Three days later, the fortress tried to look calm.
It failed.
Servants walked faster than usual. Guards spoke in low voices that weren't quite whispers. Someone had polished the stone lions by the main gate for the first time in months. The banners of House Pilcrow hung straighter, their flaming lion emblems snapping in the wind like they had something to prove.
Arel Pilcrow stood at the center of it all and adjusted the strap of his travel pack.
The pack was heavier than it needed to be.
"Mother," he said, watching another bundle being carried toward the carriage, "I counted six spare shirts already."
Lady Eliane Pilcrow didn't slow down. Her dark hair was braided in a crown, a few stubborn strands escaping, her eyes the same clear grey as the sky.
"That's in case three of them are ruined," she said. "You're going to a military academy, not a picnic."
"Even if three are ruined," Arel replied evenly, "that still leaves three. I don't need eight."
Eliane turned and fixed him with a stare that had made veteran officers stand straighter.
"You're leaving this fortress for the first time," she said. "If I want to send you with eight shirts, ten knives, and a live goose, I will."
Arel considered pointing out the inefficiency of geese.
He decided he liked being alive.
"Understood," he said.
Her expression softened, just a little.
"You're too calm," she said. "Other children cry when they leave home."
"Other children haven't seen what leaks through the cracks in the walls," Arel said. "Bastion Aurora is, statistically, a safer place to be for the next few years."
Eliane exhaled. "Only you would call a war academy 'statistically safe.'"
"It has better wards," Arel said. "More high-ranking defenders. And fewer people terrified of my existence. That's a net positive."
She didn't argue with that.
Instead, she stepped closer and fussed with the collar of his coat, which did not need fussing.
"I'd be less worried if you were more worried," she admitted.
"That," Arel said, "is an extremely inefficient emotional loop."
"You get your mouth from me," she said, ignoring that.
"And the rest from him," Arel replied.
He glanced over her shoulder.
Kaelen stood a short distance away, speaking quietly with a man in a dark cloak. One of the escorts. His posture was straight as ever, but his hands were clasped behind his back a bit tighter than usual.
He was worried too.
He just hid it better.
Eliane followed Arel's gaze, then looked back at her son.
"You remember the breathing exercises?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And the grounding methods?"
"Yes."
"And if you feel it climbing—"
"I stop talking, take three breaths, count backward from fifty, and focus on the weight of my body and the feel of my feet on the ground," Arel recited. "We've gone over it twelve times."
"Make it thirteen," she said.
He considered refusing.
Then he saw the way her fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeve.
Arel took a slow breath in.
Let it out.
In.
Out.
The heat under his ribs stayed where it was. Awake, but quiet. Like coals under ash.
"I'm fine," he said.
"For now," Eliane murmured. "If any instructor at Bastion Aurora dismisses your condition, you write to me."
"That seems aggressive," Arel said. "They're presumably competent."
"I've met 'competent' men who thought strapping cursed artifacts to their chest would make them invincible," she replied. "Dead men are often very sure of themselves."
"Fair," Arel admitted.
A bell tolled somewhere deeper in the fortress. Once. Twice. Three times.
Departure.
Kaelen finished his conversation with the cloaked escort and approached.
The escort fell into step a few paces behind him. He was tall, with a thin scar along his jaw and the kind of indifferent posture that said he'd seen enough to be unimpressed by almost anything.
Arel studied him for two seconds. Cloak cut for movement, boots well-worn but well-maintained, sword grip slightly smooth near the hilt. Experienced.
"Ser Calenor," Kaelen said, gesturing vaguely at the escort, "will lead the group to Bastion Aurora. You are not his only responsibility, but you are his most important one."
"That's one way to make everyone else feel valued," Arel said.
Kaelen ignored that, which Arel chose to interpret as silent amusement.
Calenor inclined his head.
"Lord Pilcrow," he said. His voice was even, unremarkable. "Heir."
Arel gave a small bow. "Ser."
Calenor's gaze flicked over him once. Not dismissive. Measuring.
"Instructions are simple," Calenor said. "Stay with the group. If we're attacked, you do not play hero. You obey orders. You do not flare your aura unless I say so."
Arel nodded. "Logical."
Calenor looked faintly surprised at the lack of protest.
"Your son," he said to Kaelen, "is either very sensible or very good at pretending to be."
"Both," Kaelen said.
Eliane made a noise that sounded like it might have been agreement and disagreement at the same time.
Kaelen stepped closer to Arel.
"This is the last moment to change your mind," he said.
Arel met his eyes.
"Is the war over?" he asked.
"No."
"Has the Furia vanished?"
"No."
"Then nothing relevant has changed," Arel said. "I'm still going."
Kaelen's lips quirked.
"You argue like a lawyer," he said. "And yet you chose swords."
"Swords are more direct," Arel replied.
For a moment, there was nothing left to say.
Eliane pulled him into a hug before he could decide whether to initiate one himself.
Her arms wrapped around him with the easy strength of someone who'd worn armor once and now wore the fortress instead. For a second, her heartbeat thundered against his ear.
"Be efficient," she whispered. "But not with people."
Arel hesitated, then lifted his arms and returned the embrace.
"I'll try," he said.
It was the closest he could get to a promise and still believe it.
She pulled back, wiped at something near her eye that she would absolutely deny later, and stepped aside.
Kaelen set a hand on Arel's shoulder.
"When they test you there," he said, "don't hide what you are. You'll only attract the wrong kind of attention trying to look smaller."
"I'm not interested in attention, wrong or otherwise," Arel said.
"That," Kaelen said, "won't stop it from finding you. Better to control the terms."
"Like a contract," Arel said.
"Exactly," Kaelen replied. "Write your own before someone else does."
He squeezed once, then let go.
"Go," he said.
Arel gave one final glance at the courtyard where he'd spent so many hours swinging swords and running drills. The walls, the banners, the familiar pattern of cracks near the east tower. He recorded it in his head as if he were making a map.
Then he walked toward the carriages.
There were three of them waiting near the main gate, each bearing a different crest. Pilcrow's flaming lion on one, a stylized hammer on another, the third marked only with a simple sigil—a circle with three lines through it. Neutral.
Other heirs. Other students.
Variables.
Calenor gestured toward the Pilcrow carriage.
"You're with three others," he said. "All bound for Bastion Aurora. Try not to traumatize them."
"That feels like a low bar," Arel said.
Calenor gave him a look that might have been the ghost of a smirk.
Arel climbed in.
The interior of the carriage was surprisingly spacious. Padded benches faced each other, bolted to the wooden floor. A small lantern hung from the ceiling, unlit.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward him.
The first belonged to a girl with dark brown skin and tightly braided hair pulled back into a knot. She wore a practical coat with reinforced stitching at the shoulders, ink stains on her fingers, a small notebook on her lap. Her gaze was sharp, assessing.
The second pair sat in a boy with sun-browned skin and a smattering of freckles, his hair a messy brown that looked like it had lost every argument with a comb. He grinned as soon as he saw Arel, which was suspicious.
The third set of eyes was half-lidded, belonging to a lanky boy lounging in the corner with one leg stretched out, boots scuffed, coat a little too casual for a noble carriage. He had a scar along the bridge of his nose and a relaxed, amused expression, like the whole world was an inside joke he hadn't decided to share yet.
This one, Arel thought, had to be Blade.
"New luggage," the lounging boy said. "Fancy luggage, too. Look at that crest. Welcome to the box, Pilcrow."
He said "Pilcrow" the way some people said "storm."
Arel took the seat opposite him, setting his pack down with precise care.
"You know my house," he said. "That narrows down your origins. Either you read too much, or your parents complain about us often."
The freckled boy snorted.
The girl's mouth twitched.
The lounging boy's grin widened.
"Oh, I like you already," he said. "Name's Blade. Sadly not because of my skill with a sword. My father just has a bad sense of humor."
"Statistically likely among fathers," Arel said.
The freckled boy laughed outright at that.
"I'm Rian," he offered. "No noble house. Just Rian. I fish. Or I did. Before this."
He gestured vaguely at the carriage, as if it represented the entire concept of leaving his old life behind.
The girl closed her notebook, marking the page with one finger.
"Lyra Arden," she said. "House of effort, discipline, and terrible breakfast porridge."
Arden.
That matched some of the reports Arel had read. Solid reputation. Not flashy. Reliable. Dangerous in a long war, because they didn't burn out.
"Arel Pilcrow," he said. "House of catastrophic potential and aggressive caution."
Rian blinked. "You… really introduced yourself like that?"
"Is it inaccurate?" Arel asked.
Rian opened his mouth. Closed it. "I don't know you. Yet."
"Exactly," Arel said. "So we start with true, verifiable information."
Blade tilted his head, studying him.
"Calm voice, bleak content," he said. "You do that often?"
"It saves time," Arel replied.
"Good," Blade said. "I hate guessing games."
The carriage lurched as it started to move. The fortress gate loomed in the small window, then slid past. Stone gave way to open road and the suggestion of distant hills.
Rian pressed closer to the window, eyes wide.
"I've never been this far from the harbor," he said. "Everything's… bigger."
Lyra uncapped a small bottle of ink and made a note in her book without looking up.
"Landscape: dull," she murmured. "Travel companions: promising."
Arel watched her hand move.
"You categorize people?" he asked.
"Of course," she said. "Everyone does. I just do it on paper."
Rian leaned over, trying to peek. "What are we?"
Lyra snapped the book shut with one hand, not unkindly.
"Classified until further notice," she said.
"I'm offended," Rian said.
"You'll live," she replied.
Blade stretched his long legs a bit further, boots nearly touching Arel's.
"So," he said, "why is the heir of House Pilcrow being sent off this early? Did you blow up a wall? Threaten a relative? Brood too hard in a corner and scare the servants?"
"All of those are believable," Rian said.
Arel considered his answer.
He could downplay it. He could lie. Or he could treat this like he treated everything else: as an equation.
"If I lose control," he said calmly, "I can kill people I'd rather not kill. Bastion Aurora offers better structure and more oversight for training. It increases my odds of mastering what I carry, and my odds of surviving long enough to become systematically useful."
Rian stared.
Lyra's eyes sharpened.
Blade's grin didn't fade, but something behind it shifted.
"Neat," Blade said. "Direct. Terrifying. I approve."
"You're not going to ask what he 'carries'?" Rian asked him, incredulous.
"If it kills me, I'll find out eventually," Blade said. "Until then, I like surprises."
"That seems like a bad survival strategy," Arel observed.
"I'm still alive," Blade pointed out.
"Temporarily," Lyra said.
He pointed two fingers at her. "Exactly."
Arel let the corners of his mouth move. Not much. Enough.
The tension in the carriage eased by a degree.
The road settled into a rhythm: the creak of wood, the clop of hooves, the murmur of the escort riders outside.
"Why are you going?" Arel asked, turning the question back on them.
It wasn't just curiosity.
Understanding their motives made them easier to predict.
Rian scratched his cheek, gaze drifting to the window again.
"Because," he said slowly, "I got tired of watching people I know get dragged out of the sea by the ankles. Sometimes whole. Sometimes not. The war doesn't always look like battlefields. Sometimes it looks like empty nets and missing boats."
He shrugged, the motion sharp.
"If I'm going to die, I'd like to at least make it harder for whatever kills me," he finished.
Efficient, in a way.
Lyra tapped the spine of her notebook once.
"Arden doesn't do well with wasted potential," she said. "Everyone works. Everyone contributes. If you have talent and don't polish it, you're… rude. To everyone who never had the chance."
"And what do you want?" Arel asked.
Lyra met his gaze.
"To be the best version of what I am," she said. "And then to see what that's worth on the field."
No drama. No theatrics.
Arel approved.
They both looked at Blade.
He tilted his head back against the wall, considering.
"My family likes to pretend we don't pick sides," he said. "We trade. We host. We smile a lot. We survived this long by being exactly useful enough to everyone."
He eyed the other three.
"I thought that sounded boring," he added. "So I volunteered to be extremely useful to one side and see what that felt like."
Rian blinked. "That's your reason?"
"That," Blade said, "and I heard the Academy has good food."
Lyra snorted softly.
Arel studied him for another heartbeat.
On the surface, Blade was all grin and lazy posture. Underneath, there was something else. Not calm, exactly. Not like Arel.
More like a man walking on a roof's edge and pretending it was a road.
"Food is not a bad motivation," Arel said. "Wars have been started over less."
"See?" Blade said, pointing at him without lifting his head. "Pilcrow gets it."
Rian shook his head. "You're all insane."
"You climbed into a carriage with us," Lyra said. "You're not in a position to talk."
Rian thought about that, then sighed. "Fair."
The carriage hit a bump. Arel put a hand on the wall automatically to steady himself. The motion made the pendant under his shirt shift—a small, heavy disc of metal engraved with the flaming lion.
A focus.
A cage.
Blade's eyes flicked down, catching the movement.
"Nice trinket," he said. "Family heirloom, or does it bite?"
"Both," Arel said.
Rian coughed.
Lyra actually smiled.
Blade barked a laugh.
"Good," he said. "I was worried you were going to be serious all the time."
"I am serious all the time," Arel said. "I just don't see a conflict between accuracy and humor."
"I knew we were going to be friends," Blade declared.
"You decided that quickly," Arel noted.
"Efficiency," Blade said, echoing his earlier tone almost perfectly. "Why waste time?"
Arel found that he did not mind the idea.
He leaned back against the seat, letting the gentle sway of the carriage set a rhythm for his thoughts.
Control himself.
End the war.
Now, he added a third line to the mental list, not as a main objective, but as a potential force multiplier:
Find people who made both goals easier instead of harder.
Across from him, Blade had closed his eyes, but the curve of his mouth said he was listening to everything.
Beside him, Lyra opened her notebook again and began writing.
Rian hummed softly under his breath, some half-remembered sea shanty, fingers tapping on his knee.
Variables.
Not entirely predictable.
Not entirely unwelcome.
Outside, the fortress fell away behind them, swallowed by distance and grey light.
Arel watched the horizon through the small window, expression calm, mind already trying to map paths he hadn't walked yet.
He didn't know exactly what Bastion Aurora would demand.
But whatever it was, wasting energy on panic seemed inefficient.
He'd save his strength for when it actually mattered.
And if, somewhere along the way, he ended up with a sarcastic lunatic as a best friend… well.
Even the neatest equations needed a chaotic term to make them interesting.fixed him with a stare that had made veteran officers stand straighter.
"You're leaving this fortress for the first time," she said. "If I want to send you with eight shirts, ten knives, and a live goose, I will."
Arel considered pointing out the inefficiency of geese.
He decided he liked being alive.
"Understood," he said.
Her expression softened, just a little.
"You're too calm," she said. "Other children cry when they leave home."
"Other children haven't seen what leaks through the cracks in the walls," Arel said. "Bastion Aurora is, statistically, a safer place to be for the next few years."
Eliane exhaled. "Only you would call a war academy 'statistically safe.'"
"It has better wards," Arel said. "More high-ranking defenders. And fewer people terrified of my existence. That's a net positive."
She didn't argue with that.
Instead, she stepped closer and fussed with the collar of his coat, which did not need fussing.
"I'd be less worried if you were more worried," she admitted.
"That," Arel said, "is an extremely inefficient emotional loop."
"You get your mouth from me," she said, ignoring that.
"And the rest from him," Arel replied.
He glanced over her shoulder.
Kaelen stood a short distance away, speaking quietly with a man in a dark cloak. One of the escorts. His posture was straight as ever, but his hands were clasped behind his back a bit tighter than usual.
He was worried too.
He just hid it better.
Eliane followed Arel's gaze, then looked back at her son.
"You remember the breathing exercises?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And the grounding methods?"
"Yes."
"And if you feel it climbing—"
"I stop talking, take three breaths, count backward from fifty, and focus on the weight of my body and the feel of my feet on the ground," Arel recited. "We've gone over it twelve times."
"Make it thirteen," she said.
He considered refusing.
Then he saw the way her fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeve.
Arel took a slow breath in.
Let it out.
In.
Out.
The heat under his ribs stayed where it was. Awake, but quiet. Like coals under ash.
"I'm fine," he said.
"For now," Eliane murmured. "If any instructor at Bastion Aurora dismisses your condition, you write to me."
"That seems aggressive," Arel said. "They're presumably competent."
"I've met 'competent' men who thought strapping cursed artifacts to their chest would make them invincible," she replied. "Dead men are often very sure of themselves."
"Fair," Arel admitted.
A bell tolled somewhere deeper in the fortress. Once. Twice. Three times.
Departure.
Kaelen finished his conversation with the cloaked escort and approached.
The escort fell into step a few paces behind him. He was tall, with a thin scar along his jaw and the kind of indifferent posture that said he'd seen enough to be unimpressed by almost anything.
Arel studied him for two seconds. Cloak cut for movement, boots well-worn but well-maintained, sword grip slightly smooth near the hilt. Experienced.
"Ser Calenor," Kaelen said, gesturing vaguely at the escort, "will lead the group to Bastion Aurora. You are not his only responsibility, but you are his most important one."
"That's one way to make everyone else feel valued," Arel said.
Kaelen ignored that, which Arel chose to interpret as silent amusement.
Calenor inclined his head.
"Lord Pilcrow," he said. His voice was even, unremarkable. "Heir."
Arel gave a small bow. "Ser."
Calenor's gaze flicked over him once. Not dismissive. Measuring.
"Instructions are simple," Calenor said. "Stay with the group. If we're attacked, you do not play hero. You obey orders.You do not flare your aura unless I say so."
Arel nodded. "Logical."
Calenor looked faintly surprised at the lack of protest.
"Your son," he said to Kaelen, "is either very sensible or very good at pretending to be."
"Both," Kaelen said.
Eliane made a noise that sounded like it might have been agreement and disagreement at the same time.
Kaelen stepped closer to Arel.
"This is the last moment to change your mind," he said.
Arel met his eyes.
"Is the war over?" he asked.
"No."
"Has the Furia vanished?"
"No."
"Then nothing relevant has changed," Arel said. "I'm still going."
Kaelen's lips quirked.
"You argue like a lawyer," he said. "And yet you chose swords."
"Swords are more direct," Arel replied.
For a moment, there was nothing left to say.
Eliane pulled him into a hug before he could decide whether to initiate one himself.
Her arms wrapped around him with the easy strength of someone who'd worn armor once and now wore the fortress instead. For a second, her heartbeat thundered against his ear.
"Be efficient," she whispered. "But not with people."
Arel hesitated, then lifted his arms and returned the embrace.
"I'll try," he said.
It was the closest he could get to a promise and still believe it.
She pulled back, wiped at something near her eye that she would absolutely deny later, and stepped aside.
Kaelen set a hand on Arel's shoulder.
"When they test you there," he said, "don't hide what you are. You'll only attract the wrong kind of attention trying to look smaller."
"I'm not interested in attention, wrong or otherwise," Arel said.
"That," Kaelen said, "won't stop it from finding you. Better to control the terms."
"Like a contract," Arel said.
"Exactly," Kaelen replied. "Write your own before someone else does."
He squeezed once, then let go.
"Go," he said.
Arel gave one final glance at the courtyard where he'd spent so many hours swinging swords and running drills. The walls, the banners, the familiar pattern of cracks near the east tower. He recorded it in his head as if he were making a map.
Then he walked toward the carriages.
There were three of them waiting near the main gate, each bearing a different crest. Pilcrow's flaming lion on one, a stylized hammer on another, the third marked only with a simple sigil—a circle with three lines through it. Neutral.
Other heirs. Other students.
Variables.
Calenor gestured toward the Pilcrow carriage.
"You're with three others," he said. "All bound for Bastion Aurora. Try not to traumatize them."
"That feels like a low bar," Arel said.
Calenor gave him a look that might have been the ghost of a smirk.
Arel climbed in.
The interior of the carriage was surprisingly spacious. Padded benches faced each other, bolted to the wooden floor. A small lantern hung from the ceiling, unlit.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward him.
The first belonged to a girl with dark brown skin and tightly braided hair pulled back into a knot. She wore a practical coat with reinforced stitching at the shoulders, ink stains on her fingers, a small notebook on her lap. Her gaze was sharp, assessing.
The second pair sat in a boy with sun-browned skin and a smattering of freckles, his hair a messy brown that looked like it had lost every argument with a comb. He grinned as soon as he saw Arel, which was suspicious.
The third set of eyes was half-lidded, belonging to a lanky boy lounging in the corner with one leg stretched out, boots scuffed, coat a little too casual for a noble carriage. He had a scar along the bridge of his nose and a relaxed, amused expression, like the whole world was an inside joke he hadn't decided to share yet.
This one, Arel thought, had to be Blade.
"New luggage," the lounging boy said. "Fancy luggage, too. Look at that crest. Welcome to the box, Pilcrow."
He said "Pilcrow" the way some people said "storm."
Arel took the seat opposite him, setting his pack down with precise care.
"You know my house," he said. "That narrows down your origins. Either you read too much, or your parents complain about us often."
The freckled boy snorted.
The girl's mouth twitched.
The lounging boy's grin widened.
"Oh, I like you already," he said. "Name's Blade. Sadly not because of my skill with a sword. My father just has a bad sense of humor."
"Statistically likely among fathers," Arel said.
The freckled boy laughed outright at that.
"I'm Rian," he offered. "No noble house. Just Rian. I fish. Or I did. Before this."
He gestured vaguely at the carriage, as if it represented the entire concept of leaving his old life behind.
The girl closed her notebook, marking the page with one finger.
"Lyra Arden," she said. "House of effort, discipline, and terrible breakfast porridge."
Arden.
That matched some of the reports Arel had read. Solid reputation. Not flashy. Reliable. Dangerous in a long war, because they didn't burn out.
"Arel Pilcrow," he said. "House of catastrophic potential and aggressive caution."
Rian blinked. "You… really introduced yourself like that?"
"Is it inaccurate?" Arel asked.
Rian opened his mouth. Closed it. "I don't know you. Yet."
"Exactly," Arel said. "So we start with true, verifiable information."
Blade tilted his head, studying him.
"Calm voice, bleak content," he said. "You do that often?"
"It saves time," Arel replied.
"Good," Blade said. "I hate guessing games."
The carriage lurched as it started to move. The fortress gate loomed in the small window, then slid past. Stone gave way to open road and the suggestion of distant hills.
Rian pressed closer to the window, eyes wide.
"I've never been this far from the harbor," he said. "Everything's… bigger."
Lyra uncapped a small bottle of ink and made a note in her book without looking up.
"Landscape: dull," she murmured. "Travel companions: promising."
Arel watched her hand move.
"You categorize people?" he asked.
"Of course," she said. "Everyone does. I just do it on paper."
Rian leaned over, trying to peek. "What are we?"
Lyra snapped the book shut with one hand, not unkindly.
"Classified until further notice," she said.
"I'm offended," Rian said.
"You'll live," she replied.
Blade stretched his long legs a bit further, boots nearly touching Arel's.
"So," he said, "why is the heir of House Pilcrow being sent off this early? Did you blow up a wall? Threaten a relative? Brood too hard in a corner and scare the servants?"
"All of those are believable," Rian said.
Arel considered his answer.
He could downplay it. He could lie. Or he could treat this like he treated everything else: as an equation.
"If I lose control," he said calmly, "I can kill people I'd rather not kill. Bastion Aurora offers better structure and more oversight for training. It increases my odds of mastering what I carry, and my odds of surviving long enough to become systematically useful."
Rian stared.
Lyra's eyes sharpened.
Blade's grin didn't fade, but something behind it shifted.
"Neat," Blade said. "Direct. Terrifying. I approve."
"You're not going to ask what he 'carries'?" Rian asked him, incredulous.
"If it kills me, I'll find out eventually," Blade said. "Until then, I like surprises."
"That seems like a bad survival strategy," Arel observed.
"I'm still alive," Blade pointed out.
"Temporarily," Lyra said.
He pointed two fingers at her. "Exactly."
Arel let the corners of his mouth move. Not much. Enough.
The tension in the carriage eased by a degree.
The road settled into a rhythm: the creak of wood, the clop of hooves, the murmur of the escort riders outside.
"Why are you going?" Arel asked, turning the question back on them.
It wasn't just curiosity.
Understanding their motives made them easier to predict.
Rian scratched his cheek, gaze drifting to the window again.
"Because," he said slowly, "I got tired of watching people I know get dragged out of the sea by the ankles. Sometimes whole. Sometimes not. The war doesn't always look like battlefields. Sometimes it looks like empty nets and missing boats."
He shrugged, the motion sharp.
"If I'm going to die, I'd like to at least make it harder for whatever kills me," he finished.
Efficient, in a way.
Lyra tapped the spine of her notebook once.
"Arden doesn't do well with wasted potential," she said. "Everyone works. Everyone contributes. If you have talent and don't polish it, you're… rude. To everyone who never had the chance."
"And what do you want?" Arel asked.
Lyra met his gaze.
"To be the best version of what I am," she said. "And then to see what that's worth on the field."
No drama. No theatrics.
Arel approved.
They both looked at Blade.
He tilted his head back against the wall, considering.
"My family likes to pretend we don't pick sides," he said. "We trade. We host. We smile a lot. We survived this long by being exactly useful enough to everyone."
He eyed the other three.
"I thought that sounded boring," he added. "So I volunteered to be extremely useful to one side and see what that felt like."
Rian blinked. "That's your reason?"
"That," Blade said, "and I heard the Academy has good food."
Lyra snorted softly.
Arel studied him for another heartbeat.
On the surface, Blade was all grin and lazy posture. Underneath, there was something else. Not calm, exactly. Not like Arel.
More like a man walking on a roof's edge and pretending it was a road.
"Food is not a bad motivation," Arel said. "Wars have been started over less."
"See?" Blade said, pointing at him without lifting his head. "Pilcrow gets it."
Rian shook his head. "You're all insane."
"You climbed into a carriage with us," Lyra said. "You're not in a position to talk."
Rian thought about that, then sighed. "Fair."
The carriage hit a bump. Arel put a hand on the wall automatically to steady himself. The motion made the pendant under his shirt shift—a small, heavy disc of metal engraved with the flaming lion.
A focus.
A cage.
Blade's eyes flicked down, catching the movement.
"Nice trinket," he said. "Family heirloom, or does it bite?"
"Both," Arel said.
Rian coughed.
Lyra actually smiled.
Blade barked a laugh.
"Good," he said. "I was worried you were going to be serious all the time."
"I am serious all the time," Arel said. "I just don't see a conflict between accuracy and humor."
"I knew we were going to be friends," Blade declared.
"You decided that quickly," Arel noted.
"Efficiency," Blade said, echoing his earlier tone almost perfectly. "Why waste time?"
Arel found that he did not mind the idea.
He leaned back against the seat, letting the gentle sway of the carriage set a rhythm for his thoughts.
Control himself.
End the war.
Now, he added a third line to the mental list, not as a main objective, but as a potential force multiplier:
Find people who made both goals easier instead of harder.
Across from him, Blade had closed his eyes, but the curve of his mouth said he was listening to everything.
Beside him, Lyra opened her notebook again and began writing.
Rian hummed softly under his breath, some half-remembered sea shanty, fingers tapping on his knee.
Variables.
Not entirely predictable.
Not entirely unwelcome.
Outside, the fortress fell away behind them, swallowed by distance and grey light.
Arel watched the horizon through the small window, expression calm, mind already trying to map paths he hadn't walked yet.
He didn't know exactly what Bastion Aurora would demand.
But whatever it was, wasting energy on panic seemed inefficient.
He'd save his strength for when it actually mattered.
And if, somewhere along the way, he ended up with a sarcastic lunatic as a best friend… well.
Even the neatest equations needed a chaotic term to make them interesting.