Freya reached late—and it showed. She caught the tail end of Levi's sharp scolding.
"You'll be washing dishes for the mess hall today," Levi snapped at a dark-skinned boy with braided hair.
"Sorry, sir," the boy muttered, clearly used to this kind of dressing-down.
Freya crept in with a busted expression on her face, hoping to slide in unnoticed. No such luck.
Levi turned to her. His voice was still stern, but lighter. "Dear, please don't be late. Discipline is the spine of survival. No spine, no survival." He raised an eyebrow. "Understand?"
"Yes, sir," Freya mumbled, taking her place in the lineup.
Freya burst onto the training grounds just as the morning drills began, her heart racing—not from the exertion, but from urgency. Her eyes flicked across the rows of cadets as she joined the running laps. She searched for a familiar blonde head, for Daisy, but the crowd offered no comfort.
She stumbled slightly as she ran, distracted, bumping shoulders with a cadet.
"Eyes forward," Levi barked from the front, not even looking—his voice instinctively sharp.
Freya clenched her fists, embarrassed. She threw herself into the motion, hoping the rhythm would settle her thoughts. But as they transitioned into stance drills, her mind wandered again.
Still no sign of Daisy.
Levi paced before them like a wolf on patrol, arms crossed behind his back, gaze slicing through the lines. "Posture! Control! A stance is your life!" he shouted.
Freya's footing faltered.
She thought about asking Levi—Daisy had mentioned once that he knew a lot about aether, that he might be able to explain things like this. But the thought of walking up to him and blurting out "Hey, I woke up healed from a deep gash with no scar—know anything about that?" made her hesitate. If the healing wasn't her own aether… if it was just some fluke, or worse, something Daisy had done without telling her, she'd look foolish. She needed Daisy first. Daisy would know. Daisy had to know.
The drills ended, and Levi raised a hand. "Resistance training. Now. Drop and give me twenty."
Groans rippled across the cadets, but they obeyed.
Freya dropped too. Her arms shook the moment her palms met the warm sand. She managed half a push-up before collapsing, her face planting straight into the grit.
Cadets around her were in various states of struggle. One particularly lanky boy nearby was flopping like a fish, but at least he was getting his count in. Ace, she noted with a small pang of sympathy, had terrible form—but he was bulldozing his way through.
Levi stalked by like a vulture. When he reached Ace, he stopped.
"Are you trying to excavate the ground or do push-ups, Richards?" Whack! The stick tapped Ace's back. "Straighten that noodle spine before I break it for you!"
Ace yelped and winced. "Just trying to finish, sir!"
Levi snorted. "Finish the floor?" He turned to the rest of the group. "Alright, listen up! If you're going to do it wrong, you might as well watch how it's done."
He stepped into the center of the training grounds, dropped, and began. "One. Two. Three…"
His form was perfect. Controlled. Powerful. Cadets slowed. Some outright stopped to watch. By the time he reached thirty, no one was doing push-ups anymore.
"That," Levi said, standing and brushing sand from his hands with a show-off smile tugging at his lips, "is how it's done. Now—if you can't do that, then try this."
He dropped again, this time lifting one hand.
Gasps and laughter broke out. He continued, unfazed, performing one-handed push-ups as though his body were made of steel.
Then Levi gave a mock salute by lifting his cap to the sky.
"To the gods, the ground, or my own damn greatness. You choose," he smirked.
"Alright! Back to it! Drop and give me twenty!" Levi barked, turning to walk—then paused when he saw Freya still struggling.
He crouched beside her—not barking, not scolding, just watching for a second. Then his tone softened, a rare warmth threading through it.
"Hey," he said quietly, "you're rushing the form. Strength comes second. Focus on control. Let your elbows tuck in—like this." He gently tapped her arm to guide the angle. "Don't let your pride push you faster than your body can go. You'll just get hurt."
Freya blinked, taken aback. She hadn't expected that. She hadn't expected that she could feel at home—so far away from home.
The way he corrected her—firm but not harsh, present but not towering—stirred something she hadn't felt in a long time. A memory, half-buried, tugged at her chest. Her father's hand guiding hers as she gripped a worn wooden staff for the first time. His voice, steady and patient, telling her to plant her feet like roots. He never yelled. He never needed to.
Levi crouched the same way. Spoke the same way.
For a moment, the sand under her palms wasn't a training field—it was her backyard, and the voice guiding her was warm and familiar.
Her father had been taken from her.
And yet… in that moment, with Levi beside her, it was like some part of him had returned.
A lump rose in her throat. She swallowed it.
For the first time, she didn't feel like she lost him.
Then he straightened and strode away, voice snapping back to its usual bark. "Everyone else, no excuses! If I see another floppy push-up, I'm making you do it in front of the kitchen staff!"
As everyone groaned and returned to push-ups, a shadow moved quietly among them.
Freya, struggling again with her own form, scanned the group once more—and froze.
Someone new had joined the back row.
He hadn't been there before. Of that, she was sure.
A tall man, mid-thirties perhaps, with thick, dark waves of hair that just brushed his sharp cheekbones. His emerald-green eyes glinted under the sun. Shirtless, his muscular frame shimmered with sweat and heat. Across his back was an old cross-shaped scar, and another smaller one rested near his waist.
Freya's eyes narrowed. This wasn't admiration. It was instinct. That man looked like danger incarnate.
Mid push-up, she couldn't stop glancing his way. He wasn't struggling. He wasn't straining. He was observing.
And then, he moved.
Levi, now crouched beside a cadet, correcting form, didn't see the man stand. Didn't see the knife drawn with effortless precision.
But Freya did.
Her voice cracked the air. "Mister—L—Levi!"
Levi turned just in time.
The man lunged. Levi threw a punch—missed. The force of the strike hit the air instead, causing a blast of sand to erupt under them. The stranger flowed like liquid, ducking low. He twisted behind Levi and plunged the knife into Levi's neck—
The cadets screamed. A few jumped back.
Freya dropped to her knees in horror, heart in her throat.
But Levi was faster than fear. He elbowed the man's jaw, gripped the back of his neck, and hoisted him off the ground—throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
The man landed hard, coughing and laughing.
"Not the face, bastard," Arthur wheezed, rubbing his jaw as cadets around them gasped and muttered in shock.
Levi stood over him with his hands on his waist, casting a long shadow across his face in the midday sun. "Good to see you too, Arthur," he said dryly.
Arthur grinned like a boy caught mid-prank.
Levi offered a hand. Arthur took it and stood, brushing himself off.
"You still playing with those toys?" Levi nodded toward the knife in his hand.
Arthur sheathed the fake, spring-loaded blade with practiced ease—but not before pressing it twice against his own palm. Each time, the blade snapped back into the hilt with a soft click.
"Back from the mission, I see," Levi said, eyeing him up and down. "Almost didn't recognize you with that hairdo."
"Didn't have access to the barber," Arthur shrugged. "Besides, I look younger this way."
Levi snorted. "How was the throw?"
Arthur smirked. "Didn't want to beat you in front of your precious cadets. Had to lose on purpose."
Levi laughed. "Alright, you damn peacocks. Training's over. Go eat before I change my mind!"
The cadets hesitated, wide-eyed and stunned. Then slowly, they dispersed.
Alice ran toward Freya, grabbing her arm.
"Let's get food before we faint," she said cheerfully, trying to cut through the tension.
Freya looked back. Levi and Arthur were already reminiscing, like no knife had been pulled.
She almost stayed—to ask about Daisy. To ask about her aether. But the words stayed locked behind her teeth.
She followed Alice silently.
Behind them, Arthur's gaze followed Freya.
"Strange girl," he muttered, chin tilted in her direction. "I don't sense any aether from her just like…"
Levi snorted. "Didn't you say the same about that tree that almost murdered you?"
Arthur chuckled. "Fair."
Levi said nothing. But his smile faded just a little. He hadn't forgotten—Arthur was a sensory-type. A spatial reader with instincts so sharp he could fight blindfolded in pitch-dark terrain. If he noticed something, it wasn't baseless.
And as the sun climbed a little higher on a day far from ordinary, Freya and Alice made their way toward the locker room—until a cadet jogged up to them, slightly out of breath.
"Cadet Grover," he said, glancing between them, "you, Daisy Brook, and Freya are being summoned to Ms. Schneider's office."
Freya frowned in confusion. "What for?"
Outside of the Smith estate.
Edmund slid down to the ground, feeling hopeless. Without looking, he searched his pocket and pulled out a leather pouch containing five 5ml bottles—only one of them filled. The liquid inside wasn't magical, just a bitter, medicine-like concoction. He downed it, wincing at the taste, then stood up and lit a cigarette.
The flame reminded him of James's fire.
He watched it flicker—dancing, weakening—like him. Maybe he'd cease to exist even sooner than he expected. But then again, the throne would go to James anyway. It wasn't like there was any heavy responsibility on his shoulders. The world would be the same without him.
He thought of his mother and smiled faintly.
Dusting himself off, he walked around to the front of the house, heading to the Cadet Corps library to research the man with the blue tattoo. That's when he saw a girl running toward the Smith mansion.
"What in the hell is she doing here?"
Behind her, Alice was trailing slowly, panting.
"What is happening?" Edmund muttered, straightening up and casually wiping the dried blood from under his nose. He took another drag of his cigarette as Freya reached the main gate, stopping right in front of him.
"Oh dear," he said, eyeing her state—panting from such a short distance. "You here to sweep our floors?" he asked, since cleaning was her part-time job.
"No. We have a mission," she muttered, lowering her gaze.
Edmund tilted his head. "Oh? A mission to sweep floors?"
Freya ignored the sarcasm and said under her breath, "Not everyone is wealthy like you."
He leaned in mockingly. "What did you say?"
He'd heard her the first time.
"Nothing. We're here for Daisy."
His expression shifted—colder, annoyed. Over Freya's shoulder, Alice finally reached them, moving slower because of her weight. Edmund's eyes flicked to her shoulder, the spot where he remembered she'd been slashed by a karambit. There was nothing there now—just smooth, unbroken skin.
"Good afternoon, lord commander. May we please receive Daisy? We've been assigned a mission," Alice said with a soft, respectful bow.
Edmund returned the bow with a nod. "She's inside."
He stared at Freya a little longer before turning away—wordlessly telling her she should learn from Alice how to address him.
Freya understood the look. But she wasn't from some polished, civilized place. In Mevelior, people spoke like equals. And besides, she didn't respect him—not after nearly collapsing from fighting him. He gave her the creeps.
Edmund got in his car, and pulled away.