Time passed at Serenity Home as it always did—days blending into weeks, weeks into months, the seasons turning in their inexorable cycle. For nearly a year after discovering her identity as Elena Nightshade, Eris continued her secret training with Vance, slowly gaining more control over her emerging abilities. The glowing eyes and enhanced reflexes became easier to summon, and occasionally she experienced brief surges of strength that allowed her to perform physical feats well beyond what should have been possible for a ten-year-old girl.

  Their nighttime excursions to the storage attic became a ritual, each session building on the st, each small victory over her unpredictable powers celebrated in hushed whispers and secretive smiles. These shared moments—the training, the discoveries, the gradual mastery—became the bright center of Eris's life, a counterbance to the increasingly rigid structure of Serenity Home under Mr. Harrison's continuing administration.

  She should have known it couldn't st.

  The change came abruptly on a crisp autumn morning when Eris was ten and Vance had just turned sixteen. Breakfast was underway, the dining hall filled with the usual ctter of utensils and subdued morning conversations, when a commotion erupted at the far end of the room.

  Vance had colpsed, his nky form sprawled across the floor, his body convulsing violently as blue-white light seemed to pulse beneath his skin. Staff members rushed to his side, voices raised in arm, while the other children were hastily herded away from the scene.

  "Everyone return to your rooms immediately," Mr. Harrison ordered, emerging from his office at the noise. "This is a medical emergency."

  Eris stood frozen, watching as two staff members attempted to restrain Vance's thrashing limbs. Whatever was happening to him was clearly beyond ordinary illness. The strange light continued to pulse, becoming stronger with each wave, and objects near him—chairs, ptes, cutlery—began to vibrate and lift slightly off their surfaces as if gravity itself was bending to his convulsions.

  "Eris! To your room, now!" Ms. Reynolds's sharp command finally broke through her paralysis.

  Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be shepherded upstairs with the other children, casting one st gnce over her shoulder at Vance's contorted form. Fear and confusion battled within her—was this some kind of seizure? An attack? Or something else entirely?

  The official expnation came hours ter, delivered by Mr. Harrison to the assembled children in the common room. "Vance has been taken to a special medical facility," he announced, his voice deliberately calm. "He appears to have experienced what's known as a Syer Awakening. This is a rare but natural process that some individuals undergo."

  Murmurs rippled through the gathered children. Everyone knew about Syers, of course—the specially gifted individuals who protected humanity from the monsters that emerged from Breaches. But to have one awaken at Serenity Home was unprecedented.

  "Once his condition stabilizes, Vance will be transferred to the Sanctum City Syer Academy for proper training and education," Mr. Harrison continued. "This is a great honor and opportunity for him. I expect each of you to respect his privacy during this transition."

  Eris sat in stunned silence as the other children buzzed with excitement around her. Vance, a Syer? It made a strange kind of sense—his natural grace and combat aptitude, his quick reflexes, his disciplined mind. But why now? And what would this mean for her?

  When the meeting dispersed, she approached Mr. Harrison directly, a boldness she rarely dispyed with the strict administrator. "When can I see him?" she asked without preamble.

  Mr. Harrison looked down at her with what might have been sympathy on another face but on his registered merely as restrained patience. "Vance is in isotion during the stabilization phase. No visitors are permitted."

  "But after that? Before he leaves for the academy?"

  "That will depend on his recovery timeline and the academy's intake schedule," Mr. Harrison replied. "These matters are out of our hands, Eris. The Syer Association has its own protocols."

  Frustration burned in her chest, but she knew better than to push further. Mr. Harrison was unmovable once he took a position, and arguing would only potentially restrict her access to information.

  For three days, Serenity Home buzzed with rumors and specution about Vance's condition. Eris moved through her routine like a ghost, attending csses and meals with mechanical precision while her mind remained fixed on the absence at her side. Each night, she waited by her window for the signal that wouldn't come, each morning awakening with renewed anxiety about Vance's fate.

  On the fourth day, Ms. Reynolds intercepted her after breakfast. "Vance has asked to see you," she said, consulting her ever-present clipboard. "You're excused from morning csses. A car will take you to the medical facility at ten o'clock."

  Relief flooded through Eris, momentarily washing away the fear and uncertainty of the past few days. "Is he okay?" she asked, unable to keep the eagerness from her voice.

  "He's stabilized," Ms. Reynolds replied, her clinical tone offering little emotional reassurance. "But he's still adjusting to his awakened state. Keep your visit brief and try not to excite him."

  The medical facility turned out to be a sleek, modern building on the outskirts of Sanctum City, its entrance marked with the distinctive emblem of the Syer Association—a stylized sword bisecting a glowing portal. Eris was escorted through security checkpoints and sterile corridors until they reached a private room in what appeared to be a specialized wing.

  "Ten minutes," her escort reminded her before opening the door.

  Vance sat on the edge of a hospital bed, dressed not in a patient gown but in what appeared to be some kind of specialized training attire—dark, fitted clothing with subtle reinforcements at key points. He looked simultaneously familiar and alien, his features the same but his presence somehow... amplified. An almost imperceptible glow seemed to emanate from beneath his skin, as if the blue-white light she'd seen during his colpse had been contained but not extinguished.

  "Vance?" she ventured, suddenly uncertain.

  He looked up, his expression brightening. "Eris. They finally let you come."

  She rushed forward then, relief overriding caution, and threw her arms around him in a rare physical dispy of affection. Vance tensed for a moment, then carefully returned the embrace.

  "Careful," he warned, easing her back slightly. "I'm still getting used to the increased strength. I don't want to hurt you."

  Eris stepped back, studying him with open curiosity. "What happened? What does it feel like?"

  Vance gnced toward the door, then lowered his voice. "It's incredible. Like every sense has been dialed up to maximum. I can hear conversations three rooms away. I can see the individual threads in your sweater from across the room. And the power..." He held out his hand, and small arcs of blue-white energy danced between his fingers before he closed his fist, extinguishing the dispy.

  "You're a Syer," Eris whispered, awe and a strange sense of loss competing in her voice.

  "Shadow Assassin css," Vance confirmed, a hint of pride coloring his words. "It's apparently quite rare. The doctors say my aptitude readings are off the charts. They've already cssified me as D-rank to start, bypassing the usual F-rank beginning entirely."

  Eris tried to process this transformation, to reconcile the Vance she knew—her teacher, her protector, her only true friend—with this new being crackling with barely contained power.

  "When are you coming back to Serenity Home?" she asked, though something in her already knew the answer.

  Vance's expression shifted, excitement dimming to something more complex. "I'm not," he said quietly. "The academy is accelerating my intake. I leave tomorrow for their campus."

  "Tomorrow?" Eris repeated, the word falling between them like a stone. "But that's so fast. We haven't—I mean, there's still so much we were working on. My abilities, the training..."

  "I know," Vance acknowledged, regret evident in his voice. "But this isn't optional, Eris. Not for someone with my potential. The doctors say if I'd waited even a few more months to awaken, the power buildup could have been dangerous. I need specialized training, immediately."

  Logic told her he was right, that this rapid transition was necessary, that his extraordinary potential demanded extraordinary measures. But the child in her—the orphan who had lost everything once before and built her entire sense of security around Vance's steady presence—screamed in protest.

  "How long?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. "How long will you be at the academy?"

  "The full program is three years," Vance replied. "But there might be opportunities to visit during breaks. And once I graduate and become an active Syer, I'll be based right here in Sanctum City."

  Three years. An eternity to a ten-year-old. By the time Vance completed the academy, she would be thirteen—practically grown up. And who knew if he would even want to maintain their friendship by then? He would be nineteen, an adult, an official Syer with new colleagues and a dangerous, important career.

  "You could write to me," she suggested, clinging to any thread of continued connection. "Or call. Mr. Harrison would let me use the office phone for something like this."

  "Of course," Vance agreed readily. "And I'll see if they allow visitors at the academy. If they do, I'll ask Mr. Harrison to bring you."

  The conversation continued for their allotted time, discussing the details of his awakening, the signs leading up to it that he had dismissed as ordinary adolescent growth, the Syer Association representatives who had already visited to assess his potential. But beneath the excited exchange ran an undercurrent of farewell, of pns already diverging, of paths separating after years of parallel progress.

  When the escort returned to signal the end of the visit, Eris found herself unable to say the words swirling in her mind—thank you for everything, I'll miss you more than you can imagine, what will I do without you here?

  Instead, she managed only a tight-lipped nod and a quiet, "Good luck at the academy."

  Vance, always more perceptive than he let on, seemed to hear the unspoken words anyway. He reached out and briefly squeezed her hand. "Keep training," he said softly. "Even without me. Don't lose the progress you've made. You're stronger than you know, Eris."

  She nodded again, not trusting her voice, and turned to follow the escort from the room. At the door, she paused and looked back at Vance—memorizing the way he looked in that moment, storing the image alongside all the others in the vault of precious memories she kept of their time together.

  "Goodbye, Vance," she finally said.

  "Not goodbye," he corrected with a forced smile. "Just... until next time."

  But as the door closed between them, Eris couldn't shake the certainty that a chapter of her life had just ended, as definitively as if the book had been closed and pced back on a shelf, out of reach.

  Vance's departure left a void at Serenity Home that seemed to expand with each passing day. At first, Eris clung to the promises of letters, calls, potential visits—structuring her expectations around these points of future contact like isnds in a sea of separation.

  The first letter arrived three weeks after he left, written in his characteristically precise handwriting. He described the academy campus, the rigorous training schedule, the other awakened Syers in his cohort. Reading between the lines, Eris could sense both his exhaustion and exhiration, the challenge of pushing his newly enhanced abilities to their limits under expert guidance.

  She replied immediately, filling pages with updates from Serenity Home, questions about his training, and carefully coded references to her own continued practice with her abilities. She told him about her progress—how she could now consistently activate her enhanced perception at will, how she'd discovered she could see in near-perfect darkness when her eyes took on their silver glow.

  His second letter came a month ter, shorter than the first, the handwriting more rushed. The training had intensified. Free time was scarce. The academy administrators monitored all communication carefully. He couldn't respond to her coded messages about her abilities—too risky.

  Eris wrote back anyway, maintaining the one-sided conversation with determined optimism. She told him about the new children at Serenity Home, about Mr. Harrison's test strict policies, about the books she was reading. She kept her tone light, hiding the growing hollowness she felt each day without their training sessions, without their whispered conversations, without his steady presence at her side.

  The third letter arrived nearly two months after the second, barely half a page long. Academy examinations were approaching. Combat trials would determine his rank advancement opportunities. He was sorry he couldn't write more. He hoped she was well.

  No mention of visits. No questions about her life. No personal reflections.

  Eris stared at the brief note for a long time, reading and rereading the impersonal sentences, searching for some glimpse of the Vance she knew in the perfunctory words. It was like receiving a letter from a stranger who happened to share her friend's name and handwriting.

  She wrote back anyway, her response as long and detailed as his had been short and vague. She ended with a question: When do you think you might be able to visit? Or when could I come see you at the academy?

  No reply came.

  Weeks stretched into months. Eris continued writing, her letters becoming shorter, less frequent, more questioning. Was he receiving them? Was he okay? Had something happened?

  Six months after Vance's departure, Mr. Harrison called Eris into his office. She entered with a flicker of hope—perhaps there was news from Vance, an expnation for the silence.

  Instead, Mr. Harrison handed her a crisp envelope bearing the Syer Association emblem. "This arrived for you today," he said, his tone neutral.

  Inside was a brief, formal note on official letterhead:

  Dear Miss Kane,

  We regret to inform you that Trainee Cross is unable to maintain regur correspondence during this critical phase of his education. The demands of Syer training, particurly for individuals with exceptional aptitude, require full mental and physical commitment with minimal outside distraction.

  While we understand the importance of maintaining pre-Awakening friendships, we must prioritize Trainee Cross's development at this time. All personal correspondence to academy trainees is currently being held for delivery at a more appropriate phase of training.

  Respectfully, Commander J. Martinez Director of Trainee Development Sanctum City Syer Academy

  The message was clear, if couched in polite bureaucratic nguage: Vance was too important, too talented, too valuable to waste time on letters to an orphanage friend. His new life had no space for connections to his old one.

  "I see," Eris said quietly, folding the letter with careful precision and returning it to its envelope.

  Mr. Harrison studied her with an unusual degree of attentiveness. "Syer training is notoriously demanding," he offered, as close to sympathy as he ever came. "Perhaps when he graduates, Vance will be in a position to renew your friendship."

  Three years. It had seemed an eternity before; now it stretched before her like an endless desert, barren and impassable.

  "Yes, sir," she replied mechanically. "May I be excused?"

  That night, alone in her bed while her roommates slept, Eris allowed herself to cry—silent, body-shaking sobs muffled by her pillow. She cried for the loss of Vance, for the broken promises, for the abrupt severing of the one retionship that had anchored her in the shifting sands of orphanage life.

  When morning came, she packed away her grief along with the stack of unanswered letters in the bottom drawer of her dresser. If Vance could so easily discard their friendship, their shared secrets, their years of mutual support, then she would learn to do the same.

  She would not be the one left caring when others had already moved on.

  Winter gave way to spring, spring to summer, and life at Serenity Home continued its predictable rhythm. Children came and went—some to adoptive families, some reunited with biological retives, some transferred to other facilities as they aged or as their needs changed. The staff rotated through with increasing frequency, few staying longer than a year under Mr. Harrison's demanding management style.

  Eris observed it all with a new detachment, a carefully constructed emotional distance that kept the constant changes from touching her core. When Lily, her st remaining original roommate, was finally adopted by a kind-looking older couple, Eris offered appropriate congratutions but felt nothing when the girl tried to promise they would stay in touch.

  "Don't bother," she said, not unkindly but with unmistakable finality. "You'll be busy with your new life. It's fine."

  She watched the hurt and confusion bloom in Lily's eyes but couldn't bring herself to offer false assurances. Better that Lily understand now how these things worked—how people moved on, how promises of continued connection were made with good intentions but rarely kept.

  The protective detachment extended to the new arrivals as well. When fresh faces appeared at Serenity Home, tearful and disoriented as she had once been, Eris maintained a polite but firm distance. No more taking newcomers under her wing, no more forming friendships that would inevitably end in another goodbye.

  "Why don't you try to make friends with Kira?" Dr. Foster suggested during one of their now-monthly sessions, referring to a recently arrived nine-year-old who shared Eris's interest in books. "She seems like someone you might get along with."

  "What's the point?" Eris replied with a shrug. "She'll either get adopted or transferred eventually. Everyone does."

  Dr. Foster's expression softened with concern. "Retionships still have value even if they don't st forever, Eris. Temporary connections can be meaningful too."

  "Maybe for some people," Eris conceded. "But I'm done investing in temporary."

  This new approach—this careful isotion—extended to her abilities as well. Without Vance's guidance and encouragement, the secret nighttime practice sessions ceased. The storage attic key remained on Ms. Reynolds's clipboard, undisturbed. The enhanced perception, the brief surges of strength, the night vision—all were deliberately suppressed, ignored until they appeared less and less frequently.

  Detective Quinn's monthly check-ins became exercises in evasion, with Eris providing minimal information about her well-being and deflecting questions about her abilities with vague non-answers. Even Dr. Foster received only surface-level engagement, Eris's once-open discussions of her feelings and fears repced by simplified responses designed to satisfy professional concern without revealing genuine vulnerability.

  By her eleventh birthday, Eris had constructed a life defined by absence—absence of close retionships, absence of risk, absence of the pain that came with caring too deeply about people or possibilities that would inevitably be taken away.

  The only remnant of her former self emerged during the rare occasions when potential adoptive parents visited Serenity Home. Despite her rational understanding that her unusual situation—her amnesia, her ck of verifiable background, the cssified nature of her true identity—made her an unlikely candidate for adoption, some stubborn spark of hope refused to be extinguished completely.

  Each time a new couple toured the facility, Eris found herself straightening her posture, selecting her nicest clothes, brushing her hair with extra care. She would answer questions with perfect politeness, demonstrate her academic accomplishments, mention her interest in reading and physical fitness. She would push aside her cultivated detachment just enough to appear engaging rather than aloof.

  And each time, without fail, the couple would choose someone else—usually a younger child with a clearer background, a child without the mysterious bnk space where a personal history should be.

  "There's something off about her," she overheard one prospective mother whisper to a staff member after an interview. "Like she's hiding something. And all those questions about her past that no one can answer... it just feels risky."

  The rational part of Eris understood—of course it seemed risky to adopt a child whose first seven years were a complete unknown, whose medical history consisted only of post-accident examinations, whose psychological profile included terms like "trauma-induced amnesia" and "identity formation challenges."

  But understanding did nothing to ease the sting of rejection, the reinforcement of the lesson she had already learned too well: attachment led to abandonment, hope led to disappointment, and expectations were just prepackaged heartbreak waiting to be unwrapped.

  After the fifth such rejection in eight months, Eris stopped trying. When potential parents visited, she remained in the background, responding if directly addressed but making no effort to stand out or connect. Her enhanced perception, when it occasionally surfaced unbidden, allowed her to catch the pitying gnces staff members exchanged when they thought she wasn't looking—the silent acknowledgment that Eris Kane had joined the ranks of the "lifers," the children who would remain at Serenity Home until they aged out of the system.

  By the time she turned twelve, the girl who had once trained with such dedication, who had pushed herself to master both body and emerging abilities, who had found joy in the small victories of increased control and strength, had been carefully packed away—as thoroughly as the letters to Vance in her dresser drawer, as completely as the memories of her parents that refused to resurface despite years of hoping.

  In her pce was a different Eris—quiet, academically accomplished but otherwise unremarkable, polite but reserved, never causing trouble but never forming attachments either. She moved through Serenity Home like a ghost, present but not quite substantial, observed but not truly seen.

  Only at night, in the moments before sleep cimed her, did she allow herself to remember—Vance teaching her the perfect blocking stance, Mei expining the unwritten rules of orphanage life, Lily's contagious giggle, the fleeting surge of power when her eyes glowed silver in the darkened attic. In those unguarded moments, the memories would wash over her like waves, bringing with them the ache of what had been lost or abandoned or forgotten.

  But when morning came, she would pack them away again, compartmentalizing with a skill beyond her years, and face another day as the carefully constructed version of herself that felt nothing too deeply, expected nothing too fervently, and needed no one but herself to survive.

  It was safer that way. And safety, she had learned, was all she could reasonably hope for in a world where everything else was temporary.