Not when I woke up this morning, chest aching like a bruise I couldn’t press my fingers to.
Not even when I stomped my foot in the privacy of my quarters, fuming like some jilted lover.
Which, technically, I’m not, because nothing has been sealed.
But still. I feel it. The hollowness where Kael should be. The pull of the bond, frayed at the edges, stretching thinner and thinner the longer we stay apart. And yes, I know poor Dawson is gravely ill. I know Kael is loyal to Prince Aelith. I get it.
But what about me? What about the connection we started?
Kael had whispered sweet words when we were alone, when there were no distractions beyond our survival. But now? Now he’s back to being Aelith’s lapdog.
My fingers twitch at the thought, curling into a fist before I shake them out. I need to move. To hit something. To do something before this frustration eats me alive. Which is why I’m currently stalking towards the training grounds, hellbent on hacking at one of the mannequins—made of some weird material that won’t dull my blade, won’t splinter beneath my daggers.
Maybe it’ll make me feel better. Or maybe I just need to stop thinking about Kael for five damn minutes.
The training grounds are alive with movement, the air thick with the sounds of combat—grunts, shouts, the unmistakable clash of steel and other, stranger weapons.
The space itself is an open-air compound, cordoned off by towering stone slabs that serve as both a barrier and a tactical advantage. Some fighters use them for cover, others for vertical manoeuvring, leaping unnaturally high with the help of enhanced limbs or their species’ abilities. The ground beneath my boots is a mix of packed dirt and sections of smooth, reinforced alloy—areas designed for heavier combat that could shatter stone or kick up debris dangerous enough to blind.
To my right, a Xelthari swings twin crescent blades, their shimmering edges slicing through the air with whistle-sharp precision. Their four arms make it an impossible dance to track, each limb a blur as they carve patterns in the air. Their scaled skin shimmers with each movement, as if drawing power from their own exertion.
Nearby, another Riftborn tests a weapon that looks like a fusion of a staff and a long-range rifle, the energy core in its centre glowing faintly. He’s sparring with someone wielding anorbital whip—a segmented weapon that snakes around its target before snapping closed like a wild dog trap.
The scents here are familiar—sweat, dirt, the metallic tang of weapons being tested and recalibrated. But layered beneath is something distinctly other—the faint crackle of energy in the air, an ozone-like sharpness that prickles against my skin.
I nod at a few rebels as I pass, exchanging brief greetings with some of the fighters I’ve trained with before. But there’s tension in the air beyond just the usual combat energy.
Taliah, a lean, dark-skinned female Frigthor with short silver-streaked hair, is wiping down the edge of her glaive when I reach her. She lifts a brow in greeting. “You hear?”
I pause, already reaching for my sword belt. “Hear what?”
She tilts her head towards a group gathered near one of the equipment stations. Their voices are low but urgent, shoulders tense.
“The Queen’s Guard hit one of our communication networks. Dismantled it.”
I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair. That explains the frantic energy, the increased numbers here today. I glance at the others, catching snippets of conversation.
“—lost the relay completely?—”
“—no transmissions since last night?—”
“—Varek’s going to have to make a move?—”
My jaw tightens. That’s a direct hit against us. We rely on those networks to track movements, keep our supply lines steady, and maintain any kind of upper hand. And if the Queen’s Guard is actively tearing them down, they’re gearing up for something.
Which is why Varek wants Aelith on our side so badly.
I file the information away and roll my shoulders, refocussing on why I came here.
I head towards the training dummies—life-sized constructs made of reinforced fibres and adaptive plating, designed to withstand relentless strikes without falling apart. The one I choose is humanoid-shaped, lined with impact sensors that flash when a strike lands.
I grip my dagger, flipping it once before shifting into stance.
Breathe in.
Move.
My first strike is quick, my dagger slashing across the dummy’s midsection before I twist into a second strike, aiming higher, slicing upwards in a brutal arc. The clang of metal against reinforced plating echoes in my ears, and I feel the vibration through my arm.
