Freya woke to the gentle flicker of morning light seeping in through the dormitory curtains. She rubbed her eyes slowly, the grogginess still thick in her limbs. Her crystal-blue irises, a little duller than before, drifted to the cadet uniform folded neatly at the edge of the bed. Beside it sat the same old bag—half-packed and ready to go. Again.
She sighed. A long, tired one. The kind that felt like it came from her bones.
The hot shower she stepped into did little to wash away the fog in her head. She stood under the stream for too long, letting it run down her back, trying to squeeze clarity from steam. Stay or leave. Fight or flee. It wasn't as if she had anywhere else to go. And maybe that was reason enough to stay.
When she stepped out, she had made a quiet decision—not the final one, but something like a step. She would stay. For now. She wanted answers. And she'd need to be stronger to get them.
She dressed and made her way to the mess hall, grabbed a tray, and stared down at what barely resembled food. She took a bite, chewed slowly, then grimaced.
"Maybe leaving was a better option?" she muttered.
By the time she reached the open-air training grounds, morning drills had already started. Rows of cadets were already moving in rhythm, paired off or working under instructors' eyes. Freya slipped into the changing room, swapped her clothes for the combat set she was given along with her formal uniform, tied her hair back, and jogged out to join the session without a word.
In a quieter wing of the hospital, Daisy Brook stirred awake. The sterile scent told her where she was before her eyes opened: Reyna Carlton's medical cabin.
"Good morning," Reyna said curtly.
"Ah—good morning, Miss Reyna," Daisy replied, sheepish. She was already bracing herself for the scolding.
Reyna stared at her for a second. Then, coldly:
"Double shift from tomorrow."
Daisy winced. She understood what Reyna meant—if she was collapsing during missions, she lacked the stamina to manage her aether properly. The punishment fit. Like a scolded child, she simply nodded.
Reyna finished her checkup—blood pressure, aether levels, heartbeat.
"Normal… normal… normal," she muttered. "All good. You're good to go."
Daisy sat up and grabbed her coat.
As she reached the door. Reyna spoke again—this time without looking up.
"Good job on saving Derek."
She paused, startled by the rare praise—but didn't turn back. Instead, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she left to prepare for her next duty.
Later that morning, Daisy made her way toward the Smith training grounds. James was already deep in his routine, body soaked in sweat, muscles taut with exertion. His upper torso was bare—old bruises and fresh cuts on full display. He hadn't even tended to the injuries from yesterday. Of course he hadn't.
She sat down on the edge of the bench near the training pit just as five sparring personel circled around him.
It was a training match—but no one watching could tell. There were no slow drills or choreographed movements. Just raw momentum.
One came from behind, the other straight on. James ducked under the first strike, but the second caught him in the ribs. He grunted, turned, and countered with a hook to the jaw that sent the attacker sprawling. Another closed in, sweeping low—he fell and rolled, using the momentum to trip the opponent mid-step. A fourth rammed into his side, nearly lifting him off his feet, but James twisted with the hit and used his elbow to jab the man's temple.
The fifth attacker hesitated.
James was breathing hard now, a cut opening near his brow, sweat dripping from his jaw. The fifth rushed in, fists up, fast and precise. A jab to James's shoulder. Another to his ribs. He didn't block the hits this time—he took them. Then, when she pulled back, he moved. A feint. A sweep. And she was on the ground before she knew it.
He stood over her, panting. Not untouched. Not unhurt. But still standing.
When he turned to leave the ground, his steps were heavy. Bruised knuckles. Bruised ribs. Maybe even a pulled muscle.
Daisy was already opening her medical kit.
He walked over to Daisy, who sat waiting with her medical kit. She opened it wordlessly, dampened cotton in alcohol, and gently pressed it to his side.
James hissed. "Easy, doctor."
"You're pushing yourself too hard, James."
He smirked faintly. "Uh, yeah? And you're one to talk."
Daisy paused. She hadn't expected him to even know she'd been hospitalized. But she didn't press it. Instead, she worked in silence, bandaging his hands.
She handed him a small vial. "Drink this. It'll help with the bruising."
James took a sip, grimaced instantly. "A hundred men couldn't kill me, so they sent you with this poison?"
She rolled her eyes and handed him a candy. "Baby."
He looked down at his bandaged hands. "Can't open it."
She rolled her eyes, peeled the wrapper, and popped the candy into his mouth. His lips brushed her fingertips. He caught her gaze—sharp, intense—and then deliberately licked her finger before she could pull away.
Her face flushed crimson.
"I—I need to go," she stammered, snatching her hand back and turning away.
James chuckled quietly, leaning back on the bench, the sweetness still on his tongue.
Edmund sat alone in the study chamber, elbows resting on a desk scattered with open mission reports and hand-drawn maps. Morning light spilled in through the tall windows, catching the gold trim of his uniform and the strands of hair that had fallen over his eyes. Outside, the training fields echoed faintly with the sounds of drills—but in here, it was quiet. Too quiet.
He leaned forward, scanning the latest accounts from Luis and Desmond. Their words were precise but riddled with the same uncertainty. The enemy had been fast, cloaked, and coordinated. But what troubled him most was the consistent mention of something neither of them could name—an unidentified Aether presence. No element. No origin. Just a lingering sense of something... wrong.
That stuck with him.
He pressed his thumb into the edge of the report, thinking. If Dolphin had only been a pawn, then this faceless figure was something else entirely—stronger, smarter, more deliberate.
And it meant one thing: they knew far less about the Abyss than they thought.
He sat back, jaw tightening. How many more are out there?
His eyes narrowed at a name scribbled in the margins of Luis' report—half-legible, possibly a codename. It might've meant nothing. Or everything.
The flame inside him stirred, steady and cold.
They'd danced around the Abyss long enough. It was time to start pulling threads—and see who bled.
A knock broke the silence. The door creaked open before Edmund could respond.
Fredrick strolled in, holding a clipboard he clearly hadn't read, with a grin like he owned the room. "Important field update. Derek's conscious. Still ugly, but alive."
Edmund raised an eyebrow.
Fredrick continued, "Also, your newest cadet was spotted doing some very aggressive one-two, one-two punches on the training grounds. Looked like she was trying to beat the ground into confession."
Edmund let out a faint breath that might've been a smirk.
Fredrick tilted his head, as if remembering something vital. "Oh, and Reyna was also there, yelling at a few poor souls in the infirmary. Honestly, for a woman with such a scary voice, she's weirdly... attractive. Like—'kill me, mommy' energy, y'know what I mean?"
Edmund didn't answer. Just looked at him.
Fredrick raised both hands in surrender. "Right, yes, of course. Focus."
Edmund stood, finally, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape. "We might have to move."
Fredrick blinked. "Move? As in... mission time?"
Edmund nodded. "The Abyss is shifting. And we're flying blind. I need more than secondhand panic."
Fredrick rocked on his heels, popping the lollipop out of his mouth with a satisfying click. "You got a lead?"
"Desmond and Luis caught a glimpse of something. Just enough to give us a face—if we're lucky." Edmund's tone sharpened. "I want you to take a sketcher to them. Sit with the three of them. Piece together what you can."
Fredrick perked up. "Oh, if you want, I can—"
"No," Edmund cut in without looking up. "You can't even draw an apple."
Fredrick cut him off, dragging over a chair and dropping into it like a man returning from war. "Brother, I can draw an apple."
Edmund gave him a look.
Fredrick pointed with his lollipop. "Okay, sure, it looks like a potato that lost a fight—but it's got soul."
Edmund sighed, brushing his blond hair back, then lit a cigarette. Smoke curled upward, catching the sunlight like ghostly ribbon.
Fredrick eyed the overflowing ashtray. "You trying to meet God early... or challenge Him to a duel?"
Edmund let the smoke sit between his fingers. "Whichever gets me closer to the truth."
Fredrick gave a low whistle. "Damn. That's kinda poetic. You write that down somewhere?"
Edmund arched a brow.
Fredrick said, pushing himself up from the chair with a stretch. "Alright, I'll drag a sketcher down there and see if the boys can agree on a face. They better not all describe completely different faces again—last time I ended up with a sketch that looked like a haunted cabbage."
Edmund crushed the cigarette. "And this time, don't flirt with the nurses."
Fredrick gave a mock salute with his lollipop. "Noted. Strictly professional. No charm. Dead inside."
Edmund smirked. "Yes, do that. But first, we have to attend the oath ceremony."
They stepped out together, the door swinging shut behind them, and the light of afternoon spilled back into the study like the world was waiting.
Fredrick grinned, waving his lollipop like a tiny baton. "Oath ceremony? Ah yes, the annual reminder that we're all just professional statue impersonators."
Edmund was caught off guard. He scoffed lightly, pinching the bridge of his nose to hide the soft smile threatening to break through. Then he looked at Fredrick and said, "Not bad. That was actually good."
Fredrick straightened his collar with a smug grin, clearly basking in the praise. "Of course. Someone has to keep the wit alive around here."
As the cadets began dispersing, a familiar voice called out across the field:
"Freya Sinclair!"
Levi stood near the edge, arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face. "Don't vanish just yet, kid. We've still got that little oath business to wrap up."
He gestured loosely toward the barracks. "Go freshen up. I'll see you in forty—uniform on, boots polished, and try not to look like you wrestled a bear on the way."
With a wink, he added, "Make it quick, or I'll start the ceremony without you and have Fredrick take the oath in a wig."
Freya blinked. Fredrick?
Levi raised an eyebrow, amused. "You haven't met the man?"
She opened her mouth, then paused as a faint memory surfaced—the blur of someone's arms carrying her, a steady voice barking orders in the chaos.
"Oh…" she mumbled. "The guy who carried me to the hospital!"
Levi nodded. "That's our Fred. Big heart, bigger mouth. He'll talk your ear off and still find time to save your life. You'll like him—unless you don't like sarcasm, in which case… you'll hate both of us."
He winked. "Forty minutes, kid."
Freya stepped into the changing room and headed straight for the shower. As the warm water cascaded over her, she let her thoughts drift.
An oath, huh?
She imagined herself standing tall, hand raised forward beneath the spray.
"I, Freya Sinclair, solemnly pledge loyalty to the country of Stovia."
In her mind, she bowed deeply, as if being knighted, feeling the weight and honor of the promise settling over her.
She straightened her back suddenly, thinking—So I had made a decision to stay, huh. I really didn't know I'd have to make that decision just a few hours from softly deciding to go with the flow.
She closed the tap and changed into her uniform. The yellow tie sat perfectly against her crisp white shirt, the grey blazer a garment she'd never seen back in Mevelior. A long grey cape, fastened to one shoulder with a simple silver clasp, draped elegantly behind her, its weight a quiet reminder of the tradition she was stepping into. She smoothed a tiny crease on her mid-length grey skirt, a small act of control in an unfamiliar world.
Stepping out of the changing room, she found Levi standing nearby, puffing on a cigar—a post-work mandatory smoke, no doubt. He gave her a sly smile.
"Well, kid," he said, exhaling smoke like a seasoned warrior, "looking sharp enough to make the oath worth it."
Levi led the way, cigar smoke trailing behind him like a lazy cloud as they made their way toward the South Wing. The Hall of Oaths wasn't far, but Levi walked with a deliberate, relaxed pace—as if the weight of the world was nothing compared to the simple pleasure of a good smoke and better company.
"Now listen, kid," Levi began, flicking ash onto the ground, "the oath ceremony's one of those things everyone pretends is ancient and sacred—but really, it's just a fancy way to make sure you don't bolt before you learn to hold a sword."
Freya glanced at him, half-amused, half-nervous.
Levi chuckled. "Don't get me wrong. It's important. But I've seen more cadets freeze up here than on any battlefield. So just remember—stand tall, speak loud, and try not to trip on the way out."
He glanced down at her polished boots and grinned. "Judging by those, you've got the last part covered."
The South Wing's heavy doors loomed ahead, etched with the symbols of Stovia's long history—faded but still proud. Levi paused, knocking twice before pushing them open with a theatrical flourish.
"Well then," he said, stepping inside, "let's go make you a part of this circus."
The ceremony hall was simpler than one might expect for such a revered event.
Stone walls aged by time bore the scent of wax and old parchment. Rows of wooden pews lined the space. No gilded arches or enchanted lights. Just an arched ceiling, flickering lanterns, and a large, flat round table of stone at the center—its surface blackened and smooth from use, ringed with melted wax from generations of candles once lit and long since extinguished.
At its heart stood a statue of a gryphon, carved from dark grey stone—old, yet polished to a soft sheen. Its wings curled upward in stoic poise, its gaze fixed beyond the present, as if watching over not just the ceremony but the legacy it upheld. The air around it was still, but heavy. Not with magic—but with memory.
Despite the room's simplicity, it carried a weight. A silence that demanded reverence. For such an extraordinary ritual, the place was humble—but it held a presence that made one stand straighter. As if the walls themselves remembered the names, the oaths, and the sacrifices left behind.
A procession of footsteps echoed across the stone floor.
Edmund D. Smith, clad in his usual white suit. A cape of the same shade flowed behind him, pinned by golden epaulets. His blond hair was combed back cleanly, and he carried no emotion on his face. He didn't glance at anyone. He didn't need to.
He didn't rush. He didn't speak. He simply moved—and the room shifted to make space for him.
Behind him came Fredrick Ross, tall and clean in a black suit. His collar was fastened properly, tie straightened with care. No lopsided smile today. No hands in his pockets. He walked like a man honoring not tradition, but the memory of those who had fallen upholding it.
The crowd fell into a hush.
One by one, cadets stepped forward with their unlit candles and a small box of matchsticks. At the center of the hall, the flat-topped stone platform waited—silent, unchanged, eternal.
Each cadet knelt before the platform, lit their candle with a match, and set it onto the carved ring around the stone before raising their right hand to speak the oath.
Cassian Roe was first. He struck a match with swift confidence. The flame caught instantly. He lit his candle, placed it with reverence, then raised his hand and stood firm.
Maris Elowen followed. Her fingers trembled slightly as she sparked the match. A scar lined her jaw like a ghost from fire, but her resolve was unwavering.
Jude Varn—older, hardened—struggled with the wind, shielding the flame until it steadied. He set his candle down as though laying a blade to rest.
Then it was Freya's turn.
She stepped forward.
The hall held its breath.
She knelt, drew a match, and struck it.
Nothing.
Another—sputtered, hissed, died.
Third—flickered, caught for a second, then faded.
A fourth.
The flame finally bloomed, delicate and defiant. She brought it to the wick. The candle lit.
She exhaled.
But the moment her hands moved away—
The flame died.
Snuffed, as if by unseen fingers. No wind. No breath. Just... gone.
A murmur passed through the crowd.
Edmund did not react. He stood motionless, expression unreadable. Fredrick shifted slightly. Levi, far across the room, offered her a quiet nod. Not pity—just endurance.
Then it came:
A sound.
A bell.
Faint. Hollow. Ringing from nowhere—and everywhere. It wasn't loud, but it struck deep, reverberating through bone.
Freya's head twitched to the side, her eyes darting.
No one else moved.
No one else had heard it.
But her reaction—the way she searched the air for a sound no one else acknowledged—was enough.
Fredrick noticed.
And Edmund, still silent, now watched her with sharp, probing stillness.
Hale made no comment. He stepped forward.
"Let us begin the oath."
The cadets, one by one, raised their hands and began the words—firm, unified:
"By blood, by fire, by aether's bond,
I swear my life to the Corps,
My will to the Crown.
I stand where others once stood,
My hand on stone, my flame alight.
I bind myself to duty and death,
To protect what I must,
To fight when I must,
To rise, even if alone.
My strength is not my own—
It belongs to the Corps,
To the people,
To the fallen who made this oath before me.
No retreat, no surrender,
Until my final breath.
Let my name be worthy of theirs."
Then Hale stepped before her.
In his gloved hands, he held a woven armband—black and silver, its threading fine, deliberate, and unmistakably ceremonial. At its center gleamed the golden gryphon of Stovia, wings outstretched, claws bared, a royal crown of red-gemmed gold suspended above its head.
It was more than cloth.
This was a piece of Stovia's flag itself—or at least fashioned in its exact likeness. Black, bold, and unyielding, to remind them of the strength carved through centuries of unseen trials. A band of crimson red ran through the center, represented here in fine stitchwork—a symbol of the blood spilled to defend their borders, and the sacrifice required to uphold them.
The gryphon, lion-bodied and eagle-winged, gleamed under the light. It was the nation's dual soul—ferocity of the earth, vigilance of the skies. Nobility and warrior spirit, entwined.
The crown above it wasn't stitched as a decoration—it was a declaration. That only those who bore strength and sacrifice were worthy of legacy.
Encasing the emblem, thin gold embroidery traced a frame like a shield, and within it danced runes so old few could read them. Glyphs from a forgotten empire, said to be the oaths of the first monarchs—the ones who bled Stovia into being.
When Hale stepped forward and began to tie it around Freya's arm, he did so with a weight that could be felt.
Three knots. Firm. Unflinching.
"One for duty," he said. The first pull was tight.
"One for strength." The second made her fingers twitch.
"And one for sacrifice." The last was final—like a lock.
It wasn't magic that flared in that moment, but meaning.
Then, solemn and unblinking, Hale spoke the ancient words. The old tongue, carried through generations like a vow too heavy to forget:
"Velin grivash i tarnovek, velin krovna i bralvek — Strovya zholti odrin."
Through gryphon and crown, through blood and vow — Stovia stands eternal.
No fanfare followed. No applause. Just silence. A silence carved from reverence, and maybe, for her—warning.
Freya stepped back into place, steady on the outside, but something off-beat inside her pulse.
At the front of the hall, Edmund stood tall—black-clad and motionless. His eyes moved from face to face, taking in every cadet, sharp and thorough. But when his gaze landed on her, it lingered. Long enough to make her aware of every breath she took.
Then he spoke, his voice calm and composed, the kind that didn't need to rise to be heard.
"Your names are now part of the record. Your oaths, bound in the stone.
You carry Stovia's mark—not only on your arm, but in your will.
May your service be clear. And your return, honored."
A slight dip of his head. No smile. No final ceremony. Just a breath of silence.
Then cadets began to move. Shuffling out. Whispering.
Freya stayed still—zoned out in overthinking and embarrassment.
Her candle hadn't caught flame.
She heard a bell no one else happened to hear.
She had been feeling like she was being watched. Followed. Constantly.
She'd just ended up in Stovia—and she didn't even know why.
What happened after Robert died?
Why couldn't she remember?
The nightmares… they were getting stranger.
More vivid.
Like something was trying to speak through them.
Her hand twitched at her side.
Am I losing my mind?
She didn't move.
Didn't notice the cadets dispersing.
Didn't see Edmund still watching her from the front of the hall—until she finally looked up.
And found his eyes, steady. Focused. Unreadable.
Maybe his gaze was a mix of things.
Or maybe nothing at all.
Maybe he was judging her.
Maybe he pitied her.
Maybe it was concern.
Only he knew.
Everyone else had gone. She hadn't moved an inch.
Then—
"Freya!"
Fredrick's voice cracked the silence like a pebble to glass.
He jogged up, beaming.
"You probably don't remember me—Fredrick. Officially—welcome.
He offered his hand with so much warmth and confidence it left no room for hesitation. She took it, stunned into a weak shake. His grin was too bright to be anything but genuine.
Something inside her eased—just a notch.
Behind them, the great doors opened without fanfare.
Edmund turned and strode out.
His cape flowed behind him like ink in water.
Silent. Precise.
He never looked back.
But she felt it—
His gaze still lingered.
Somehow.
As the doors closed behind him, Edmund walked the long, familiar corridor to his usual silent spot—a shadowed bench tucked between the columns outside the ceremony hall.
With each step, the tightness in his chest pressed deeper.
He loosened his tie, yanked open the stiff collar button, and without hesitation, undid the silver buttons on his cuffs. Rolling the sleeves up to his elbows, he reached for the epaulet pin that held his ceremonial cape in place. He unhooked it and let the fabric drop onto the bench without care.
He rarely let his whites touch the stone.
Today, he didn't give a damn.
Sliding down onto the bench, he pulled out a worn cigarette pack from his pocket and his lighter from the other. With a flick, a small flame came to life. He cupped it, lit the cigarette, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The first inhale cut sharp through his lungs.
With a tired hand, he ran his fingers through his neatly combed hair and tugged it loose, letting it fall messily over his forehead.
A memory blinked across his mind, uninvited.
That same hall. That same candle.
His.
The flame had lit clean. Steady. No flicker. No resistance.
And it meant nothing.
Even with all the legacy behind his name, even with every piece in place—he was average.
Mediocre.
He had felt it, too. The bell.
A strange, foreign sound that echoed from nowhere—sharp and cold.
His eyes had shifted in the room—subtle, almost imperceptible. He was good at that. Emotions belonged buried.
After the ceremony, he'd approached Hale.
"The bell. What was it?"
Hale had raised an eyebrow, paused too long.
"You heard it?"
A nod. No more.
"It's said to be a sign. Misfortune. Hardship. Even death, if you believe old whispers."
Before Edmund could ask more, Levi had appeared behind him, scoffing.
"Don't feed the kid ghost stories," he said—respectfully, of course—pulling Edmund away.
But the bell had stayed with him.
And over time, so did the symptoms. The shaking hand. The exhaustion he couldn't quite explain. The weight he carried in silence.
Maybe the stories were just stories.
Maybe they weren't.
He exhaled a long, thin stream of smoke.
"Tch…"