'Do you know how much pain you caused me?'
She didn't scream it.
Didn't say it.
But it surged behind every strike. Every breath.
She'd bled for a cause that had already begun to rot. She'd fought beside people who'd sooner let her die than admit she belonged. She'd earned every inch of her standing with cracked ribs and bruised pride and a sword that never, ever stopped moving.
And he—the one who taught her to move like that—left.
'Do you even think about what happened because of your actions?'
She circled him now, blade steady, footwork sure. She didn't hesitate—not because she trusted him.
But because she had stopped waiting for people to come back.
Lucavion pivoted, reading her movement. His form—clean, close, defensive.
He wasn't striking.
He was studying.
Still treating her like a cadet.
Still watching her learn.
And it broke something loose in her chest.
That old hurt.
That old fire.
He never saw what she became.
Jesse's jaw locked.
