Nerissa walked with me.
Not in front like a guard. Not behind like a shadow. Beside me—just close enough that the city didn't feel like it was swallowing me whole.
The guild was still loud behind us. Even when we'd already crossed half the street, I could hear the fading roar of adventurers, the clink of mugs, the careless laughter of people who didn't know what it meant to have a brand on your heart.
My bundle tugged at my shoulder. The sling pulled at my neck. Every step made my cut throb, like my body was counting time in pain.
Nerissa didn't talk much. That was her kindness.
She matched my pace without making it obvious. When I slowed, she slowed. When I clenched my jaw too hard, she didn't ask what I was thinking.
We passed the market district where the air smelled like fried oil and cheap spice. Then we slipped into narrower streets—houses pressed closer together, windows smaller, people quieter. The stones underfoot changed from well-kept to cracked. The city's polished face peeled away with every turn.
I stared ahead, trying to keep my breathing steady the way Ash drilled into me.
In. Out. Don't panic.
My mind kept trying to reach backward—toward the guild master's door, toward that last line: no longer my disciple.
I forced it forward instead.
Myrina.
Nerissa glanced at me once. Her eyes were calm, but sharp enough to notice everything I didn't say.
"You know where it is?" she asked.
"Yeah," I answered. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "I… didn't forget."
Nerissa hummed softly. Not judgment. Just acknowledgment.
We walked in a silence that wasn't empty. It was a shared quiet, the kind you get when someone sits beside you during a storm instead of telling you the rain isn't real.
By the time my house came into view, the sky had darkened toward evening. The street was thin and still. The building sat there like it had been waiting, unchanged, as if the last few weeks hadn't happened at all.
The door looked the same.
That was the cruel part.
***
The latch didn't want to open.
I fumbled with the key one-handed, fingers stiff from bandages. The metal scraped. The wood resisted. My shoulder ached.
Nerissa didn't rush me. She only stood slightly behind and to the side, giving me space like this was something I had to do myself.
Finally, the lock gave with a reluctant click.
When I pushed the door in, stale air rolled out like a sigh.
Dust. Old cloth. A faint smell of cold ash from the hearth.
The inside was dim, moonlight leaking through gaps in the shutters and laying thin silver lines across the floor.
For a moment, I stood in the doorway like I was trespassing.
It looked familiar, but it didn't feel like mine anymore.
I stepped inside anyway.
The floor creaked under my weight. The sound echoed too loudly in the empty room.
Nerissa paused at the threshold.
"Well," she said gently, hands folded in front of her. "You made it."
I nodded, throat tight.
I wanted to say something meaningful. Something like thank you that sounded like more than a word.
But all I managed was, "Yeah."
Nerissa smiled—small, warm, real.
"Rest," she said. "And… don't try to be brave in stupid ways."
I let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh, but my side stung at the thought and I stopped myself.
"I'll try," I said.
Nerissa turned to leave, then paused as if remembering something important.
She glanced back at me. Her voice softened.
"If you need meals," she said, practical as ever, "come to the guild. Don't be proud about that."
A beat.
"And if you need anything else," she added quietly, "you ask. You don't have to carry everything alone."
My chest tightened—not from the oath, not from doubt. Just from hearing someone say that.
"Okay," I whispered.
Nerissa gave me one last nod and walked away down the street, her steps light and steady until the corner swallowed her.
Warm goodbye.
Then only silence remained.
I closed the door.
The sound of it shutting was dull, final.
And suddenly I was alone with my own breathing.
***
I set my bundle down and stood there, listening.
No guild noise. No footsteps outside. No voices in the next room.
Just the settling wood and the faint whistle of wind through cracks.
I found a candle stub on the table—short, bent, cheap. I lit it with a trembling match. The flame flickered weakly, but it pushed back the dark enough to make shapes feel less threatening.
My home came into view piece by piece.
A chair with a loose leg.
A table scarred from old cuts.
A corner where Myrina used to sit and read scraps of paper like they were books.
My throat tightened.
I walked to that corner without thinking, then stopped.
The floorboards there still had a faint scuff mark—like a chair had been dragged back and forth a thousand times.
I stared at it longer than I should have.
For a heartbeat, I could almost hear her voice.
Stop staring, Trey. Eat something.
My lips twitched.
The movement pulled at my side, and pain flared sharp enough to remind me I was not allowed to soften yet.
I hissed quietly and sat down on the bed instead, careful and slow. My sling shifted. My left arm hung heavy and wrong, numb in a way that felt like it didn't belong to me.
I exhaled and tried to do something practical, something that didn't involve memory.
I untied my coin pouch and poured the coins into my palm.
14 copper. 78 iron.
The numbers didn't change just because I wished they would.
I stared at them and felt my stomach sink.
Not enough for comfort.
Not enough for safety.
Not enough for long.
Food is expensive.
Nerissa's voice echoed, and my pride tried to rise—then my body crushed it immediately with a dull ache.
I gathered the coins back into the pouch and tied it carefully, as if neatness could turn them into more.
As I moved my bedding to make space, my fingers brushed something thin.
Paper.
I pulled it out.
A small scrap, creased and worn—my own clumsy handwriting across it, copied from drills I never thought I'd need outside the training room.
Breathe. Feet. Centerline. Don't panic.
Ash's voice lived inside those words.
I stared at the paper until my vision blurred slightly.
Then I folded it and tucked it into my pouch like it was worth more than my coins.
Because it was.
***
Night settled deeper.
The candle burned down slowly, dripping wax like time leaking away.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling, and waited for sleep.
It didn't come.
My body was exhausted, but my mind kept circling the same sharp points like a tongue touching a broken tooth.
Vonel.
Bevesville.
A village destroyed.
A Vonel knight there at night.
The oath on my heart.
The guild master's warning.
Myrina.
I tried not to think too hard. Tried to keep everything simple.
I have a path.
I have a chance.
I will take it.
But my mind drifted anyway, pulled toward questions like gravity.
What if Theopard is right?
What if Vonel—
Heat stabbed over my heart.
A warning sting—sharp, sudden, unmistakable.
I sucked in a breath and slapped my palm against my chest, teeth clenched.
Not the killing burn.
Not yet.
A brand pressed from the inside, reminding me of the rule.
Don't doubt.
Don't question the master of the vow.
The heat faded, but it left behind something colder than fear.
Humiliation.
Even my thoughts were being watched.
Even my doubt had a leash.
I swallowed hard and forced my mind away before it could trigger the warning again.
Myrina.
That name was safe.
That name was my reason.
I repeated it silently until the tightness in my chest eased.
Then I turned onto my side carefully.
My cut pulled.
Pain flared along my bandages.
Real pain—honest pain, not magic.
***
My stomach growled.
Loud enough that it felt insulting in the quiet room.
I stared at the ceiling for a moment, then sat up with a slow, controlled motion.
There was no food in the house. Not anymore.
I had been gone too long.
My gaze drifted to the side of my bundle, where one box sat tucked beneath cloth.
The sweets.
The ridiculous noble sweets I'd carried out of the Vonel estate like a prize.
I pulled the box closer and opened it.
Even in candlelight, the desserts looked unreal—carefully shaped, neatly arranged, still elegant despite the rough trip home.
Chocolate. Cookies. Little pastries.
They didn't belong here.
I took a small piece and ate it slowly.
It melted on my tongue, sweet and rich, like comfort.
And then it tasted wrong, because it came from hands that had chained my heart.
I swallowed anyway.
Food was food.
A second bite, smaller.
My stomach eased.
I closed the box again and leaned back, staring at the dim room.
I thought of Nerissa's line—don't be proud about meals.
My pride tried to protest.
Then my coin pouch reminded me of reality.
Tomorrow, I'd go back.
Not to beg. Not to cry.
Just to survive.
Just to keep moving.
I lay back down and closed my eyes, holding the scrap of drill paper in my pouch like it could steady my sleep.
It didn't.
***
Sleep came in pieces.
Not a full fall into darkness—more like sinking into cold water and bobbing back up to gasp.
The arena kept appearing behind my eyelids.
Sand under my boots.
The roar of the crowd like waves crashing down from white walls.
Lyan's blade snapping forward—clean, efficient, relentless.
The sudden flicker of aura—air swallowing light around his weapon.
Fennec's steel cutting through with a single calm strike.
The sound of wood breaking.
The sound of metal ringing.
Blood warmth sliding down my side, too hot to be mine.
In the dream, I tried to shout.
No sound came out.
My chest burned.
Not my wound.
My heart.
A brand glowing under my ribs, squeezing tighter every time I tried to speak.
Then the dream shifted.
Miasma.
Thick, choking darkness.
A floor that didn't feel like ground—it felt like a mouth.
And far ahead, for a blink—
Myrina.
Long brown hair caught in a wind that didn't belong underground.
Her silhouette turned, and I saw her face just long enough to recognize her eyes.
"Trey—" she tried to say.
Then the darkness swallowed her.
I jerked awake.
My body jolted too hard and my cut screamed.
Pain flashed white, real and sharp.
I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood and forced myself not to make a sound.
My breathing came fast, then steadied as I grabbed onto the drill in my head like a rope.
In. Out.
Don't panic.
The candle was nearly dead. Only a trembling stub of light remained.
I sat there in the dark, sweat cooling on my skin, and realized something simple and awful.
If I stayed here alone, my mind would eat itself.
This house wasn't a home.
It was a waiting room filled with ghosts.
I wiped my face with my sleeve, not sure if it was sweat or tears.
Then I stared at the door until my breathing stopped shaking.
***
Morning came slowly.
Grey light crept through the shutters. The room brightened just enough to show dust floating in the air like silent snow.
I sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted in a way that felt deeper than muscle.
My body wanted to collapse.
My mind refused.
I looked around the room—small, bare, familiar and empty.
This was where I started.
A poor house. Cheap clothes. Small coins.
A kid with nothing but stubbornness.
Back to the start.
I stood carefully, testing my balance. My left arm remained useless. My side pulled, but it didn't tear.
Good enough.
I tightened my bundle and slung it over my shoulder. The coin pouch sat heavy at my waist. The sweets box I packed carefully, because wasting food was a sin I couldn't afford.
Then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I froze.
No one knocked on this door.
Not anymore.
My hand tightened on the latch.
Another knock followed—steady, firm, familiar.
My pulse jumped hard enough that my wound throbbed.
I swallowed and pulled the door open.
Ash stood there.
His posture was relaxed, like he'd been waiting only a moment, but his eyes were sharp—reading my face, my bandages, the exhaustion under my skin.
For a second, my throat closed.
Because I hadn't realized how badly I needed to see someone who felt real.
"Ash…" I breathed.
He looked at me like he already knew the story.
Ash's expression softened—just a little.
"Hey," he said, voice low like he didn't want to startle me. "You're still standing. Good."
And in the quiet morning, with my house behind me and the city ahead, his presence hit like the first solid ground I'd felt in days.