The plaza was quiet at night. Not empty—just quiet in the way stone cools when no one's watching it.
Niri walked with measured steps, her gravity belt still set to the heavier pull that felt natural to her. Lights arced gently overhead, casting soft lines across the tile. Most students were already inside, gathered in study blocks or asleep in their quarters. The night left only a few late walkers scattered across the edges.
She moved through the dim plaza with the same strange rhythm as always—light on her feet, quiet despite the weight. Too quiet.
Ronan saw her first.
He nudged Qiri and nodded toward the figure approaching from the far side of the plaza.
Qiri glanced, feathers shifting instinctively. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"She walks like she doesn't have a fully calibrated gravity unit," she murmured.
"Not just that," Ronan added, his voice low. "She walks better than anyone here. Like the plaza adjusts for her."
Niri reached them just as the air shifted.
"You always talk like that when someone's walking up?" she asked dryly.
Qiri blinked. Ronan smirked. "Only when someone walks like a Gateborn."
The joke landed harder than intended.
Niri paused for a breath, then said with practiced sarcasm, "If I were Gateborn, you'd already be writing the apology section of your essay."
They laughed, the tension dissipating.
"Fair," Ronan said, scooting over. "Sit. Help us try to survive Luka's mind trap."
She joined them at the table, unwrapping one of the sealed ration packs and poking at it like it might attack.
"So," Ronan said after a moment, tapping his datapad, "what are we even supposed to write? 'What if the Gateborn returned?' That's like writing a containment plan for a volcano."
Qiri leaned back. "It's not about them. It's about us. The reactions. Panic, control, damage."
"They'd isolate them," Niri said quietly. "Track them. Assign a handler. Study them until there's nothing left."
Ronan stared at her. "That's... kind of intense."
"But accurate," Qiri said. "It's what always happens. Power frightens people more than monsters do."
Niri didn't answer. She just looked at her screen.
They continued working in near silence for a while—soft taps, shifting shoulders, distant footsteps from the upper walkways.
Eventually, Ronan leaned back and sighed. "Alright. I'm done. Let's read. You first, Qiri."
She gave him a look, but tapped her pad and began reading. Her essay was clean, logical, with sharp ethical commentary about institutional reactions to fear. It was safe but clever.
Ronan clapped once. "Solid. Now behold: flair."
He read his essay next—dramatic, speculative, and deeply theatrical. He framed the Gateborn not as threats, but as a mirror to the current galaxy's paranoia. If they returned, the systems would crumble under their own exaggerated myths.
"Bold," Qiri said. "Slightly ridiculous."
"I accept that."
Then they both looked at Niri.
She didn't hesitate. Her voice stayed level.
"If the Gateborn returned, the most dangerous reaction wouldn't be fear—it would be certainty. Certainty that they're a threat. Certainty that they should be contained. Certainty that they owe us answers. But they owe us nothing."
She kept her eyes down.
"They'd be dissected—not because of what they did, but because of what they represented. We'd try to shrink them down into something understandable. Containable. That's what fear does."
Qiri's smirk had faded. Ronan looked down at his pad.
Niri's tone didn't change. "And no matter how much they tried to live normally, we'd never let them. Because legends are easier to preserve than people are to understand."
She stopped there.
"It's not finished," she said softly.
Qiri's voice came after a pause. "It's already complete."
They didn't ask where her words came from.
And Niri didn't offer to explain.
A long silence followed, not awkward—just heavier than before.
Ronan broke it first. "Alright. Next time we pick an easier essay. Like quantum ethics or political satire."
Qiri exhaled a quiet laugh. "Or we just make up a new species next time. No more ghosts from history."
Niri smirked faintly. "You're the ones who brought up the Gateborn."
"Yeah, and you made them sound real," Ronan said. "I mean... not you, obviously. Just... the way you said it."
Qiri gave him a warning nudge. "Let it go."
"No, no. I'm serious," he added, half-grinning. "If I find a Gateborn, I'm asking them to write my final thesis. They've clearly got a sense for dramatic structure."
Niri rolled her eyes. "If you find a Gateborn, ask them how they kept their identity secret while surrounded by amateurs."
That drew an honest laugh from both of them.
Ronan leaned back on his elbows. "Alright. One more cycle until the next disaster. You two think we're ready for War Tactics 201 tomorrow?"
Qiri groaned. "Barely survived the last one."
Niri shrugged. "Just remember not to underestimate improvised force applications."
Qiri tilted her head. "That sounds suspiciously like something an actual strategist would say."
Niri smiled—briefly. "Just someone who reads too much."
They stayed like that a while longer. Beneath the quiet plaza lights. Laughing, but watching each other in new ways.
The tension hadn't disappeared.
It had just found better company.
Ronan glanced down at his datapad, then back at Niri. "Hey, random question. Who's your sponsor?"
Niri looked up slowly.
He went on, casually. "I mean, refugees usually need someone to vouch for them, right? Like official clearance. You can't just walk into the Academy without backing."
Qiri tilted her head. "Yeah... I hadn't thought about that. You were drafted through refugee status?"
Niri hesitated.
Then, without a word, she flicked her wrist and brought up her profile chip. The sponsor codes flashed briefly—two official designations highlighted in neutral blue: Lu'Ka and Chancellor Yvith Korr.
Qiri stared.
Ronan leaned in, blinking. "Wait. Wait, wait. That's Lu'Ka Lu'Ka? The Professor?"
"And the Chancellor?" Qiri added, her voice lower now.
Niri casually turned off the screen. "Seems like I'm popular."
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Ronan let out a soft, impressed whistle. "That explains... absolutely nothing, but I'm more confused in a respectful way now."
Qiri was still watching her. "You're not what I expected."
Niri arched a brow. "Good. Expectations are overrated."
Qiri shook her head slowly. "The Chancellor? This is the first time in the Academy's history a student's been personally backed by her. That's not just rare—that's unprecedented."
Ronan leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You know how many people even meet her in person? Not even most instructors get that close. If you meet her, it usually means something's gone wrong. Really wrong. Like 'expelled-with-a-record' wrong."
Qiri nodded. "Or worse. Political."
Niri shrugged. "Guess I'm lucky, then."
Then, after a beat, she added with a dry edge, "Or maybe they just pity me. I mean, I'm the lone survivor of a dead species, right? That's got to earn a few special considerations."
She said it like a joke, but her eyes didn't match the tone.
Ronan glanced at Qiri.
Qiri opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Niri didn't wait for a reply. She just picked up her drink and stared across the plaza, her voice quieter now.
"Sometimes it's easier to be the tragic story than the question no one can answer."
Qiri shifted uncomfortably, her wings tucking closer to her frame. Her voice came softer than usual. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
Niri waved a hand. "Don't. You didn't say anything wrong."
But Qiri's eyes didn't leave her.
Clearly, something in Niri's words had landed deeper than either of them expected.
Ronan exhaled slowly, a tension in his chest he hadn't realized he was holding. His usual smirk was gone.
"Hey," he said after a moment, his voice lower. "Sorry about earlier. The jokes, the bravado—I didn't mean to... you know."
Niri didn't turn, but her tone softened slightly. "You didn't mean anything by it. That's what makes it sting a little more."
Then, with a dry laugh, she added, "But hey, at least you've got something to say now. You've got a friend no one else can ever claim."
She smiled faintly, eyes still on the horizon.
It wasn't pride. Not quite. Just a kind of tired defiance.
And beneath it, something heavier.
She hated hiding what she was. Hated the fake history etched into her files, the silence wrapped around her name. But what she'd just said—about being a tragic story—was the closest to the truth she'd dared speak aloud.
They didn't answer. Not right away.
Because luck wasn't the word that came to mind.