The morning drills ended with a sharp whistle. Instructor Brax barked something about lunch, and the cadets filed out in scattered lines—limping, laughing, groaning.
Torren Malcair, the quiet shield bearer from Kaelen's training group, exhaled hard.
"Thank the gods I didn't have to spar with that thing—" He glanced sideways.
Kaelen passed him in silence.
Torren didn't repeat himself.
The cafeteria was massive. White steel and mana-lit counters. Long tables filled with fresh meals, steam rising off meats, soups, and starches.
Kaelen paused at the threshold. His eyes scanned the food. So much. So many choices. Meat. Rice. Eggs. Bread. Even fruit. This isn't a shelter. This isn't ration day. This—this is what a rich district academy looks like.
He picked up a tray and started stacking food. A lot of it. By the time he reached the end of the line, others were staring. Not just at what he carried—but at him. Back then, food was a privilege. You didn't choose. You were given. Half a protein bar split with three others. Water from a canister that tasted like rust. In the shelter, we counted bites. At my old school, we fought for seconds. Sometimes for firsts. Now—I can take what I want. I earned this. And I'll take it.
He ignored the eyes.
"He eats like a monster."
"Did you see what he did to Veil?"
"Who is he, anyway?"
He sat alone. At the edge of the hall. Away from the chatter and cliques.
He ate like he trained—efficiently, with zero wasted motion.
He didn't notice the eyes. Or pretended not to.
Until— A pause in his peripheral vision.
A figure.
Rheya Dusk.
She stepped forward, tray in hand, not meeting his eyes.
"I don't think I've seen anyone eat like that before," she said.
Kaelen glanced up briefly, not making eye contact.
"I'm used to eating fast. There's never enough time."
She paused, then sat down across from him.
"You look like someone who's not here to make friends. I get that."
Kaelen remained silent, his eyes scanning the room, his mind elsewhere.
Torren approached. Seeing the two of them, he walked over and sat down next to Kaelen.
He poked at his food.
"Didn't think you'd be the sit-down type."
Kaelen didn't answer. Rheya leaned slightly over her tray.
"You fight like you're possessed." Still, Kaelen didn't respond.
She tried again.
"Hello?"
Finally, Kaelen looked up. His eyes weren't angry. Just—focused.
"It's training. It's progress. That's all," he said quietly.
He went back to eating like nothing had changed.
Torren leaned back, lips pressed in a thin line.
"Huh. Fair enough." No one said more. They ate in silence after that. No smiles. No bonding. Just food. Just distance. But none of them stood up.
And for now— that was enough.
A few tables away, Alric Veil sat alone.
He hadn't touched his food.
He kept replaying the match in his head—the weight behind Kaelen's strikes, the cold in his stare, the way he didn't gloat, didn't even acknowledge the win. Just swung. And moved on. Like he was trained to destroy, not to compete.
Alric rubbed the side of his nose, still sore from the headbutt.
He didn't even care who I was. Didn't ask. Didn't flinch. Didn't try to win style points.
He just—fought. And I lost. His eyes drifted toward the trio—Kaelen, Rheya, Torren.
He didn't join them. They joined him.
He clenched his jaw. Lucian used to talk like that. Said prestige was fake. Said blood didn't care about medals. Said the battlefield only respected one thing: survival. He'd spent years trying to escape that shadow. Trying to prove he was better, smarter, cleaner. But deep down, he'd always wanted to be like his brother.
Lucian Veil.
The "Last Hero." The man whose battle footage once aired in bunkers across the shattered cities. A symbol of hope for the broken. A name whispered by survivors who couldn't fight back—but needed to believe someone still could.
Alric lowered his gaze.