Chapter 27: Warriors

Sienna

Almost three full moons have passed since the meeting in the Great Hall. Two months in which the world seems to have twisted beyond recognition.
The castle no longer breathes calmly. Its roots creak with tension. The air is thicker, heavy with omens. Each dawn arrives with the sound of frantic hooves and wings beating the wind: messengers. They bring news of death. Of skirmishes. Of borders that no longer exist. And while the world burns… we become deadlier.

Captain Aldrion has been training me relentlessly. He gives no respite. There's no room for error. He strikes until my breath burns like dry fire. Throws me into the mud and demands precision. Makes me repeat each movement until my muscles obey from instinct, not memory.
—Again, Sienna —he growls as I fall, panting. And I do. I rise. I move. I adapt.
My hands no longer tremble when they hold steel.
My legs no longer hesitate in the jump.
My thoughts no longer wander.
Whatever romantic tension might have existed between us… the war erased it.
There’s no space for long looks or unspoken sighs. Only sweat, wounds, and duty.

Astrid, on her end, has become a different kind of shadow. She no longer throws sharp jokes or mocks the world with her usual irreverence. She spends hours locked in her improvised lab, surrounded by plants that smell of death and jars glowing with their own light.
When I see her, her eyes are sunken, her hair tied back carelessly, her fingers stained black from so many mixtures. And yet, I’ve never seen her so focused. So… dangerous.
She forges chaos.
I execute it.
We’ve become weapons—or at least, we’ve acknowledged the weaponry we carry within.

By the end of each day, we don’t speak much. Sometimes we share a plate of food. Other times, not even that. We’re so exhausted we fall asleep as if sleep itself were a trench.
And something unexpected has happened:
My nightmares have lessened.
They haven’t disappeared, but they no longer break me like before.
When they come, I walk. I silently move through the castle corridors. I always find the healer. I don’t know how he does it, but he’s always there. Standing. Waiting. He hands me a clay cup with a bitter, thick infusion that tastes like roots and moon. I drink. And I fade.

Besides combat, I’ve learned more about their history. Their culture. Their ancient wars, their clans, their betrayals. Every book I read feels like a warning I can't fully grasp.
And lately, I’ve started to dream. But they’re not nightmares. They’re… something else.
Dreams that pierce, that feel real.
Red eyes.
Hair black as spilled ink.
They watch me. Seek me. Chase me.
And in the dream, I don’t run.
Not really.
I run. I hide. But I also… strike back.
I feel the need to kill—but also to watch the next move.
To silence that presence before it consumes me.
Lately, I don’t wake up in a cold sweat—I wake up with fire on my neck.
As if someone had been breathing behind me.

These dreams aren’t dreams.
I don’t believe they are.
They’re encounters.
I see him every night.
Not clearly, not entirely, but there are parts I now recognize:
Eyes red like wet embers.
Long, dark hair that floats though there’s no wind.
A silhouette of flesh and shadow that speaks without a mouth.
That stares without blinking.
And I know I’m not the only one dreaming of him.
He sees me too. From the other side, he feels me just like I feel him. And I’m sure… he is a “he.”
Sometimes he whispers. Sometimes he screams.
Sometimes he only breathes over me and transmits… hunger.
Not for food. Hunger for me.

But there’s something even stranger.
When I close my eyes during the day, I feel him.
As if a part of his consciousness had latched onto mine. As if our minds had touched root.
A fusion. A bond. A crack in the barrier.

But tonight, I will dare. I know he’ll return to my mind, and I’ll ask for answers.
I let sleep take me, and I drift off—but my mind stays awake, so aware of everything happening that I speak.
—Who are you?
And the voice responds…
“I am the wound you opened. The balance you shattered. The price you have yet to pay.”
—I owe you nothing —I reply, defensive.
“A soul…”
I wake with a mark on my arm. Red. Like a rash. Like a burn without flame. It doesn’t fade.

The lower courtyard of the Court has been cleared. The roots that once covered the ground have receded, leaving a combat circle of living, damp earth, marked with the signs of ancient battles.
Dozens of eyes are on me. Warriors, Guardians, Mages, commanders, healers, creatures.
This is my moment to prove my worth—I know the trials weren’t enough, and to lead, I must show what I’m capable of.
Five figures line up before me—they are my future captains.
Five names, five faces, five doubts I must turn into obedience.

The first to step forward is Tharn, dark-skinned and built like a wall of stone.
He has golden eyes, scars across his neck like reminders of past wars.
—A human will lead us? —he says with contempt—. What’s next? A willow teaching dance?
Muted laughter.
I clench my jaw.
—I didn’t come to make speeches —I reply—. I came to make you bleed.
And I throw the dagger. Not to wound, but to provoke.
He responds—fast, brutal. Like an avalanche.
I dodge the first blow. The second hits my shoulder, pain splitting my arm—but I don’t stop. I counter with a kick to his knee that staggers him, then twist to throw his weight to the ground.
We both fall and roll, exchanging blows like we were shaped from the same mud.
When I finally pin my forearm against his throat and he taps three times on the ground—the earth trembles.
Not from magic.
From respect.