Cadet
Lounge – Two Weeks Later
The
lounge glows with firelight, warm and soft, turning stone walls into
lazy shades of amber. It is one of the rare places in the Academy
where the world feels gentle, where no one barks orders, and no one
is bleeding.
Cain flips another page in
his results, fighting a smile that keeps tugging at the corner of his
mouth. “Combat Aptitude… top percentile,” he murmurs under his
breath, amused. “Weapon Proficiency… top percentile. Simulations…
top percentile.” He snorts. “Big surprise.”
Lucille wipes the oil from
her knife, turning the blade so the firelight dances across the edge.
She hasn’t touched her folder except to let it rest on her thighs,
unopened. The dark ring of bruising at her shoulder, still fading
even after weeks, peeks out from under her sleeve.
Cain’s eyes flick to her.
“You know,” he says gently, “you’re allowed to look at your
results.”
Lucille shrugs one
shoulder. “Later.”
Cain nudges her knee with
his. “It is later.”
Lucille doesn’t look up
from her knife. “Later-later.”
Cain exhales through a
half-laugh, soft and quiet so the other cadets don’t look over.
He flips another page in
his own folder, and something shifts in his expression, surprised,
then thrilled.
“Oh, this is good,” he
says, tapping a heading at the top of the page. “Advanced Combat
Strategy. They put me straight into the highest track.”
Lucille hums as she runs
the cloth along her blade. “Told you they would.”
Cain gives her a sideways
look. “You did tell me. Multiple times. In detail.
Loudly.”
Finally, Lucille smiles,
small, but real.
Across the room, the cadets
at the table play their card game in silence, broken only by the
crackle-pop of the fireplace. The hour is late. Shadows stretch tall
across the floor. It feels like the world is holding its breath.
Cain closes his folder and
nudges hers lightly with the edge of his own. “You really aren’t
curious at all?”
Lucille stops polishing
again.
She stares at the folder in
her lap.
Her fingers tighten around
the cloth still in her hand. “I…” Her voice trails off. “I
don’t know if I wanna see.”
Cain softens. “Lucy.”
She doesn’t look at him.
“I failed something'”
she whispers. “I must’ve. I know I must have. Seraphine beat me
half to death in Korvin’s exam, and the second stage—” She
swallows. “I didn’t do as well as you.”
Cain leans in closer,
lowering his voice so only she can hear.
“You don’t have to be
me.”
Lucille’s eyes flick up,
startled.
Cain continues, slower,
steadier. “You just have to be you. And you worked harder than
anyone in that class. That counts for somethin'.”
Lucille hesitates… then
slowly, very slowly, sets her knife aside.
Her fingers hover over the
cover of the folder. The fire crackles. The lounge murmurs quietly
behind them. Cain waits. Patient. Warm. Unmoving. Lucille finally
pulls the folder open.
She flips through each page
slowly, partly because her fingers are sore from training, partly
because her stomach knots tighter with every line. Her scores aren’t
perfect. They never are. But she’s passed everything. Combat,
leadership, strategy, survival, she excels. Psychology is barely
passing. Medical is only just.
Cain beams like she’s
just won a medal.
“Lucille, these are
incredible. You beat half the class in combat. More than
half. Look, look at your survival scores—”
She huffs, embarrassed,
polishing her knife so she doesn’t have to meet his eyes. “They’re
fine.”
“They’re better than
fine. They’re better than mine.”
He takes her folder before
she can stop him, lining her schedule beside his.
LUCILLE DOMITIAN —
TERM II SCHEDULE
(Effective Monday 02-04-2391)
07:10–08:10
— Advanced Hand-to-Hand Combat
Instructor: Manius
Veyron
08:20–09:20
— Tactical Theory & War Simulations
Instructor:
Magister Malco Renn
09:30–10:30
— Advanced Military Survival & Reconnaissance
Instructor:
Centurion Kaelis Dravon
10:40–11:40
— Squad Tactics & Live-Action Team Maneuvers
Instructor:
Captain Darius Vale
11:50–12:50
— Lunch
13:00–14:00
— Weapon Drills: Blades & Polearms
Instructor:
Varian Korvin
14:10–15:10
— Advanced Firearms & Ranged Weapons
Instructor:
Armsmaster Letho Graven
15:20–16:20
— Mounted Combat & Mobile Warfare
Instructor:
Commander Selka Arvion
16:30–17:30
— Close-Quarters Battle & Breach Training
Instructor:
Sergeant Rurik Daskal
17:30–18:30
— Dinner
18:45–20:00 — Free
Block
20:00–21:00 — Dorm
Responsibilities
21:00–22:30 — Study
23:00
— Curfew
Cain lines their schedules
side by side, grinning like he’s been waiting to do this all day.
“See? We’ve got almost
everything together. Periods two, three, five, six…hell, even
eight. And lunch, obviously. And study block. And—”
Lucille smirks faintly,
quiet warmth softening her features as she continues polishing the
edge of her knife. “So, you ain't gettin' rid of me.”
“I wasn’t plannin' to.”
He nudges her shoulder, light, careful, as if remembering the wounds
that had only just closed.
“Look at this stuff,
Lucy. You earned this.”
“…Maybe.”
“No. Not maybe.” He
taps her page, period five in particular, where Korvin’s name is
printed bold. “Definitely.”
The fire crackles, throwing
shifting light across her face. For the briefest moment, she lets
herself believe him.
Silence folds around them
again. The card game murmurs in the corner. Someone laughs quietly. A
page rustles. Snow taps the tall windows in gentle bursts.
Lucille exhales, and for
the first time in two weeks, the breath doesn’t hurt.
Cain flips his papers
again, brow furrowing. “Oh, except period seven,” he says. “We
don’t share that one.”
Lucille pauses mid-polish.
“What do you have?”
He turns his schedule
toward her.
Period 7: Advanced Kinetics & Silent
Operations
Instructor: Operative Senna
Voral
Location: Restricted Wing C
Lucille blinks. “Restricted
wing?”
Cain shrugs, though there’s
something uneasy in the motion. “Yeah. They said it’s
‘invite-only.’ Whatever that means. The description’s vague.
Somethin' about biomechanics, reaction conditionin', covert mobility
drills...honestly, I’m not sure what half of it is.”
She studies the title
again. It
feels…important. Secretive. Dangerous in a very different way than
blades or bullets.
“Sounds intense,” she
says quietly.
Cain gives a small, almost
embarrassed laugh. “I guess? They didn’t tell us much. Just that
it’s part of a ‘specialized development track.’”
She tilts her head. “Are
you nervous?”
“…A little,” he
admits after a beat. “But maybe it’s good. Maybe it means
I’m…meant for somethin'.”
“You are,” she says,
tone certain in a way she rarely allows for herself.
Cain looks at her then,
really looks, and some of that tension leaves his shoulders.
“Thanks.”
Lucille gives a small nod
and returns to her knife, though she keeps glancing at his schedule.
She doesn’t know what that class shapes cadets into. No one her age
would.
But the firelight glints
off the printed title, Silent Operations, and a chill pricks
the back of her neck despite the warmth.
Outside, snow drifts harder
against the windows.
“Whatever it is,” Cain
adds, leaning back against the couch, “we’ll still meet after
class. Period seven won’t stop that.”
Lucille smirks again. “I
wasn’t plannin' to let it.”
And the two of them sit
there, close enough that their shoulders touch, letting the final
minutes before curfew stretch as long as they can, quiet, warm,
peaceful before the Academy grinds them forward again.
Cadet Lounge – The
Next Morning
Lucille
stands near the door, alone.
The cadet lounge is
half-awake, lit only by the pale winter sun bleeding through the
frost-streaked windows. A pair of older cadets murmur over steaming
bowls of oats. Another yawns himself awake, boots propped on the arm
of a chair, eyes unfocused. Someone else trudges through on their way
to the showers, towel over their shoulder. Weekend mornings always
move like this, slow, muted, as if the entire Academy is hungover on
exhaustion.
Lucille barely notices any
of them.
Her fingers pick at the
skin beside her thumbnail until it stings. She stops, switches hands,
and starts again. The nerves crawling under her skin feel too
familiar. Too close to the memory of two weeks ago.
She shifts her weight.
Fixes the wrap around her knuckles even though it’s already
perfect. Smooths her hair behind her ear, then pulls it forward
again, uncertain what to do with herself. She feels like she’s
waiting for something, someone, but she doesn’t know how to stand
still while she waits. Not anymore.
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A group of first-years
enter the lounge, laughing quietly under their breath. The sound
makes her flinch before she can stop herself. She stares down at the
floorboards, jaw tight, forcing air into her lungs in slow, steady
pulls.
It’s fine. It’s
nothing. It’s just morning. Her heart doesn’t believe her. She
glances at the clock on the wall. Cain should be here by now. He
always wakes early, always meets her before training, always...
The door behind her clicks
softly. Lucille straightens, pulse kicking, turning just enough to
see who enters.
Cain
stumbles in through the lounge doors, breathless, a flush on his
cheeks from sprinting through the morning cold. A few cadets look up,
startled, amused, confused, but Cain ignores all of them.
He beelines straight for
Lucille.
Two slips of paper are
clutched in his hand, wrinkled from how tightly he’s been holding
them. His grin is bright enough to cut through the frost still
clinging to his hair.
“Lucy!” he pants,
leaning forward with his hands on his knees for a second. “Sorry
took longer than I thought. Administration is…really far.”
Lucille blinks, startled,
her fingers pausing mid-fidget where they’d been worrying the
bandage at her knuckles. “Cain…? What?”
He straightens and
practically shoves the papers toward her with both hands,
like an offering to some small, jittery god.
Lucille
blinks at the slips, unsure if she’s even interpreting what she’s
seeing. Cain is still catching his breath, snow melting off his hair
and shoulders, his chest rising and falling beneath his jacket.
He thrusts the papers
toward her again, almost vibrating.
“Two free passes,” he
says, voice bright with triumph. “For the whole weekend.”
Lucille stares. Then lifts
her eyes to his. “…Passes for what?”
Cain grins like a boy who
knows he’s about to change her world.
“For leaving,
Lucy. For getting out of here.”
She feels her stomach flip.
“Out...out of the Academy?” Her voice cracks slightly. She clears
her throat. “Cain, what are you—”
“We’re going to
Mevania,” he declares, lowering his voice only when a pair of older
cadets glance over. “The Winter Festival started yesterday. I
thought it’d be good. For both of us.” A softer look comes over
him. “Especially you.”
Lucille’s fingers tighten
around the edge of her bandages. She’s suddenly too aware of the
cold draft from the door, of her heartbeat in her throat, of the way
Cain’s excitement radiates like a small sun aimed directly at her.
“I’ve never…” Her
voice trails off. She tries again. “I’ve never been outside the
Academy. Not really.”
“I know.” Cain steps
closer, holding the passes out until she finally accepts them. “And
I want your first time out there to be, uh,” He searches for a
word. “Good.”
She looks down at the
small, stamped slips of permission. Light blue parchment. Silver
edging. Each one feels like it weighs a hundred pounds in her hand.
The cadet lounge hums
around them, distant chatter, the soft static hiss of the heater,
someone laughing by the stairwell. None of it reaches her.
Cain leans in, smiling.
“There’ll be music. And fires. And great food. And snow
sculptures, and the big lantern walk, and—”
Lucille swallows. Hard.
“You… did all this for me?”
“For us.” Then,
quieter, “But mostly for you.”
Warmth, strange and
unfamiliar, blooms beneath her ribs, tight and aching at the same
time.
She whispers, “I don’t
know how to… do any of that.”
Cain laughs softly. Not
mocking. Just warm. “Good thing you’ve got me.”
She looks at the passes
again. For a moment, just a moment, the Academy, the pain, the
classroom walls, the Praetorian Hall, all fall away.
“…Okay,” she says,
voice small but steady. “Let’s go to the Winter Festival.”
Cain beams. And Lucille,
for the first time in months, lets herself smile back.
The City of Mevania –
Two Hours Later
The
heater hums softly inside the car, warming Lucille’s hands where
they rest in her lap. She presses her fingertips to the glass, breath
fogging a small patch as Mevania rolls past outside.
It’s nothing like the
Academy.
Buildings rise tall and
stately, cut from pale stone and dark metal in the Praevectus style,
sharp roofs, sweeping arches, banners hanging from balconies like
frozen waves. Snow clings to the upper ledges, gathering thick along
gutters and railings. The streets below gleam clean, cleared by
early-morning crews; pedestrians walk bundled in heavy coats, boots
crunching in the salted slush along the edges.
Praetorians patrol at
measured intervals, pairs in crimson and silver armor moving with
quiet authority, a mounted unit trotting steadily down one of the
main roads, and a vehicle sliding past them with its blue lantern
lights glowing rather than flashing. Families walk between market
stalls, children tugging mittens, vendors calling out warm greetings.
The air smells faintly of roasted chestnuts and burning cedar.
Lucille drinks it in with
wide, awed eyes.
Cain can’t help smiling
as he watches her. “Pretty different from the sims, huh?”
She nods slowly. “It’s…
real,” she murmurs. “More real than I thought it’d be.”
For a moment, she presses
her forehead to the window, watching the snow fall between the
buildings. Tiny flakes drift sideways, caught in the winter wind like
ash. But here, the cold doesn’t feel cruel. Not like the Yard. This
is a different kind of winter, living, breathing, full of people who
look… normal.
Cain leans back into the
seat, tickets still in his hand. “We can do anything today,” he
says, excitement bubbling. “They gave us full clearance. Markets,
arcades, books, food stalls, the Winter Plaza, the lakefront, hell,
we can even try the ice gardens if you want.”
Lucille’s fingers tighten
around her bandaged knuckles, trying not to look too overwhelmed.
“I-I don’t even know where to start.”
“That’s the fun part.”
Cain grins at her. “It’s your first time out, Lucy. You get to
choose everything.”
Her breath catches. It
still feels like a dream, being outside the Academy walls, the weight
of rules softened, her back no longer burning, her hands free.
“Okay,” she whispers, a
small smile cracking through. “Then… the markets first. I want to
see the stalls.”
“You got it.”
The car turns down a wide
boulevard lined with snow-laden evergreens wrapped in soft blue
lanterns. Lucille watches every building, every person, every moment.
The city opens before them like a world she never believed she’d
ever touch.
And for the first time in a
long time, her heart beats not with fear, but with possibility.
Lucille leans forward
slightly, craning her neck to see past the tinted glass. Snow
crunches under the weight of boots on cobblestones. Strings of
lanterns crisscross the streets, bouncing off the frozen windows of
the shops and the dark metal of the streetlamps. Children dart
between the adults, red-cheeked and laughing despite the cold, their
mittens smudged with the dusting of snow.
The driver kills the
engine, and the hum of the car dies away. Silence, for a moment,
except for the distant clang of a bell from the festival square and
the soft murmurs of the crowd.
Lucille exhales slowly, the
air fogging before her face. “It’s… bigger than I thought,”
she murmurs. Her eyes trace the towering buildings, the intricate
metalwork on balconies, the faint smoke curling from chimneys.
Cain leans back, a grin
tugging at his face. “Wait until we see the market,” he says
quietly. “And the festival lights at night. You won’t believe
it.”
Lucille turns her gaze back
to him, half-expecting a teasing smirk. Instead, she catches a
flicker of calm excitement. For once, she doesn’t feel trapped by
lessons, trials, or expectations, just the city sprawled out before
her, alive and breathing beneath the winter sky.
The car door opens, snow
spilling in as they step onto the street. The crowd hums around them,
people brushing past in layers of fur and wool, scents of roasting
meats and spiced cider mingling in the cold air. Lucille hesitates
for a heartbeat, then lets herself take a full step forward. The
city, for all its vastness, doesn’t feel like a threat here. Not
yet.
The driver, Rhalis Arden, rests a hand on the edge of the door as Cain
and Lucille step out.
“Prince Cain,” Rhalis
calls before they can merge with the flow of festival-goers. His
breath fogs in the air. “Your mother wished this passed on to you.”
He offers a sleek black card, embossed with a silver crest.
Cain blinks, then beams.
“Seriously? She actually...thank you.”
“Her words were,”
Rhalis says, voice dry but respectful, “‘Tell the boy to enjoy
himself. And stay out of trouble.’” His eyes shift meaningfully
between Cain and Lucille, but without judgment. “If you two require
anything, transport, escort, or emergency response, call me. I’ll
be waitin' here.”
Cain salutes him more
playfully than formally. “We got it. Thanks, Rhalis.”
Then he slips the card into
his jacket and, without thinking, without hesitation, threads his
fingers through Lucille’s and tugs her forward into the crush of
festival lights.
Lucille stiffens at first,
warmth flooding her face in a way the winter wind can’t cool. Cain
doesn’t even notice her reaction; he’s too excited, pulling her
along as if afraid she might vanish if he lets go.
The festival sprawls before
them: rows of wooden stalls strung with lanterns, scents of spiced
cider and fresh bread, vendors shouting over the noise, Praetorian
patrols weaving through foot traffic with easy authority. Children
dart between adults, waving paper puppets shaped like winter spirits.
A quartet plays something bright and fast near the steps of a
monumental fountain frozen mid-splash.
But Lucille sees none of
that clearly, not yet.
She only feels Cain’s
hand in hers.
He glances back at her,
grin wide enough to warm the entire street. “Alright, first stop,
markets.” He lifts their joined hands as if to emphasize it. “You
said that was where you wanted to go first, right?”
“…Yeah,” she manages,
cheeks flushed. “The markets.”
“Then the markets it is.”
He leads her into the
crowd, fingers locked with hers as if refusing to let the world steal
even a second of their day.
Lucille’s eyes dart from
stall to stall, each more dazzling than the last. The glow of
lanterns glints off polished metals, illuminating carved sigils and
hand-forged trinkets. Children dart past her, laughter ringing like
wind chimes, their mittens brushing against the warm scent of
roasting chestnuts and sweet pastries. The aroma of spiced meats and
fresh-baked breads mixes with incense drifting from small shrines set
up along the boulevard, each dedicated to a god or goddess of the
Order.
She hesitates at a stall
selling intricate knives, each handle inlaid with carved runes or
gems, but Cain’s hand firmly in hers keeps her moving forward. The
pull of the crowd, the chaotic symphony of sounds, shouting vendors,
clanging coins, laughter, bells, and music, overwhelms her at first,
and her breath comes shallow.
“Relax,” Cain murmurs
beside her, his voice low but steady. “We’ve got time. Look at
anything you want.”
Lucille bites her lip,
unsure where to focus. A stall with hand-carved statues of Veidros
catches her eye. Across the aisle, someone flips fresh pastries into
the air with an almost theatrical flair. Elsewhere, the scent of
cinnamon and warm chocolate mingles with roasted root vegetables and
the sharp tang of smoked meats. Lucille’s stomach growls quietly,
reminding her that she hasn’t eaten since breakfast.
Cain smiles, reading her
indecision like a map. “Let’s start with something simple. Food
first.”
He guides her toward a
stall adorned with pine garlands and lanterns, where a cheerful
vendor tends a hot griddle. The air here is thick with the scent of
fried dough, sweet glazes, and caramelized nuts. Lucille inhales
sharply, nostrils flaring.
“Try this,” Cain says,
pulling a small, warm pastry from the vendor. He hands it to her
carefully, watching her face.
Lucille hesitates only a
moment before taking a tentative bite. The warmth of the pastry and
the sweetness of the glaze hit her tongue, and she closes her eyes
for a heartbeat, savoring it. It’s simple. Comforting. Safe. Not
like the winter trial, not like the lashings or the endless drills.
Just… a moment.
She opens her eyes to find
Cain grinning, watching her intently. “See? You like it.”
A small, almost shy smile
tugs at Lucille’s lips. “Yeah… it’s good.”
The crowd flows around
them, an endless river of motion and sound, but for now, the city
feels like it belongs to them. Lantern light glints off Cain’s hair
as he leans closer. “We can go anywhere, Lucy. Anything you want.”
Lucille swallows the
pastry, warmth spreading through her chest, not just from the food,
but from the simple certainty of his presence. For the first time in
weeks, maybe months, she allows herself to believe that not
everything is a battle. That the world can be soft, even if only for
a moment.
“And then?” she
whispers, almost to herself, eyes scanning the festival.
“And then,” Cain says,
tilting his head toward a stall selling warm cider, “we keep
walkin'. See it all. Try everything. Make tonight ours.”
Lucille nods once, letting
his hand guide her deeper into the lights and noise. The festival
swirls around them, a storm of warmth and color, but she doesn’t
pull away. Not tonight. Tonight, she lets herself be a girl, not a
cadet.
The farther they drift into
the market, the louder the festival grows. The rhythm of it changes,
less chatter, more heartbeat. Drums thud in steady cadence, deep and
resonant, meant for marching and celebration alike. Flutes weave
through the rhythm, sharp and bright, joined by strings and clappers.
The sound brushes against Lucille’s senses, unfamiliar but
stirring, tugging at something old and wordless in her chest.
She turns her head toward
the music, ears pricking despite herself. It isn’t a hymn she
knows. Not a marching song. Something older. Folk-born. Alive.
They might have passed the
next stall without a glance if not for the voice that calls out, warm
and sharp all at once.
“Prince Aurellius? By the
gods, is that you?”
Cain stops short, surprise
flickering across his face before it breaks into a smile. “Maela?”
he says, turning toward the stall.
The woman beams. She’s
older, hair silvered and braided neatly beneath a thick wool cap, her
stall overflowing with winter gear, scarves of every weave, fur-lined
hats, layered gloves, heavy cloaks and wraps in rich, practical
colors.
“I knew it,” Maela
says, laughing as she steps closer. “You get taller every time I
see you.”
Cain rubs the back of his
neck, already blushing. “You ain't changed at all.”
Her eyes slide to Lucille
then, sharp and kind all at once. They soften immediately.
“And who’s this?”
Maela asks, voice lowering. “You’ve brought company.”
Cain clears his throat.
“This is Lucille. Lucille Domitian.”
Maela hums thoughtfully,
looking Lucille up and down with a seamstress’s practiced eye.
“Well,” she says gently, “you look like you could use a bit
more warmth, dear.”
Lucille stiffens,
instinctively shaking her head. “I’m fine, ma’am. Really.”
Cain glances at her, then
back at Maela. “She’s not,” he says simply. “And you know
your work is the best.”
Maela laughs again.
“Flatterer. Just like your father.”
Lucille hesitates, eyes
flicking over the scarves laid out before her. There are so many,
thick knits, tight weaves, patterned cloths meant for wind and cold.
Too many choices. Her hands hover, uncertain.
Cain notices. He doesn’t
ask.
He reaches out and picks
one up himself.
It’s folded neatly, a
shemagh-style scarf in red, white, and blue, the pattern bold without
being garish, tassels framing the edges. He holds it up, studying it
against her dark hair and pale skin.
“This one,” he says,
smiling. “It’d look really good on you.”
Maela nods at once.
“Excellent choice.”
Before Lucille can protest,
the woman takes the scarf and steps close. Her hands are gentle,
practiced, wrapping the fabric around Lucille’s neck with care,
adjusting it so it sits comfortably against her collar, warm but not
constricting.
“There,” Maela says
softly. “Much better.”
Lucille swallows, fingers
brushing the edge of the cloth. “…Thank you.”
Cain reaches for his
wallet, but Maela snaps her fingers sharply.
“Absolutely not,” she
says. “It’s a gift.”
Cain frowns. “Maela—”
“Hush,” she says,
smiling. “Winter’s hard enough. Let me do some good with my
hands.”
Lucille looks between them,
uncertain. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Maela
says, meeting her eyes. “Keep warm, child.”
Lucille nods slowly. “I
will.”
As they step away from the
stall, the scarf settles against her skin, warm and solid, the fabric
heavy in a comforting way. The drums thud louder now, the music
pulling them deeper into the festival’s heart.
Lucille adjusts the scarf
once more, then looks up at Cain.
“…It does help,” she
admits.
Cain grins, nudging her
shoulder. “Told you.”They walk on together, the
lights brighter ahead, the music swelling, winter closing in around
them, but for once, it doesn’t feel cruel.
