I can stop myself.

  “No,” I say. “I arrived earlier today. I’m Imone.”

  I turn fully toward her and offer my hand.

  She takes it.

  And instead of shaking it, she studies it.

  Her fingers slide along my palm, thumbs pressing lightly, moving with slow concentration. Not invasive—focused, like she’s listening for something I can’t hear.

  I stiffen, heat rising to my face, and glance helplessly toward Ulric. He’s watching the exchange with open amusement, clearly making no move to intervene.

  “A fencer,” she murmurs. “You practice often.”

  Her fingers pause, then press again.

  “But not long,” she adds thoughtfully. “These are young. A few years, maybe. Three? Four?”

  I swallow. “…It’s a long story.”

  She nods once, immediately satisfied. “Mm.”

  She releases my hand.

  “Cattleya,” she says, as if she’s only just remembered introductions. “Nice to meet you, Imone.”

  There is no embarrassment in her expression. No awareness that what she just did might have been strange.

  I sit still for a second longer than necessary.

  She may be trouble, I note silently.

  Ulric pushes himself to his feet, the chair scraping loudly as he keeps a steady hold on Veil, who looks like something has been hollowed out of him.

  “Alright, Chariot,” Ulric announces. “Dismissed. Breakfast tomorrow, bright and early. We got one mark, two left—and we’re getting both. One win was already more than the Lancers could stomach.”

  That earns a chorus of drunken jeers from the neighboring table.

  Ulric guides Veil toward the stairs. He goes with him without protest, shoulders stiff, gaze unfocused—so lost in whatever he’s holding inside that he doesn’t remember to say goodbye.

  Cinna follows a moment later. Before leaving, she pauses and offers Cattleya and me a small, precise bow—no words, just courtesy, practiced and sincere.

  Adorable. Entirely.

  When they’re gone, the space they leave behind feels oddly hollow.

  I hesitate, then lean slightly toward Cattleya, lowering my voice.

  “Hey…” I begin, uncertain how to phrase it. “Are the three of them… you know…”

  I trail off, hoping implication will do the work for me.

  Cattleya turns her head slowly to look at me, expression open and attentive.

  “…I am?” she asks, after a beat.

  The question is delivered with genuine curiosity, not teasing—like she’s checking whether she missed a step.

  I blink.

  I press the tips of my index fingers together, then—feeling foolish—add a third finger to the gesture, hoping it clarifies what words failed to.

  Her eyes track the movement carefully.

  Then her attention drifts upward.

  To my face.

  She leans closer without warning, studying me with the same quiet, searching focus she gave my hand earlier. Before I can react, her fingers rise and gently brush the bangs I had so carefully arranged aside.

  “Oh,” she murmurs, head tilting. “You look like two people—one blue, like your hair… and one green that didn’t come from it.”

  A pause. Her mouth curves faintly.

  “Pretty.”

  Her gaze fixes on my exposed eye.

  Something in my chest snaps.

  I recoil on instinct, heart lurching violently. The chair tips beneath me and crashes to the floor, the sound sharp and jarring enough to still the nearby conversation.

  The room goes quiet, a mug half-raised, a laugh dying mid-breath, someone’s chair scraping against the floor.

  Cattleya freezes mid-motion, hand suspended in the air. Her ears flick once, and she draws back immediately.

  My ears ring. Not from the noise—from the sudden absence of sound. Every breath feels too loud in my chest.

  “…Ah.” She blinks. “…Sorry.”

  Her voice is careful now. Measured.

  “Touching people’s faces like that is rude,” she continues, as if reciting something she’s only recently learned. “I shouldn’t do that.”

  There’s no defensiveness in her tone. No embarrassment.

  Just correction.

  I inhale—once, twice—forcing the tightness in my chest to ease.

  “It’s fine,” I say quickly, pushing a laugh into my voice and glancing around the room. “Really. Just… a joke.”

  The room exhales with me. Conversation resumes in low murmurs, chairs scrape, glasses clink.

  I straighten the fallen chair and sit again, pulse still racing.

  I turn back to her, voice softer now. “It’s fine. There’s no way you could’ve known.”

  Her expression shifts—not dramatically, but subtly. Something gentler settles there.

  Before I can offer my hand again, her attention drifts away entirely.

  She turns toward the tray of food at the center of the table, rummaging through it with focused interest. She selects scraps carefully, arranging them on her plate with surprising neatness, tail swaying faintly behind her.

  The sight loosens something in me. My shoulders drop before I realize they were tense.

  “Night,” I say, finding my smile again. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “’Night, Imo,” she replies absently, already absorbed in her task.

  Three letters.

  My heart stutters hard enough to hurt.

  I linger just long enough to watch her gather the pieces she likes best, movements unhurried, entirely unselfconscious.

  …It is natural, isn’t it? To say it like that.

  There’s no way she could have known.

  The stairs feel endless on the way up. Memories surface without permission, sharp and relentless, dragged loose by those three letters alone.

  Imo.

  I know why it ended the way it did. I’ve replayed it enough times to wear the edges smooth. I talked too much. Wanted too much. Let myself be seen.

  If I’d kept quiet—if I’d wanted less—I’d still be there. Stable. Safe. Working on my project.

  I stop on the fifth floor and breathe, resting my hands against the cool stone by a window. Outside, Vellaris stretches beneath the night, lights scattered like distant stars.

  …All this time, I’ve been drowning in regret instead of moving forward. Even my work—my real work—has been left waiting.

  I straighten.

  Climb the rest of the way.

  When I reach my room, I open the door and step inside with purpose.

  “Tomorrow,” I tell myself aloud.

  Tomorrow I stop feeling sorry for myself. I work. I try to focus on my project—my thesis. The Valiants are strong, and with them, I can finally prove myself.

  As a warrior.

  As a researcher.

  I change into my pajamas on autopilot, every muscle aching once I finally lie down. I pull the blanket around myself, reach out, and blow out the candle beside my bed.

  “…I forgot to ask where the bathroom is,” I mumble to the dark. “So much for being prepared.”

  The thought drifts away with me as sleep finally takes hold.