The scorched remnants of the Council cloak still lay where he'd tossed them, the blackened fabric curling inwards like dying petals. Lucian hadn't moved it. He let it serve as a warning to himself—something inside him was beginning to fray.
She didn't say much that morning. Lira sat across from him in the quiet of the training ground's outer wall, sharpening her blade without looking at him. The sun hadn't risen yet. A single lantern between them cast long, slow-moving shadows.
He didn't say much either. Just glanced at her now and then.
Her fingers moved like they knew the rhythm of silence. And Lucian... he found comfort in that silence.
When he finally spoke, it wasn't about the war, or the Council, or even the old sigils he kept sketching into the edge of his notebook.
"Do you ever wonder," he asked, "if we were meant to be soldiers... or just ended up as ones?"
Lira didn't lift her eyes. "I think we were meant to be more."
That was enough.
---
The mission came unannounced. No grand strategy, no battalion briefing—just another sealed scroll from the High Council.
Target: Mage. Outskirts of Dunvale. Accused of treason, spreading founding-era doctrine, and harboring fugitives.
Lucian didn't flinch. He read it twice, then handed it silently to Lira across their shared table.
Her eyes scanned the scroll. Then locked on his.
"She's not a threat," she said simply.
Lucian stood. "Doesn't matter."
"Lucian..."
He paused at the doorway.
"I'll be back before dusk."
He didn't say it cruelly. He said it like a man tightening a grip on something fragile before it slips.
---
The mage was older than he expected. Worn robes. A calm smile. Her name was Elora.
He found her alone in a chapel that hadn't seen prayers in a decade. She greeted him with no fear.
"I knew you'd come," she said, pouring tea from a cracked kettle. "They always send the brightest to do the darkest work."
Lucian didn't reply. His blade stayed sheathed.
She spoke gently as they sat.
Of how the Sancturm was never meant to be an empire, but a sanctuary. Of the founding oaths twisted by time. Of how the Council's commands had become doctrine, and doctrine had become blind.
He listened. Fully.
He didn't interrupt. Not once.
And when she finished, she folded her hands and said, "You don't have to kill me. You could walk away."
He stood.
His hand lingered on the hilt of his sword.
"I could," he said.
The blade sang as it came free.
And then there was only stillness.
---
Lucian returned before dusk.
Lira was seated where he'd left her that morning.
She looked up. Her expression didn't ask a question, but somehow still did.
He placed the Council scroll beside her. Then sat.
"You listened to her," she said.
"I did."
She didn't ask what happened next.
She didn't need to.
He stared at the blood on his gauntlet like it was a question he couldn't answer. She reached out and gently wiped it with a cloth.
She didn't scold him. Didn't praise him. Just stayed.
---
Later that night, he watched her as she read under a dim lantern. Noticed how she tucked her legs under herself like she always did. How her lips moved with the words, though she didn't speak them. How her hair fell in strands over her collar.
He didn't say anything.
But when she looked up and met his eyes, he saw it. That quiet understanding. That soft defiance against a world trying to turn him into something he wasn't.
She didn't try to pull him back.
She just reminded him of what it felt like to not be slipping.
---
But that night, when he slept, he dreamed of the mage's words. Of her saying, You could walk away.
And in the dream, he did.
But when he woke, he felt the sword call to him again. Like it was growing heavier. Or maybe he was growing tired of lifting it.
Either way—something had shifted.
Not shattered.
Not yet.
But bent. Bent just enough to feel it.