08:40 — The Fencing Arena.
The instructor hadn't shown up.
But no one looked surprised when Carmen Alviero took over.
She didn't wait for permission.
She didn't ask for volunteers.
She just pulled on her glove, flexed her fingers, and said:
"Get in line. If you fall behind, you get cut."
And gods, did they listen.
She was a blur—fluid and brutal. Every movement precise. No wasted steps. No hesitation. Carmen didn't train to win; she trained to conquer. And that morning, she was showing no mercy.
Students watched in stunned awe as she parried and spun and sliced through each opponent like they were air.
Somewhere near the arena doors, someone arrived.
Late.
Too late.
Alia.
She saw the steel glinting. The crowd forming. Carmen moving.
And she turned.
No words. No dramatic exit. Just—turned and left, soft steps echoing behind her.
Carmen saw her.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't stop.
But something tightened in her grip, just for a moment.
Something silent and tangible.
---
09:21 — Women's Locker Room
Carmen pushed open the door, towel slung across her shoulder, shirt unbuttoned at the top, hair damp from the post-class rinse.
Alia.
Sitting on the long bench near the lockers. Hoodie over her fencing whites, legs crossed, face unreadable.
She wasn't looking at Carmen.
She was looking at the wall.
But Carmen knew that expression.
"You're sulking," Carmen said flatly, opening her locker without looking back.
"I'm thinking."
"Same difference."
No answer.
Carmen sighed, reaching for her clean shirt.
The silence was thick—loaded, like a room that used to be full of arguments and never quite healed from them.
"What's wrong?" Carmen asked, tone cool.
Still, Alia didn't reply. Just exhaled, like it cost her something to even be there.
Carmen rolled her eyes—mostly at herself.
She folded her arms across her chest, not moving closer, but her tone softened.
"If you're mad I didn't stop the class when you walked in, get over it."
Still nothing.
"Alia," Carmen said, quieter now.
Alia finally turned to look at her.
Eyes tired. Jaw clenched. But something aching in the way she looked at her.
She opened her mouth to speak.
Stopped.
Then finally:
"Why didn't you stop?"
That landed.
Carmen tilted her head. Her arms stayed folded.
"Because you left," she said simply. "And I don't chase people who run from me."
Alia looked away.
"Wasn't running. Just…" she trailed off. "Didn't wanna be seen."
Carmen studied her.
"By me?"
A pause.
Then—
"Maybe."
Carmen leaned against the locker, expression unreadable. Then, out of nowhere, she spoke again.
"Why did you ask me not to call you that?"
Alia blinked.
"Call me what?"
"Last night," Carmen said. "I said, 'You're a Dualist. It's my job to keep tabs.' And you said—'Stop calling me that.'"
"Oh."
"So?"
"So what?"
"Why?"
Alia looked down at her fingers. Picked at a loose thread in her sleeve.
"I just… I didn't want to be that in the moment."
"A Dualist?"
"A label."
Carmen said nothing.
So Alia kept going.
"Everyone here's a title. A bloodline. A threat. I'm Vantaire. I'm Noctis. I'm Ajax's sister. I'm a spoiled brat. I'm a political experiment. I'm the girl who bled on the marble floor."
Her voice cracked a little—not from weakness. From honesty.
"But no one sees me. Not really. Not as just… Alia."
Carmen's throat tightened, but her face stayed calm.
"And you thought I did?"
"You followed me when I was bleeding."
That hung in the air.
The softest accusation.
The gentlest truth.
Carmen looked away first.
"You're ridiculous," she said under her breath, voice low, almost fond.
Alia smiled.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
They stood like that for a while. Carmen by the lockers, Alia on the bench, something unspoken stretched between them like wire—delicate and sharp.
Then, Carmen stepped closer.
Not too close.
Just enough.
"If you want to be seen," she said softly, "you'll have to stop hiding."
Alia met her eyes.
"If I stop hiding, will you stop pretending you don't care?"
Carmen didn't answer.
But she reached up—gently—and tucked a stray piece of hair behind Alia's ear.
Their hands didn't touch.
But the air did.
And it burned.
---
18:42 — The School Archives
The lights flickered when Carmen entered the archives.
The main library was for students.
But the underground vault, protected by a biometric scanner and seven-digit passcode, was for legacy research.
Family trees. Classified missions. Lost names.
Carmen stepped between the tall, gray shelves like she'd done a thousand times before—but this time, she wasn't here for tactics or military maps.
She was looking for lineage.
More specifically—hers.
It didn't take long to find it.
ALVIERO, LENA.
Sovereign of House Noctis, 2006–2011.
Master tactician. International fixer. Legacy enforcer.
Survivor of the Dual Program.
Carmen paused.
Her fingers hovered over the faded ink like it might burn.
"Assigned Dualist. One of three who crossed the finish line."
Carmen blinked.
She read it again.
And again.
Dualist.
She sat down on the cold metal stool and opened the folder fully.
It was sparse—intentionally vague. Redacted ink all over the final reports. Photos removed.
But one line stood out:
"Dualism is a wedge and a weapon. Survive it, and you're forged. Fail it, and you're forgotten."
---
19:03 — Encrypted Call to Home
The screen on her wrist lit up with a soft beep.
Carmen leaned back against the cold wall of the archive room, still holding the file like it might disappear if she let go.
The call connected.
A sleek, older woman with dark gray eyes and a sharp white blouse appeared.
Hair back. Nails sharp. Aura sharpest of all.
Lena Alviero.
"Figlia mia." Her voice warmed slightly. "Che fai lì, così tardi? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Carmen didn't waste time.
"Were you a Dualist?"
Her mother raised a brow. Smirked.
"Trovato, eh? I wondered how long it would take you to dig it up."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"Because it's not a badge you pin to your uniform. It's a shadow that follows you."
Carmen stared at her.
"What was it like?"
Her mother leaned back in her chair, a flash of old weariness passing across her eyes.
"Like fighting a war with your own reflection. Like becoming two people and praying one survives."
"And the other?"
"Becomes a cautionary tale."
Carmen's grip on the file tightened.
"It said you were one of three who made it."
Lena nodded slowly.
"Me. Kazuo Venetti. And Nadia Grimes."
Carmen froze.
"Grimes… Betty's mother?"
"Sì." Her tone lowered. "The only one who came out hungrier than she went in."
"And the others? The ones who didn't make it?"
"Buried. In name. In legacy. Some quite literally."
Silence passed between them.
Then her mother added quietly:
"Dualism is powerful, yes. But don't romanticize it. It's not elegance, Carmen. It's survival. It's taking every part of yourself—every instinct, every contradiction—and forcing them to coexist. Or kill each other."
"Is that what it did to you?"
Her mother gave a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"It taught me to make peace with ghosts. You think Noctis shaped me? No, tesoro. Dualism did."
"And if someone… now… was doing it in secret?"
That sharpened her mother's gaze.
"Then I hope they know what they're stepping into. Because if they break—they don't just break themselves. They shatter the people around them."
Carmen swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
"Grazie, mamma."
"Di niente, amore. But remember: whatever you feel—respect it. Or it will eat you alive."
The call ended.
Carmen was left in the silence of the vault.
Staring down at the folder in her lap.
Dualism.
It wasn't a secret anymore.
But it was a warning.
And somehow, Alia was walking it with a smile like it didn't weigh the world.
Carmen wasn't sure if she wanted to protect her…
Or warn her.