The
Academy Training Yard – One Week Later – 05:20
The
training yard is drowned in pre-dawn gray. Floodlights hum overhead,
casting long, broken shadows across the stone. Frost clings to the
ground in thin veins, crunching beneath boots. Breath fogs the air.
Steel rings out.
Cain pivots, boots
scraping, bringing his blade up just in time to catch Lucille’s
strike. The impact shudders up his arms, hard enough to sting. She
does not pull the blow. Neither of them do. The sound echoes off the
surrounding walls like a challenge hurled at an uncaring sky.
Lucille steps inside his
guard, shoulder low, blade snapping toward his ribs.
Cain twists, barely, the
edge kissing his training armor instead of flesh. He grins despite
the jolt.
“Too slow,” she says,
breathless, eyes bright.
“Still warming up,” he
answers, and drives her back with a series of fast, controlled
strikes.
To anyone watching, it
looks savage. Blades meet with force. Footwork is aggressive,
relentless. Their bodies move with the certainty of long practice, no
wasted motion, no hesitation. This is not play. This is how they were
raised.
Lucille ducks under a
sweeping cut, spins, and cracks the flat of her blade against Cain’s
shoulder. He grunts, stumbles a half step, then laughs under his
breath as he recovers.
“You’re smiling,” he
says, circling her.
“So are you,” she
replies.
They clash again.
Cain presses forward,
forcing her toward the edge of the yard. His strikes are heavy,
measured, meant to test her guard. Lucille absorbs them, redirects
them, her boots sliding over frost-slick stone. She catches his
wrist, twists, and sends his blade skidding away with a sharp
metallic screech.
For a heartbeat, Cain is
unarmed.
Lucille’s blade stops an
inch from his throat.
They freeze.
The world holds its breath.
Then Cain gently taps her
knee with his boot, breaking her stance, and she laughs as she
stumbles back, lowering her weapon.
“Cheap,” she says,
shaking her head.
“Effective,” he
answers, retrieving his sword.
They reset without
ceremony. No salutes. No audience. Just the quiet understanding
between them.
Around them, the Academy
still sleeps. Towers loom in silence. Windows are dark. Somewhere
beyond the walls, forests and fields vanish into blackness, the world
waiting, patient and hungry.
Lucille’s smile softens
as they move again, slower now, more fluid. Their blades weave
together, familiar as breathing.
Lucille and Cain trade
strikes, each movement precise, deliberate, but executed with the
fluidity of instinct. The clash of their training swords rings out
across the empty yard, sharp enough to cut through the morning air.
Blows are blocked, parried, countered, each one forcing the other to
adjust in milliseconds. Muscles tense and flex, feet scuffing against
the mat, leaving marks like scars in the soft ground.
They spin, pivot, and lunge
in perfect rhythm, neither giving quarter. A feint from Lucille draws
Cain forward, and he reacts instantly, slicing down to intercept her
follow-up strike. They collide mid-step, both pushing and twisting,
trying to unbalance the other.
Then it happens, two
simultaneous missteps. Lucille plants her foot too firmly, Cain
overreaches in response, and in the blink of an eye, they both lose
footing. The world tilts, momentum carries them, and gravity wins.
Cain lunges instinctively
to stop her fall, arms out, but the angle is wrong, the timing
imperfect. Lucille lands hard, directly on top of him, just as he
hits the ground on his back. The impact knocks the wind out of both
of them, a dull thud reverberating through their bodies. Dirt and
sweat mingle, and for a heartbeat, everything stills, silence heavy
around them except for their ragged breathing.
For a long moment, they
just stay there, chest to chest, limbs tangled, sweat mixing with the
dirt on their skin. Cain’s arms lie spread, fingers splayed against
the ground, and he can feel Lucille’s weight pressing down, her
thighs bracing against his sides. Her hands clutch at his shoulders
and chest to keep from crushing him, and their eyes meet.
The tension breaks first in
her, then in him. A laugh bursts from Lucille, sharp and breathless,
and it’s contagious. Cain’s own laughter follows, low, throaty,
filling the quiet training yard. The sound is reckless and free,
echoing off the walls, a release they both desperately need.
They continue laughing,
gasping for air, their foreheads nearly touching, chests heaving in
unison. The world outside the yard, the Academy, even the grind of
training, they fade away. In this moment, there is only them, the
ridiculousness of their fall, and the shared warmth of surviving the
chaos together.
Cain’s hands tighten
around her waist, and before she can react, he lifts and pivots,
pressing her gently but firmly against the edge of the training mat.
Lucille lets out a startled yelp, her eyes snapping wide as she looks
up at him.
Cain leans close, his grin
playful, teasing. “Guess you shouldn’t let your guard down, huh?”
he says, voice low, carrying both humor and a dangerous kind of
warmth.
Lucille’s lips part
slightly, and a flush spreads from her ears down to her neck. Her
gaze locks on his, unflinching despite the thrum of her racing heart.
Her face burns with a deep, burning blush, and for a moment, all the
practiced discipline of a Praevectus cadet melts away. She can’t
look anywhere else, can’t think about anything else, just Cain,
just the way he’s there, so close, grinning like this.
Her hand hovers for a
heartbeat before she lets her fingertips brush against the stubble
along Cain’s jaw. The texture is coarse, unexpectedly grounding,
yet intimate in a way that makes her heart hitch. The first light of
dawn filters in across the training yard, catching on the strands of
his hair and tracing the sharp lines of his face, emphasizing the
strength in his jaw, the clarity of his silvery-blue eyes. For a
moment, the world narrows to that space between them, to the warmth
of his chest beneath her palms, the faint rise and fall of his
breathing.
Cain’s expression
softens, the playful grin fading into something quieter, almost shy.
A subtle pink creeps along his cheeks, and he leans ever so slightly
into her touch, the faintest tremor in his lips betraying how rare it
is for him to let himself be vulnerable. Lucille’s gaze lingers,
memorizing the curve of his jaw, the angle of his cheekbones, the way
the sunlight glints in his eyes, catching hints of silver in the
blue, the way it makes him look alive and awake in a way that feels
like it’s meant only for her.
She hesitates, almost
afraid to break the spell, and yet her hand moves with purpose,
brushing along his jawline as if confirming that he is real, that
this moment is real. Cain’s eyes soften further, his usual
confident, commanding presence giving way to something more tender,
more human. His fingers twitch slightly, brushing against hers as if
unsure whether to pull back or to anchor himself to her touch. The
world around them, the empty training mats, the faint morning mist,
the distant voices of waking cadets, fades into insignificance. In
this fragile bubble of early sunlight and quiet, Lucille realizes
she’s never felt so intensely seen, so intensely noticed, and Cain
feels it too, a weight of connection that neither words nor movement
could ever fully capture.
Finally, Cain exhales, a
soft, slow breath, and his gaze holds hers, unblinking, unyielding.
The moment stretches, intimate and charged, a delicate balance of
vulnerability and strength.
Cain finally speaks, though
his voice betrays his confidence. He whispers to her, “Lucy, I-I
need to…” He stops, still not trusting himself with the words.
And instead of telling her, decides to show her, and he leans down to
kiss her.
“Lucille! Cain!” A
sharp voice calls.
The sound is so precise, so
commanding, that both of them freeze instantly, as if the world has
shifted beneath their feet. Cain’s hands tighten briefly around her
waist, then he releases her, his face a mix of frustration and
reluctant compliance.
“Renn,” he mutters,
voice low, just audible to her, a note of tension threading through
it. His eyes flick briefly toward her, apologetic and taut with
restrained desire. “I’ll—later.”
He moves first, pushing off
the mat with controlled strength, his boots thudding against the
training yard floor. Lucille, still caught in that startled daze,
lets him guide her up by the wrist. Their hands brush, light,
fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough for her to feel the
pulse of his warmth, the lingering electricity of the kiss that never
happened.
Renn’s figure is sharp
against the arcade doorway, datapad clutched tightly, fingers
drumming impatiently. “Come here!” he calls again, his tone
leaving no room for argument. Cain straightens, jaw set, and without
breaking eye contact with Lucille, gives a short, almost
imperceptible nod.
Lucille exhales, the heat
rising in her cheeks despite herself. She follows him, stepping in
sync, her body still humming from the interrupted moment. Behind
them, the morning light casts long shadows across the mats, and for a
heartbeat, both of them linger in that space between compliance and
desire, knowing that the stolen, unsaid words are theirs alone, even
in the eyes of discipline.
Cain and Lucille step up
under the arcade, still catching their breaths, the early morning
chill brushing against their sweat-slicked skin. Renn’s brow is
furrowed, not in anger, but in genuine confusion.
“You two,” he begins,
voice measured, eyes narrowing just slightly, “why are you out here
before the sun has even fully risen, playing around on the mats
instead of being in the library or reviewing your dossiers?”
Cain straightens, shoving a
hand through his hair, a small wry smile tugging at his lips. “We
were training in melee,” he says plainly. “Just sparring. Keeping
reflexes sharp.”
Renn blinks, then slowly,
the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “I see.” He leans on the
railing, the datapad still in hand, and shakes his head slightly.
“Discipline and preparation, yes… but there’s more to be
learned here than just strikes and blocks. You’re learning
endurance, patience, control. You’re testing the limits of your
mind as much as your body. Remember, a soldier who cannot temper
instinct with thought is just a weapon waiting to fail its wielder.”
Lucille nods slightly,
listening intently, and Cain’s hand brushes hers almost
accidentally. The moment passes, unnoticed by Renn, whose gaze sweeps
over both of them again.
“Now,” Renn continues,
voice sharpening just enough to cut through the morning air, “before
you wander off into glory or death, eat a proper breakfast. The Final
Exam starts today. It is no short task. This may very well be the
last good, hot meal you get for some time. Fuel your bodies while you
can.”
Cain does not give himself
time to think. He reaches for Lucille’s hand and closes his fingers
around it, firm enough to mean it, gentle enough not to frighten her,
and immediately turns down the length of the arcade. The sudden
motion steals the air from his lungs more than Renn’s words ever
could. Breakfast sounds good. Necessary. An excuse to move, to do
something, to drown the fragile silence left behind by interruption.
His face is still warm.
Still betraying him.
Another failed attempt.
Another moment where the words nearly escape and then rot behind his
teeth. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that there will be
another chance, another day, but the lie feels thin even as he thinks
it.
Lucille follows half a step
behind him.
She watches their hands
instead of his back. The way his thumb shifts unconsciously, brushing
against her knuckles as if to reassure himself she’s real, that she
hasn’t vanished. Her own cheeks burn, heat lingering where his
breath had been moments before, close enough that she can almost
still feel it against her skin.
She knows
something almost happened.
Or at least, she thinks she
does.
Doubt gnaws at her,
familiar and cruel. Maybe she imagined it. Maybe she wanted it too
much. Cain has always been kind, always been close, closer than
anyone else. That doesn’t mean this. That doesn’t mean
what her heart whispers when she isn’t looking directly at him.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Cadets pass them in
opposite directions, voices sharp with nerves, boots ringing against
metal decking worn smooth by generations of marching feet. The arcade
smells of hot protein, scorched oil, antiseptic, comfort and dread
intertwined. Above them, lights hum, flickering faintly like tired
eyes.
Lucille tightens her grip.
Not hard. Just enough.
Cain glances back
instinctively, startled, silver-blue eyes catching the overhead
light. For a split second, he looks younger than he should,
unguarded, unsure, before the Academy’s discipline settles back
into his posture.
Their eyes meet.
Lucille swallows. Her
throat feels too tight, her pulse loud in her ears. Still, she forces
the words out, soft and tentative, like stepping onto thin ice.
“Cain?”
He slows. Just a little.
“What… what were you
wanting to tell me?”
The question trembles
between them, fragile and dangerous, and for the first time since the
morning drills ended, Cain truly falters.
Cain slows, then stops
altogether.
The arcade hums around
them, low voices, the thumping of boots, but for a heartbeat it all
falls away. He still holds her hand. He realizes it a second too
late, like noticing a wound only after the blood is already on the
floor.
Lucille’s question hangs
there between them, fragile as spun glass.
“What… what were you
wanting to tell me?” she asks again, softer this time.
Cain opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
His thoughts scatter,
drilled apart by years of training that never prepared him for this.
He has faced live fire, punishment drills that flayed muscle from
bone, instructors who delighted in breaking cadets down to see which
ones crawled back up. None of that compares to the terror of her
looking at him like this, open, unsure, hopeful.
“I—” He swallows. His
grip tightens without meaning to, then loosens just as quickly,
afraid he’s hurting her. “I didn’t… I mean, I wasn’t—”
Heat crawls up his neck. He
looks away, jaw clenching, eyes tracking some meaningless detail
along the arcade wall, a crack in the plating, old scorch marks never
fully scrubbed clean. Anything but her face.
“I just thought—” He
exhales sharply, frustrated. “Forget it. It’s stupid. We’re…
today’s not—”
Lucille steps closer.
The movement is small, but
it pulls his attention back to her like gravity. Their hands are
still linked. She hasn’t pulled away. That realization hits harder
than any blow he’s taken in the ring.
“It’s not stupid,”
she says. There’s a tremor in her voice, but she doesn’t retreat
from it. “You don’t talk like that when it matters to you.”
Cain lets out a quiet,
humorless breath. She knows him too well. She always has.
He drags a hand through his
hair, fingers scraping against cropped strands. “You’re not
supposed to ask,” he mutters. “You’re supposed to… I don’t
know. Laugh it off. Pretend you didn’t notice.”
Lucille’s brow furrows.
“Why?”
Because if she says no,
everything breaks. Because if she says yes, everything changes.
Because the Academy grinds people into tools, and tools don’t get
to want things.
He finally looks at her
again.
Her cheeks are still
flushed. Her eyes search his face, anxious but steady, like she’s
bracing herself for impact. The sight of it makes his chest ache.
“Because,” he says
quietly, “once I say it out loud, I can’t take it back.”
Noise creeps back in, the
scrape of boots, a laugh that sounds too loud, too forced. Time keeps
moving, indifferent.
Lucille squeezes his hand
again, firmer this time. Grounding.
“Cain,” she says,
barely above a whisper. “I’m not asking you to take anything
back.”
For a moment, he thinks he
might actually say it. The words line up on his tongue, dangerous and
honest and terrifying.
I care about you. I
always have. I don’t know how to survive this place without you.
Instead, footsteps approach
from behind, cadets pouring into the walkway, laughter edged with
nerves, talk of rations and odds and who won’t make it back
tonight.
The moment fractures.
Cain’s shoulders tense.
He steps half a pace away, instinctively putting the Academy back
between them like armor. “We should eat,” he says, too quickly.
“Renn’s right. We’ll need the strength.”
Lucille hesitates,
disappointment flickering across her face before she schools it into
something safer. She nods. “Yeah. Of course.”
They fall into line
together, still close, but not quite touching the same way. Cain
feels the loss like phantom pain.
As they move down the
corridors and walkwas of the Academy, the smell of hot food mixes
with oil and ozone, and the looming weight of the Final Exam settles
over them both. Whatever he almost confessed will have to wait.
If they survive the day.
Cain glances at Lucille
once more as they reach the serving counter. Her gaze meets his,
searching, unresolved.
He gives her a small,
apologetic smile.
he promises
himself.
The mess hall of the
Academy yawns open before them, vast and cathedral-like, its ceiling
lost in shadowed arches of steel and stone. Heat rolls out to meet
them, thick with the smell of food and bodies and anticipation. Cain
does not release Lucille’s hand as they enter. If anything, his
grip firms, as though the sheer scale of the chamber might swallow
her if he lets go.
He leads her across the
polished floor, past banners hanging like mute judges from the
rafters, toward the buffet tables lining the far wall.
The central rows are
already packed. Cadets sit shoulder to shoulder at long, scarred
tables, devouring their meals with the intensity of people who know
this may be the last time they eat like this for a while. Laughter
bursts out in jagged pieces, too loud, too forced. Beneath it hums
something darker, fear, excitement, resignation, all stirred together
with grease and heat.
This is not the usual fare.
The buffet stretches on
like an offering to the gods of war. Trays are piled high, food
stacked in deliberate abundance, almost obscene in its generosity.
This is Southern cooking elevated, still rooted in comfort, still
familiar, but refined, expanded, made grand. Biscuits split and
steaming, thick slabs of smoked meat glazed to a dark sheen, eggs
whipped soft and rich, gravies flecked with herbs and spice. Roasted
vegetables gleam beside cast-iron pans of cornbread, and everything
smells like home sharpened into something ceremonial.
Cain swallows.
He takes a tray from the
stack and hands it to Lucille, then takes one for himself. Only then
does he let go of her hand. The absence is immediate, like a sudden
drop in temperature. He tells himself it’s practical, they need
both hands, but the thought does little to ease the faint tightness
in his chest.
They move with the line,
metal scraping softly as trays slide forward. Cain selects his food
with the same care he applies to everything else. Balanced portions.
Protein, starch, greens. Enough to sustain him, not enough to slow
him down. It is fuel, yes, but he allows himself just enough to enjoy
it, to remember what real food tastes like before the Academy decides
he no longer deserves it.
Lucille does not share his
restraint.
She attacks the buffet like
someone who expects it to vanish if she hesitates. Her tray fills
rapidly, this, then that, then more, layers of food piled high
without apology. She takes generous helpings, mixes flavors without
concern, grabs whatever catches her eye. A starving wolf at a feast.
Cain watches from the
corner of his eye, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth.
He doesn’t comment. He
never does. He has long since stopped trying to understand where it
all goes when she eats it, only that she somehow always comes back
for more.
They reach the end of the
buffet, both of them bracing for the usual dispensers of water and
bitter caf substitute.
Instead, they stop short.
Desserts.
For breakfast.
Lucille blinks, then grins
despite herself.
Pastries dusted with sugar,
thick slices of pie still warm, honeyed breads, fried dough
glistening under heat lamps; Southern indulgences rarely seen outside
of celebrations or memorials. Rare on any day. Almost unheard of at
this hour.
The meaning is obvious.
This is a gift. A bribe. A
farewell.
The Academy feeds them well
today because tomorrow it may not have to feed them at all.
Cain passes it by without
hesitation, jaw tightening as he moves on. Lucille, however, does not
hesitate for even a second. She adds dessert to her already
overflowing tray, stacking it carefully, reverently, as if accepting
a sacred rite.
They step away from the
line together, trays heavy in their hands, and the weight of the
Final Exam settles deeper into the room, unspoken, unavoidable,
waiting.
They find two empty seats
near the edge of the mess hall, where the noise is a little less
suffocating but the weight of it still presses in from all sides.
Cain sets his tray down first, then slides into the bench beside
Lucille. Their shoulders brush, brief, accidental, and neither of
them moves away.
Lucille wastes no time.
She digs in immediately,
fork moving with ruthless efficiency, shoveling one bite after
another as if the food might try to escape her if she slows. She
barely finishes swallowing before the next mouthful follows. Grease
smears her fingers. Crumbs dust the tray. It is not graceful. It is
survival.
Cain watches her with quiet
amusement, the corner of his mouth lifting as he takes a measured
bite of his own meal. He eats slowly, deliberately, cutting his food
cleanly, savoring each taste as if committing it to memory. There is
a calm to him that borders on ritual, every movement controlled,
restrained.
They have barely been
seated a minute when shadows fall across the table.
Boots scrape. Benches
shift.
Two cadets slide in across
from them, trays in hand. Both plates are stacked high, more than
Cain’s careful portions, but nowhere near Lucille’s mountainous
excess. One of the boys is broad and thick through the shoulders,
built like he was carved to absorb impact. The other is leaner,
longer-limbed, movements sharper, eyes constantly tracking the room.
Squad Tactics. Captain
Vale’s class.
The larger one does not
even set his tray down before he speaks. “Morning,” he says,
polite, measured, with a small, practiced smile.
Lucille slows, mid-bite.
She glances up at them, chewing, eyes wary, but she says nothing. She
never does when new attention finds her. She simply keeps eating,
watching them from beneath her lashes.
Cain inclines his head in
return. “Morning.”
Only then do the two cadets
sit.
They eat for a moment in
silence, the clatter of the hall filling the gap, until the larger
one clears his throat.
“Word’s going around,”
he says. “They might allow teams for the Final Exam.”
Cain’s hand pauses
briefly over his tray, then resumes its steady rhythm. “Rumors are
cheap,” he replies mildly.
The thinner boy leans
forward, elbows braced on the table. “Still,” he says, eyes
flicking between Cain and Lucille, “if it does happen…
we were wondering if we could run with you two.”
Lucille freezes.
Her fork stops halfway to
her mouth. Slowly, she lowers it back to her tray. Her eyes widen,
shock flickering openly across her face before she can hide it.
Confusion follows close behind.
With us?
No one asks to join her. No
one wants her on their side. She is used to being tolerated
at best, despised at worst. Cain is the exception, the anomaly she’s
learned to cling to because the rest of the world has never offered
her a place.
She glances at him,
searching his face, as if to confirm she didn’t mishear.
Cain looks back at the two
boys, expression neutral, though surprise flashes briefly in his eyes
before discipline shutters it away. “That’s… unexpected,” he
says. “Why us?”
The larger cadet shifts
slightly, shoulders tightening. The lean one scratches at his jaw,
both of them suddenly looking far less confident than they had a
moment ago.
Marcus Vala speaks first.
“Because you’re the best,” he says simply. “Both of you.”
Decimus Laeca nods quickly.
“Top of the class. Every drill. Every evaluation. You make the rest
of us look slow.”
Marcus exhales through his
nose. “And if the Academy’s going to throw us into something
lethal, I’d rather not have dead weight dragging me down.”
Decimus grimaces faintly.
“No offense,” he adds, though the words ring hollow. “But half
our class wouldn’t last five minutes. We need people who can keep
up. People who won’t break.”
His gaze flicks to Lucille,
then back to Cain. “That’s you two.”
Silence settles over the
table.
Lucille stares at them,
still stunned, the noise of the mess hall fading into a dull roar in
her ears. For the first time in a long while, she doesn’t know how
to react to being seen, not as a burden, not as a mistake, but as
something valuable.
Cain studies Marcus and
Decimus carefully, eyes sharp, weighing their words like blades in
his hand.
Lucille does not respond.
She only stares.
Her fork rests motionless
in her hand, food cooling on the metal tines as her gaze locks onto
Marcus, then Decimus. It is not a casual look. It is sharp, weighing,
almost predatory, an instinct honed by years of being watched for
weakness. Trust, for her, has never been given. It has only ever been
survived.
As far as she is concerned,
this could be a trick.
A setup. A way to get close
enough to undermine her when it matters most, to isolate her, to make
Cain vulnerable through her. She has seen it before. Smiles offered
like knives. Hands extended only to pull away at the worst possible
moment.
And yet it’s Marcus and
Decimus.
Captain Vale pairs them
together often. Drills. Live simulations. Close-quarters exercises
where hesitation gets you “killed” and betrayal shows
immediately. In those spaces, they’ve never failed her. Never
turned. Never hesitated when it counted.
But outside of class?
They have never sat with
her. Never spoken to her unless assigned. Never chosen her.
Lucille’s jaw tightens.
She keeps chewing slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving them.
Cain feels her tension
immediately.
He doesn’t rush to
answer. He leans back slightly, one arm resting along the table,
posture loose but alert. Inside, his mind is already moving, breaking
the problem apart into manageable pieces.
If teams are allowed, and
that is a significant if, then numbers matter. Coverage
matters. Endurance, overlapping fields of fire, shared
responsibility. Marcus is a bulwark. Decimus is quick, perceptive.
Together, they fill gaps Cain and Lucille can’t cover alone.
But trust is the currency
of survival. And trust, once misplaced, gets people killed.
He studies the two boys
carefully, searching for cracks, for ambition masquerading as
loyalty.
Marcus notices first.
He clears his throat,
setting his fork down. “Look,” he says, the polish fading from
his voice. “I get it. You don’t owe us anything.”
Decimus nods. “And I know
how this sounds,” he adds. “Like we’re hedging our bets.”
Lucille’s eyes narrow
slightly at that.
Decimus leans forward,
lowering his voice. “But we’ve run drills together. You know how
we operate.”
Marcus follows, his tone
earnest now. “Vale put us on your flank during the breach sim last
month. You remember what happened.”
Lucille does remember.
The corridor. The simulated
turret fire. The split second where her cover failed and the system
flagged her as exposed.
Decimus had moved without
thinking.
“He stepped in front of
you,” Marcus continues. “Took the hit. Would’ve been a
kill-shot in a real scenario.”
Decimus shrugs,
uncomfortable. “You were the objective. It made sense.”
Lucille’s grip tightens
around her fork.
Marcus exhales, then adds
quietly, “And Seraphine.”
That gets her attention.
“She was tampering with
your gear during prep,” Marcus says. “Thought she was being
subtle.”
Cain’s gaze sharpens.
“You stopped her?”
Marcus nods. “Hard. Vale
saw the aftermath. She got a warning. You never did.”
Silence stretches again.
Lucille’s thoughts churn,
unease warring with reluctant acknowledgment. Those weren’t rumors.
Those were facts. Things that happened when no one was watching.
Things that cost Marcus and Decimus nothing to ignore and something
to intervene.
She looks down at her tray,
at the half-eaten food she’s forgotten about.
Cain finally speaks. “If
we accept,” he says carefully, “there are conditions.”
Both boys straighten
immediately.
“No secrets,” Cain
continues. “No side deals. If this turns into a free-for-all, we
move as one or not at all.”
Decimus nods without
hesitation. “Agreed.”
Marcus mirrors him. “We
don’t break formation.”
Cain glances sideways at
Lucille.
The decision isn’t his
alone.
Lucille lifts her head
slowly. Her expression is guarded, but something in her eyes has
shifted, not trust, not yet, but consideration. She swallows, then
finally speaks, voice quiet but firm.
“If you betray us,” she
says, “you won’t get a second chance.”
The words are flat. Not a
threat. A statement of fact.
Marcus meets her gaze and
inclines his head. “Fair.”
Decimus echoes him.
“Wouldn’t expect one.”
Lucille exhales through her
nose and gives a small, reluctant nod. “Then… fine.”
Cain releases a breath he
hadn’t realized he was holding.
Around them, the mess hall
roars on, unaware that, at one table, lines have just been drawn that
may decide who walks out of the Final Exam alive.
