The air smells of warmed dust and metal, like it does every morning in this wing of the citadel. I didn't sleep much — neither did Elijah, judging by his barely-hidden yawns — but our steps are steady. No hesitation. Today's the day. Evaluation. And then, we sign.
When we push the door to the training room, Gunther is already there.
He's leaning against an old table, a crumpled notebook in one hand and a steaming cup in the other. Sleeves rolled up, blond hair still a mess. He looks like he slept here — and honestly, I wouldn't be surprised. But he smiles at us, calm, familiar. That subtle kind of smile he only gives when he's truly happy — and won't admit it.
"You're on time? I must be dreaming," he says, amused.
Elijah winks back. "Wait 'til you see us in action."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling anyway.
Gunther snaps his notebook shut and nods. "Good. We'll start with shooting. Get set up."
I take my place. The weapon feels heavy in my hands, but I know its weight now. Gunther had us train until aiming became second nature. I steady my breath, let my shoulders drop. Next to me, Elijah cracks his fingers like he's about to take the stage.
The first shots cut through the silence. I feel the tension in my arms, the concentration stretching taut inside me. Inhale. Pressure. Sharp release.
"Lower your breath, Mira. You're hitting too high to the right," Gunther says, without raising his voice.
I adjust. I can feel his gaze on me — not harsh, but observant. He notes something in his notebook. I'm used to it. He sees everything.
Elijah takes his turn. Faster, more dynamic. Less precise. Gunther raises a brow.
"You shook on the third. Slow down. You always rush."
"It's part of my charm," Elijah protests.
"Your charm is how you get spotted," Gunther shoots back.
Then it's onto the physical tests. Planks. Pushups. Crunches. My back protests, my arms burn. But I don't let go. Not today. Not after all we've done. Elijah complains a little, but he's focused too.
Gunther doesn't say much this time. Just looks. A hand on the shoulder when we start to lag. It's hard — yes — but never cruel. He's not trying to break us. He's checking if we hold. And we do.
Then comes hand-to-hand combat.
Elijah and I face off. It's always strange, fighting him — but in a way, it brings us back. To before. To all those kid fights we used to have. He gives me a cocky grin.
"You know you're gonna lose, right?"
"You wish."
Gunther gives a small nod. "Whenever you're ready."
We charge. He's stronger. I'm faster. We know each other inside out. It's like sparring through an old song — every move familiar, every feint predictable. He fakes, I dodge. I trip him, he grabs my waist. We roll across the floor. Gunther doesn't move, but I can feel him watching — silent, focused.
I manage to pin Elijah down, hold him in a clean lock.
"Rha! Alright, alright, I give!" he laughs.
I stay hovering over him a second, breath short.
"I win," I whisper, out of breath.
Gunther laughs too, this time fully. "Noted. You've grown up, Mira."
I blush. Just a little. It's not much, but coming from him... it matters.
Elijah groans as he sits up. "She cheats. Sneaky woman."
"She's effective," Gunther corrects. "And you talk too damn much."
He finally closes his notebook, taps it lightly against his palm. His gaze softens.
"You're not perfect. But you're ready."
The silence that follows hits like a breeze.
He looks at us for a moment. And in his eyes, I read it clearly. Quiet pride. And real care. He knows us now. Not just as strays dragged in from some hallway. As part of this team. This family.
"I'm proud of you," he says, barely more than a breath.
I look down a little. My throat tightens.
Even Elijah, for once, doesn't crack a joke. He just nods.
Gunther claps us each gently on the shoulder.
"Go. Shower. Eat. You're signing in two hours."
---
No ceremony. No speech.
Just our names, traced in black ink. Our initials pressed into thick registry paper. And Boris's quiet gaze as he handed us the pen. Elijah signed first — with a flourish, of course. I went slower. Not out of doubt — no. Out of respect. Because it mattered.
Boris stayed solemn. The kind of man who doesn't show much. But his eyes said enough. Seriousness. Maybe concern. But also something else — acceptance. A silent recognition.
Gunther, on the other hand, grinned like a kid.
"That's it," he'd whispered, closing the book. "Well done, you two."
And that was that. We walked out of the office like it had been any ordinary appointment.
In the hallway, the ceiling lights flicker faintly. Elijah's laughing. Almost giddy. I can still feel the signature pulsing in my veins — like a vow. Like a quiet pact. We did it. We're in.
Gunther catches up with us in the corridor.
"So... we celebrating or what?"
Elijah tilts his head, curious. "How?"
Gunther clicks his tongue and gives a sly grin.
"I've got a couple bottles stashed at the flat. Rum. Maybe even an old vodka — if Tinka didn't kill it already."
I let out a quiet laugh. So even Gunther and Tinka chose to stick together.
"You're hoarding alcohol now?"
"I'm not hoarding. It's just... there. And the glasses are clean. Well. Cleanish."
Elijah gives him a double thumbs-up. "Perfect. You name the time."
"Half an hour. I'm picking Tinka up from the docks. I think she's got her eye on someone from the mechanics crew. Meet us at our place."
He walks off with that usual lazy ease, shoulders relaxed. It's wild how he talks about everything like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I turn to Elijah.
"I'm gonna go find Ilya."
He raises a brow. "Wasn't he in the mess?"
"Exactly. He wasn't. He's probably in the comms room. Buried under vehicle reports. And... I need to tell him."
"You mean tell him you signed, or that you want him at the celebration?"
I narrow my eyes. "Both."
Elijah raises his hands, mock-dramatic. "Do as you will, beloved sister. I'm off for a power nap before facing the wonders of contraband liquor."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling.
I turn on my heels and head down the hallway toward the comms wing.
The blue glow of the monitors wraps around me like a quiet cocoon as I push the door open.
He's there.
Headphones around his neck, focused on maps and documents. But the moment I step inside, his eyes flick up. A sharp, assessing glance — softened, just slightly, when he sees it's me.
"Survived the paperwork, huh?" he asks, with a half-smile.
I answer without thinking. "Barely."
I step closer. He types a last command, pulls off the headset, swivels toward me. I stop in front of him, arms crossed. He watches me — like always. But this time, there's something else. A quiet tension, like he already knows why I came.
"We signed," I say softly.
A beat. Then his brow furrows.
"'We'?"
"Elijah and I."
He goes still. Only his jaw moves, tightening. No words. And that, more than anything, scares me.
I look away slightly.
"I wanted to tell you myself."
His hands stay on the armrests. He hasn't moved. He's processing. Too fast, or not fast enough.
"It was our decision. We want to help."
Silence.
Then, finally, he stands. Slowly. Hands braced on the desk, back curved. His shadow stretches across the screens — tall, tense.
"I'd have rather you stayed here," he says, voice low.
He's not even looking at me.
My heart jumps.
"So you're disappointed."
"Disappointed? Never. I'm terrified."
I stay upright, but inside, something trembles.
He lifts his gaze. And what I see there hits me like a fist. It's not anger. It's raw fear.
"I've always been the voice in someone's ear. I've listened to people die, Mira. Right to the end. And I couldn't do anything. Just... listen."
He closes his eyes for a second. Opens them again.
"I couldn't take it if it were you."
I breathe. Slowly.
Then I step forward. Lay my fingers gently on his arm.
"Ilya."
He flinches — just barely.
I trail my hand up to his shoulder, then step in front of him. He's still not looking at me. So I speak softly, for him to hear, to feel.
"I'm not afraid... because it's you."
His eyes move. Finally. He meets my gaze — searching me, trying to see if I mean it. If I understand.
And I do.
"I trust you."
A breath. A crack.
He closes the space between us. His hand cups my cheek — firm, warm, just trembling. The other presses into my back like an anchor. And then he kisses me.
It's dense. Fevered. Not rushed, but held back. Like he's been fighting this for weeks and doesn't know how to stop anymore.
I kiss him back. My body knows him like muscle memory. I pull closer. It's new — but not foreign. It's familiar in a different way.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests on mine. And I see it in his eyes. The shift.
What he says next isn't meant to soothe. It's not pretty. Not poetic.
It's a vow — raw, brutal, almost hard to hear.
"I'll pull you out of the fire every time. You hear me? I don't care who's in front. I don't care what the orders are. I'll drag you out myself if I have to. I will, Mira. I swear it."
I feel it in every word. He's not saying it to impress me.
He means it. It's tearing him up inside.
This isn't a love confession.
It's a visceral oath. One he's probably made to himself, long before today.
And I believe him. I feel it in my ribs.
So I close my eyes, rest my head against his collarbone. He wraps his arms around me without hesitation. I hear his breath catch.
He keeps me close. For a long time. And for a moment, I forget why I came.
It's only when he loosens his hold — without stepping back — that it returns. A heartbeat too loud. A bit of blood in my cheeks.
I glance up at him.
"Gunther's throwing a kind of... celebration. Nothing official. Just an excuse to crack open his contraband stash. It's at the flat he shares with Tinka. We're probably already late."
Ilya raises an eyebrow, mock-surprised.
"You're inviting me to a party? In a crowded apartment? With your brother? And bad alcohol?"
"You're really gonna turn down a party thrown by Gunther? The world's ending."
He leans in, just enough to murmur:
"I'm not turning anything down. I was waiting for a real invitation."
I give him a look. He waits. So I play along, voice even, eyes on his.
"Ilya. Would you like to come to our post-signing party and risk being handed a drink by a half-drunk pilot?"
He looks at me like I'm the best damn thing he's ever seen.
"In that case, yes. I'd love to."
We leave the room together. The hallway is quiet. The silence between us isn't heavy. It's... simple. Good. Easy.
He's still smiling. That lopsided, quiet smile that won't go away. And I realize I'm smiling too. Just because he is.
As we round the corner, a loud metallic crash echoes from up ahead — followed by a roar of laughter. Gunther, no doubt.
We stop by the half-open door. I turn to Ilya.
"You better behave."
He raises a hand like he's taking an oath.
"Me? Always."
But his smile curls again, and before I can react, he leans in and kisses me. Quick. Playful. A burst of heat I wasn't ready for.
"For the road," he whispers against my lips.
I roll my eyes, a little pink.
"Elijah's going to kill you."
"I survived two years in the resistance. I'll survive your twin. If I stay out of reach."
I give him a shove, just for show.
And then we step inside.