The ninth month came with a quietness Kael had not known before. The academy bustled as always—students darting between lectures, sparring rings alive with shouts, laughter spilling from the dining halls—but for Kael, the world still moved with the weight of absence. Rys's absence. The silence left behind after the final ember had gone out.
For the first weeks, Kael kept mostly to themself. They trained when required, studied with the others, but their words were fewer, their smiles rarer. Some days, Kael would stop mid-stride, almost turning as if to share a thought with Rys—only to feel that hollow ache when they remembered.
It was Anya who refused to let them linger too long in that hollow.
She didn't force cheer or drown Kael in comfort. Instead, she appeared at the right times—silent during long walks, sharp-tongued during sparring, pragmatic when Kael seemed to forget the world hadn't ended. When Kael hesitated too long with their blade during a drill, Anya barked, "Rys wouldn't let you slack. You know it." When Kael lingered outside the training hall, staring at the door, she shoved them inside and dragged them into the sparring circle.
Anya wasn't gentle, but she was steady.
By the end of the ninth month, Kael began to notice changes. Their movements no longer faltered. Their laughter, though faint, returned in pieces during mealtime. They even caught themself teasing Anya once, earning a roll of her sharp eyes but a smirk she didn't quite hide.
It was during one of these evenings—late practice beneath the lanterns near the outer wall—that Kael finally voiced the thought they had carried in silence.
"I don't know if I'll ever stop missing him," Kael said, lowering their blade. Sweat clung to their brow, but their voice was quieter than the thrum of crickets.
Anya stood opposite, catching her breath. For a moment, she didn't answer. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she pointed her blade toward the stars. "You won't. But you'll learn to carry it. That's what we do. Carry the weight, and keep moving."
Kael looked at her, really looked, and nodded. The ache remained, but her words fit into the hollow space like a piece of stone shoring up a cracked foundation.
The tenth month brought sharper edges to Kael's focus. With the tournament only months away, every student's attention shifted toward preparation. The air of the academy grew taut with anticipation: debates over strategy in the mess hall, endless hours in the training grounds, whispered alliances forming in shadowed corners.
Kael, too, returned to the rhythm. But where once Rys had stood beside them, now it was Anya. She was not the same—her style faster, more deceptive, her focus cutting through distractions like a blade through silk. Kael adjusted to her pace, sometimes stumbling, sometimes finding that her energy pulled them forward where their own resolve might have wavered.
It wasn't replacement, and it wasn't forgetting. It was stepping forward.
One evening at the close of the tenth month, Kael and Anya sat on the academy's southern terrace, the lanterns below flickering against the city that sprawled in the night. The chill in the air hinted at winter.
"You've stopped looking backward," Anya said suddenly, her gaze fixed on the horizon.
Kael blinked. "What do you mean?"
"For weeks, every move you made was about him. What he would think. What he would say. But now…" She tilted her head toward him, her expression unreadable. "Now you're fighting like yourself again."
Kael didn't answer at first. They followed her gaze out across the night, the city glowing beneath the stars. Finally, they said quietly, "Maybe I'm finally learning how to carry it."
Anya gave a short nod. "Good. Because the tournament doesn't wait for grief."
Her words could have been cold. But Kael heard the care beneath them, veiled though it was. And for the first time since Rys's death, Kael allowed themself to believe: they could keep moving forward.
---
By the eleventh month, the academy was alive with feverish energy. The tournament loomed closer with each passing day, and preparation consumed every waking hour. Training rings were filled at dawn and still crowded well past midnight. Even the quiet corners of the library hummed with whispered debates over strategy, survival, and glory.
Kael immersed themself in it. The grief had not vanished—shadows still lingered—but now it had shape. It drove Kael forward rather than weighing them down. Where hesitation had once haunted their movements, determination sharpened every strike.
Anya remained their constant.
Together, they formed an unspoken rhythm: sparring drills at sunrise, tactical exercises after classes, endurance runs at dusk. Anya pressed Kael relentlessly, forcing them to sharpen not only strength but speed, intuition, and control. Kael, in turn, grounded her—where her style sometimes cut recklessly, Kael's steadiness balanced it.
It wasn't long before whispers began circulating among the students: the two of them, if paired in the tournament, would be a force to reckon with. Kael pretended not to hear, but deep down, the murmurs lit a quiet fire.
Meanwhile, the sixth month's vote drew to a close. At the start of the seventh month, results had been revealed: the three competitions were fixed. Now came the second layer of anticipation—criteria submissions and votes.
The halls buzzed with speculation. Would the "Break the Wall" challenge be scored by speed or endurance? Would the "Veil Maze" favor adaptability or precision? And what of the "Waking Gate"—the most mysterious of all? No one knew how the criteria might twist the trials, and the uncertainty gnawed at everyone.
Kael submitted no criteria of their own, though Anya did—leaning toward tests of strategy and cunning. Still, both cast their votes when the ballots opened, aware that every decision could tip the balance between survival and expulsion.
By the twelfth month, tension reached a fever pitch. The first snow of winter thickened over the academy grounds, muffling the world in pale silence. Beneath that quiet, the students sharpened themselves like blades, each determined not to be the one dulled and discarded.
On the final evening of the year, Kael and Anya trained alone in the frost-bitten courtyard. Their breath misted the air as their blades met in sparks. At last, both lowered their weapons, chests heaving, steam rising from sweat-soaked brows.
"This is it," Anya said, voice hoarse but steady. "The next time we push this hard, it'll be the tournament floor."
Kael nodded, gripping their sword tighter. The memory of Rys ached still, but it no longer chained them. Instead, it stood like a flame at their back, urging them forward.
"We'll be ready," Kael said.
And for the first time in months, they felt the weight of those words settle not as hope—but as truth.