In the darkness of the same secluded corner, Sina sat on the floor, waiting.
This stretch of the Ignis Compound was one of the most poorly lit. Whether by chance or design, she did not know, only that it suited her purpose that evening.
The gloom pressed in thick. It kept her hidden, kept unwanted eyes from straying close. Vellien Tressine, predictable man as he was, would never imagine she'd bring Soren back to the very place he had caught them speaking before. No, the Captain would not stalk the same corner twice.
A hollow ache gnawed at her stomach. She hadn't eaten since morning, and the hunger she usually ignored had grown sharp, insistent. Years of soldiering had taught her body to endure, but her confidence in that endurance now felt like a fool's overconfidence. She regretted not taking the breakfast Daliya had insisted on.
The mess hall was close, just a hall away. Yet until yesterday, when she came to seek a word with Soren, she had never once stepped inside. It was not the coarse soldier's fare that kept her away. It was trust.
Ever since the poisoning, she ate only what she cooked herself, what Daliya prepared, or what the palace testers had cleared. All she needed now was to finish this talk and leave—the supper with her brother awaited.
Still, she hadn't expected the wait to stretch so long. When she had returned to the Compound, the sky was still burning orange and red. Now, only pitch black surrounded her. As the minutes dragged on, her patience thinned, and she grew more certain Soren had missed the note.
The scrap she left him had been torn from the paper that once wrapped the Ignis rounds, its scarlet so bright it could hardly be overlooked. She had tacked it to the cork board by the wash basin, a place every eye passed at least once a day. The mark she scrawled upon it—a circle within a circle, crossed—was not meant for ordinary eyes, but for his.
Soren was not the sort to miss anything in his surroundings. As an Archer and a Trainee Ignisant, awareness was surely second nature to him. Nor could it be that he wished to avoid her. He had followed her without hesitation the day before. He had not seemed reluctant then; he had seemed pleased, even. If he hadn't come, there could only be one reason: he had forgotten the mark's meaning and failed to recognize her message at all.
Her stomach growled again. She pressed her lips together, holding back the sigh that wanted to rise. Then she steadied her breath, drawing slow and silent through her lungs—the old stealth breathing exercise. A way to quiet herself. A way to pass the time.
Just as she was ready to give up, footsteps stirred in the distance. Faint, carrying down the long hall. Her eyes slid shut, listening. She knew that tread—the rhythm, the weight. She had marked it yesterday, when he followed her outside. Soren's stride.
But Sina stayed where she was, unmoving. If it was truly Soren, he would come to her. If not, waiting spared her the risk. The tread drew nearer, steady, closing the distance.
Soon Soren stood before her, looking down with a touch of curiosity, a hint of amusement, and a linen bundle in his left hand.
Slowly, Sina rose to her feet.
"You had dinner late today?" she asked, her voice low, careful not to let it carry above the silence.
"The afternoon session went longer than expected," he replied, just as quiet.
"You saw my note?"
"I couldn't possibly miss it." He drew the folded scrap from his pocket, its scarlet edge dulled in the dark.
She glanced at her own messy scrawl. "It was a long time ago," she said. "I almost thought you wouldn't come."
"What if I hadn't?" he murmured, tucking it away again.
"I'd have found another way," she said flatly, "without drawing attention, or making trouble for you."
"I'm here now." His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "You wanted to tell me something?"
Sina stepped closer, studying the outline of his features in the half-light. She was more guarded than she had been the day before, steadier after an evening spent rehearsing this moment in her mind. Even so, she couldn't predict how Soren might take it. And if she was honest, a part of her feared what he might say once her request was spoken.
"Last time," she began, "before we were interrupted—I meant to say something."
"I remember," Soren said. His tone stayed open, untroubled. "You told me there was something we must agree on."
"Yes, Soren," she murmured.
A long, quiet breath slipped from her. At last she leaned forward, her words came more subdued than usual, stripped of its usual lilt.
"Can we agree to keep whatever you learned about me back then, just between us?"
Soren didn't pull away. A soft breath escaped him, almost like a laugh.
"Didn't I promise you that already?" he said, his tone as rich as ever. "I still mean to keep it."
Sina finally let go of a breath she had been holding. His words carried weight, sure and true. She felt no deceit in them. "Thank you, Soren." She lowered her head.
Soren inclined his head slightly in return, accepting her thanks. "One thing, though," he added softly. "What should I call you now?"
Sina looked up again. "Just Clemens," she answered with a small shrug. "Like everyone else."
"Sounds distant," he said. His gaze slipped aside, his tone muted, carrying the faintest trace of dissatisfaction.
"Well, that's how it is here..." she reasoned aloud, her voice searching. "We go by surnames, you know that."
"But you call me Soren still," he whispered, the words falling lightly between them.
They caught her off guard. Her head dipped, and heat rushed unbidden to her cheeks. Habit—of course it was habit. She had called him so since the day she first knew him, and when she recognized him again, the name had slipped naturally from her tongue.
"Right," she muttered, fumbling for steadiness. "I should... change that."
"No—don't," Soren replied at once. His voice caught a note of urgency before he reined it down again. "Please."
She wavered a moment at his plea, then gave way. "Alright, Soren," she said softly. "Call me Sina then, when we're alone."
"Sina." He echoed it with a small smile.
It pulled the same from her before she realized. Perhaps she liked the way he spoke it—this pared-down version, not the full weight of it. Yet another thought pressed in, dimming the moment.
"How's training? Is Captain Tressine giving you a hard time?"
"Not at all," he answered without pause. "Nothing I can't handle."
The ease of it made her brows lift. Too smooth, too unbothered. Vellien Tressine, of all men, not giving someone a hard time was unheard of. She remember the way his stare had fixed on Soren yesterday—piercing, hunting, as though already measuring him for weakness.
"Listen to me," Sina said, her tone firmer, "if he ever demands something out of line, you must tell me at once."
Soren gave no reply. His expression stayed still, unreadable in the dark. His eyes lingered on her, gentle yet unshaken, holding her in silence.
Unsettled, she leaned in. "Soren, you're not agreeing."
At last he spoke, his tone even, almost flat. "The man seems to trouble you enough already. I'd rather not give you more reasons to face him than you must."
This time, it was her turn to fall quiet. Heat stole across her cheeks, words parting her lips then breaking apart before they could form.
Soren spared her from finding them. "I should go back to the dorm," he said gently. "But—will you take this?" He lifted the linen-wrapped bundle in his hand.
Sina blinked, taken aback. She had noticed it earlier, when he first came down the hall, but thought nothing of it—assumed it was his own. Now he held it out to her. Her hand reached, hesitant. "What is it?"
"Soup," he answered simply.
Her brows knit faintly. Mess hall food, then. Her voice lowered, edged with apology as she offered the practiced lie. "Thank you, Soren. But I can't stomach what they serve."
"This one's a little different," he said quietly. "Not the usual greasy kind. Try it."
She lowered her gaze from his. Truth was, she had never known whether the food there was greasy at all. Explaining herself would only twist things further. Reluctantly, she nodded. "I'll take it, then. But how did you know I haven't eaten?"
"You weren't at lunch." His head tilted, as though working it through. "You skipped dinner yesterday. I guessed you'd skip tonight too."
Sina faltered for a moment. She had expected Soren to be observant—just not that observant. Her features softened. "Thank you."
He accepted the words with a slight incline of his head. Then his lips curved, and his voice followed—warmer, deeper.
"Good night, Sina."
Her smile returned, gentler this time.
"Good night, Soren."
Sina lingered in the corner as his steps carried him down the hall. Just before the end, he glanced back once, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, then disappeared around the bend.
Only then did she sigh, the sound long and weary.
Perhaps Soren hasn't changed so much, even after all these years.
The bundle in her hands loosened. She drew the linen back to reveal a tin, still faintly warm. Setting the cloth aside, she eased the lid open. Steam curled up at once—beetroot, potato, onion. Her cool, unhurried eyes took stock of the soup, a hollow ache in her stomach responding with a growl.
But forgive me, Soren.
She breathed in the pleasant scent, let the warmth seep into her fingers, then firmly closed and rewrapped the tin.
I can't trust you that much. Not yet.
Turning from the corner, she glided through the Compound's quiet halls and into the birch shadows, the bundle still in her hand.
Not with who I've become.