The silence in their cramped barracks room pressed down like a physical weight. Every creak of the ancient bunks echoed the day's toll – my neck throbbed beneath Raven's earlier healing touch, the twins radiated bone-deep fatigue, and Kael sat rigidly on the bottom bunk of the bed we shared, his silhouette merging with the deepening shadows. Lukewarm stew and dense bread sat mostly untouched on a low table Wren had dragged between the bunks. High on my top bunk, Storm preened a ruffled wing on my thin pillow, his bright eyes reflecting the guttering lamplight, a silent observer to the heavy stillness.
The quiet stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Wren shifted on his own bunk, the scrape of his boot unnaturally loud. He cleared his throat, the usual sharp edge noticeably absent. "Adam?" he began, his voice surprisingly tentative. "Mind if I ask... where you called home before all... this? Your folks, were they gifted too?"
I glanced down. The phantom heat of purple fire and the memory of Kael's crushing takedown still lingered, but Wren's unexpectedly polite question felt like a lifeline. "Emberfell," I said, the name bringing a wave of homesickness. "Lived on the very edge of town, tucked away where the woods meet the fields. Quiet. Peaceful. Just our place and the wilds." I nudged my stew bowl. "My dad, Cassian? He's a hunter for the Guild. Got fire, same bloodline as me, I reckon. Saw him use it proper maybe... twice? Once to light his pipe during a blizzard when the tinder was soaked, another time to seal a nasty wound on a stag he'd tracked for days. Said the Guild pays for clean kills and sharp tracking, not fireworks." A small, genuine smile touched my lips. "Always practical."
I looked towards the small, barred window, picturing the vibrant chaos beyond. "My mom, Elowen... she had the real visible magic. Plants. Could coax seeds from stubborn soil in a blink, make vines dance to some silent tune only she heard. Our garden wasn't just a plot; it was her workshop, her sanctuary. Roses blooming defiantly in late snow, vegetables bigger than your head, willow branches shaped overnight into living archways." My voice warmed with the memory. "She sold the most incredible flowers – hues you wouldn't believe existed – to merchants heading for the capital. Paid for my first proper practice sword and kept the pantry full through lean winters."
"Sounds like applied control," Raven observed from his own bunk opposite, his grey eyes fixed thoughtfully on me. "Purposeful. Turning ability into tangible sustenance. A different kind of strength."
"Yeah," I agreed, watching Storm tuck his head under a wing. "Normal, I guess, but... vibrant. Always something growing, changing. Dad drilled me daily – forms, endurance, discipline. Mom taught me focus. Trying to coax a single stubborn moon-bud to open exactly at midnight... that took a different kind of control, a patience I'm still learning." I sighed, the memory a stark contrast to the day's explosive failure. "Guess it all pointed here, somehow."
Raven nodded slowly. "Control manifests differently. Necessity shapes it." He took a deliberate bite of stew. "Our mother is a healer. Rank A. Runs the largest independent facility in Silverhaven. Raised us alone." Respect and quiet pride edged his tone, mixed with an undercurrent of gravity. "Long hours. Critical cases walking in day and night. We learned self-reliance very early." He emphasized the point, his gaze steady. "And observation. Healing requires seeing everything. The body doesn't hide its truths, its weaknesses. You learn to read it like a scroll."
Wren grunted, pushing a piece of tough meat around his bowl. "Yeah. Saw plenty of fools who pushed too hard, ignored limits, ended up shattered on her tables. Ma hammered 'precision saves lives, slop kills' into us before we could walk." He gestured vaguely with his spoon towards Raven. "Mostly for his benefit. Always thinking three steps ahead."
Raven ignored the jibe, his focus turning inward. "Her power... it's deep. Restoring ravaged tissue, purging complex magical toxins. It demands absolute, unwavering focus. Watching her work... it defined efficiency for us. Every mote of energy directed, every movement calculated. No waste."
Another silence descended, heavier than the last. The air grew thick. Kael hadn't touched his food. He remained a statue on the lower bunk, his gaze fixed on the rough stone wall opposite, seeing something far beyond the barracks. The shadows deepened around him. I felt Storm shift uneasily above me. When Kael finally spoke, his voice was low, stripped bare, a stark contrast to the arena's clipped commands. It wasn't an explanation; it was a stark recounting.
"The Borderlands," Kael began, the words rough. "That's where I crawled from. Not a town. Not a home. Just... survival. Every scrap of food, every sip of water, every breath of air not choked with dust or worse... you fought for it. Or you worked for it. Hard. Brutal work." He paused, the memory tightening his jaw. "They trained kids there. Not like here. Not to be strong. To be... useful. Expendable. Saw plenty not make it. Broken bones that never healed right. Sickness that swept through the barracks. Training accidents... that weren't accidents." His voice remained flat, but the horror seeped through the cracks. "You learned fast. Learned to endure. Learned to be invisible. Or you died."
He shifted minutely, the bunk frame groaning. "I survived. Got strong enough, or quiet enough, to be worth something. Traded. Like a sack of grain. To a bandit troop heading deeper into the wastes." A humorless flicker touched his eyes. "Didn't last long. Garrick's squad intercepted them near the Blackstone Pass. Routine patrol, turned raid." He finally glanced towards us, his gaze distant. "They found more than they bargained for in the cages."
Kael's focus returned to the wall. "Garrick... he saw me. Not just another piece of salvage. Saw the... hardness. The emptiness. Instead of handing me over to the border garrison, or worse, he took me in. Argued with his commander. Pulled strings I didn't know he had." A rare, almost imperceptible tension eased in Kael's shoulders. "He showed me... different. That life wasn't just about surviving the next beating, the next day. That you could walk without constantly watching your back. That control," he stressed the word, "...could be for more than just not dying."
Kael fell silent for a long moment. "He retired from active duty not long after. Said he wanted a quieter life. Took this instructor post." Kael's gaze swept the sparse room, the untouched food, our faces listening intently. "He did it... so I could have this. A roof. A bed. A chance to learn control that wasn't just about surviving the next sunrise."
The revelation crashed over us. The warmth of Emberfell's garden, the demanding rhythm of the twins' healer mother's life – they felt impossibly sheltered against the raw brutality Kael described. The sheer effort Garrick had undertaken for him was staggering. I understood, with chilling clarity, the source of Kael's terrifying efficiency, his icy detachment, his relentless demand for absolute control. It wasn't just discipline; it was the scar tissue over a childhood where control meant life or death. My own reckless surge with the purple fire felt like a dangerous, childish insult to that struggle.
Wren stared at his hands, uncharacteristically silent. Raven studied the grain of the wooden tabletop, his analytical mind clearly grappling with the narrative. I pushed my plate away, the scrape loud in the suffocating quiet. Storm let out a soft, mournful chirp.
Raven stood, gathering plates with a quiet, deliberate care. Wren followed silently, his usual brashness utterly absent. Kael remained motionless on the lower bunk, the raw glimpse into his past sealed away. The familiar, impenetrable mask of the stern instructor slid firmly back into place, though the shadows around him seemed deeper.
The lamps were snuffed out one by one. Beds groaned under weary bodies settling in. No goodnights were offered. The room plunged into near-total darkness, thick with the residue of violence, vulnerability, and the chilling reality of the Borderlands. The shared stories hadn't bridged the gap; they'd illuminated its terrifying depth. I lay on my top bunk, listening to Storm's soft breathing and the unnerving stillness from the bunk below. Each of us lay cocooned in the tense, awkward silence, wrestling with echoes of fire, the weight of observation, and the cold, brutal truth of a life fought for tooth and nail, sleep a distant shore in the suffocating dark.