DREVAN'S Point of View
The chaos of the morning still clung to the hallways, even as the sun began to stretch its thin fingers over the academy. "Drevan!" the chorus of voices erupted, echoing off the concrete walls and railings, carried up to the balconies and stairwells. Girls screamed, some fainted, others tried to shove their way forward. Boys leaned back, wide-eyed, muttering among themselves. It was the same every day, yet still—there was a thrill in the noise, the disorder—but I was never a part of it. I had trained myself to tolerate it, to absorb the frenzy without being distracted.
I moved through the corridor with calm precision, my gaze sweeping over the sea of students. And then I saw her.
She was standing at the edge of the courtyard, an island of shadow and quiet in the midst of the chaos. Long dark hair framed her face and flowed down past her shoulders, occasionally swept by the wind, but controlled as if it had a will of its own. Her eyes were sharp yet unreadable—blank, emotionless, and yet intensely aware of everything around her. I noted the subtle way she shifted her weight, the tension in her stance, the way her eyes flicked from student to student, from group to group. This was no casual observer. She was calculating.
I leaned against the railing, eyes narrowing. Tactical. Alert. I could see the faintest micro-movements, the way her shoulders tensed and relaxed, the subtle adjustments in her footing. Every movement had a purpose. Every glance carried weight. There was an edge to her calm, like steel hidden in silk. Most students would have overlooked her entirely. Most girls in the courtyard would have been distracted by the roar of the crowd, the male students vying for attention. But she—she was different.
I could feel a flicker of curiosity stirring. And I didn't usually notice such things.
Selvra, seated a few rows away in the upper tier reserved for ranks one through five, shifted. Rank four, poised and commanding, though today ranks two and three were absent, leaving the upper circle incomplete. Selvra's eyes, despite her usual self-assuredness, flickered toward the same shadow I had been watching. She whispered something to the person beside her, a smirk that suggested amusement, but also recognition. She noticed what I noticed.
The tactical training session was about to begin. The arena was a circular expanse at the center of the school, a pit of discipline and observation. Seats rose like a theater around it, the top five ranks holding the most prominent positions—symbols of authority and mastery. I took my usual seat among them, my eyes scanning not the students clamoring below but the figure who had already claimed my attention.
Then he approached.
One of the lower-ranked students, fifteen, strutting with an air of overconfidence. He saw her as weak. As an easy target. A stepping stone to boast about later. He didn't know. He couldn't know.
She didn't flinch. She didn't acknowledge him at all. And yet, when he lunged, I saw her pivot, subtle, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye, but every move calculated. Her hands were ready, her eyes scanning for openings, her body a map of precise mechanics. He overextended, left an opening at his right shoulder. Her response was instantaneous.
The crowd gasped. Whispers ran through the students:
"Did you see that?""Who even is she?""She's… lucky, right?"
No. This was skill. Pure, deliberate skill.
I leaned back, analyzing. Tactical. Efficient. Precise. The fluidity of her movements, the timing of her strikes, the way she redirected his momentum—she was beyond ordinary. Every slight twitch of her body, every micro-adjustment in stance, spoke of training that went far deeper than what this school offered. And still, she did not acknowledge me. Did not care who was watching.
The school's courtyard was alive with chaos—the chatter of students, the clatter of boots against the pavement, laughter spilling from every corner. I moved through it like a ghost, my eyes fixed on her figure. Long, dark hair trailing behind, she walked with a deliberate precision that made every other movement in the courtyard seem sloppy by comparison. She wasn't running. She didn't need to. Every step measured, every glance calculated—like a predator walking among prey, invisible yet observed.
By the time she reached the parking lot, the first shadows of late afternoon stretched across the asphalt. It was mostly empty, but five figures emerged from behind parked cars. Each had a smugness, an arrogance written across his face. I counted them: five attackers, all older students, each looking like they thought they owned the world. The tallest stepped forward, chest puffed, hands on his hips.
"Well, well, look who we have here," he sneered. "The new girl from the arena. Think you can survive this?"
One of his companions laughed—a low, mocking sound. "She's new. Let's show her some respect… the hard way."
Kyrren didn't flinch. Her eyes scanned them, narrow, unyielding, calculating. A slight bend of her knees, shoulders relaxed yet ready. She wasn't intimidated. Not even a little.
"You really think attacking me is smart?" she asked, voice calm, almost mocking in its simplicity.
"Smart? Who said anything about smart? This is fun," one of the attackers retorted, stepping closer, fists raised.
The first move came fast—predictable, overconfident. They lunged together, five against one. Kyrren sidestepped the first strike with effortless grace, letting the attacker's momentum carry him forward, stumbling into the asphalt. She pivoted, twisting another wrist, using the opponent's force to send him tumbling into a concrete barrier.
"Damn it!" one cursed, scrambling to regain his balance.
Kyrren's attention didn't waver. Eyes flicked between each of them, calculating, analyzing. A punch came at her side. She caught the wrist, twisted, and sent the assailant sprawling. Her movements were smooth, precise, tactical. She restrained herself—no unnecessary violence—but the efficiency was brutal.
"Wait… what?" one stammered. "How is she—"
Kyrren's face remained neutral. "Underestimation is costly," she said flatly, stepping around another swing, her long dark hair sweeping over her shoulder.
I watched from the shadows, heart hammering, cataloging every micro-decision. Her moves weren't instinct—they were deliberate, controlled, tactical. Every counter, every block, every shift in weight was perfect. And yet, she wasn't trying to kill them. Just control them.
"Hold on!" one of the attackers yelled, backing up. "You can't—"
She cut him off, voice low but icy. "I warned you."
Another rushed her. She grabbed his arm, twisted it sharply, sent him sprawling. The fifth tried to flank her. She pivoted, caught his motion, and using a single sweeping kick, knocked him back into the wall. They lay there groaning, the arrogance drained from their eyes.
I was fascinated. She wasn't just talented. She was controlled. Efficient. Tactical. And for some reason, she had a code, a restraint.
Kyrren straightened, brushing off her sleeves, long hair swaying with a grace that felt unnatural. She didn't speak to me, didn't even glance in my direction, yet every motion screamed dominance.
I followed, careful, unseen, until she slipped into the shadows of the alleyway at the far end of the lot. The air shifted as the city welcomed her into the narrow passageways leading to the Midnight Exchange.
The alley was narrow, the neon signs flickering intermittently, casting distorted light across wet walls slick with rain. Shadows clung to every corner. Figures moved like predators, hooded, masked, cautious—transactions hidden from casual eyes. Guns, poisons, small explosives, encrypted devices—everything deadly and illegal.
Kyrren moved as if she belonged. No hesitation, no hesitation. She paused at a small vendor, whispered instructions, retrieved a package. My mind raced—this was not a girl out for thrill or fun. She had authority. Clearance. Purpose.
I remained hidden until a slip—my reflection caught in polished metal. Her head snapped toward me.
"Why are you following me?" Her voice was calm, controlled, but every syllable cut through the hum of the Midnight Exchange.
I lifted my hands slowly, keeping my posture relaxed. "I could ask you the same," I said, my voice steady.
She stepped closer, the dim light catching the sharp angles of her face. "You… you're not one of them. You shouldn't be here."
"I should?" I let a corner of a smile tug at my lips. "Seems neither of us is ordinary, then."
Her eyes flicked to mine, and just for a moment, that faint tilt of a smirk betrayed amusement. "I am Kyrren. That's all you need to know."
My pulse skipped. Kyrren… that's her name.
"Kyrren, huh?" I let the name roll over my tongue, testing it. Careful. Precise. "So the girl from the arena… stronger than anyone guessed. Far stronger."
Her lips curved, almost imperceptibly. "Careful. Don't flatter me. I've seen people fall for shadows before."
"Not flattery," I replied, letting my eyes sweep the space around us. "Observation. And curiosity. Curiosity that just happens to be very... focused."
She paused, leaning slightly toward me, the scent of the market sharp and metallic around us. "Curiosity is dangerous. Be careful, Drevan."
A shiver of tension ran down my spine, but I remained composed. "I'll keep that in mind. Though I suspect it's you I should be wary of."
Her gaze lingered a fraction too long before she turned, melting back into the chaotic alleys of the Midnight Exchange, the darkness folding around her like armor.
I remained still for a heartbeat longer, processing. Kyrren. A name. A clue. And now… a question I couldn't ignore: Who is she, really? And how far does her reach extend?
She moved, and I followed, careful, silent.
As we emerged from the Exchange, I couldn't stop thinking: she wasn't just talented. She was trained. Dangerous. Methodical. And the ease with which she moved through this criminal underworld—undetected, authorized, precise—suggested she had been doing this long before today.
She stopped, glancing at me, calm, assessing. "You followed me here," she said.
"I did," I admitted. "You're far more capable than anyone suspects."
Her lips curved faintly. "And you… you're more than you let on."
I nodded. She moved off, shadows swallowing her figure. And I realized, for the first time, that the girl I'd watched in the arena, the girl who dominated the parking lot ambush, the girl moving through the Midnight Exchange with deadly authority… was more dangerous than anyone knew.
And I had no idea how to anticipate her next move.
Kyrren slipped into the shadowed streets beyond the market. I remained behind, questions whirling: Who was she really? What was she planning? How far would she go in this underworld of shadows and danger? And most importantly—was I ready to follow her?