The broom sat awkwardly in Freya's hand.
She swept in slow, even strokes, the coarse bristles whispering across polished stone floors. No one acknowledged her. No one needed to.
She wasn't a cadet. Not really.
Not after he said it.
"If this is the best you've got, try the janitor's wing. We don't waste uniforms on garbage."
The words echoed louder than any shout. Louder than bone snapping beneath his boot.
So here she was.
No uniform. No purpose. Just a broom in hand and silence at her feet.
Cadets passed her in the halls, their glances sharp with curiosity or pity. A few sneered. Most didn't bother.
Freya kept her head down.
She swept.
She didn't care what they thought. They didn't know her. And she didn't know them. All that mattered was surviving long enough to find a way out. Not through power or privilege—she had neither. But maybe through coins. Favors. Quiet observation. Anything that could help her get out.
Food. Clothes. A map. A ride to Mevelior.
She wasn't unfamiliar with cleaning. Back home in Mevelior, she'd done it often—out of love, not duty. Robert Sinclair would try to stop her every time, saying, "You're not meant for this," before stubbornly doing the chores himself, even if his back was killing him.
He raised her like a princess. Never spoiled, but never treated like someone who had to scrub tiles either.
She hadn't minded doing it then.
Now?
It made her stomach twist.
This wasn't home. This was humiliation. The kind people didn't say out loud—but made sure you felt anyway.
She turned a corner and paused by the mission board. It stood pinned with official parchment—minor missions, public notices, transport shifts. Low-tier postings. She scanned the names.
Freya Sinclair – Pending Clearance
She stared at the words a second longer than she meant to.
Then she resumed her cleaning.
The library was quiet, almost sacred in its stillness. Freya swept between the shelves, careful not to disturb the scholars murmuring over maps and mission logs. Her eyes wandered more than her hands. Every time a back was turned, she studied the room—the records, the drawers, the filing systems.
She slipped toward the geography wing. A world map sat folded beside a crate of ledgers. She unfurled it quickly.
There—in the northeast corner: Mevelior.
And to the southwest of Mevelior: Stovia.
Suddenly, sharp heels tapped the floor behind her. She froze.
The librarian. Early thirties. Tall, strict. The kind of man who didn't raise his voice—he didn't need to.
He stopped at a nearby table where cadets were laughing too loud. Without a word, he pointed at one. Then another. Then the third. One by one, he flicked his fingers toward the door.
Dismissed.
Then his gaze landed on Freya.
She tensed, quickly crumpling the map in her hand.
"Sorry. It was fallen down," she said, defensive.
He raised a finger to his lips—quiet.
She gave a stiff nod and returned the map.
She resumed her cleaning.
Near the corner, under the newspaper rack, her broom bumped against rusted steel. She crouched, reaching underneath—then froze.
Disaster in the Outlaw Country of Mevelior.
The headline was bold. Brutal.
She scanned the lines.
"Over 200 civilian lives lost following an unexplained incident near Mevelior's port. Among the dead: the criminal known as Dolphin. Witnesses report smoke, fire, and sudden darkness. Cause unknown."
Freya gripped the rack.
So it was true. The rumors. The whispers. Her home was gone.
Later, she found herself standing outside the glass-sealed training room. Her broom forgotten, hands pressed to the transparent wall.
Below, a cadet stood alone on the field. Sleeves rolled. Muscles taut. Focus razor-sharp.
He lifted an arm.
A spark ignited.
Then lightning cracked through the air, arcing into a shape—a whip.
It sizzled with power. With will.
Freya watched, breath held.
"Do I have what they have?" she whispered.
"...Aether?"
She stared at her fingers like they belonged to someone else.
Above her, half-concealed by the balcony's shade, Edmund D. Smith watched quietly. He didn't blink. He didn't move. He'd been there longer than she realized.
"So much for the prophecy," he muttered to himself.
Then—
"Creepy," came Fredrick Ross's voice, a lollipop between his lips, like he'd been there the whole time. "You know, from this angle, you kinda look like a guy wondering if she's your type or your next regret."
Edmund didn't flinch. "She's useless."
"She's untapped," Fred corrected, leaning on the railing beside him. "You said the same thing about me once. I cried for three hours."
"She can't fight. No aether. Emotionally unstable. She shouldn't even be here."
Fredrick gave him a side-eye. "Then why is she?"
Edmund didn't answer.
Fredrick smirked. "Thought so."
Edmund was about to walk away when Fred casually added, "Oh, heads up. A rescue team's out. Violet put it together earlier. Something urgent came up with a mission, she routed the brief through me to get to you."
"You didn't deliver it."
"You were busy brooding. Didn't want to interrupt the 'dark prince gazing dramatically from the shadows' thing."
Edmund sighed. "She's not worth the time."
"Then why are you still watching?"
A pause.
"Get Levi to send her the uniform," Edmund said flatly. "Have it waiting in her dorm. She starts group training tomorrow."
Fredrick smirked. "Wow. Looks like someone's gone soft." He cleared his throat and mimicked Edmund's voice in a dramatic growl: "If this is the best you've got, try the janitor's wing. We don't waste uniforms on garbage."
Edmund's eye twitched.
Fredrick grinned. "Just saying. You don't glare at mop girls unless something's bothering you."
"She either survives it, or washes out." Edmund said flatly
"okay?"
Edmund turned his back. "Keep an eye on her. I'm done wasting my time."
Fredrick watched him go, the lollipop tilting in his mouth.
Then Edmund stopped.
"You failed your mission."
Fredrick smile faltered—just slightly.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "I know."
Fredrick didn't move from the railing for a while after Edmund left. The sugar in his lollipop had turned sharp in his mouth. His fingers tapped against the railing—once, twice—before falling still.
Below, Freya had already gone.
Her shift had ended. She'd returned the cleaning equipment to the supply wing, the mop handle still damp from use, the bucket's wheels squeaking on stone. No one acknowledged her on the way out.
She headed to the quartermaster's post to collect her wage—barely enough to cover anything, but still better than leaving empty-handed. The old man behind the desk didn't even look up as he slid a few coins across the counter.
Freya pocketed the money without replying. Her hands felt rough. Her back ached. And somewhere, under it all, a cold hollowness kept spreading.
She stepped outside. The sun was lower now. The sky ambered at the edges.
She stood there for a while, coins clenched in her fist, like they might become something more if she just held on hard enough.
But they didn't.
They never did.
She walked aimlessly at first, letting the facility guide her. The cold walls. The wide, endless corridors. All of it felt too big for someone like her. Too polished. Too pristine.
She wandered past the open-air gym.
Cadets were training in clusters—grappling, lifting, sparring under the setting sun. Their shouts and laughter echoed, fists slamming into training dummies, aether flaring in vibrant bursts of color and heat. Every movement seemed sure. Every stance practiced.
Freya lingered at the edge, eyes scanning them.
They looked like they belonged.
She didn't.
A sharp pressure bloomed in her chest. Her fists clenched at her sides.
I'll never be like them.
Without realizing it, she found herself outside the facility walls, stepping into the buzzing town beyond. The streets were alive with chatter and movement—dozens of stalls lined the avenues, their bright fabrics fluttering in the cool evening breeze. The air was thick with mingled scents: roasted meats, fresh bread, spiced fruits, and the smoky tang of cooking fires.
Her gaze settled on a small leather shop. The worn bags displayed outside caught her eye—scuffed, faded, but sturdy. She pressed a few coins into the shopkeeper's hand and bought the oldest leather bag she could afford. It smelled faintly of earth and sweat, but to her, it was a treasure.
Next, she stopped at a food vendor and purchased a simple loaf of bread and a few dried fruits—the only food she could afford for the journey ahead.
With the bag slung over her shoulder and the modest meal in hand, she melted back into the crowd, feeling like a ghost drifting through a world she wasn't made for.
On her way back, Freya wandered toward the cozy little restaurant nestled between the barracks and the infirmary—the one Daisy practically ran most evenings.
This time of day, she was usually there. Cooking. Humming. Shuffling between stoves and cadets like it was her second heartbeat.
But tonight, the space felt… off.
The usual scent of simmering broth and sweet bread hung in the air, but the kitchen window was dark. A single cadet manned the counter, looking bored and undertrained. No familiar ocean-blue eyes. No crisp voice asking, "Did you wash your hands before touching my plates?"
Freya lingered at the doorway, eyes scanning every corner.
Nothing.
She leaned over slightly to glance toward the back kitchen, where Daisy usually bossed around the part-timers. Empty.
There was no note. No scribbled menu in her handwriting. No trace at all.
Daisy hadn't said anything before leaving. No warning. No explanation.
Freya stepped back, her fingers brushing the door frame as she turned to leave.
Nice people don't owe you anything, she reminded herself.
And yet, somehow, it still stung.
Her footsteps felt heavier on the walk back than they did coming in.
By the time she reached her dorm, the sky outside had begun to shift—purple bleeding into orange.
She moved to the corner where her few belongings sat. A leather bag. One change of clothes. A necklace from Mevelior—cheap, but hers. A paper scrap with a name she couldn't read anymore and some food.
It didn't take long to pack.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her bag beside her, her eyes locked on the window as night folded over the sky.
She hadn't decided where she'd go yet.
But she had decided this: if tomorrow meant becoming one of them, then maybe she wasn't meant for tomorrow at all.