Dawn had barely broken, casting a pale grey hue over the towering glass buildings at the edge of the city.
Cael stood on the balcony, a cooling cup of black coffee resting in his hand. His eyes lingered on a distant yet well-guarded building—modest on the outside, but layered with the kind of high-level defense that only someone in his position could authorize.
That's where she lived now.
Where he had arranged for her to stay.
Helya.
The attack from last night was still playing out in his mind like a looped transmission.
He remembered the way the assailant emerged from the shadows, swift and silent. And how she—Helya—arrived just in time, her blade glinting under the faint light, cleanly and efficiently ending the fight.
It had looked like coincidence.
Felt like something else.
But it wasn't just her timing that stayed with him.
It was her expression afterward.
There had been a flicker—no, a flash—of something that didn't match the rest of her. Not fear. Not even surprise.
Just… unease.
The kind of unease that comes from walking too close to secrets.
Cael didn't trust easily. He couldn't afford to, not as the Supreme Commander of the Republic. The weight of the uniform, the rank, the role—it taught him to spot cracks in silence, read intentions in breathing patterns.
Still, he couldn't ignore one fact:
That knife wasn't meant for her. And she stopped it anyway.
Last night, his AI assistant had picked up faint traces of magic radiating from her—nothing threatening, but layered, unfamiliar. The system had automatically compiled a detailed action report. It was sitting in his inbox now, ready for review.
He hadn't opened it.
Instead, he closed the page without a word.
He didn't want to know.
—
Helya leaned back into the chair, staring at the ceiling of her new residence.
The lights were bright, white, and emotionless—like everything else in this hyper-rational city of steel and glass.
She hadn't wanted to move in here, but Cael had arranged it personally. She couldn't refuse—not without raising suspicion. She played her role: the dutiful fiancée. The obedient guest.
The attack last night hadn't been part of her plan. But it offered her an unexpected opportunity.
She saved him. Not out of loyalty. Not even out of kindness.
Just to bury the fact that she wasn't in her room when the attack began.
Her reason for being out? She couldn't very well say she'd "wanted some fresh air." That would break the carefully constructed persona her cover depended on.
But the truth was simpler than any lie:
She just wanted to breathe.
She had stepped out into the night to see the city, to feel what life looked like outside of expectations, outside of surveillance and missions.
She never expected to find him bleeding, alone, targeted.
She never expected to reach for her blade.
—
Somewhere deeper in the city, two shadowed channels established a secure transmission line.
A middle-aged man from the Magic Kingdom whispered through the encrypted channel:
"She's safer now that she's close to him. Last night's 'assassination'—call it both a warning and a protection."
On the other end, a cold voice replied. A security official from the Republic.
"Our system is scrubbing the surveillance logs. No one's asking questions."
"We share the same objective," the magic operative said. "Keep Cael from suspecting her."
"He already does," came the quiet reply. "But he hasn't acted on it."
There was a brief silence, then the man from the Magic Kingdom chuckled.
"Then she's already begun to matter to him."
—
Morning crept in with a chill.
Cael returned to the couch in his office. The inbox notification blinked at him again.
Still, he didn't open the report. He just stared at the empty screen.
Then, quietly—almost to himself—he said:
"Who are you, Helya?"
There was no accusation in his voice anymore.
Only a weariness.
And a question that, for now, had no answer.