“Hey, Prim?

  I always thought you had to fight the current to stay yourself.

  Maybe letting it carry you isn’t the same as being swept away.”

  My body twitches—my foot itching.

  Groggily, I sit up, my hand moving on instinct to rub at it as my gaze sweeps the room.

  The new furniture still feels… new somehow. The thought brings a warm, grounding weight to my chest.

  My eyes keep traveling.

  Cattleya’s sofa clashes with the decor just a little—

  huh?

  I follow the line of her silhouette. Her tail.

  On my bed.

  Right where my foot had been.

  I scoff. I’m not even mad. Still—

  I grab my pillow, gather my momentum, and—

  I throw it with all my might at her head.

  It doesn’t hurt—but it’s enough to make her jolt awake, blinking in confusion.

  “Morning, Cat-cat,” I say lightly as I swing my legs off the bed and head for my dresser.

  “Go get ready, okay? We should go out shopping—supplies for the trip. And I definitely need new armor.” My voice drifts as I start sorting through my things.

  Behind me, I hear a faint sniff.

  I freeze.

  I turn.

  Cattleya is clutching my pillow like it’s the most precious thing she’s ever held, face buried in it, tail swaying happily.

  “…Hey, Cat?” I ask, suddenly very aware of my face heating up.

  She peeks over the pillow, smiling easily.

  “Smells like Imo.”

  The words hit something deep and immediate. Before I can think, my body moves—snatching the pillow out of her arms.

  “Wash. Clothes. Change. Go.” The commands tumble out sharp and fast, my cheeks burning.

  “Mm.” She hums, perfectly content, like nothing about this exchange was strange in the slightest.

  She slips out of the room.

  I stare at the pillow in my hands for a moment longer.

  “Geez…” I mutter, exhaling in frustration as I toss it back onto the bed and turn to sit at my desk.

  The tower sounds louder than usual today.

  Not gearing-up loud—reorganizing loud.

  The armory is busy: furniture being shifted, crates open, fresh equipment laid out in the center of the room. Looks like something new came in.

  I pass a few people heading up the stairs as I make my way down to the basement bar.

  Ulric sits alone at our usual table. He spots me immediately, visibly relieved to have company.

  “Morning,” he says. “You spar?”

  The question catches me off guard. I pause mid-pour, coffee steaming in my mug.

  “Spar?” I sit across from him.

  “Train. Spar.” He grins at me. “What—slow morning?”

  “Mm.” I hum, gaze dropping briefly as my mind flickers back to the moment upstairs.

  “It’s just been a while,” I admit quietly. “My last company didn’t like sparring much. So… yeah. Just surprised.”

  Ulric’s grin widens—but he isn’t looking at me anymore.

  I follow his gaze.

  Veil and Cinna are coming down the stairs together, hands still intertwined, their faces soft with something unguarded. It takes them a moment to realize they’re being watched. Their hands slip apart almost sheepishly.

  “Good morning,” Cinna says, taking the seat beside me.

  “’Sup,” Veil adds, dropping into the chair next to Ulric.

  Ulric immediately slings an arm over Veil’s shoulders, pulling him close. There’s a hint of pride in his expression. Veil looks… relaxed. Relieved.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard,” Cinna says as she reaches for a roll, buttering it carefully, “but our shopping plans will be delayed.”

  “Captain Tosser trying to be special,” Veil scoffs, snatching a slice of cheese.

  Cinna’s response is immediate—a gentle but firm slap to his thigh, her expression unamused.

  Ulric watches them in silence for a beat before speaking.

  “Captain Tilemachos proposed a sparring day. Said it’d improve unit cohesion.” He shrugs. “Lucius agreed. So did I.”

  “Huh…” I murmur, glancing briefly at Veil.

  “Hey, Cat,” Ulric says.

  I turn—and blink.

  Cattleya looks… put together.

  Her hair is neat and contained, none of its usual wild strands. Her tail is smooth, brushed. Even her clothes look unfamiliar—nothing I’ve seen her wear before.

  She catches my stare and smiles easily before sliding into the seat beside me.

  No one else seems surprised.

  I can’t help wondering—

  …was that because of what I said earlier?

  We eat in companionable quiet for a few minutes.

  Then a hand slams down on the table hard.

  “Losers wash the other team’s laundry.”

  Saria grins at us from across the table.

  Ulric immediately reaches out. She shakes his hand enthusiastically before turning toward the stairs.

  “Come on, losers!” she cackles. “Don’t be afraid of a few broken bones.”

  She heads up with the rest of the Black Lancers.

  We all stare at Ulric.

  “What?” he says defensively. “If it keeps her motivated, I don’t mind washing a long john or two.”

  “Then you won’t mind washing my share,” Cinna says sweetly as she rises.

  We follow her up the stairs, echoing the sentiment.

  Ulric lingers behind at the table, staring after us—

  heartbroken.

  Lucius greets us with a silent nod as we reach the armory. All the furniture has been pushed aside, clearing a wide sparring space at the center of the room, benches arranged neatly around it.

  And at the center—

  He still hasn’t shaved since arriving, has he?

  Probably spent every spare moment making sure he understood all his duties. Probably went above and beyond, like he always does.

  Yeah… same old Til.

  We claim one of the benches along the wall as the Chariot’s unofficial spot and settle in by habit, the usual order falling into place—except Ulric lags behind. When he finally sits, I feel the bench dip slightly, lifting me just a bit.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Lucius steps toward the center of the room.

  “This is a drill,” he says. “Assume live conditions.”

  He pauses, eyes moving once over the gathered squads.

  “Captain Tilemachos.”

  Lucius steps aside, taking his place near the stairs.

  “Thank you for coming,” he says, warm but a little stiff. “I appreciate it.”

  He gestures toward the group opposite us.

  “I’ve recently finished assembling my shield squad.” He pauses, then corrects himself with a sheepish smile. “Our shield squad.”

  I recognize one of them—a medic I’d seen with the Mantle before. The others must have arrived with him. I don’t know their faces.

  “I’ve been thinking about how to help us work as a proper unit,” Til continues. “And then I realized—there’s no reason to limit that to just us.”

  He moves to a nearby table and picks up a sword, identical to the training blades we’ve always used.

  “Lucius approved the purchase,” he adds quickly. “Same weight. No edge.”

  He gives it a careful test swing, inspects it once more—then turns and offers the hilt to me.

  “Like old times,” he says, earnest. “It’s easier to show than explain.”

  “…Why not?” I say, taking the sword and rising to my feet.

  Murmurs ripple through the room.

  Yeah. I’d expected that.

  Til shifts into position—sideways, mirroring me—but lifts his left hand.

  “Two rules,” he says, wiggling it once before tucking it behind his back. “No left hands.”

  Then his gaze sharpens.

  “And no holding back.”

  I scoff. I know exactly what he means. On both counts.

  Let’s make him regret asking for that, Prim.

  I pull myself inward, drawing my awareness behind my eyes—behind hers.

  Prim snaps my left hand firmly behind my back and settles into the stance, perfectly aligned with Til.

  “Give me your worst, you crusty sea dog,” my voice teases.

  Til grins. That flash in his eyes—

  Yeah. He knows exactly who he’s facing now.

  We extend our blades, stepping close enough.

  Steel meets steel with a dry, familiar ring.

  The signal.

  We separate.

  And then—

  We start.

  He advances first, weight settled, blade angled just off-center. So familiar it almost makes me laugh. Side-on. Narrow profile.

  Of course.

  We circle once, slow enough that the scrape of boots against stone seems loud. He’s reading me the same way I’m reading him—waiting for the tell that never comes.

  Then he moves.

  The first strike is clean, exploratory, a diagonal cut meant to test distance rather than force. I parry without thinking, steel sliding along steel in a motion my body knows better than my mind. The follow-up comes instantly—reverse angle, shallow, meant to catch the recovery.

  I’m already there.

  Our blades kiss again, then separate.

  A murmur ripples through the room.

  We pick up speed.

  His footwork shifts—short, efficient steps, pressure without overcommitment. I match it instinctively, cutting the angle before he can claim it, forcing him wider. He adjusts without hesitation, blade flicking toward my shoulder—

  —too shallow.

  I catch it on the flat and twist, not to disarm but to feel him. There’s no wasted strength in his grip. No panic. No greed.

  Good.

  He retreats half a step, then lunges back in with a feint high and a real strike low. My parry is sharp, almost too sharp, and the opening appears—

  Prim surges forward.

  I rein her back.

  Instead, I disengage and reset, breathing steady, eyes tracking shoulders, hips, rhythm.

  Tilemachos grins.

  “Still doing that,” he mutters.

  I answer by stepping in.

  This time I press him—three quick strikes in succession, each meant not to land but to herd. He gives ground, blade flashing, answering in kind. The fourth strike comes faster than the rest—

  —and he meets it perfectly.

  The impact rings through my arms, harder than before.

  He’s stopped holding back.

  Good.

  We break apart and re-engage without pause.

  The world narrows.

  There is only distance. Timing. Breath.

  I see the pattern now—the hitch in his front step, the tightening wrist before commitment. I feed it inward, guiding Prim’s instincts, shaping them instead of unleashing them.

  Not yet.

  He tries to bait me with a wide cut, inviting overreach.

  I don’t bite.

  So he changes tactics.

  His next advance is brutal—no feints, no courtesy. Power behind every swing, driving me back step by step. Each block rattles my arm, sends vibrations through my bones.

  Prim laughs.

  Yes. This.

  I stop retreating.

  I meet him head-on, steel screaming as I intercept a downward strike and twist inside his guard. My shoulder slams into his chest—not enough to topple him, just enough to remind him I’m there. He answers with an elbow that barely misses my jaw as I duck away, heart hammering.

  We’re too close now.

  Too fast.

  The rhythm accelerates until thought can’t keep up.

  We’re fighting the same fight we’ve fought a hundred times before—

  Just louder. Harder.

  Steel rings in rapid succession, a relentless cadence that drowns out everything else. Sweat stings my eyes, vision blurring. My breath comes sharp and fast. Tilemachos’s expression has shed all polish—focused, feral, alive.

  I see an opening.

  So does he.

  We take it at the same time.

  Our blades lock, hilts nearly touching, muscles straining as we push into each other. For a heartbeat, we’re frozen there—eyes locked, teeth bared, neither willing to give.

  This is where it always ends.

  Not with a blow—but with a choice.

  We disengage at the same instant, stepping back, blades still raised.

  Silence crashes down around us.

  The room exhales.

  Tilemachos laughs first—breathless, genuine, almost incredulous. He lowers his sword and plants the tip against the floor.

  “…You got stronger,” he says.

  I mirror him, chest heaving, pulse roaring in my ears.

  “You too.”

  For a moment, neither of us moves.

  Then the room rushes back in—murmurs swelling into cheers, scattered claps, voices raised in praise.

  I make my way back to the Chariot bench, legs still unsteady. Everyone is staring at me with something close to awe, and a small part of me wonders if not holding back was a mistake.

  Everyone except Cattleya.

  She offers me an easy smile as I approach. Then it fades—hardening into something sharp, intent. Her hand reaches for the sword still in my grip. I let it go without protest.

  “My turn,” she declares.

  Tilemachos blinks, clearly caught off guard, still drawing breath from our bout.

  He laughs, genuine and warm, glancing briefly my way as I sit. “One of Imo’s friends? I’d be more than honored.”

  Cattleya’s gaze narrows.

  …Cat?

  While Tilemachos regains his footing, she inspects the training blade in her hands, displeased. With a dismissive flick, she sets it aside on the table and reaches instead for a large club resting on a nearby rack—shorter than her usual weapon, but no less imposing.

  Tilemachos’s brows lift, impressed. He doesn’t comment—just gestures for her to proceed.

  Cattleya takes her stance.

  A moment later, he mirrors her.

  She moves.

  Tilemachos barely finishes settling into his stance before she’s on him, club coming down in a savage arc that forces him to block rather than test. The impact rattles through the armory—wood on steel, a dull, punishing sound that makes more than a few heads turn.

  She doesn’t wait for an opening.

  She creates one.

  His counter is precise, textbook—a controlled slash meant to check her advance. It lands. Solid. Enough that anyone else would have stepped back.

  Cattleya doesn’t.

  She takes it on the shoulder like it’s nothing and answers with a swing meant to break bone. Tilemachos barely twists aside, the force alone knocking him off-balance, boots skidding across stone.

  The room goes quiet.

  He resets, jaw tight, trying to reassert rhythm—cut, parry, distance. She ignores all of it. Each time he strikes, she accepts the blow and returns one twice as heavy, twice as close. No feints. No patience. Just momentum and intent.

  Order breaking against chaos itself.

  A sharp blow clips her side. She grins.

  Her next strike sends him stumbling back, breath knocked from his chest, control slipping for the first time. He recovers just enough to realize—

  —too late—

  that he’s being driven straight toward the benches.

  Instinct wins.

  His left hand snaps out, fingers curling as a burst of compressed wind detonates behind him, arresting his momentum in a violent rush of air. The spell shoves him sideways instead of back, boots carving lines into the floor as he barely stays upright.

  The room erupts.

  Cattleya is already stepping forward again, eyes bright, feral—

  “Enough.”

  Lucius’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade.

  Cattleya stops. Instantly.

  Tilemachos exhales slowly, lowering his weapon as Lucius steps between them.

  “Commander Tilemachos has fought plenty for one morning,” Lucius says evenly.

  Cattleya straightens, chest swelling with unmistakable pride. She returns the club to its place without ceremony and turns back toward me, a wide, satisfied smile on her face.

  “Cat—” My voice catches, worry bleeding through before I can stop it.

  The sleeve of her white shirt is scuffed now, no longer pristine. I step closer and roll it up, my fears confirmed.

  Red marks. Swelling.

  “I’m taking her to the infirmary,” I say, already turning. I glance at Ulric; he nods without hesitation.

  I can feel Til’s gaze on us—quiet, concerned. He’s always been like that. Even when he’s hurt, he makes sure everyone else is fine first.

  I miss the triumphant smirk Cattleya sends his way.

  The infirmary smells clean and sharp. I ask the nurse for chilled cloths, then help Cattleya ease out of her shirt, careful with every movement. I press the cold against her bruised shoulder and watch her flinch only slightly.

  “You can’t train like that,” I murmur softly. “You’re going to get hurt.”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she leans into the cold, curling toward the cloth, her chin brushing against my fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  I sigh, my attention drifting briefly to the raised voices downstairs—Saria and Ulric, unmistakable even through stone and distance.

  When I look back at Cattleya, some of the tightness in my chest eases.

  I’m… grateful she stepped in.

  I don’t know what questions would have followed if I’d been left alone after my spar. What eyes would have lingered. What expectations would have surfaced.

  My hand lifts on its own, fingers brushing lightly over her hair.

  Her tail responds instantly, swaying in an easy, content rhythm.

  Yeah.

  I guess this is just how things are now.