Night settled slowly over Aurenheim, spreading across the cliffs like a curtain drawn by an unseen hand. The academy's towers dimmed one by one, their lantern windows snuffed until the stone structures stood like dark guardians above the sea. Wind howled along the cliff edges, sharp and cold, carrying with it the taste of brine.
Inside the dormitory, the corridors were quieter than usual. The day had left its mark on every trainee: bandaged wrists, stiff shoulders, bruised shins, scraped palms. Even the ones who normally boasted fell silent after enduring Eira's brutal rounds and the sparring drills that punished every mistake.
Doors closed early. Lanterns dimmed.
The academy slept uneasily.
Except for Serene.
She sat at the edge of her narrow bed, back straight despite the aching pull beneath her ribs. The room was dim, lit only by a thin moonbeam slipping between the curtains. Her gloves were folded neatly beside her pillow. Her braid had loosened in the evening wind, strands escaping to brush against her cheek. Every movement she made—every inhale—carried a quiet hitch she refused to acknowledge.
She had endured worse.
She had endured a day of unyielding pressure.
She had endured Rowen's blade testing her to the edge of reason.
She had endured Kael's raw frustration.
She had endured her own weakness.
But the stillness after everything…
That was harder.
Silence left room for thoughts to fester.
Her fingers curled in the blanket unconsciously. She whispered the Valehart creed under her breath, the words steadying her heartbeat:
Grace is might unseen.
Her mother's voice echoed behind it—gentler, softer, the way she spoke only when they were alone.
Strength is not loud, Sera. It is quiet. It is chosen. It is held in the moments no one sees.
Tonight, those words felt like both comfort and weight.
A soft knock tapped on the door.
Serene straightened. "Yes?"
The door opened just wide enough for a familiar face to peek inside.
"May I come in?" Lira whispered.
"Of course."
Lira slipped in quietly, a small cloth bundle held to her chest. She had loosened her academy tunic, letting it fall comfortably around her shoulders. Her steps were soundless—as though she feared disturbing the night itself.
She set the lantern she carried on the small table between their beds. Its warm golden light softened the edges of the room.
"You should be asleep," Serene said.
Lira smiled faintly. "You say that like you're not sitting here wide awake."
"…Fair point."
Lira walked over and sat beside her, the bedsprings creaking softly beneath her weight. For a moment, she just observed Serene with those steady, perceptive eyes—eyes that saw too much and judged too little.
"You're hurting," Lira said gently.
"I'm fine."
Lira gave her a look—one Serene had seen before, during the endurance trial, when Serene had pretended her ribs didn't feel like tearing.
"Serene," Lira murmured, "you are always fine."
Serene looked away.
Lira opened the cloth bundle. Inside was a small jar filled with pale blue salve. The faint scent of crushed frostleaf and mint drifted out, cool and clean.
"You went to the infirmary?" Serene asked.
"No," Lira said, dipping her fingers into the salve. "I made this."
Serene blinked. "You made it?"
"The Spirit division studies basic healing herbs." Lira's smile warmed slightly. "We're not miracle workers, but we can help with bruises."
She reached for Serene's uniform.
"May I?"
Serene hesitated—not out of pride, but uncertainty at letting anyone this close. But she nodded.
Lira lifted the hem of her tunic just enough to reveal the edge of the bandage. The bruising beneath had spread further than Serene expected—dark purple, fading into yellow at the edges. Lira's brows furrowed, but she didn't gasp or pity. She simply worked.
Her touch was cool, gentle. She applied the salve with precise, careful movements that soothed the burning ache under Serene's ribs.
Serene flinched once.
Lira paused. "Does it sting?"
"No. Just cold."
"Cold is good," Lira murmured.
She wrapped the bandage again, better this time—tighter, but not restrictive. When she tied the final knot, she sat back with a quiet sigh of satisfaction.
"That should help you breathe tomorrow," she said. "Drills won't… well, they won't be easy, but at least they'll be bearable."
Serene nodded, her breath coming smoother already.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Lira stayed silent for a moment, studying Serene's face like she was reading a page no one else could see.
"You know," she said softly, "most people crumble when instructors push them like that."
"I can't afford to crumble."
Lira tilted her head. "Why not?"
Serene looked down at her hands. Calloused, bruised, strong—but not strong enough.
"Because I'm a Valehart."
Lira smiled gently. "That's obvious."
Serene blinked. "What?"
"You stand like one. Move like one. Speak like one. Hide like one."
"…Hide?"
Lira's smile dimmed slightly. "You don't tell anyone when you're hurting, Serene."
Her voice wasn't accusing.
Just honest.
Painfully honest.
Serene tried to think of a response but found none.
Lira continued, "When we finished drills today, you didn't even sit. You just kept moving. Even when your face went pale."
Serene swallowed. "I didn't want to look weak."
"You don't," Lira said immediately. "Not to anyone. Not even to the ones who want you to fail."
Serene's gaze softened. "Then why—"
"Because looking strong," Lira said, "is not the same as being unbreakable."
Serene inhaled slowly, the room suddenly too quiet, too still.
Lira's voice lowered.
"You also deserve help."
Serene closed her eyes.
The words hit deeper than she wanted them to.
Because she knew Lira was right.
She always had been.
"Is it wrong to want to stand alone?" Serene whispered.
"No," Lira said.
"But it is lonely."
The words lingered in the air, soft and heavy.
Serene opened her eyes. "I'm not used to… this."
"Letting someone see you?"
"Yes."
Lira smiled again—small, genuine, warm.
"You can learn. Like anything else."
A soft laugh escaped Serene.
Quiet. Almost disbelieving.
Lira nudged her shoulder gently. "Friends help each other."
Serene went still.
Friends.
No one had said that word to her in years.
Not in the manor.
Not in Varethia.
Not in the polished halls where diplomacy mattered more than sincerity.
She had allies.
She had expectations.
She had duties.
But she didn't have this.
"…Friends," Serene repeated softly, letting the word rest on her tongue.
"Yes," Lira whispered. "If you want."
Serene didn't trust her voice, so she nodded.
The lantern flickered, casting warm light across Lira's face—and Serene realized, with quiet certainty, that this girl with gentle hands and steady eyes might become one of the most important bonds she would ever form.
Lira exhaled in relief.
"I was hoping you'd say yes."
Serene raised a brow. "You expected me to say no?"
"Oh, absolutely," Lira said. "I was prepared to persuade you. I even rehearsed."
Serene stared. "Rehearsed what?"
Lira cleared her throat dramatically. "Serene Valehart, you need proper rest, emotional support, and someone to stop you from making reckless decisions."
Serene blinked. "…That's what you rehearsed?"
"Yes. But I didn't need to use it, so I consider that a victory."
Serene shook her head, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.
For the first time since arriving at the academy, she didn't feel like she was standing alone in a hall of expectations.
She felt… grounded.
Safe.
Not weak.
Not broken.
Just seen.
"Thank you, Lira," Serene said quietly.
Lira reached out and touched her wrist gently. "Anytime."
They sat there in silence for a while longer, letting the wind howl outside without disturbing the warm pocket of calm inside their small room.
The academy remained harsh.
Tomorrow would bring pain again.
Fear again.
Rivalry again.
Tests designed to crush weaker wills.
But tonight—
just for tonight—
Serene allowed herself to rest in the soft presence beside her.
Not as a noble.
Not as a trainee.
Not as a strategist.
But simply as a girl who had found a friend worth keeping.
Beyond the window, the sea crashed against the cliffs, relentless and untamed.
But inside Room 27, two first-year girls sat shoulder to shoulder, lily and thorn, quiet and steady, warming the cold night with an unspoken promise:
Whatever came next,
they would not face it alone.