The next morning didn't feel like morning.
Light came through the villa curtains like it was trying not to bother anyone. Even the ocean outside sounded quieter, like it had been told to keep its voice down.
My body didn't get that memo.
I sat up and immediately regretted it.
Everything pulled—ribs, shoulder, the cut along my side that Arion had pressed flowers against like that would magically convince my flesh to behave. My throat tasted like copper and salt. My hands shook when I tried to tighten the wrap around my forearm, not from fear, not from cold, just… aftermath.
The kind you don't notice in a fight because you're busy not dying.
I stood anyway.
The floorboards creaked. My sword leaned against the wall where I'd put it last night. It looked normal. Like it hadn't been used to carve a line through a demon under a castle.
I stared at it a moment too long.
Then I grabbed it.
Not because I wanted to train.
Because if I didn't hold something real, my head would start replaying everything that wasn't.
Downstairs was worse.
Not because it was loud—because it wasn't.
The villa's main hall had always been too clean, too polished, too bright. Today it felt like a place pretending it didn't understand what blood was. Maids walked softly. Butlers kept their eyes lowered. Kazen's parents—Mr. and Madam Drayle—were still there, still hovering around the edges like they were trying to make sure the walls didn't fall in on us.
Kazen was sitting on a couch, his right arm splinted and wrapped so thick it looked like someone tried to build a second arm out of cloth. He kept his posture straight anyway. Like the bones were just a minor inconvenience.
His mother didn't let go of his good hand for more than a second.
His father had the expression of a man who wanted to thank us and choke someone at the same time.
When I stepped into the room, a few heads turned.
Nobody said anything.
It wasn't awkward silence. It was exhausted silence. The kind that forms after a storm when everyone's checking the horizon, wondering if the sky is actually done.
Varein was there too, slouched and half-asleep despite it being morning. His eyes opened when he heard my steps. He tried to straighten and failed halfway, then gave up and just watched me with that calm look that always felt like he was reading a page I hadn't found yet.
Liam sat at the table, a bandage wrapped around his leg under the cloth of his pants. He held a cup but didn't drink. Like his hand forgot why it was holding things.
Theon was leaning back in a chair, nose still bruised, dirt ground into the cracks of his boots that no amount of scrubbing would remove. His greatsword wasn't with him. That alone told me how bad he felt.
Seraphyne sat with her daggers on the table—not as a threat, not as a flex—just there, like she didn't trust her hands to be empty. Her expression was quieter than usual. Not dull. Not broken. Just… focused, as if she was making sure her face didn't betray anything.
Aelira's fingers had faint frost marks along the knuckles, a pale reminder of backlash. Liraeth's shield leaned against the wall, cracked in a place she kept not looking at. Arion's eyes were heavy, like he hadn't slept so much as closed his eyes and argued with his thoughts.
Kai was the only one who looked like he wanted to say something, anything—then didn't. He kept tapping his fingers on his knee like he could drum the feeling out of his bones.
When my gaze landed on Kazen's arm again, my stomach tightened.
I looked away too fast.
Kazen noticed anyway.
He always did.
He shifted slightly, the movement careful.
"Stop doing that," he said.
My voice came out rough. "Doing what."
"Looking like you're going to pay for it with your organs." He tilted his head. "Already done. Arm's broken. We all lived. Don't make it weird."
I stared at him.
He smiled faintly. "You can make it weird later. When I can punch you with both hands."
A few people let out a short breath—almost a laugh, almost not.
It didn't fix anything.
But it stopped the room from feeling like a grave.
And then the front doors opened.
Instructor Aldred walked in like he hadn't slept, like he'd fought a demon too—except he wasn't limping.
He scanned the room once, eyes lingering briefly on Kazen's arm, on Liam's posture, on Seraphyne's hands.
Then his gaze pinned me.
Not angry.
Not soft.
Just sharp.
"Eat," he said. "Hydrate. And then you train."
No one argued.
Because no one wanted to sit still with their own mind anymore.
We trained on the beach.
Of course we did.
Newoaga's shoreline had become our second arena. The sea didn't ask questions. It didn't care about politics or temples or demons. It just existed—vast, indifferent, honest.
We walked out in a line that wasn't really a line.
Some limped. Some leaned on others for balance for a second and then pretended they didn't. Kazen walked with us too, his splinted arm tucked against his chest, jaw set like he dared the world to comment.
I kept my pace slow.
Not because I was being considerate.
Because if I moved too fast, my side screamed.
The first thing Aldred made us do wasn't sparring.
It was breathing.
Not meditation. Not "find your center" nonsense.
Breathing like you were carrying weight on your ribs and had to learn how to keep moving anyway.
"Again," Aldred said, pacing in front of us. "Do not breathe like students. Breathe like people who plan to still be alive in ten minutes."
We obeyed.
The ocean air tasted clean and cruel.
After that, he made us do stances—basic footwork on wet sand. It sounded simple until the tide shifted under your heels and reminded you that terrain could betray you with a smile.
My sword felt heavier today. Not physically.
Mentally.
Because every time I raised it, I remembered the lever. The blood. The door.
I remembered deciding.
And I remembered the price.
Aldred watched me without saying anything for a while. Then he stepped closer.
"Your grip is wrong," he said.
"It's the same grip."
"It's a different hand," he replied.
I blinked.
He tapped two fingers lightly against my forearm. "You are holding it like a man who wants to control outcome."
My jaw tightened. "Isn't that the point."
"No," Aldred said flatly. "That is a fantasy."
He walked past me to the others. "The point is to control yourself."
He made us run in shallow water next—slow, deliberate steps, timing our breath with the push and pull of waves. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't cool. It was humiliating, exhausting, and oddly calming.
Because it forced you to stop thinking about the chamber.
You either adapted to the water or you swallowed it.
Kazen tried too.
He lasted maybe three minutes before the uneven pull yanked his balance and he almost ate sand. Varein caught him by the shoulder.
Kazen stared at him. "Don't."
Varein didn't move his hand. "You fall, you fall. I'm not letting you smash your face because you're proud."
Kazen's lips twitched. "I hate you."
Varein's voice was as calm as ever. "Noted."
Aelira actually smiled at that.
Small. Quick. Like she didn't want to waste it.
Seraphyne watched them, then looked at me like she was waiting for my brain to say something stupid.
I didn't give it to her.
Instead, I stepped deeper into the water.
The cold bit immediately.
Good.
It kept my head clear.
The training shifted when Aldred finally called us in.
We formed a loose arc on the sand. The sun sat higher now, bright enough that it made the sea glitter like a blade.
Aldred stood facing us.
He didn't look like an instructor for a moment.
He looked like a knight who had seen too many students try to become something they didn't understand.
"Rain," he said.
I lifted my gaze.
He held something in his hand—an old, worn sheet of leather with writing etched deep enough that it wouldn't fade.
I recognized it before he spoke.
My throat tightened.
"The Swordmaster's Ten Commandments," Aldred said. "Recite them."
I could've done it in my sleep.
I did it anyway.
One by one.
Draw the Blade Only with Conviction.
Stand Where Evil Stands.
Become the Light When None Exists.
Walk the Honorable Path.
Bear Responsibility for Every Cut.
The Sword Serves, it does not Rule.
Do not abandon the Helpless.
Seek Truth before Judgement.
Do not Stain the Blade with Malice.
When the Code and the World Collide, Choose the World.
When I finished, the beach felt quieter.
Even the gulls seemed less interested in talking.
Aldred looked at all of us. "You learned the words."
His eyes sharpened. "Now tell me who here understands them."
No one spoke.
Not because we didn't want to.
Because the question didn't have a clean answer anymore.
Aldred's gaze settled on me again.
"Commandment Seven," he said. "Do not abandon the helpless. You used that."
I didn't reply.
Because I had.
Because I had believed it.
Because it had almost killed us.
Aldred continued before anyone could fill the silence with excuses.
"Commandment Ten," he said, voice calm but heavy. "When the Code and the World Collide, Choose the World. The oath exists to protect life, not itself."
He stepped closer.
"That means—if following the commandment kills the helpless you meant to save, you have failed the commandment."
My fingers tightened around my sword.
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to say we didn't have time, that we couldn't leave Lumiel, that the castle was empty, that there was blood, that it smelled like jaki—
Aldred cut through it like he was reading my thoughts.
"Conviction is not stupidity," he said. "Responsibility is not martyrdom. And leadership is not a vow you make to your ego."
He turned slightly, eyes moving across the class.
"Some of you think being strong means being fearless. Some of you think being righteous means being loud. Some of you think a knight's duty is to win."
His voice dropped.
"A knight's duty is to endure long enough to protect what matters."
He looked at me again.
"Rain. Commandment Five: Bear responsibility for every cut. The sword remembers."
My chest tightened.
He wasn't scolding me for fighting Azazel.
He was dragging me back to the moment before the lever—before the stairs—before I decided we could handle it.
And he was forcing me to look at what that decision cost.
Kazen's broken arm.
Liam's leg.
Seraphyne's hands shaking when no one watched.
Varein's cracked ribs he hadn't admitted out loud yet.
Theon's bruised face and bruised pride.
Liraeth's shield cracked like a warning.
Aelira's frost-marked knuckles.
Arion's eyes that kept flinching at silence.
My mouth went dry.
Aldred's voice was quieter now.
"You did not lead them into battle," he said. "You led them into war."
The exact words hit me like a blunt strike.
Because they were true.
And because I'd been refusing to say them.
After that, Aldred didn't give us comfort.
He gave us work.
"Pair drills," he ordered. "Not to win. To cover."
He pointed. "Rain and Kazen."
Kazen blinked. "With one arm?"
Aldred's expression didn't change. "Then learn to shoot with what you have. You want to be a longbow user? Adapt."
Kazen's jaw tightened. "Yes, Instructor."
I faced him.
He lifted his bow with his good arm, bracing it awkwardly. His posture was wrong. His draw was weaker.
And that was the point.
War didn't care if your arm was broken.
It just asked if you could still stand.
We ran a drill where Kazen had to get three clean shots off while I kept "pressure" off him—meaning I moved, guarded, shifted, cut imaginary angles, treated every second like something could lunge from the side.
It was quiet.
Until Kazen's arrow snapped off target and buried itself into the sand like it wanted to escape.
Kazen stared at it, then muttered, "I hate this."
I didn't look away. "Good."
He glanced at me. "Good?"
"You still care," I said. "If you didn't, you'd be dead already."
Kazen scoffed. "That sounded like something Aldred would say."
"It probably is," I replied.
He snorted once, then set his stance again.
We did it again.
And again.
Meanwhile, Liam and Kai drilled together—precision steps on wet sand, timing strikes when waves pulled at their ankles. Liam's face stayed composed, but every now and then his eyes flicked to check on someone else, like he was counting the living.
Seraphyne and Aelira ran a coordination drill—pink fire kept low and controlled, ice used as momentary anchoring points on the sand. Seraphyne wasn't loud today. She was sharp. When she slipped, she didn't scream. She just corrected and moved again.
Varein and Theon trained in shallow water—wind assisting footwork, earth reinforcing footing. Theon's barriers were smaller than before, but denser. Reinforced. He didn't show off. He built what he could hold.
Liraeth and Arion drilled defense and recovery—shield work that compensated for cracks, Arion's flowers used not as decoration but as bindings and pressure seals, practical and steady.
I watched them all without meaning to.
Not as teammates.
As people.
It hit me in a way it hadn't in the chamber.
Back then, everyone was motion, screaming breath, flashing aura.
Now they were injuries, quiet endurance, stubbornness.
Still training.
Still choosing to get up.
And for the first time, the guilt stopped being a vague weight and became something specific.
Not "I feel bad."
More like:
I did this to them.
Not Azazel.
Me.
Because I assumed I could keep everyone safe.
Because I believed my will was enough.
Because I didn't pull back.
My grip on my sword tightened until my knuckles went pale.
Aldred's voice cut through the sound of surf.
"Rain."
I looked up.
He was watching me carefully, like he'd been waiting for the moment my head finally stopped running and started admitting.
"Say it," he said.
My throat burned. "Say what."
"The truth you keep swallowing," he replied.
I stared at the horizon for a second too long.
Then I said it.
Quiet. Plain. Ugly.
"I thought I could handle it."
Aldred didn't nod like a teacher approving a correct answer.
He just said, "And?"
"And I was wrong."
The words felt like ripping cloth.
Aldred's gaze didn't soften.
But it steadied.
"Good," he said. "Now you can improve."
The last part of training wasn't physical.
Aldred gathered us again near the shoreline, where the foam rolled in and retreated like breathing.
He made us sit.
Not to rest.
To listen.
"You're going to return to Lionhearth after this," he said. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. And when you do, you will not be the same first-years who left."
Nobody argued.
We couldn't.
He looked at Kazen's arm. "You will heal. But you will remember."
He looked at Seraphyne. "You will laugh again. But you will remember."
He looked at Varein. "You will act calm. And you will remember."
He looked at me last.
"And you," he said quietly, "will stop mistaking responsibility for ownership."
I frowned slightly.
Aldred's voice stayed even. "You are not allowed to carry everyone's life like a trophy. You are not allowed to treat their survival like proof of your worth."
My jaw clenched. "Then what am I supposed to do."
Aldred didn't hesitate.
"Defend," he said. "Lead when needed. Retreat when needed. Learn when needed."
His eyes sharpened. "And when you fail—and you will—do not dress your failure up as fate."
The ocean rolled in, cold around our ankles.
Aldred glanced at it once, then continued.
"Commandment Eight," he said. "Seek truth before judgement. A sharp blade without wisdom is a butcher's tool."
His gaze flicked toward me again. "You judged the situation by your code. Not by truth."
The words landed hard because I knew he was right.
I had smelled danger and treated it like a test of conviction.
I had seen blood and treated it like a demand to move forward.
I hadn't asked the most basic question:
Is this a trap.
And then we fell into it.
Aldred stood, dusting sand from his cloak.
"You did not survive because you were righteous," he said. "You survived because a captain arrived."
The class went still.
Aldred's voice didn't mock. It didn't belittle.
It just told reality as it was.
"And if you take one thing from that," he added, "let it be this: you do not get to gamble lives on pride."
My fingers loosened around my sword.
Not because the guilt disappeared.
Because it finally had a direction.
Not self-pity.
Not excuses.
Improvement.
I looked at the others again.
Kazen staring at the sea like he wanted to challenge it again one day.
Varein quiet, but present—always present.
Seraphyne watching the foam, eyes narrowed like she was memorizing the pattern.
Liam sitting straight, still checking everyone without realizing.
Kai rolling his shoulders, already thinking about what he could do differently.
Aelira flexing her fingers, testing the feeling in her knuckles.
Liraeth's hand resting on her shield like a promise she wasn't ready to speak.
Theon staring at the horizon like he wanted to push it back with earth.
Arion looking calmer when he realized everyone was still breathing.
I didn't feel like I could rely on them.
I felt something heavier.
I felt like I had to become someone worth standing in front of them.
Not because they needed saving every second.
Because war didn't ask permission.
Aldred started walking back toward the villa.
"Training resumes at dawn," he said over his shoulder. "Eat. Rest. Heal."
No dramatic ending.
No speech.
Just the routine of survival.
I stayed behind for a moment, watching the ocean.
The waves moved in.
Then out.
Steady.
Enduring.
I didn't smile.
I didn't make declarations.
I just breathed—properly this time—and followed my class back up the sand.
That night, the villa was quieter again.
But not the dead quiet from before.
This time it was the quiet of people healing. Of servants lowering their voices out of respect. Of classmates sleeping because their bodies finally gave up.
I stood on the balcony and looked out at Newoaga's lights. The city looked normal from up here. Like it hadn't almost become a grave.
I thought about the chamber.
The blood.
The murals.
The way Azazel moved like war itself.
I thought about Sir Adranous leaving without waiting for thanks. About how captains didn't linger after judgment.
I thought about Lumiel's words in the garden. Don't become the kind of knight who decides what's necessary for other people.
And I thought about the commandments.
Especially the tenth.
Choose the world.
Not the oath.
Not the pride.
Not the image of a knight that looks good in stories.
The real world.
Where your friends bleed. Where kings vanish. Where saints get used like anchors. Where demons wear titles and make you walk into traps with your own hands.
I didn't feel heroic.
I didn't feel chosen.
I felt… awake.
That was worse, in a way.
Because ignorance was softer. Ignorance let you believe the rules were enough.
Now I knew they weren't.
Behind me, the balcony door creaked.
Aldred stepped out, quiet as always. He didn't stand beside me. He stood a few steps away, giving space like he understood the kind of thoughts that needed room.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we report everything. To Lionhearth. To the captains. To the General."
I nodded.
Aldred's gaze stayed on the city lights.
"You will be questioned," he added. "All of you."
"I know."
He looked at me then. "You won't like what you learn."
"I know," I repeated.
Aldred studied me for a long moment, then nodded once like he accepted the answer.
He turned to leave.
Before he went inside, he paused and spoke without looking back.
"Rain," he said, voice low, steady, real. "Surviving war doesn't make you strong."
I waited.
"It just gives you the chance to decide what you'll become after it."
Then he was gone.
I stayed on the balcony a while longer, staring at the ocean beyond the city—dark and endless.
Not comforting.
Not cruel.
Just there.
And for the first time since the castle, I let myself accept one plain truth without dressing it up:
We lived.
Now we have to carry it.