Chapter 7:
Kael felt steadier after his time alone. The ache of Seren's absence still gnawed at him, but he found comfort in the remnants of her voice echoing faintly in his mind. He couldn't see her face, couldn't picture the lines of her smile or the warmth of her eyes—but the sound of her voice, the rhythm and cadence of her love, remained. That was enough for now. Enough to keep him from falling apart.
Morning light trickled through the cracks of the underground prison's surface vents. The rebellion's base stirred around him—boots scuffed across stone, voices called out orders, and the occasional clang of metal on metal echoed like a heartbeat underground.
Kael tightened the black robe around his shoulders and stepped out into the hall, Seren's sword slung at his hip. He needed to be ready. He couldn't keep relying on his voice to solve everything-not when it came at the cost of everything he was trying to protect. He needed to train. He needed to become more than just a Whisperer.
"Kael!"
Sylas appeared at the corridor's end, smiling warmly. His familiar presence eased something in Kael's chest.
"Hope you're feeling a bit better today," Sylas said, arms folded loosely as he walked toward him.
Kael nodded, offering a faint but sincere smile. "Much better this morning. Just needed to clear my head."
Sylas was close in age, sharp-minded, and—unlike most others—unfazed by Kael's power. He hadn't flinched, hadn't avoided him. That made a difference. It made him feel less like a danger, more like a person.
"You wouldn't happen to have an area to train, would you?" Kael asked.
Sylas grinned. "What kind of rebellion would we be if we didn't? Come on, I'll show you."
They headed toward a reinforced door tucked to the right of the briefing chamber. Just as they reached it, Thorne exited the room, intercepting them.
"Kael. Good morning," he said, his voice full of calm authority.
"Good morning, sir."
"Off to do some training, huh?" Thorne motioned to the sword. "May I?"
Kael unsheathed the blade and passed it over carefully. Thorne took it in both hands, tilting it slightly to let the dull underground light run along its edge.
"Seren's blade," he murmured.
"I found it in a chest in her room. I didn't even know she had it... not until—"
"You don't have to finish that," Thorne said, his voice quiet. "It's in good hands now. She was a demon with this thing—fast, precise. Like the wind turned sharp."
He returned the blade, and for a moment, Kael saw something soften in his expression. A memory, maybe. A moment lost to time.
"After you're done, I've got a task for you. Sylas, you too. Come find me in about an hour," Thorne said, then added with a slight grin, "Rowan's in the training room now. Tell him I said he's got the pleasure of training you."
Kael winced inwardly. "Great," he muttered under his breath.
"Shall we?" Sylas said, gesturing toward the door.
Inside, the training room was a haphazard mix of scavenged parts and makeshift dummies. It smelled of sweat, dust, and old iron. Rowan was already sparring with another soldier, his movements sharp and calculated. His shirt was open at the collar, proudly showing the scar on his chest—whether as a warning or a trophy, Kael couldn't decide.
Rowan dispatched his opponent with a clean leg sweep, then pinned the blade at the man's throat. He smiled as he helped the man to his feet. But when he turned and saw Kael, the smile faded.
"Thorne ordered you to train me," Kael said, stepping onto the mat.
"Is that so?" Rowan replied flatly. "Go grab a practice blade."
Kael did as he was told, taking up one of the dulled wooden swords resting on a rack nearby. It felt foreign in his hands—heavier than he expected, unbalanced.
"How much do you know about swordplay?" Rowan asked.
"Nothing."
"Then listen closely." Rowan stepped in front of him. "The sword is not a tool. Not a weapon. It's an extension of your body. Where your hand goes, it should already be. If you treat it like something separate, it will betray you."
Kael nodded and gripped the hilt with both hands.
"Now, come at me."
Kael hesitated. Then he rushed forward with a stab. Rowan parried it effortlessly. Another thrust. A slash. Every attempt was blocked with ease, as if Kael were moving in slow motion.
"Tool or extension?" Rowan asked coldly.
Kael didn't respond. Frustration boiled inside him. His voice began to rise in his chest like a reflex.
"Stand sti—"
Before the command finished, Rowan struck. A swift blow to the face sent Kael sprawling to the floor. He clutched his cheek, stunned. The sting of pain echoed through his bones.
"You rely too much on your voice," Rowan said, looming over him. "You have tenacity, I'll give you that. But tenacity won't save you from losing everything to that curse you carry."
He wiped his blade clean with a towel and tossed it onto a nearby hook.
"We are doing this again tomorrow morning, and the next day until you learn the discipline needed to master the sword."
Rowan left the room without looking back.
Sylas knelt beside Kael, helping him sit up.
"You, my friend, are ruthless," he joked, shaking his head. "Good thing Rowan's leagues ahead of you. At least for now."
Kael groaned but managed a smirk. Rowan was harsh, but something had shifted in that exchange. Kael wasn't sure what, but it felt like the beginning of a very long road.
After cleaning up, Kael parted ways with Sylas to return to his quarters. But on the way, he spotted someone in the corridor.
Lira.
She looked exhausted, her cloak dusted with travel. Her eyes were heavy, but when she saw Kael, she smiled faintly. Even in fatigue, she carried beauty like it was stitched into her bones.
"Lira," Kael said, stepping closer. "Can we talk?"
She nodded. "Come to my room."
Her quarters were as bare and practical as his—only the essentials, nothing more. Kael glanced around as she shut the door behind them.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
Instead of answering, Lira said, "You look... different. More confident."
Kael scratched the back of his head. "I've just had a lot to think about."
"I didn't mean to fluster you," she said.
"You didn't," he said. "I just don't always know what to say around you."
She tilted her head. "Why not?"
"Because I've realized how fragile everything is. How easy it is to lose something… or someone." He paused. "Every time I use my voice, I lose memories. And I'm scared, Lira. Scared that one day I'll forget the way you talk to me. The way you look at me. I'm scared I'll forget you."
Lira didn't speak. Instead, she stepped forward, cupped his face gently in her hands, and kissed him.
Soft. Honest. Real.
When they pulled apart, she looked into his eyes, searching them like she was memorizing him.
"Then we'll just make more memories," she whispered.
Kael's heart thundered in his chest. In that moment, everything else—the pain, the power, the rebellion—faded.
They kissed again, slower this time.
Then a knock came at the door.
Lira stepped away to open it. Sylas stood there, eyes wide, clearly catching on.
"I-uh—clearly interrupted something," he said awkwardly. "But, Kael, we need to see Thorne now."
Kael rose slowly, his cheeks flushed. Lira smiled and touched his arm.
"Go. I'll see you again."
He nodded. "Soon."
As he walked past Sylas, the man gave him a crooked grin.
"First kiss, huh?"
"Shut up," Kael muttered, but couldn't help the grin on his face.
Together, the two now seemed to be forging a strong bond and friendship. This was truly the happiest Kael had felt in a long time.