The sky was clear, painted in strokes of blue so vivid it almost felt wrong. Peace was still strange to them—like wearing a cloak that didn't quite fit—but they were determined to try.
Ashveil was the first to break the silence that morning. "If we're going to march into another nation and terrify half its nobility," he said lazily, "we should at least learn to act civilized. Maybe… team exercises?"
"Exercises?" Zarynth snorted, tossing his blade in the air and catching it like a toy. "That sounds like a fancy way of saying you're bored."
Nysera crossed her arms. "Fine. Then let's make you useful. How about sparring drills? Without destroying the ground this time."
Zarynth grinned. "No promises."
The Sparring Games
The group split into pairs.
Lucien faced Seliora. She raised a hand, light spilling from her palm in delicate threads that hardened into blades. He moved with calm precision, sidestepping, countering, testing her rhythm. At one point she caught him off-guard, her blade brushing his throat.
"You hesitated," she teased.
Lucien smirked faintly. "No. I was seeing if you'd actually do it."
Her eyes narrowed, but her smile betrayed her. "Careful. One day, I might."
Across the field, Kairo and Eryndra fought as though time itself bent around them. He fractured moments into afterimages; she rewove them into clarity. Their spar looked less like combat and more like a dance—two rhythms clashing, then weaving together.
Zarynth and Vaelith, of course, turned theirs into a spectacle. He charged with reckless slashes, she met him with waves of flame. Every clash sent sparks into the air, each refusing to back down. By the time they stopped, both were laughing breathlessly, hair singed, skin bruised, eyes burning with the same fire.
Ashveil and Nysera, meanwhile, spent half their spar arguing.
"You're holding back," she accused.
"No," he said, yawning mid-duel. "I just find you… uninspiring."
Her glare could've melted stone. Shadows lashed at him, pinning him to the ground. He lay there, grinning. "See? Inspiring after all."
Even Veythar and Iralith's spar looked like a war council. His bloodsteel constructs clashed with her crimson veils, neither yielding an inch. By the end, both were panting, but their smiles were razor-sharp, full of mutual respect.
Evening Tales
That night, instead of sparring, they sat around a new fire. For once, there was no heavy lore or void-born destiny—just stories.
Zarynth bragged about the time he "conquered a city" by accident (it turned out he'd just beaten up the mayor's son and been declared a hero). Vaelith threw a pebble at him halfway through.
Ashveil claimed he once spent a year pretending to be a ghost just to haunt a corrupt lord. Nysera smacked him on the shoulder, but she was laughing too hard to hide it.
Even Caelthorn spoke—quietly, telling them of storms he had once walked into, alone, because no one else could. Morwyn listened with her usual solemn patience, her hand never straying far from his.
When it came to Lucien, he surprised everyone by sharing a memory—not of the White, but of before. A faint picture of a garden, a woman's voice humming. He didn't say it outright, but they all knew he was speaking of his mother. Seliora placed her hand lightly over his. He didn't pull away.
The Cooking Disaster
The next day, someone had the brilliant idea that they should all try cooking together. It went exactly as expected.
Kairo burned rice by accelerating its time. Eryndra sighed and calmly reversed it, though the taste still came out… odd.
Zarynth dumped so much spice into a stew that Vaelith threatened to incinerate him if he tried to serve it.
Ashveil tried to "season" bread by coating it in shadow. Nysera threw it into the fire before anyone could taste it.
Iralith made something edible, though Veythar insisted it "needed more blood." No one touched his portion after that.
In the end, Seliora salvaged what she could and everyone gathered around the meal. It wasn't perfect, but it was theirs.
As dusk settled, the twelve sat together on the hill, bellies full, laughter fading into a companionable silence. For the first time, none of them looked like weapons or monsters. They looked like a family.
Tomorrow, they would face the world again. But for two days, they had lived.