The evening before departure, Elias found a note slipped under his door.
Dinner. My quarters. Bring Dante, Kaël, and Marcus. 6 PM sharp. Don't be late. - M
He smiled. Maren's handwriting was as direct as her personality—no wasted flourishes, just clear intent. He folded the note and tucked it into his pocket.
At 5:55 PM, the four of them stood outside Maren's door. Marcus fidgeted with his collar. Dante checked his pocket watch for the third time. Kaël knocked—twice, sharp and confident.
"Come in."
Maren's quarters were larger than the student dormitories but still modest. A single room with a sleeping alcove, a writing desk covered in mission reports, and a small dining table that had been set for five. The smell hit them immediately—roasted chicken, fresh bread, vegetables glazed with honey and herbs.
"Holy—" Kaël's eyes went wide. "Maren, you cooked?"
"Sit." She gestured to the table with a wooden spoon. "Before it gets cold."
They sat. The table was simple but the food was... abundant. A whole roasted chicken, golden and crispy. A loaf of bread still steaming. Roasted root vegetables that gleamed in the lamplight. A pitcher of cold water with sliced lemons floating on top.
Marcus stared. "When did you have time to—"
"I'm efficient." Maren set the last dish down—a pot of thick vegetable stew—and sat. "Now eat. You're all too thin."
For a moment, no one moved. Then Elias reached for the bread, tore off a piece, and bit into it. His eyes closed involuntarily.
"Oh. Oh, that's good."
That broke the dam. Hands reached, plates filled, and for several minutes the only sounds were appreciative chewing and the occasional groan of pleasure.
"Miss Maren," Dante said finally, "where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Field deployments." She cut into the chicken with practiced efficiency. "Twenty years of eating terrible rations teaches you to appreciate good food. And when you're on missions lasting months, you either learn to cook or you go insane eating dried meat."
"I vote we deploy you everywhere," Kaël said through a mouthful of chicken. "This is incredible."
Maren's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "You're easy to please, Kaël. Though, your table manners are atrocious. Close your mouth."
He did, grinning.
They ate for a while in comfortable silence. Maren wiped her hands on a cloth and leaned back in her chair. They'd nearly finished eating. Plates scraped. The sharp edge of hunger had softened into warmth.
"So," she said lightly, as though continuing the conversation rather than starting a new one. "Tomorrow you head for Eldhaven, the Capital. Hospital under demon attack. Civilians caught in the middle."
Her eyes moved from one of them to the next, unhurried, attentive.
"Tell me a little about yourselves"," she said. "Something I won't find in a report."
"Like... our favorite colors?" Marcus asked, confused.
"Like what makes you happy. What you fight for. What you'd miss if you died tomorrow." Maren took a sip of water. "We're disciples. We talk about duty, honor, fighting darkness. But that's the armor we wear. I want to know what's underneath."
The question hung in the air. The students felt the room still.
She wasn't asking out of curiosity. Or politeness. And she certainly wasn't looking for clever answers.
This wasn't about missions or preparedness. It was about weight. About what stayed with a person when everything else was stripped away.
She was asking them, deliberately, to look past the roles they'd been given — and to decide whether there was something beneath them worth protecting.
Elias spoke first. "Pistachio cake with meat. And milk."
Everyone turned to him.
"Pistachio cake with meat?" Kaël's face scrunched up. "That's... that's a thing?"
"It's from Ashwell. Street vendor near the eastern market. Best thing I ever tasted." Elias smiled—that genuine smile, not the mask. "I was thirteen. Stole enough copper to buy one slice. Sat on a rooftop and ate it slowly. Made it last an hour. That was the first time I remember thinking... maybe life could be more than just surviving."
Maren nodded slowly. "Food memory. Strong anchor. Good." She looked at Marcus. "You?"
Marcus hesitated. "I... I like fixing things. Broken weapons. Torn armor. When I was stuck at Awakened for two years, everyone thought I was useless. But I could still repair their equipment. Make it better. And sometimes..." He smiled shyly. "And sometimes, when I handed something back, they'd test it — swing it, flex it — and you could see the relief on their face. Like it mattered. Like I'd given them something precious. That felt good. Being useful."
"You're a craftsman," Maren said. "That's valuable. Dante?"
Dante set down his fork carefully. "Books. Specifically, tactical treatises. I know that sounds boring—"
"It doesn't," Maren interrupted. "Continue."
"I like... solving puzzles. Understanding patterns. When I read a military campaign from three hundred years ago and see the commander's mistake, the moment they chose wrong—there's this clarity. This understanding that if they'd just done X instead of Y, everything would have changed. It's like..." He searched for words. "It's like time travel. Seeing all the possibilities that could have been, learning from mistakes I didn't make."
"You're a strategist," Maren said. "Natural. Probably exhausting for your friends."
"Very," Kaël agreed cheerfully. "My turn?"
"Please."
Kaël leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs. "I like storms. Thunderstorms especially. Before I was Awakened, I used to sneak out during storms and just... stand in them. Lightning, rain, wind—it felt alive. Dangerous but beautiful. Everyone else ran inside. I ran out." He grinned. "My parents thought I was insane. Maybe I was. But those moments, standing in the storm while lightning cracked overhead? That's when I felt most myself. Most free."
"You're an adrenaline addict," Maren observed. "That's going to get you killed or make you legendary. Possibly both."
"I'm hoping for legendary."
"Aren't we all." Maren refilled the water pitcher from a clay jug. "You want to know mine?"
"Yes!" They said it in unison.
Maren was quiet for a moment. Then: "Silence. Real silence. Not the absence of noise—the presence of peace. I've spent twenty years in combat. Always moving, always alert, always ready. But sometimes, in the early morning before anyone else wakes, I sit by the western window in the academy library. No missions. No responsibilities. Just... quiet. That's what I fight for. So others can have that quiet without fear."
The table went still.
"That's beautiful," Marcus said softly.
"That's practical," Maren corrected. But her eyes softened. "Peace isn't passive. It's what you build when you're strong enough to defend it."
They ate dessert in comfortable silence after that. Then Kaël, unable to help himself, said: "So, Elias. The pistachio meat cake. On a scale of one to ten, how weird is it?"
"It's not weird, it's fusion cuisine—"
"It's weird," Dante said flatly.
"You haven't even tried it!"
"I don't need to try it to know that meat and pistachios don't belong in cake."
"Says the guy who probably eats plain oatmeal and calls it breakfast," Kaël shot back.
"Oatmeal is efficient—"
"Oatmeal is sad."
Maren watched them bicker with something like fondness. This—this was what she'd wanted. Not the mission briefing. Not the tactical assessment. Just... them. Being human. Being young. Being alive.
Because tomorrow they'd face demons. Tomorrow they'd risk everything.
But tonight? Tonight they were just four disciples and their instructor, sharing a meal and arguing about cake.
"Alright," Maren said finally, standing. "Enough. It's late. You deploy at dawn. Get some sleep."
They stood, started gathering dishes. Maren waved them off. "Leave it. I'll handle cleanup."
"Maren," Elias said quietly. "Thank you. For this."
"Don't thank me. Just come back alive and stronger." Her voice was gruff. But her hand briefly touched his shoulder—a mother's gesture, fleeting but real. "All of you. Come back."
"We will," Dante promised.
"You'd better." Maren pointed at the door. "Now get out. You're cluttering my space."
They filed out, but not before Marcus whispered to Elias: "She likes us."
"Of course she does. She's just terrible at showing it."
Tomorrow came fast. The mission. The danger. The unknown.
But tonight—tonight they had this. A memory. A moment of warmth before the storm.
Maren stood at her window, looking out over the academy grounds. She'd been in contact with hundreds of students that went on missions over twenty years. Some came back. Some didn't.
But these four... these four mattered. Not because they were stronger or more gifted. Because they reminded her why she fought. Why any of them fought.
For moments like tonight. For simple joy. For the right to argue about cake and laugh about nothing.
The academy bells tolled for evening formation. Students assembled below. The machinery of war ground forward.
But in Maren's quarters, the dishes still held warmth. The bread still smelled of home.
And tomorrow, when they left, they'd carry that with them.
A reminder of what they were fighting for.
Not just survival.
But life worth living.