Violet rift tore wide.
Joshua came up choking on ash and cold.
Oxfords sank into powder; blazer tasted of smoke.
Solar ember thudded like a second heart beneath his ribs.
Phoenix perched, feathers trembling. No words — just quick, urgent chirps.
Breathe, it meant. Breathe.
Stone walls closed around him. Barracks air — iron, sweat, stale bread.
Orders snapped in a language that folded his mouth wrong.
He tried to stand and the world disagreed; armor plates skidded over blazer, straps bit, oxfords squeaked on polished stone.
Drill began. March, stance, swing. Wooden poles heavier than they looked.
He swung like a boy in costume. Missed. Hit a dummy square in the back, which collapsed into a neat row of startled recruits.
A laugh—soft, embarrassed—spread down the line. Not cruel. Curious.
He tried to correct. Feet slid. Tie tangled. He kissed the floor with the dignity of a fallen scholar.
Phoenix fluffed, a tiny heat against his collarbone, and peeped a single sharp note — equal parts warning and company.
Hours became a sloppy rhythm of mistakes and tiny recoveries.
One proper parry. One clean step. A guard hummed approval and Joshua kept that like a secret coin.
Another time he thrust and impaled a loaf of bread instead of a target; the sergeant's face did not change but the men did, and someone pretended it hadn't happened.
Midday: stew so spicy his eyes watered; hands greasy, blazer streaked.
He tried to eat like someone who belonged.
Grease on blazer. Sauce on tie.
Afternoon slides into pratfalls.
One thrust pinned a loaf not a dummy.
A sergeant tried not to smile.
Joshua laughed anyway—too loud, too nervous.
At the edge of practice she appeared.
No announcement. No flourish. Just a hand made motion—follow.
Guards closed without fuss.
He followed because nothing fit otherwise.
Halls changed scent—bread, lamp oil, candied fruit.
Tapestries hung like patient things.
She set a chair. Pointed to water. Watched.
No soft words. No pity. Only measure.
A shadow moved at the doorway.
Armor white and gold, presence like a blade tempered bright.
Her voice cut the hush—English clipped, austere.
"The palace allows no rifters near its halls."
The word landed heavy.
Phoenix puffed and tucked close.
He had no name to offer. No explanation.
Only a small ember under his ribs.
She did not move to strike. She catalogued.
She waited like someone who remembered storms.
The observer lifted a fraction.
Stand down, not yet. Observe.
Guards kept him close but gentle.
Protocol a net; he chose not to test it.
She spoke slow English—words like rules and promise.
Train. Adapt. Questions later.
He drank. Ate. Tasted warm bread that did not taste like ash.
Night came. Cot narrow. Oxfords under the bed. Blazer over a chair.
Phoenix warmed his cheek, silent as a vow.
Chirp—steady. We are here.
Morning returned with the same clatter.
He rose to trip, to fall, to stand again.
Days braided into drills and small humiliations.
He fell often. He learned, in tiny increments.
Sometimes he found rhythm.
Sometimes he was a walking disaster.
She passed him without fuss. A glance—measure.
Once, the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth. Approval, almost.
Astrid watched from thresholds.
Her eyes were slow, like a blade testing air.
She remembered a different rift—one that saved her walls.
She did not trust sparks until proven tame.
He kept the ember folded, a secret coin.
Phoenix never spoke. Only chirped, flapped, warmed.
On the hundredth stumble someone clapped once—unexpected, honest.
He kept that sound in his pocket next to the guard's hum of approval.
Night again. Ceiling rough above.
He breathed small and precise, practiced not to burn.
Tomorrow, he promised himself, fewer pratfalls.
Tomorrow, a cleaner parry. A steadier step.
The palace recorded him in quiet ways.
Eyes that measured. Hands that would intervene if needed.
He was reborn into rules and drills and watchful faces.
Alive, awkward, and not yet free.
Phoenix slept light against his collarbone.
Chirp—soft, patient.