There was no time to clean up after lunch.
Kael's sharp call echoed through the hall, rallying the candidates to their next mission—a theory and tactics lesson in one of the Academy's high towers.
Elara wiped her hands on her trousers and fell in with the milling group, the ache in her ribs a dull reminder of the morning's sparring.
The stairs spiraled up into a narrowing stone shaft, and every step jarred her bruises. Her legs throbbed. Sweat cooled unpleasantly along her spine. But she climbed without complaint, because no one else did either.
The classroom itself was stark—high vaulted ceilings, walls lined with ancient, curling maps, sketches of battle formations, crumbling diagrams of weapons that hadn't been used in centuries. A single tall window cast pale, angular light across the rows of narrow wooden desks. The air was cool and smelled faintly of ink, dust, and cold stone.
Elara slipped into a seat near the back with a groan, muscles still aching from training. Fig tucked himself along her neck, seeming to enjoy the day with relaxed enthusiasm.
The room murmured with quiet anticipation as other students filled in. She caught Kael's muttered curse near the front row and smirked.
And then he entered.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair tied back loosely. A silver-stitched officer's coat swept behind him like a shadow. But it was his eyes that stole the air from Elara's lungs—gray as a storm-swept sky, piercing, unreadable.
He didn't speak right away. He crossed to the front of the room with quiet control, rolling out a thick parchment map on the wall. His fingers were calloused but precise as he pinned the corners, and then he turned.
That was when he looked directly at her.
Just a glance. A flicker. But it was enough.
Elara's breath caught in her throat.
"Theory and strategy," he said at last, his voice deep and calm, the kind that made silence lean in to listen. "You've survived your first drills. Barely. But strength means nothing without reason. War is won before the first sword is drawn."
She swallowed hard, unsure if her reaction was from awe or something far more ridiculous.
A crush? No. She wasn't that foolish.
"Names will mean nothing on the battlefield," he went on. "But here, they're the first thing I'll remember when you fail." A pause. "I am Commander Darius Vayne. And you will not forget mine."
A faint laugh rolled through the class. Elara didn't join in. Her focus was locked on the way he moved—efficient, deliberate. Every word chosen like a blade. She was too tired to be distracted, and yet…
Snap out of it, she thought.
Darius tapped the map with a slim iron pointer. "This," he said, "is the Western Breach. Sixty years ago, the defending side had the advantage of terrain and elevation. And yet they lost in under two days."
He turned toward the class.
"Who can tell me why?"
A few hands raised. He listened to one cadet mumble something about underestimating the enemy's numbers, another about poor supply lines. Darius nodded politely but without approval.
Then he pointed to the back of the room. Straight at her.
"You. Back row. Thoughts?"
Elara's stomach lurched. She straightened. "They advanced too early on the eastern ridge. The push exposed their flank to hidden archers."
Darius held her gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Correct," he said. "The commander on-site thought speed would replace caution. He mistook high ground for safety, forgot to scout the terrain beyond what he could see. That mistake cost him three battalions."
Her heart drummed hard in her chest. Not just from being called on—but from the flash of something in his eyes. Was it surprise? Approval? Something else?
"Good instincts," he said, turning back to the map. "Train them. They're all that will keep you alive."
Fig nudged her ear and whispered, "Guess who's been watching you since last night."
Elara glared at him. "Not helping," she hissed.
But her cheeks burned.
Darius launched into an analysis of the battle—its flawed logistics, the miscommunications between regiments, the terrain traps that weren't marked properly on outdated maps. The lesson should have been fascinating. But her focus kept drifting—his sharp jawline, the faint scar near his temple, the gravel-smooth edge of his voice.
Once, as he passed close by, the scent of him hit her—oak and storm winds, clean and strangely familiar. Her pulse quickened.
You are not here to swoon, she reminded herself. You're here to survive.
Still, her quill tapped the desk unconsciously in time with his footsteps. She caught herself and stopped.
"Battlefield psychology," Darius continued, now walking slowly behind the rows of desks. "Not everyone fights for the same reason. Fear, glory, revenge, coin, duty. If you don't understand what drives your enemy, you'll never predict them- and you will lose."
He stopped just behind her. "Take the girl beside you, for example. What would make her break in a siege? Lack of sleep? Hunger? A fallen comrade?"
Elara sat frozen. Was he talking about her?
His voice came from just over her shoulder. "Knowing your ally's limits is just as vital as knowing your own."
He moved on, and she finally exhaled.
She scribbled down a half-legible note: Prediction = power. But her eyes betrayed her again, drifting toward him as he leaned over another student's desk to correct a note. His coat stretched across his back, and she noticed another scar trailing up his wrist when his sleeve slid back—long, jagged. The kind no training exercise would leave behind.
That tug again. Familiarity. Like she'd seen him before, or maybe dreamed of him.
Or maybe she was just tired.
He cracked a dry joke about arrogance killing more generals than swords, and the class chuckled. Elara smiled, despite herself.
Handsome, yes, she admitted. But there's something deeper. Something coiled, waiting.
"Focus," she muttered under her breath.
But the rest of the lesson blurred together. She took notes automatically, barely aware of what she was writing. Her mind buzzed, overwhelmed by the strange electric tension in the room. Every time Darius looked her way, she felt caught in a net—part fear, part thrill.
When the bell tolled from the distant courtyard tower, signaling the end of the session, the students moved sluggishly, minds clearly overworked. Darius rolled up the maps with quiet precision. Most of the class filtered out quickly, but Elara lingered, pretending to organize her notes.
From her seat, she saw him lower himself to one knee and unlock a drawer beneath the instructor's desk. As he reached inside, his sleeve pulled back again—and that same scar was clearer now, silver and puckered. Not just from war, but old. Decades, maybe. Yet he didn't look old enough for that.
Who was he?
Her quill slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.
He looked up.
Their eyes met again—longer this time. Not just a glance. A quiet acknowledgment.
"You'll need sharper instincts than that, Candidate," he said softly.
And then he was gone, the door whispering shut behind him.
Elara sat frozen, cheeks hot, pulse erratic. She wasn't foolish. She knew the difference between admiration and attraction. But what she felt right now wasn't just either—it was something heavier, twisted up with curiosity, wariness, and heat.
Fig stretched out along her collarbone. "Well," he drawled, "if you're going to fall for anyone, at least fall for someone who might actually kill you."
Elara groaned and covered her face with her hands.
This was going to be a very, very long term.