Nivara, eight years later.
The Ignis Compound lay hushed, wrapped in the pale gray of a dawn still waiting to break. Rows of trees stood guard at its borders, their silhouettes sharp against the paling sky. Dormitories and offices slept in darkness still, but the tallest structure—the Command Tower—glowed faintly.
At the front desk, the lone receptionist fought back a yawn. His eyes were half-closed when the door creaked open.
A young woman crossed the threshold, clad head to toe in a uniform of deepest black. Her hair, platinum like spun moonlight, was drawn into a braid that reached her waist. Her eyes—a blue so pale it seemed carved from ice—drilled into him. The sight of her jolted him upright as if he'd been struck.
"Is Marshal Denelle in his office?" she asked. Her voice was soft, yet each syllable cut clean; her face as flat as her tone.
He bowed at once, though his voice betrayed a tremor. "Yes, he is. Shall I announce you—"
"No need."
She was already climbing the stairs, her steps swift and soundless on the polished floor. He thought of calling after her, then thought better, sinking slowly back into his chair as though nothing had happened at all.
The highest floor was hers in moments. A heavy wooden door waited at its end. She pushed it open without pause, striding to the center of the office.
Behind the desk, a man in deep viridian looked up, papers still clutched in his hands, his concentration broken by her abrupt entrance. His hair bore the silver of years, but there was nothing frail in him. His emerald eyes, bright and cutting, studied her with quiet interest.
"You seem surprised," she remarked.
"I didn't expect to see you here—not at this time of year," Killian Denelle replied, calm as ever, lowering his gaze again to the papers. "What brings you back?"
"I have matters to see to." She folded her arms loosely across her chest. "Thought I'd stop in, check on my dear Marshal."
If her tone pressed the line between playful and insolent, Killian didn't seem bothered. "What sort of matters?"
"The kind that ends eight years of bloodshed on the western border."
The silence that followed was immediate, heavy. The Marshal's eyes fixed on her, weighing her words. At length, he set the papers aside and leaned forward, fingers laced across the desk.
"Will these matters demand more of your absence?"
She only shrugged, her cold ease intact. "You already know they will. What of it?"
"Word has reached me again—about your disappearances, your solitary ventures." His tone was careful, deliberate. "The Captains are concerned."
"The Captains?" Her brow arched. "Or just one?"
"More than one," he said evenly. "Your Captain remains the most persistent. But lately others have joined him—saying your popularity ought to be matched with proper conduct."
"Haven't you covered for me?"
"I've done what I can." The Marshal spread his hands in a small, helpless motion. "But even cover has its limits. Your squad isn't blind—they've noticed how often you vanish, how long you're gone. And they talk. Otherwise, the other Captains wouldn't have known."
Her irritation flared, her voice rising with it. "I've just told you I have a war to end, and you'd rather press me with the Captains' complaints—complaints born of my squad's idle gossip? Do me a favor—ignore them."
A faint smile touched his mouth as he turned it back on her. "And what sort of Marshal would I be if I dismissed my officers when they see one of their own flouting protocol? Favoritism rots loyalty. And loyalty is the last thing we can afford to squander in a Corps like ours."
The point stung. She sighed, long and weary. "How tiresome. What do you propose?"
"How about we start with something basic, like getting you a partner?" His tone lightened. "Someone quick enough not to slow you down. Someone who knows when not to ask questions."
Her expression darkened at once. "A terrible idea. You'd have me drag an extra body while I investigate?"
The Marshal's gaze turned pensive. His next words came softer, edged with caution. "You're still certain Dravina wasn't behind it? Even after all these years?"
"The more I fight them, the more certain I am."
Silence thickened, heavier than before. Her light-blue eyes met his green ones with a certainty that dared him to challenge her. But before he could, she turned, her heels already angling for the door.
"Perhaps I'll leave you to your reports, Marshal Denelle. When I have a real solution, I'll come again."
"Of course. See yourself out." Killian sank back into his chair, watching her warily as she reached the door. Just as her hand touched the handle, his voice called after her, as if something had just surfaced in his mind.
"One thing, Clemens."
She turned her head, waiting.
"Would you drop by the Yard for a moment before heading to wherever else you're off to?"
She frowned. "Around this hour? Really?" The first bell had yet to ring, the sky still dark with no hint of dawn. The Yard, at such a time, would hold little more than mist and last night's unswept leaves. "What am I supposed to find there?"
The Marshal offered no answer. "Just indulge this old man and check the Yard."
Her eyes narrowed. In all the years she had known Killian Denelle, he had always been forthright, never one to throw vague hints. But before she could pin him with her usual quiet, judging stare, the man had already lowered his gaze back to the papers, reading again as if his words had fallen precisely where he wanted them.
Annoyed and unsettled, she left. The door clicked softly shut behind her.
Outside, the mist had only begun to thin.
The Yard was not far from the Command Tower, just a short walk along the stone road. The air bit at her skin as she strolled; tall administrative buildings lined both sides of the way. Not a single soul crossed her path. But as her footsteps neared the Yard, other footsteps reached her ears, accompanied by a male voice pitched as if delivering commands.
It wasn't her Captain's tone, that much she could tell, and that fact alone brought her relief. The number of boots striking the ground suggested perhaps ten—just a squad, then. She wondered which Captain had lost his mind and decided to torture his men at such an early hour.
At the far corner of the Yard stood a group of soldiers, identifiable by the black of their uniforms, the same as hers: long coat, high-collared shirt, fitted trousers, and knee-high boots. All in black. But the insignia stitched onto their sleeves was not hers: two crossed arrows. The Archer Corps.
Since when did they allow outsiders into the Compound? she mused, folding her arms as she watched them. Ten in total, broad-shouldered and tall like most soldiers, their backs turned to her.
In front of them stood a figure who did belong to her Corps—one from her own squad. He seemed to be the one leading the group, the only one speaking. She realized now why she hadn't recognized the voice. She had barely interacted with him before. Still, she remembered the name: Dalen Rho.
She strained to catch what Dalen was saying, but her scrutiny lasted less than a minute before his gaze shifted from the group and landed directly on her.
"Clemens, long time no see!" His voice rose in sudden cheer, carrying across the Yard.
The abrupt shift in tone, the way his attention snapped, made the ten archers turn their heads almost as one toward where he was looking.
A heat gradually crept up her neck, tingeing her cheeks a faint red. She hadn't expected Dalen to greet her with such warmth out of nowhere. Having just left Killian Denelle's office, and knowing that some of her squad mates had been spreading words about her conduct, the thought of talking to one of them felt nothing short of cringeworthy.
Reluctantly, she stepped forward. Otherwise, Dalen might break the dawn quiet again—or worse, wake everyone in the nearby dorm blocks.
"Rho, who are these?" she asked when she reached the group.
"Trainees, Clemens." Dalen stepped forward as she approached, grinning.
"Trainees?"
"Yeah. Only the most distinct faces from the Archer Corps, this batch here."
She had heard of this before—her Corps recruiting new blood from the Archers—but had never paid the practice much mind. She was rarely around long enough to notice.
Still, it didn't explain why the Marshal had wanted her in the Yard at dawn. If his intention had been only to parade new recruits before her eyes, then the man must have lost some of his sharpness. Or worse, he was scheming something.
Her icy gaze swept across the ten faces, all fixed on her since she arrived. Most of her peers were older by five years or more, yet these ten looked about her age. Talent, it seemed, only grew younger with each generation.
The thought slowed her eyes as they skimmed the line... until they landed on the youngest face among them. The moment she met it, she froze.
He stood taller than the rest, perhaps a few years her junior. His hair was as dark as spilled ink, falling softy across his brow. His skin carried the warm olive of his roots, deepened and roughened by years beneath the sun, by the wear of a soldier's life. Yet it wasn't any of those details that stilled her breath.
It was his eyes.
Golden, luminous, as though a hidden sun had risen within them. Through the veil of gray-white mist still shrouding the Yard, they gleamed—calm, steady, unblinking. Not the blaze of fire, but the languid radiance of light poured into glass, gentle yet inescapable. To meet them was not to burn, but to be gathered into their quiet pull, where a tenderness waited, patient and unspoken, as they held hers.
She knew those eyes. She had seen them before—somewhere, somehow. Those refined features, that longing face. The same expression that lingered, haunting in its familiarity.
Before she could dig down memory's path, Dalen's voice cut in.
"Clemens? ... Clemens!"
The eye contact broke.
She turned absently toward Dalen, startled to realize she had been staring far too long, far too openly.
"So—you're in charge of guiding them?" she asked, forcing the conversation back into place.
"Yes, Captain Tressine assigned me," Dalen replied without hesitation, glad to have her attention back.
"And he'll train them?" She kept him talking, though every muscle of her will was bent toward not glancing back at the golden-eyed trainee.
"Just for the first two weeks, Clemens. After that, they'll be paired with one of us—one-on-one. Getting them used to working with a partner, you know?"
Only after the words left his mouth did Dalen remember whom he addressed, and how awkward they must have sounded. Of course, this woman wouldn't know—she had never worked with anyone since the day she entered the Corps.
She, on her end, felt no awkwardness. Her mind lingered instead on something else in his words. One-on-one training. A smirk touched her lips. So that was Killian Denelle's little scheme.
"I see. Have fun with them, then." She turned to leave at once.
Dalen blinked, thrown off by the speed of her dismissal, by how quickly her interest had died. In his mind, it was only his careless words that had offended her.
"Wait! Clemens, don't you want to at least tell Captain Tressine you're back?" He felt urged to recover, yet still mindful of the watching recruits. Apologizing in front of them would be worse.
"Nope. Thank you," she answered curtly, not turning back, her footsteps quick against the stone.
Behind her, the men were silent, still caught off guard by what they had just witnessed. Slowly, they gathered themselves, shifting their attention back to their dumbfounded instructor.
But the youngest one had not. His gaze followed her small, retreating figure until she disappeared down the opposite road. Only then did he turn to Dalen, the gold in his eyes softer still, like dawn breaking over a quiet horizon.
The sight brought Dalen back to his role. He straightened, smoothed himself into sternness, trying to salvage the impression as he forced cheer back into his tone. "Well, that was awkward. Trainees, I insist you leave whatever you just saw or heard out of your minds. Is that clear?"
Dalen knew how bad it appeared: one of his own mates refusing even to report back to a Captain in front of fresh recruits. If any trainee spoke, he imagined the reprimand would be merciless.
Luckily, the trainees were cooperative. All ten quickly chorused: "Yes, sir!"
But before Dalen could resume the morning's work, one trainee spoke up.
"Ignisant Rho, may I?"
Dalen hesitated. He already knew where this would lead, but he gave the nod anyway. "You may, Trainee."
"Was that Ignisant just now... Clemens?" he asked, his tone careful, though it betrayed eagerness. They had all seen the name tag, heard Dalen speak the name. They only needed confirmation.
"I'm afraid so, Trainee." Dalen cleared his throat. "Sina Clemens, in the flesh."
Dalen then forced his voice back into a commanding register, addressing the whole group, trying to claw back authority. "Trainees, I understand your curiosity. But keep it to yourselves. Discretion is our top priority. You are here because you proved yourselves capable of it. Keep it that way."
"Yes, sir!" the men rang back, louder this time.
Dalen launched into his orientation speech. The trainees stood at attention, their faces grimly focused as if they were about to be sent to the front to clear another skirmish or retake another garrison. Confidence returned to Dalen in waves as he went on.
Among all the Nivaran Army's forces, the Ignis Corps was renowned for being the smallest—an elite unit of a mere hundred and twenty. They received the highest wages, bore the highest honor, and met the most stringent demands of competency and background. Only the best of the best ever made it here.
Dalen knew how significant it was for these trainees to be standing on the ground of his Corps. He had been one of them once. He had worked hard for it, and he still did. The only thing that mattered now was for these young men to listen to his every word as if their lives depended on it.
Soren Bach kept his face still. His golden gaze fixed forward like a dutiful trainee eager to prove himself worthy of the Corps.
Across from him, Dalen Rho gave a few approving nods throughout the speech, clearly pleased that the men had returned to attentiveness rather than firing off unwelcome questions.
But Soren was barely listening. His mind wandered elsewhere, circling the same image again and again: Sina Clemens, her figure drawing away. The soft sound of her voice. And those eyes—pale as the morning sky before the day warmed—open, unguarded, curious when they finally found their way into his. For an instant, they had softened for him, stripped of armor, like a child staring into flame. Just as they had been the first time he'd ever seen them.
So you go by that name now.
The thought curved his mouth into the faintest ghost of a smile, there and gone, before his face returned to its stillness, quiet and unreadable.
From afar, the first bell tolled. Dawn had come. The mist lifted like a veil undone.