Liane Seravelle stormed out of the training grounds the moment the instructor's voice faded. Her footsteps were sharp, angry against the earth, and she didn't stop until she was out of sight—past the trees, into the quiet where no one could see her. Or so she thought.
Kael followed. Not too close. He kept to the shadows between the trees, his steps silent, presence ghostlike. He hadn't said anything when the match ended, nor when the instructor tore into them. He hadn't needed to. His expression had remained unreadable, as always.
Liane, on the other hand, was fire and frustration. She stopped near the edge of the clearing, fists clenched, jaw tight. Her breathing was heavy, uneven.
"I should've done more," she hissed, voice cracking as she spoke to no one. "I'm supposed to be strong. I'm a royal, I am Princess Seravelle, the first daughter of Leora and Darian Seravelle. I have magic that most people only dream of. And still—still I wasn't enough. I couldn't even make it easy for them…"
The words caught in her throat. She turned and slammed her palm against the rough bark of a tree.
A sharp gasp followed. She pulled her hand back, now cut and bleeding down her fingers. She stared at it, but didn't flinch. She just sank to the base of the tree, sitting with her knees drawn close, cradling the wounded hand like it didn't matter.
Her eyes darkened with thought—calculations, plans, theories spinning like storm winds behind them. "There has to be more," she whispered. "More I can draw from. More I can create. I won't be this useless again. I won't."
Kael stepped out from the trees.
Liane's head snapped up, startled, but said nothing.
He didn't speak either. He walked over, slow and silent, and knelt just far enough to leave space between them. Then, without a word, he pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her.
She looked at it, then looked away. "I don't need that."
Kael didn't argue. He placed the handkerchief gently on the ground beside her. He made a few steps and then uttered "Don't beat yourself up Lady Seravelle." He continued walking and didn't look back.
The forest air was still, muted by distance. He walked with practiced quiet, the sound of his steps swallowed by the leaves. Behind him, the girl sat wounded, pride bleeding more than her hand. She didn't accept his help—but that was fine. He hadn't offered it for thanks.
He knew that kind of anger. The kind that turns inward, coils in your chest and eats at your ribs like acid. He'd felt it for years.
"She thinks power will solve it," he thought.
There was no judgment in that thought. Only a dull ache of recognition.
"Train more. Create more. Be stronger. It always sounds right until you realize there's no end to that path. No limit. No point where it stops hurting."
He kept walking.
Liane was brilliant. Talented. Even fierce. But too much of her strength came from a need to prove something—to herself, to others, to whatever weight she carried in her name. He'd seen that same fight in the mirror.
"She'll get stronger. But not for the reasons she thinks."
His eyes drifted upward, to where the canopy broke and thin light spilled through. For a moment, his expression changed—just slightly. A flicker of something softer. Not pity. Not sympathy. Just understanding.
He reached into his coat pocket again and brushed his fingertips against the edge of another cloth—another handkerchief. Always two. One for himself. One for someone else.
"She'll figure it out. Or break trying."
Kael didn't turn around. He just kept walking until the trees swallowed him again.
----------
She didn't move at first.
Just sat there, still and silent, the pain in her hand a dull throb against the louder storm in her mind. The cut had already stained her skin, a smear of red along her fingers. She could feel the blood dripping lightly onto the dirt, and still, she didn't care.
Not until he walked away.
Kael hadn't said a word. Not one.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to see the folded handkerchief lying neatly in the grass beside her. Clean. White. Left there without comment, without pressure. No judgment. No lecture. Just… left.
Her throat tightened.
She reached out—not to take it, just to touch the edge. Her fingers hesitated there, brushing the fabric. Warm from his hand, still. A stupid thing to notice.
She closed her eyes.
Kael was strange. Cold, distant. Always watching, always quiet. She had thought him indifferent. Thought he didn't care about the match, the results, her frustration. But now…
Now, she didn't know what to think.
He saw me at my worst.
That was the part that cut deepest. . Not the instructor's disappointment. Not even her own failure.
He had followed her, seen her at her worst—and still hadn't looked at her like she was weak. He hadn't pitied her.
She picked up the handkerchief and pressed it to her palm. It stung.
"Next time," she whispered, "I won't need anyone's help."
But even as she said it, she folded the cloth carefully around her hand. Tight. Clean. Controlled. And she didn't throw it away.
---
Liane walked back toward them, composed and silent. The handkerchief tied around her hand was tight and clean, but not hidden. She didn't try to explain anything. She just returned—quietly—standing beside them like nothing had happened.
Kael barely looked up. Ren glanced between the two of them, his nerves rising again under the silence.
He rubbed his hands together. "So… we won," he said, trying to sound upbeat. "That's something, right?"
Liane's eyes flicked toward him, then away again.
"Barely," she muttered.
Ren hesitated, unsure how to respond.
Kael's voice came low. "Still counts."
The silence returned, but it didn't feel quite as heavy as before. They stood there—three very different people, not saying much, not needing to.
They didn't have to say it aloud—but somehow, in their quiet way, they were starting to understand each other
---
The sun had started to dip, casting long shadows across the training field. The matches were over, the air still humming faintly with leftover magic and adrenaline. Competitors—scuffed, tired, some bruised, some silent—stood in uneven rows as they were called to gather.
Kael, Liane, and Ren lined up quietly beside each other. Around them, the other groups settled into place, murmuring to one another or standing in fatigued silence.
Boots struck the ground—sharp and measured. The instructor stepped forward, eyes sweeping the line with practiced scrutiny.
"No one here performed perfectly," he said, voice loud but even. "But some of you showed promise. Adaptability. Grit."
He paused, letting his gaze hang on a few of the students. Then:
"From this point on, your teams remain as they were during the match. The group you fought with today is your assigned unit. You'll train together, be evaluated together, and if you make it far enough—advance together."
A few murmurs spread down the line. Some students looked relieved. Others looked dismayed.
"Any objections," the instructor said, "are irrelevant."
He turned sharply on his heel.
"Dismissed. You'll be contacted with your next schedule. Rest while you can."
And just like that, the field began to scatter—teams forming quietly, some already talking among themselves, others walking off in separate directions.
Kael didn't say anything.
Neither did Liane.
Ren opened his mouth halfway, glanced at both of them, and thought better of it—for now.