Midarion became the joker again.
Not loudly. Not recklessly. And never cruelly.
It started small.
A bucket that was always empty suddenly held warm water instead of cold. A training bell rang one breath earlier than expected, throwing an instructor off just enough to earn a frown. A stack of reports reordered so precisely that no one could tell what had changed—only that it felt wrong.
Nothing traceable. Nothing harmful.
Just enough to remind the world that he was still there.
Those who noticed laughed before they realized they had. Those who didn't notice simply felt the day pass a little lighter. And those who might have suspected Midarion never caught him in the act, because he never lingered near the result of his mischief. He moved on immediately, expression open, posture obedient, eyes bright in a way that disarmed suspicion.
Filandra noticed, of course.
She didn't scold him.
She didn't encourage him either.
Her presence rested in the background of his thoughts, like a patient hand on his shoulder—steady, corrective, never indulgent.
Control, she reminded him, when his levity edged toward indulgence.Always control.
He listened.
Every prank was deliberate. Timed. Executed without a ripple in his Kosmo. If anything, it sharpened his focus. Joy, contained. Laughter, silent. Resistance, disguised as ease.
What unsettled the others wasn't the pranks themselves.
It was him.
After everything—humiliation, exhaustion, erasure—nothing seemed to break Midarion. He smiled easily. He joked when spoken to. He endured mockery without flinching and returned it with self-deprecation that left no target to strike.
Some recruits whispered that he was pretending.
Others said he was simple.
A few watched him closely and said nothing at all.
Those were the dangerous ones.
Night came quietly that day.
Midarion finished his duties with practiced efficiency. Armor polished. Floors spotless. Equipment aligned to the precise order Aelyss preferred—though she never acknowledged it. When he stepped away from the command wing, the halls felt cooler, emptier, their echoes softer.
He didn't expect company.
"Midarion."
Lior stood near the outer columns, hands tucked into his sleeves, posture hesitant in a way that still felt strange on him. The arrogance was gone. What remained was something careful, almost fragile.
Midarion smiled. "You're out late."
"So are you," Lior said. "Or… always, I guess."
Midarion shrugged. "Perks of the job."
They walked side by side without destination, footsteps slow, the Sanctuary quiet around them. Lamps glowed low along the stone paths, reflected in shallow channels of water that carried the distant sound of the sea.
Lior broke first.
"Why?" he asked.
Midarion glanced at him. "Why what?"
"Why are you… like this?" Lior gestured vaguely. "With me. After everything I said. About Reikika. About where you come from."
Midarion considered him for a moment—not weighing words, just choosing the simplest truth.
"Because you're a good person," he said.
Lior stopped walking.
Midarion took another step before realizing he was alone, then turned back, confused. Lior stood frozen, eyes wide, breath caught like he'd been struck.
"That's it?" Lior asked hoarsely. "After everything?"
Midarion nodded. "Yeah."
Silence stretched.
Then Lior laughed once—sharp, broken—and scrubbed a hand over his face. When he spoke again, his voice trembled despite his effort to steady it.
"You're wrong," he said. "Or… maybe you're the first one who's ever looked at me without expectations."
They resumed walking, slower now.
"I was born into too much," Lior said quietly. "Wealth. Status. A name that opens doors before you knock. My siblings… they're all exceptional. Bastion-level prodigies. My parents adore them. Admire them."
He swallowed.
"And they love me too. That's the worst part."
Midarion didn't interrupt.
"They never pushed me," Lior continued. "Never demanded more. Every failure was softened. Every weakness reframed as kindness. 'You're too gentle for this,' they'd say. 'Too cute. Too kind.' Like it was praise."
His jaw tightened.
"So I learned to protect myself the only way I knew how. Arrogance. Ignorance. Acting above everyone else before they could look down on me."
He let out a shaky breath. "I didn't even realize how empty I was until Reikika beat me. Until I lost everything I thought made me special."
Midarion's expression softened—not with pity, but recognition.
"I lost my spirit," Lior said. "My ambition. I didn't know why I was still here."
He glanced at Midarion. "Then I saw you fight."
Midarion blinked. "That was a while ago."
"I know," Lior said. "But it stuck. You kept standing up. You refused to yield. Even when it hurt. Even when it made no sense. And even if they didn't declare you winner, but in my eyes you did win. You didn't win because you were stronger—you won because you wouldn't stop."
His voice steadied. "That changed something in me."
They stopped near the edge of the courtyard, where the sound of waves carried faintly over the walls.
"I want that," Lior said. "That refusal. That… fire. And I didn't think someone like you would ever want to be friends with someone like me."
Midarion leaned against the stone railing, thoughtful.
"People say stupid things when they're afraid," he said. "Doesn't mean that's who they are."
Lior's eyes burned. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not," Midarion replied honestly. "But it's simple."
Before Lior could answer, footsteps approached.
"Curfew," one of the night guards called. "Back to your dorm."
Lior nodded quickly. "I should—"
"Go," Midarion said with a grin. "Before you get me extra duties."
Lior hesitated, then smiled back. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me," Lior said, then turned and hurried off before Midarion could reply.
Midarion watched him disappear, the warmth of the conversation settling quietly in his chest. Filandra stirred faintly, approval wordless.
Then the bell chimed.
Night duty.
He took his position at the outer watch—one of the least desirable posts. Wind off the sea cut sharp through thin fabric. The stone beneath his feet held the day's chill stubbornly.
He stood.
And stood.
And stood.
From the outside, nothing moved. From the inside, everything did.
He entered his focus easily now. Kosmo folded inward, pressure mounting like a held breath that never quite released. Hours passed without markers. The stars shifted imperceptibly overhead.
No one suspected a thing.
When his shift ended, dawn was already threatening the horizon. He slept less than three hours before rising again, washing quickly, pulling on his uniform, preparing the captain's morning.
It was a hard life.
Midarion smiled as he worked.
He didn't complain.
He embraced it.
Because joy, quietly chosen, was still freedom.