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“I must say,” Emyr says, interrupting my labored breathing, “you’re improving with each day of training.”

Training…

I think torture is the more accurate description of what I’ve struggled to survive the last five hours.

The running is bad enough without adding in the arm numbing jousting against every member of the Cadre, except Emyr.

What makes it worse is that they don’t even look slightly phased by the running or sparring.

They still look every bit the beautiful specimens that they are, while I look like a half-drowned bramble mouse.

Was their training for the army worse than this?

If it’s more tortuous than this, their titles are well-deserved because I would’ve cut my losses and fled.

Holy Celestae, why do I still feel like I’m dying ?

My entire body is being consumed by a roaring fire, while my lungs fight for oxygen against its suffocating flames.

If the Abyss is worse than enduring this… I’m not going to survive.

“Will… it… be… enough… for… Zulgalros?” I wheeze out.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Perhaps, Rosey,” he replies. “It’ll at least be an improvement.”

I scowl at the hulking specimen of a man. Frankly, I’m ready to tell him just where he can shove that “Perhaps, Rosey” and stupid shrug of his. He’s actually enjoying my suffering.

I look at the three other men, and find that they too are trying to contain their amused smiles.

I wipe sweat from my eyes.

Bloody Galrosans.

“You truly are despicable,” I quip.

Riordan tsks. “I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘Thank you, my valiant High General and members of the Cadre,’” he says, the last part in a pitch meant to mimic a feminine voice.

I groan as I sit on the ground. “May the Abyss claim you,” I curse.

His laughter echoes around the courtyard. I growl at the infuriating man, which only causes his howls to increase in pitch.

“That’s enough,” Emyr commands, silencing Riordan immediately. Emyr motions for me to follow him. “You’re sparring with me next, then we’ll move into ability training,” he says nonchalantly.

Of course, the first time he decides to spar with me is when I’m the most exhausted I’ve been in the last week.

I believe his true talent is actually torture in all forms: jousting, running, ability training…

the way his skin glistens with a light sheen of sweat—definitely a form of cruel punishment of its own merit.

“Oh, how dandy,” I murmur under my breath.

The corner of Emyr’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t actually smile. Even after our heart-to-heart, he’s distant, maintaining the same cruel, general demeanor during our training sessions .

He spins his sword in rhythmic motions. They are so fluid and sharp that my eyes have a hard time keeping up with how it twists and twirls through the air. “Whenever you’re ready, Rosey,” he says.

Holy Celestae…

Who knew that twirling a sword could look like an artful dance?

The way he rotates it so gracefully definitely does.

His muscles are flexing against the sleeves of his tight training tunic?—

I cough, clearing my throat.

Stay focused, Maeva.

I pick up the sword with a shaky hand, pointing the tip of my blade at his chest. “Whenever you’re ready, Prince,” I say in a sing-song voice.

He smirks for a fraction of a second, before his gaze turns icy and calculating.

As I anticipate his first move, he lunges for me, thrusting his sword over and over again in quick succession.

I use my blade to deflect his attacks, but for each move I block, he’s already counterattacking before I can decide what to do.

I deflect him, trying to look for any sign of weakness in his stance in between blows.

Of course, his form is perfect—the rhythm of battle is his symphony, while he’s the maestro.

No wonder he became the general so young.

My muscles ache, and I’m struggling to even grasp my weapon at this point.

My breaths are like shards of glass combusting within my chest. Everything hurts as my body begs for reprieve, but he continues to come at me from every angle.

If he’s this good without using his ability… Siorai, help anyone he does use it on.

“I… need… to… stop,” I gasp.

Emyr’s blade arcs above me, but I register his movement, my sword blocking his as my body struggles under his strength.

Emyr pushes more of his weight into the block. “Do you think your opponent will cease because you grow weary?” Emyr asks.

“N-No,” I reply, kicking him in the gut.

He stumbles back from the impact, but it doesn’t delay him for long.

He’s already at me again, swiping his blade at my stomach.

I jump backward, but not quick enough as a burning slice of the blade hits my side.

It’s just a tiny knick, but it’s still enough to cause the pain to be excruciating.

Despite landing a strike, Emyr doesn’t stop.

“Do you wish for your enemies to believe you’re too weak to defend yourself?

” Emyr pushes further. “Do you think they will care if you are on the verge of a mental breakdown?”

“No,” I say, struggling to focus through the biting pain.

“Then fight like your life depends on it,” Emyr yells. “Because it just might.” His assaults are more aggressive now, every swipe of his sword calculated, and somehow he remains three steps ahead of me. “If there’s a weakness, they’ll find it and use it to break you in every way imaginable.”

I scream with every block and thrust, my arms turning to mush.

Finding an opening, he sweeps my feet out from underneath me.

Dark spots dance in my vision as my body connects with the hard cobblestone.

When my sight clears, his sword is pointed at my chest as he breathes heavily.

“You’re dead,” he whispers. “If I don’t break you in this training, then they’ll do everything they can to make sure they destroy you. ”

Then he moves away from me, dropping his sword. “Take a few minutes to recover if you need them,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads toward the brambles and withered plants to the other side of the courtyard. “After that, it’s starlight training.”

I moan, rolling into a fetal position on the cool cobblestones.

I need to steady my breathing, as well as recover from my bruised pride.

Virgil and Laisren check on me, but I wave them off.

Soon, their footsteps retreat, which means they’ve probably joined Emyr…

waiting for me. If I had the choice, I wouldn’t leave this spot on the ground.

However, I can’t stay here… I have an obligation and a promise to fulfill.

Perhaps this is what the king truly desires in the end—to break me, as Emyr suggested.

A tear slips down my cheek as all the emotions I war against rise and fall to the surface of my mind:

I’m a failure.

I’m weak .

I’m fractured.

What if I let everyone down?

What if I’m not the person meant to find the Na Fíréin?

And if I am, what if they refuse to help me bring back my beloved Cales?

If I can’t bring them back, how will this soul crushing guilt for the pain I brought them stop?

I still see them floating around this courtyard, telling me how I can save them.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t know if I can.” The heavy weight in my chest feels like it is crushing me when I hear a small tapping in the recesses of my mind—so subtle I almost miss it.

I lay very still, hoping the tapping continues.

A moment later, I hear the light sound again, knocking against the mental wall I’ve kept up to block Saoirse.

Saoirse… She’s still here.

She has tried numerous times over the last few weeks to reach me with something that felt similar to a blast on the other side of the barrier, but she never succeeded.

I wasn’t ready to let her back in. This time, she isn’t trying to force her way through my walls, instead she’s trying to soothe me with small taps of invitation.

In truth, I’ve missed her and felt as if a part of me was missing without her constant company and supervision.

She may not be forthcoming with the truth, but in my heart, I know that she would if she could.

She’s been with me from the beginning of this entire bloody mess, and she hasn’t wavered once.

At this moment, I need her more than ever.

I take a deep breath, and I imagine the wall dissolving stone by stone. This seems to work as each layer slowly fades away. Once the barrier is gone, I feel the otherworldly, mysterious presence encompassing my mind once more.

Saoirse? I cry out.

My dear Maeva, why’s your soul so weary? she whispers.

I-I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough to endure it, I admit .

Perhaps not yet, but give it time, and you will be, my dear, she promises. Trust Emyr’s training process… no matter how grueling it might be. I know he seems cruel, my dear, but his heart rings with the truth of desiring your safety. His hope is to make you formidable for what you must face.

This pressure is too much, I say. I miss my simple life in Aurelius. I miss my family and my shop. I miss the stars from the rooftop. I miss being invisible.

Saoirse sighs, and a warmth spreads through me, like the sensation of an embrace.

From the time you were born, you were never meant to live a mundane life, but one that is extraordinary, she says in a motherly tone.

The Maeva I knew from the time before would’ve risen to the challenge and wouldn’t have been afraid…

I understand you miss what you believe that you had—the Cales were a lovely family that believed in the Na Fíréin—but that life in Aurelius is the illusion of a sweet dream, my dear.

It kept you safe until the appointed time.

You must stand and proudly carry this mantle.

Otherwise, all will be lost if the Na Fíréin doesn’t rise.

Why me? I weep. Why must I be given the starlight ability, Saoirse? Why is my life a never-ending torment? If Siorai’s goal is to devastate me, then he’s succeeded, because I’m not sure if I’ll truly ever be whole again. I-I didn’t ask for any of this.

My dear, Siorai’s plans aren’t meant to harm you.

Yes, you feel diminished for now, but the brightest embers often float away from the ashes, given the ability to set the flames anew.

You’re the spark of light in the never-ending ashes of darkness, Maeva.

Brokenness doesn’t mean you’re unmendable; it shows the strength it took to become whole once more, she replies.

What if it’s not enough? I ask. What if the Na Fíréin can’t bring the Cales back?

Then you will find a way to survive, to honor their memory. You deserve more than this, Maeva. You can have the stability you desire if you try, Saoirse soothes. B ut not if you don’t get up off this ghastly floor.

I chuckle inwardly, and I hear a soft laugh escape even from Saoirse .

I’m sorry I locked you out, Saoirse, I whisper.

All is forgiven, she promises. Now, get up! You have training. I’ll be here with you until the end.

My throat catches.

I’ll be here with you…

The relief that floods through me at not having to bear this burden all alone is reassuring.

I was alone when I wandered the streets of Aurelius—lost and confused.

I felt alone in a crowd of people—even when I desperately desired to be a part of their antics.

Even surrounded by a loving family, I realize that I’ve always felt out of place—always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As if, somehow, I didn’t fit into their beautiful puzzle—perhaps I was never meant to.

I’m that one odd piece that never seems to fit anywhere. It’s hard to allow others to see the messiest parts of me when I feel like a mere fragment of who I used to be. Perhaps my life with them was never mine to claim, but how I desperately wish it were.

I’m not quite ready to let that go.

Since accepting the terms of this quest, I’ve tried to shoulder the burden alone—only allowing the Cadre to see glimpses of my intentions.

In truth, I’ve never excelled at allowing others to assist me through all of my emotions without first backing me into a corner, yet there are those select few that seem to make it easier for me: Saoirse, Virgil, Emyr, Amelia, Cara.

I won’t crumble under this weight, nor will I allow it to drown me.

From the ashes, the embers will rise, and a fire will blaze anew.

Though my body aches, I rise from the ground—determination lining my features. While I took my training seriously before, now it feels like there might actually be a purpose beyond the pain. I’ll succeed for them, but I will find the strength for myself.

Even if I must shatter to obtain it.