Levi dropped her off in a battered electric cart, the kind that looked like it had survived a war and refused to retire. It buzzed and sputtered as it rolled down the concrete path, trailing a soft hum behind it.
"You'd think a kingdom with floating isles would upgrade to hovercrafts by now," Levi muttered, elbow resting on the wheel, "but nope. Budget went to the royal garden fountains again. Priorities."
Freya didn't reply. Her mind was elsewhere.
They arrived at the dormitory block—Building 6A. A brutalist monstrosity of gray slabs and steel beams. It towered like a sleeping colossus, ugly, rigid, and unapologetically functional. Ivy tried to crawl up one side but gave up halfway, like even nature couldn't stand the place.
The inside wasn't much better.
Her room was just big enough for a single steel bed, a dusty old mattress, a dented cupboard, a rickety desk, and a crooked chair. A small bathroom was attached, barely enough for a toilet, a wash basin, and a rust-speckled shower. The rest—laundry, mess, and recreation—were communal.
"This used to be a detention wing," Levi said with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "But hey, now it's a detention wing with personality."
She wasn't amused.
Before Levi could charm his way out of the awkwardness, a heavyset woman stomped into the hallway, boots echoing like thunder. She had a mop of curly hair tied into a messy bun and a face carved from stone. Her name tag read: Matron Olga Braxley.
"New recruit?" she asked, eyeing Freya like a stain on fresh linen.
"Braxley, meet Cadet Freya Sinclair. Cadet Freya, meet your local terror." Levi smirked.
Olga crossed her arms. "Rules are posted in every corridor. I don't repeat myself. No mud indoors. No dueling after curfew. And no Aetherium usage unless authorized. That includes melting the toilets, lighting your beds on fire, or floating the furniture to make cleaning easier."
Levi leaned over to whisper, "She's very strict about cleanliness. Ironically, this place is a health hazard."
Freya barely heard them. Her mind was unraveling.
That night, after Levi had left and the dorm fell into its usual creaking silence, she lay on the old mattress staring at the ceiling, its paint peeling like dead skin.
The memories came crashing back.
She remembered.
The day Dolphin killed her father.
Robert Sinclair had always been a quiet man. A shipwright of brilliance, known across Mevelior County. Freya had grown up among drydocks and sawdust, her hands calloused from tools and ropes. Mevelior had been a place of promise once—rich in agriculture, trade, and engineering.
But that promise had been drowned under saltwater and lies.
Dolphin had come with silver words and golden coins, claiming he'd save the island from its yearly floods and crumbling edges. The coastline was prone to tsunamis, he said. The land would sink soon, he said. Only he had the means to protect them.
He lied.
And when Robert Sinclair refused to stay silent—he paid with his life.
He was sixty. A man carved from oak and smoke. He should've been long dead, they said. Retired. His lungs riddled from an old war illness, something he never spoke about. But his body refused to give in. And so did his will.
No one knew that he once wore the colors of Stovia's army. That secret had stayed buried like a rusted sword in the mud. Freya only ever saw him as a shipwright—brilliant, stubborn, weathered by salt and storms.
When Dolphin came, dressed in charm and threat, he asked for fifty ships.
In return, he promised to stop raiding their crops and to ferry the villagers off Mevelior.
Robert agreed.
But late one night, while staying behind to rework the rudder designs, he overheard the truth. A conversation not meant for his ears.
There were no plans to save the people. The ships were for war. Dolphin's pirates were planning to mine Aetherium from the forbidden coasts of Vayra—a land pulsing with raw, volatile magic. It wasn't about survival. It was about greed, power, and domination.
Robert didn't run.
He stayed. And sabotaged the fleet from within, puncturing a hole in the master ship's hull, a design so subtle no one would've caught it until it was too late.
But Dolphin found out.
He announced a surprise inspection that same week. And Freya—young, curious, proud—had tagged along, eager to show off her father's work.
She should've stayed behind.
In front of Robert's workers—his friends, his students, his people—Dolphin made an example.
Two heavy strikes. One for each arm.
Robert didn't scream.
He dropped to the floor in a silence that felt louder than thunder.
Freya remembered the blood. The sound of metal hitting stone. Her father's face—ashen, drained, but still proud.
And then… nothing.
Her memories went dark, like someone had shut the lights in her mind.
Now, lying in a bed that smelled of rust and loneliness, she stared at the cracked ceiling and tried to remember.
What happened after he dropped?
Did I scream? Did I collapse? Did I run?
She clenched the pillow tighter, trying to force her brain to go further, to unlock what had been sealed.
But all she found was fog.
And then there was… him.
A figure in black. Masked. Watching.
A man she didn't recognize—but somehow couldn't forget.
When did I see him?
Was it before Robert died… or after?
Or am I imagining him?
No. It wasn't a dream.
That face—covered. That presence.
It was real.
And Freya couldn't shake the feeling that whoever he was…
he hadn't saved her.
But he hadn't let her die either.