Time moved differently in Camp Alvus, measured not by the leisurely cycles of village life which had once ruled Zepp's days, but by the unyielding rhythm of army routine. Morning brought the shrill music of the assembly horn sounding out across the forest clearing, and then the tightly controlled bedlam of hundreds of recruits streaming out of their tents to begin yet another day of hard drill. The ring of steel echoed on and on in the air—sword against sword in practice matches, blades being sharpened on whetstones, armor straining and being aligned with the meticulous care that the margin between life and death on the battlefield hung in the balance.
But it was the magic that measured out the passing of time. The crackle charge of elemental spells created an ever-present background hum that never actually faded, punctuated periodically by a deafening boom of thunder as some innocent student attempted an advanced trick they weren't ready for yet. The air itself seemed to thrum with residual power, giving Zepp's still-sensitized magical awareness the sensation of a dull headache that never really faded.
For Zepp, the days hung in a haze of confusion and gradual adaptation. She was neither a knight nor a proper trainee. Her position existed in a gray area unanticipated by camp protocols—a civilian refugee under de facto care by a knight, neither enemy nor ally, neither teacher nor pupil. She found herself filling the dark spaces of their strictly ordered world, sleeping in a corner of one of the logistics tents, dining at the edge of communal meals, observing training drills at strictly ordered distances.
Loneliness ought to have been intolerable, and sometimes it was. But slowly, amazingly, she found that solitude didn't necessarily mean loneliness.
"Morning, Moonbeam!" a cheerful voice yelled which had been as familiar as sunrise.
The moniker was reserved for Thyren Valdris, a third-year apprentice whose unrelenting cheerfulness seemed proof against the military discipline that kept most cadets in line. His russet locks bristled at unsightly angles even while he attempted to create regulation looks, and his freckled face crinkled into the permanent grin of one who delighted in all small things. He strode toward her breakfast spot near the quartermaster's tent with his customary bounce, carrying two steaming bowls of the camp's official morning meal.
"Here," he said, shoving one of the bowls into her hands before she could protest. "Cook Meredith prepared more porridge this morning, and at least it tastes good for once. Well, reasonably good. The bits that aren't burnt are fine."
Behind him trailed Jorik Thornfield, a quieter boy whose gentle heart seemed almost out of place among the camp's rougher egos. Where Thyren was a vortex of motion and energy, Jorik moved with the careful caution of someone who had learned to think before he acted. His black hair was always neatly trimmed, his uniform clean, but his eyes were the sort of warmth that caused stray dogs within the camp to wag their tails for a pat.
"You don't need to feed me," Zepp complained, though she accepted the bowl with a smile of appreciation. Camp rations were plain but hearty, designed to keep bodies that spent each day toiling in physical and magical drills alive.
"Knights are bound to serve those in need," Jorik spoke gently beside her on the floor, sitting cross-legged. His voice contained a sort of gravity of one reciting a saying he truly believed in. "That means making sure people get fed."
"Besides," Thyren added with a melodramatic wink, "if we let you starve to death, Captain Aldric will have our heads. He's quite particular about the welfare of refugees."
As the days passed, Zepp found herself being gradually pulled into the informal social groups that operated beyond the camp's formal structure. It started small—Lyanna Brightforge, a fourth-year and known expert in flames magic, quietly encouraging her to sit close by the night cooking fires. Caelum Stormwind, whose wind-assisted archery made him one of the most likely to hit in his year, who got shares of care packages mailed to him at school by home folk who had never met her but whose kindness knew no bounds in terms of anyone their son deemed worth helping.
The acceptance wasn't universal. The military neighborhoods were naturally suspicious of outsiders, and Camp Alvus was no exception. Whispered comments trailed after her, voices carefully whispered but not low enough to remain unheard.
"She doesn't train. She doesn't contribute. Why is she even here?" The speaker was Gareth Ironhold, a fifth-year student who was defensive ward specialist. His grumble had the irritable tone of a man who had struggled to get there and who resented those who appeared to receive special treatment.
"She arrived with Estavia," replied his friend, Vera Nightwhisper, a shadow magic practitioner whose deathly pale complexion and dark clothes rendered her all but invisible in dim light. "That alone is suspicious. No one approaches the Ghost Knight. No one."
Estavia. The name struck Zepp like a slap, finally providing a name for the mysterious knight who had rescued her. She had spent weeks agonizing over what to call her savior, and now she had at least half of an answer. But being addressed in such questionable intonations made her gut knot into a sense of unease.
The nickname—for that was surely whom they meant—had gone around the camp during Zepp's visit, though she guessed it had been current much longer than she had. "Ghost Knight" captured the elusive woman's image of independent expertise, of appearing and vanishing without forewarning, of maintaining professional detachment from making personal of them.
Zepp heard these words and other like them, but said nothing. A fight would do nothing but cause more problems, and she had learned long ago that some people's views simply could not be changed by arguing. She focused instead on the growing number of trainees who had come to tolerate her, who treated her with the kind of friendly informality which made the camp's strict military discipline bearable.
She watched them practice from her position on the peripheries of their world, full of a mixture of awe and admiration that grew with each passing day. The variety of magical techniques used at Camp Alvus was staggering, including combat techniques she never even imagined in her peaceful life on the Whispering Vale.
Thyren's moving magic allowed him to cover impossible distances in the blink of an eye, although his entry points were often more tumbles and profanity than the smooth elegance of more advanced spellcasters. Jorik focused on aid enchantments in a non-traditional manner, weaving spells that enhanced the fighting abilities of his allies rather than direct assaults on enemies. Lyanna could control fire as a master sculptor creates a flame, crafting walls of fire that burned at different intensities depending on what she wanted to have them accomplish.
Each trainee was working to develop their own signature styles, combinations of magical theory and personal innovation that would define their skills as fully trained knights. It was a highly individualized process, requiring them not only to master the mechanics of casting, but to know their strengths, weaknesses, and innate abilities.
Watching them discover their own excitement made Zepp acutely aware of the vacant hands, her lack of sword or concentration for spell, her complete absence of the distinguishing marks that define one as a trainee warrior. She was a blank slate in a world of hard edges and bright colors, unformed and perhaps unformable.
Worst of the day was always the gnawing awareness of Estavia.
She had learned the true name of the knight—Saya Estavia Gisla—Keil a couple of days after overhearing that first clandestine conversation. When she'd asked him about "Estavia," he'd looked surprised that she wouldn't already know.
"That's the Ghost Knight's name," he'd said to her, in his customary relaxed tone. "Saya Estavia Gisla, although usually most people just call her Estavia in formal situations and Saya between friends—not that she has many of those, naturally. She's from commoners, I think, but she's got a twin sister who is one of the royal maids in the capital. What's really interesting, though, is her light magic—that's very rare, especially for someone from commoner blood. Most people with that kind of talent are from old magical bloodlines, but somehow or other, she was able to develop it naturally. Makes her pretty special around here."
The information had given her mixed feelings—a satisfaction finally having a name to attach to her savior, but also a strange sense of identification. Saya was not some distant aristocrat, but someone who came from the lower classes and had fought to reach the position that she found herself in now. The fact that her twin sister was employed in the capital made her all the more identifiable in some unexplainable way, someone who had people and relationships beyond the military structure of life in the camps.
And now, watching Saya keeping to her routine with clockwork precision, showing up every morning at the training grounds with her distinctive armor gleaming and face fixed in lines of professional purpose, Zepp couldn't help but take an interest in the woman anew. Her light magic was unlike what Zepp had seen from the other students—neither flashy nor ostentatious, but honed to a level that suggested years of constant practice.
She could mold hard-light constructs with surgical precision, creating shields that were as dense as steel but weighed nothing, or blades that cut practice targets with edges sharper than any forged edge. Her work on defense was particularly impressive, constructing walls of crystallized light that would reject physical and magical attacks equally while providing full visibility for counterattacks.
But despite all her obviously visible competence, Saya was as enigmatic as she had been during their first meeting in the forest under the light of the moon. She talked little, usually to offer curt reprimands to stumbling trainees or to respond to orders from officers. She dined by herself, maintained her equipment in seclusion, and provided no indication that she wished to pursue friendships or even transient acquaintanceships with the other trainees-in-arms.
But Zepp felt her attention anyhow, a nagging awareness that leaked through in a drowsing glance across packed training grounds, a relaxed shift of posture that betrayed guardian reflexes, a presence which seemed to watch over her well-being without being obvious about it.
The two-edged quality of it—rescue and isolation, protection and alienation—constituted a complex bond of emotions in Zepp's heart that she could not disentangle. Gratitude, naturally, for the life-saving rescue that had welcomed her in. But also puzzlement at the knight's relentless reserve, and something deeper that might have been longing for a relationship forever out of reach.
Three weeks into her stay at Camp Alvus, with the autumn cold beginning to penetrate the late evenings and the woods around the camp ablaze with colour that had a hurt home-fringe to it, Zepp was drawn to the weapons practice area in the quiet hours after the evening meal.
The room was empty of people but not empty of the tools of war—practice swords and shields on wooden racks, archery targets speckled with arrows from the day's practice shooting, and the wooden posts pockmarked with scars from innumerable practice sessions. In the center of the room, someone had just left a dulled training blade laid out across one of the practice benches.
She raised it almost reflexively, surprised at its weight and balance. It was heavier than it appeared, its steel accretion designed to build strength and stamina in students who would in turn be carrying much lighter fighting knives. The handle was bound with leather that had been worn to smoothness by countless hands, and the blade itself bears the typical nicks and scratches of an extensively used tool.
"You going to spar with yourself?" a voice inquired from behind her.
Zepp shifted to see Keil walking up, his usual slanted smile on his face, his own practice sword slung carelessly over his shoulder. The flash-step master had been one of her most trusted teammates among the trainees, dealing with her with the sort of relaxed acceptance that left her feeling almost like a normal person.
"I have no idea how to do this," she admitted, holding the practice sword with clear hesitation.
"Then learn," replied Keil, dismissing it as if it were the most self-evident thing in the world. "We all started somewhere. Thyren spent his first month here bumping into trees because he couldn't get the hang of his flash-steps. Jorik sent three people to sleep on his first attempt with supportive magic. Even the Ghost Knight probably nicked herself a few times when she started out."
The casual mention of Saya's likely struggles as a newcomer made Zepp smile despite herself. It was easy to forget they were all once as lost and bewildered as she was now.
"Will I slow people down?" she asked, voicing the same anxiety that had kept her on the sidelines for weeks.
"We blow ourselves up at least twice a week," Keil replied with a smile. "You won't be the weakest link in this chain, believe me. Half the fun of training is failing until you don't fail anymore."
Over the next few days, that talk was a turning point. Keil's casual invitation unstopped doors that had otherwise remained closed since her arrival and introduced her into the familiar circle of each other's support which existed among the trainees.
Thyren popped up on her elbow during morning drills, giving breathless commentary on proper footwork while also trying to master complicated mobility maneuvers. "See, the trick isn't stressing about where you're going to end up landing until after you've already started moving. I know it's counter-intuitive, but trust me on this one."
Jorik joined her at dinner, making quiet remarks on magical theory that revealed depths of understanding she hadn't realized to expect from someone so young. "Magic isn't forcing your way upon the world," he remarked one evening as they watched other trainees work through simple spellwork. "It's finding where your will intersects with natural forces, then persuading those forces to do something they had a mind to do anyway."
Lyanna provided hands-on advice on physical conditioning, showing stretching exercises that would avoid the type of muscle strain with which novice sword students were afflicted. "Your body is your main weapon," she told her with the confidence of one who had learned this hard way. "Take care of it, and it'll take care of you."
Even the advanced students began noticing her existence, nodding to one another with politeness if they crossed paths, occasionally providing corrections when they saw her struggling with basic techniques during practice sessions by herself.
The reception was not universal—Gareth and his clique remained distant, and she received sneering stares from trainees who clearly questioned her right to occupy space in their military culture. But others' growing hospitality more than compensated for the lingering hostility, creating a dynamic where she could begin to imagine a future that stretched beyond mere survival.
It was at a typical evening practice session, with golden sunlight pouring through the leafy canopy of trees and casting long shadows across the practice field, that she came to have the most dramatic episode so far in her time at Camp Alvus.
She was practicing basic sword forms, trying to remember the refinements which various trainees had given throughout the week, when she heard a voice she recognized call out to her from behind.
"Your hold is still too tight."
Zepp turned to catch Saya a pace or two back of her, her expression as unreadable as ever but her eyes fastened on Zepp's hapless sword practice. The knight approached with the same fluid, natural movement, her armor catching the dying light and reflecting it in patterns that appeared to shift of their own will.
"You're fighting the sword and not working with it," Saya continued, stepping in to adjust Zepp's hand position on the practice sword's grip. Her own was cold and firm, fingers rearranging Zepp's with the kind of confidence that accrued after a decade's practice repeating itself. "A sword is meant to feel like an extension of your arm, not something foreign you're fighting to control."
The physical contact conveyed an unexpected shiver through Zepp's sensibilities—not the fiery blaze of her magical awakening, but rather something more subtle and complex. Standing as close as she was, she could see things she would not have seen from afar: the way Saya's silver hair shone like metal thread, how pale but unblemished her complexion was—not the corpse-pale of disease, but the golden, humanly pale complexion of one who spent most of her time buried in armor, the incandescence of her storm-hued eyes when they focused on some one task. To this day, she wore her gauntlets whenever possible, the polished metal never quite separating from her fingers in public.
"Like that?" Zepp asked, changing her stance at Saya's direction.
"Better. Your balance still isn't right, though." Saya looped her through with practiced criticism, adjusting foot positioning and posture subtly. "You're focusing too much on the sword and not enough on your point of balance. Magic knights need to be able to cast spells while remaining in combat readiness. That requires perfect balance."
The practice continued on for perhaps ten minutes, long enough for Zepp to begin sensing the difference between the awkward thrashing she had been practicing and whatever it was that hopefully one day would resemble actual sword fighting. Saya's teaching approach was direct and unadorned, focusing on getting foundational mistakes out of the way rather than trying to build higher levels too quickly.
When the impromptu lesson was finished, Zepp held the practice sword with near assurance, her stance so firm that she could imagine performing the basic forms without buckling.
"Thank you," she said, feeling more than the naive words could possibly convey.
For a moment, something flickered across Saya's face—not quite a smile, but a softening of her customary professional mask that implied warmth waiting beneath its surface austerity.
"If you're going to stay here," Saya said quietly, "it's best to learn to stand."
They repeated the words of their conversation on that first evening in the forest, when a chivalrous knight had helped a desperate fugitive without asking questions or requiring reward. But these times were now imbued with greater meaning, with not just mere survival but also possibility for growth, for finding a niche within this complex realm of warriors and magic.
Then, as suddenly as she had materialized, Saya spun and disappeared into the evening, her silver ponytail reflecting the final threads of sunlight like entrapped starfire. No word of praise, no word of encouragement, no suggestion that the encounter had been anything other than a passing correction given to a flailing amateur.
But standing alone in the dying light, practice sword still in her newly aligned hand, Zepp felt something to stir in her chest that had not stirred since she'd left the Whispering Vale.
Hope.
Not the passionate wish of one reaching for mere survival, but the quieter, longer-term expectation of one who was beginning to get some idea of the shape of a possible future. A future in which she would learn to control the dangerous power that was inside her, in which she would discover purpose among these dedicated young warriors, in which she would be something worth the salvation that had reclaimed her life.
The path forward remained uncertain, full of things she couldn't even try to imagine and choices she wasn't yet prepared to make. But for the first time since her world had shattered into ruin and crimson lightning, not knowing no longer terrified her but rather seemed like possibility.
Maybe, maybe she was finally starting to fit.
Around her, the camp was settling into evening routines—weapons cleaned and stored, magical energies waning as practice drills came to a close, the hum of conversation emanating from the mess tents where the trainees sat to eat and swap stories of the day's triumphs and failures. The sounds were becoming familiar, comforting in their routine.
But beyond the borders of the camp, in places where ancient powers slept with wicked patience, powers continued their slow push towards goals which would reshape the fate of kingdoms. The girl who had long borne healing herbs to grateful villagers was lost to all eternities, supplanted by one whose very presence was only just starting to unfurl.
Tonight, though, that greater destiny had felt distant and within reach. Tonight, she'd had a place to lay her head, a set of individuals slowly learning to accept her presence, and the first real hope she'd felt that she might be able to cultivate something worthwhile out of the ruins of her former life.
Tonight, that was enough.