The ache in Serene's ribs made climbing the dormitory stairs feel like trudging uphill through mud. She kept her steps even, posture unbroken, but her breath threatened to slip into short, sharp bursts every few seconds.
She refused to let it.
The hallway was quiet. Noon sun filtered through the long windows, catching dust in the air like drifting snow. The chatter from the training yard still buzzed faintly outside—distant voices recounting mistakes, victories, humiliations.
Her name floated once.
Not praised.
Not mocked.
Just spoken.
"…Serene and Rowen—did you see…?"
She didn't slow.
Didn't listen.
Didn't need to.
Inside her room, the quiet embraced her like a second skin. She closed the door carefully, letting the click settle in her bones. The sunlight touched the clean sheets of her bed, her folded cloak, her sword resting at the weapon rack. Everything here was neat, organized, controlled.
A room untouched by failure or triumph.
She unfastened the top three buttons of her uniform and winced as the fabric pulled across her ribs. The bruising had spread since morning—dark, blooming strokes that marred her skin like angry brushwork. She traced one lightly.
It throbbed.
But it was honest.
Serene dressed herself again without hesitation. Self-pity had no place in a knight's room.
A knock sounded.
She blinked once, surprised. Then:
"Serene? It's Lira."
Serene opened the door.
Lira stood with her hands tucked behind her back, as if unsure what to do with them. Her soft Spirit-Division robes fluttered gently from the hallway breeze. Her face was calm, but her eyes held a tremor of concern.
"I… just wanted to check," Lira said.
"I'm fine."
Lira tilted her head. "You don't have to be."
Serene didn't answer that. She simply stepped aside, letting Lira in. The girl's presence brought a quiet warmth to the room. She placed the small pouch she had brought on the table.
"Herbal salve. It helps with bruises. And overstretched muscles." Lira's voice stayed small but steady. "I mixed it myself."
Serene touched the pouch gently. "Thank you."
Lira hesitated. "You and Rowen… both seemed different today. Not hurt—well, hurt, but…"
Her brows knit softly. "It felt like watching two storms measure each other."
Serene considered that.
Storms weren't loud.
They were relentless.
"We just sparred," Serene said simply.
"That wasn't 'just' sparring."
Serene looked at her. Lira's eyes were earnest—too earnest to ignore. She sat down on the bed, letting her ribs settle with a dull ache.
Lira sat beside her. "You didn't flinch. Even when it hurt."
Her voice softened further. "And he didn't underestimate you. Not even once."
Serene stared at her hands, fingers still faintly trembling from exertion. "He saw the gaps."
"And you saw his," Lira said firmly.
Serene blinked slowly. Lira rarely used a firm tone. It carried more weight than criticism from instructors.
After a long moment, Serene spoke.
"He is… difficult to read."
"That makes him good."
"And that makes him dangerous."
"Serene," Lira said gently, "you're dangerous too."
Serene didn't respond—not dismissively, but because the words felt strange against her skin. She had always lived in the shadow of her house's quiet reputation—decorative knights, ceremonial swords, hidden strength that had been forgotten.
Dangerous was not something anyone had called her before.
Lira lowered her gaze. "I was scared watching you. Not because of the spar. Because you looked like you were fighting something larger than him."
Serene exhaled. "I'm not used to being studied."
Lira smiled faintly. "Then you'll need to learn. Because he does that very well."
Serene didn't deny it.
There was another knock.
This one sharper.
Serene stood, ignoring the flare in her ribs. When she opened the door, Alden Rook stood there—quiet as always, posture impeccable, expression unreadable.
He bowed slightly.
"Lady Serene."
She returned the bow. "Alden."
Lira straightened, surprised by his presence. Alden rarely spoke to anyone voluntarily.
Alden continued, "Instructor Thane sent me to deliver a message."
Serene waited.
"Tomorrow morning," Alden said, "the first-year class will undergo tactical evaluations. Not sparring. Observation." His eyes lifted to meet Serene's. "He expects discipline from everyone. Precision. Clean strategy."
Serene nodded.
Then Alden added, almost as an afterthought,
"He specifically said—'Tell Valehart and Aster not to break anything.'"
Lira stifled a laugh. Serene blinked once.
Alden bowed again. "Good evening."
He was gone before Serene could respond.
Lira turned to Serene, eyes wide. "You two broke the instructors' expectations, didn't you?"
"That wasn't the intent."
"But you did." Lira's smile grew timid but warm. "You fought equally."
Serene was quiet for a long moment. She clasped her gloves behind her back to steady the tremor still lingering in her fingers.
"Lira," she said softly.
"Yes?"
"…Do you think rivals push each other forward? Or simply collide until both fall?"
Lira looked thoughtful. "I think… a true rival is someone you want to surpass without seeing them fall."
Serene absorbed that.
After Lira left, Serene walked back into the training yard alone. The afternoon light had grown long, stretching shadows across the stone. Only one figure was there.
Rowen.
He was practicing footwork—silent movements, each step placed with the precision of someone trying to erase flaws he had never allowed others to see. Sweat clung to his brow. His breath was steady but deeper than usual. He was pushing himself.
He hadn't noticed her yet.
Serene watched him for a moment—how his stance shifted when his ribs tightened, how he adjusted his weight subconsciously away from an aching shoulder.
He was hurt too.
That mattered.
She stepped forward. The soft gravel crunched under her boot. Rowen stopped mid-step and turned.
His expression did not shift. But something in his eyes sharpened—awareness, not hostility.
"Valehart," he said, neutral.
"Aster."
Their breaths made small clouds in the cooling air. Rowen adjusted his glove, tapping the strap twice—habit, not emotion.
"You're practicing alone," Serene observed.
"So are you."
That wasn't an answer.
She kept quiet anyway.
Rowen looked at her for a long moment, searching for something in her stance—weakness? hesitation? He found neither. His throat tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"I didn't expect you to adapt so quickly," he said at last.
"You should have."
Rowen's jaw flexed.
"You're confident."
"So are you."
A pause.
Sharp.
Quiet.
Balanced.
Rowen exhaled, short but steady. "Tomorrow will be harder."
"I know."
"You should rest."
"So should you."
Neither moved.
Finally, Rowen said what he had been holding back all day:
"You're not someone I can ignore."
Serene's brows lifted by a fraction. "Good."
His eyes met hers directly, no distance, no coldness, no heat—just something quietly serious.
"Then push me properly tomorrow."
"I intend to."
Rowen nodded once.
Not in arrogance.
Not in challenge.
In agreement.
Then he resumed footwork.
Serene left the yard.
Neither looked back.
But both understood something important—
A rivalry had begun, not with hostility,
but with recognition
and the refusal
to fall behind.