The training ground had emptied.
Even the veterans—grizzled men with eyes like worn steel—had moved on to eat or sleep.
Elarion stayed behind.
He sat beneath the splintered shadow of an old archway, elbows resting on his knees, gaze unfocused, drifting into stillness.
The silence wasn't heavy. It wasn't peaceful either.
It was just there.
Like breath. Like dust.
And in that stillness, something flickered.
A memory—not of blood, not of monsters, not of victory.
Just a voice.
> "Memories are important," someone had once told him.
"If one day you forget them… you'll forget yourself."
Pointless sentiment.
Caring, emotions, attachment—whatever he once had had long since sunk too deep to reach. If they still existed, they were buried beneath layers of control and training.
Dull.
Functionally irrelevant.
> Hell had stripped the value from feeling. If anything ever dies inside me, I won't notice. I mean,why should I?
He would protect what was his. But dying for someone?
That wasn't strategy.
That was weakness wrapped in poetry.
> Love? No. I'll never love someone enough to let them ruin me.
Life wasn't a redemption arc. He didn't wake up to chase closure or forgiveness.
He existed to continue.
To master.
To remain.
The memory that surfaced now was no more useful than the emotions it dragged with it.
A waste.
It had been triggered by something trivial.
Rior's voice. Half a joke.
> "You should smile more—you look good when you do."
A nudge to his arm. Light-hearted. Thoughtless.
Sirus, quieter:
> "It wouldn't hurt, once in a while."
Neither of them meant it as a command.
They never did.
Elarion remained seated beneath the dead arch, eyes lifted toward the cold sky.
> "Smile, hmm?" he murmured. A wry curve lifted his lips—empty of warmth. "If it makes me look better... why not?"
Smiling wasn't strange to him. It was just calculated.
Most people smiled by reflex. He had learned to use it.
At Bloodgate, smiling was never kindness. It was survival.
He'd smiled when his ribs were cracked. When his arms bled. When his feet refused to move.
They had praised him for it.
Smiling while hurting meant strength.
So he smiled like a doll—flawless, empty.
Until the day he didn't.
His lips had trembled. A moment of lapse. They noticed.
Punishment followed. Measured. Not excessive. Just enough to reinforce the lesson:
Real emotion was noise.
Control was clarity.
From then on, his smile became a weapon—unsheathed with purpose. Never without gain.
> I can remember the shape of a real smile. I can mimic it better than most. But meaning it?
There was no efficiency in that.
Emotions weren't dead. They were muted. Like sounds under water—easy to ignore.
---
The Bloodgate Trial ensured it.
Hell reinforced it.
No one told them what to feel. The lesson came naturally:
> Crying doesn't save.
Laughing doesn't help.
Smiling changes nothing.
So he stopped doing it without purpose.
Not out of grief. Not rebellion.
Just logic.
---
The memory dissipated like fog, leaving no trace behind.
Elarion blinked once.
The sun pressed faint heat across his cheekbones—irrelevant.
He caught Rior's idiotic grin nearby. Sirus, steady as ever, watched with unreadable calm.
They were forged in the same fire.
They smiled still—maybe because they hadn't fully let go of something. Maybe because they chose to.
But they never demanded the same from him.
They offered it freely.
> They want me to smile. Not for their sake, but mine.
It didn't matter.
He didn't need that.
He didn't want it.
Sirus asked quietly, "You okay, little brother?"
Elarion turned his head. Met both of their eyes.
Then, with surgical control, he let the corner of his mouth lift.
A minimal smile. Calculated. Brief.
"I'm fine."
And he was.
There was no storm inside him.
No yearning.
No softness clawing to surface.
He was whole—cleanly, quietly.
Not a monster.
Hell itself approved it. That's the reason he passed.
Maybe one day, he'd smile again—not to manipulate, not to shield, not to control.
Maybe.
But he wasn't interested in that future.
There was no urgency.
If it happened, it would be because he allowed it—not because he needed it.
His smile wasn't broken.
It was restrained.
And that made it powerful.
Not free to give.
Not available to anyone who hadn't earned it.
---
One day, perhaps, it would return without thought.
But not today.
Today, this cold echo of a smile was enough.
A reminder of control.
A reminder that he was still here.
The world would wait.
And when that real smile returned—
It wouldn't be for beauty. Or love.
It would be a statement.
Of will.
Of clarity.
Of complete choice.
And those who witnessed it?
Would know its worth.
---
The air had cooled.
Some footsteps echoed—Herua, perhaps. Maybe someone else.
Elarion didn't move.
The earlier smile had already faded from his face.
But its ghost lingered like the trace of a drawn blade.
Not fake.
Not true.
Just… present.
A shadow of something buried—not lost.
Maybe it would resurface. Maybe not.
It didn't matter.
He rose slowly, brushing dust from his sleeves.
The bell rang in the distance.
"Let's go," came Rior's voice—bright, careless.
Sirus, behind him, added with quiet steadiness, "Time."
They'd noticed the shift—but said nothing.
They never did.
They didn't need to.
Elarion turned, calm. Not cold.
He didn't have to be cold with them.
That was all.
The three walked on.
And the world, as always, kept turning.
---