Zaeryn arrived home to the low murmur of a holo-drama drifting from the living area. He didn't call out. Didn't stop to see who was watching. He took the stairs two at a time, his new uniform heavy and restrictive against his skin.
His room was dark and cool. He didn't bother with the lights, just kicked off his boots and peeled away the uniform, letting it fall onto his desk chair.
Putting on some pants, he collapsed face-first onto his bed. The comforter smelled like home, like clean linen and safety. The silence wrapped around him, blotting out the chaotic buzz of the Lyceum, the spar, the judgment in every sideways glance.
Sleep took him before his next breath.
___
In the living room below, Ysmeine sat curled on the plush sofa, teacup balanced on her knee. The air before her shimmered with Athea's holographic face, life-sized and unnervingly close.
