The first morning without Theomar hit Midarion like a falling brick.
He woke before dawn, eyes gritty, legs already aching from the memory of yesterday's laps. Keel chirped inside his cage as if cheering him on—or mocking him. Hard to tell with birds.
Midarion staggered out to the training yard, breath steaming in the cold air. He stared at the hourglass Theomar had left him.
"This thing is cursed," he muttered.
Then he ran.
His feet slapped the ground in uneven rhythm. His arms pumped like they belonged to someone else. And every ten steps, he wondered why his lungs hated him so much. But he didn't stop. Theomar had said an hour a day, and Midarion lived by rules—even the ones that made him want to collapse.
When the sand finally ran out, he dropped to his knees, forehead pressed to the ground.
"One month," he wheezed. "Just one…"
Keel chirped again, unimpressed.
— — —
Reikika's morning was quieter, but not easier.
She stood barefoot on a single wooden pole, sword held perfectly horizontal, body frozen in stillness. Her silver hair fluttered in the breeze.
Ren watched her with the expression of a man observing a wall dry.
"Your balance is weak," he said.
Reikika wobbled. "I've been here an hour!"
"Then you have one more."
She gritted her teeth, straightened her spine, and focused. She always found a way. Every time. Ren saw it before she did: she was born for the blade.
When the hour was up, she stepped down, ankles burning.
"Next," Ren said, guiding her toward the sand pit.
Coarse sand awaited her—deep, shifting, punishing. With every step, she sank.
"Footwork," Ren ordered.
Reikika inhaled, lifted her sword, and moved.Soft, precise, controlled. The blade danced.
Ren said nothing. Not praise, not criticism. Just an unblinking stare.
"Again."
Always again.
— — —
Midarion's afternoons belonged to Selina, who regretted it every single day.
He held a broom like a weapon, sweeping enthusiastically but without coordination. Dust somehow multiplied in his presence.
"Midarion, you missed the corner."
"I didn't miss it—everyone keeps saying that corner is haunted. I was avoiding a ghost."
"There is NO ghost."
He swept the corner. A gigantic dust cloud erupted, engulfing them.
Selina coughed violently. "YOU MADE IT WORSE!"
Midarion blinked through the fog. "Maybe it was a ghost."
And yet—even frustrated—Selina couldn't stay mad. He genuinely tried. He just… existed like a natural disaster.
— — —
By the end of the first week, Reikika's days had become a rhythm of sweat and repetition.
500 slow cuts, each one precise, each one burning her shoulders until they felt carved from stone.
Balance drills on poles.
Breathing synchronized to every blade movement until her lungs adapted.
Then the worst: blindfold combat.
She stood in the center of a dome-shaped room, darkness wrapped around her eyes. Wooden dummies swung at her from every side. She heard mechanisms ticking. She felt air shifting.
One swung from the left.
She ducked.
Another lunged from behind.
She sidestepped.
A third clipped her shoulder.
Ren's voice echoed from somewhere in the dark.
"Again."
Reikika tightened her grip. She didn't need encouragement. She needed perfection.
— — —
Midarion's evenings were battles of another kind.
Meditation.
Theomar had said it would open the path to instinct. To clarity.
Instead, it opened the path to boredom.
Midarion sat cross-legged on a cushion, back straight, breathing slow. But his mind rebelled instantly.
He thought about food.
He thought about pranking Selina.
He thought about how itchy his knee suddenly was.
He thought about how maybe—just maybe—Theomar had lied about meditation.
Keel chirped at him, judgmental.
"I'm TRYING," Midarion hissed.
He remained seated anyway, stubborn as stone. His goal was carved inside him like a hidden flame. Even if his brain was slow, even if he struggled, even if he lagged behind Reikika in everything—
He refused to give up.
And that alone kept him still until the candles burned low.
— — —
Nights became the soft place where hardship blurred into friendship.
Reikika returned from sword drills, bruised and sore. Midarion returned from cleaning duties, covered in suspicious dust. They collapsed onto their beds at the same time every night.
"How many cuts today?" Midarion asked.
"Five hundred," she groaned. "My arms feel dead."
He whistled. "Impressive."
Reikika sat up. "How was maintenance?"
Midarion narrowed his eyes. "Selina said I cleaned worse than a hurricane."
Reikika tried not to laugh. Failed completely.
He threw a pillow at her. She threw it back.
They bickered. They teased. They shared food, gossip, exhaustion.Midarion's jokes filled the room with life. Reikika's quiet strength grounded it.
They weren't siblings. They weren't partners.
But they were surviving together.
— — —
By week two, Midarion's stamina improved—barely. His legs still felt like noodles, but stronger noodles. He started singing while running, terribly, forcing several soldiers to flee the training yard.
By week three, Selina stopped giving him death glares and started sighing with acceptance.
"Just—just… try to not break anything today."
"No promises."
By week four, Midarion earned something he didn't expect.
A routine.Discipline.A rhythm that felt like it belonged to him.
He was still bad at cleaning. Still slow. Still clumsy. Still forgetful.
But he was consistent.
Sometimes, consistency is its own kind of genius.
— — —
Reikika bloomed.
Her movements became fluid, sharp, instinctive. She learned faster than Ren expected. Her footwork adapted to sand. Her breathing matched the blade. Her blindfold training improved until she could dodge half the strikes.
Still, Ren never praised her.
Never softened.
Never smiled.
He only watched her with that unreadable gaze and said:
"Again."
And Reikika obeyed every time.
— — —
The spar was inevitable.
It happened at the end of the fourth week. Midarion and Reikika stood facing each other in a duel chamber, wooden swords in hand.
Ren stood over them, arms crossed. His presence sucked the warmth out of the air.
"Begin."
Midarion lunged first, because of course he did. Reikika sidestepped smoothly, tapping his shoulder.
"One point," she said.
"Accident," he grumbled.
They circled. Reikika agile, light on her feet. Midarion chaotic, unpredictable, fast only in bursts. His strikes were messy but passionate.
Reikika dodged. Midarion slipped. They collided and tumbled on the ground.
Ren stared. Blinked once."Again."
They got up, panting, fighting sloppily but with heart.
Neither won.Neither lost.Neither cared.
They laughed at the end, exhausted, bruised, proud.
Ren walked away before they could see the faintest glimmer of approval hidden in his silence.
— — —
The month ended the same way it began: early morning, cold light streaming into the dorm.
Midarion stretched, feeling stronger. Reikika sharpened her focus, feeling sharper.
Keel chirped.
The door opened.
Boot steps echoed.
Theomar stood in the doorway—dusty cloak, wide grin, eyes shining with pride the moment he saw them.
"Miss me, young wolves?"
"I did NOT," Midarion declared, absolutely lying.
Reikika smiled softly. Even she felt warmth stir in her chest at the sight of him.
But then—
Behind him stepped someone else.
A woman with long golden hair, eyes warm as ancient starlight. Her presence filled the room without effort—gentle, powerful, serene.
Reikika froze.
Midarion's breath caught.
"...Elhyra?" he whispered.
She smiled.
That was all it took.
Reikika moved first, steps fast, almost tripping as she reached her. Midarion followed right after, unable to stop himself. They didn't tackle her—not here, not in the Post—but they stopped so close she could touch their shoulders.
"Hello, little stars," she murmured.
Emotion hit them like a tidal wave. Gratitude. Relief. A quiet, aching longing that only children saved from darkness could understand.
Midarion's eyes stung, and he blinked hard.Reikika pressed her lips together to keep them steady.
Theomar stepped back, giving them the moment without teasing.
Elhyra cupped their cheeks gently."You've grown," she whispered. "Both of you."
"We trained," Midarion said, voice cracking.Reikika nodded fiercely. "We worked hard."
"I know you did."
The warmth in her voice softened something brittle inside them—something they didn't even know they carried.
For the first time in a month, the Black Post felt like a place where they weren't just surviving.
They were becoming.
And now… their angel was here to see it.