The girl turned around. "What a waste of time. I got excited for nothing." She smirked at Diego's passed-out body on the floor. "Well. I guess I have a dummy for my training."
Sorel was bleeding on the floor, tears filling his eyes. The bubble spears were too strong for him. These masked people—only ones like León could do something against her. Not him.
Sorel tried to move. His fingers twitched against the cold floor, but his body refused to listen. Every breath felt like swallowing glass.
The girl tilted her head, noticing him stir. "Oh? You're still conscious?" she said lightly, as if amused. A thin bubble formed at the tip of her finger, wobbling before hardening into a sharp point. "You have a strong will, I'll give you that."
Sorel clenched his teeth. León's name echoed in his mind like a curse and a prayer. He wouldn't have gone down like this. The thought burned worse than the pain. Still, he forced his elbow beneath him, trembling.
She laughed. "Don't flatter yourself. Struggling just makes it more fun."
The bubble spear shot forward.
It stopped inches from Sorel's face.
The girl's eyes widened.
"Why won't it... move?" She wiggled her hand, trying to get it to work, but it wouldn't work.
Sorel stood up. His eyes glowed even brighter than before. He couldn't leave Diego. He was the first real friend he's ever had. And he wouldn't let him go.
Kids laughed in the background. It was a small school. A younger Sorel stood in a swing all by himself, slowly rocking himself back and forth, watching other kids laugh while tugging and running together. The laughter drifted through the air. Just out of reach.
He tightened his grip on the chains. I wish I could have that too.
Back in the present, Sorel faced the woman. Blood dripped from his sides.
He didn't falter.
"...I... Won't," He declared hoarsely. "I won't lose him!"
The masked girl scoffed.
"Sentimental nonsense." She still tried controlling her spears, but it didn't work. As if they weren't her's anymore.
Sorel grabbed the sword again. The moment his fingers wrapped around its handles, the blade screamed.
Purple-black flames erupted along its length, crawling around like living shadows. The heat burned the metal, but the fire was still there. The heat didn't burn Sorel. It recognized him
Sorel lifted the blade. The flames roared louder, wrapping around his arms, his neck, and his very breath. The pain from before vanished, replaced by endless adrenaline.
He stepped forward.
The girl stumbled back in fear. The tables have turned now, and Sorel wouldn't lose.
Sorel swung the burning blade, the flames reflecting in his glowing eyes.
"I'll kill you." He shouted.
And the flames answered.
But he slipped.
The blade cut off the girl's mask. Sorel fell down to the ground, and the flames went away.
Silence.
The girl froze. Slowly, she reached up to brush her face, clearly in disbelief. She looked... Normal. Adding on—she was beautiful. Soft features, sharp but kind eyes that were the color of dark honey, framed by her long hair that spilled loose from her cloak. There was a faint scar near her right eyebrow, but that made her seem more real.
Her eyes darted around the courtyard. The masked figures were still distracted—none of her teammates or any of the students noticed. She hesitated for a moment.
Then she turned and ran away.
Darkness came quietly. The injuries' effects finally kicked in.
When Sorel finally opened his eyes again, the first thing he noticed was the smell—clean, sharp, and sterile. A smell he instantly recognized. The hospital room. Then, the room froze.
Sorel spotted a girl. She had red eyes and black hair. Silence seemed to follow her every step. Her skin was as pale as a ghost. He spotted a sticker on her suit. Special Admission. She was one of his. A commoner.
As she exited, Sorel heard a familiar voice. Doctor Alistair walked in, his eyes shut, and scratching his head. When he noticed that Sorel was awake, he smiled and walked up to him.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, his faint smile lingering as if it had been etched there for years and had been forgotten.
"Well," He said lightly. "You're up sooner than expected. That either really good... Or really troublesome." Sorel tried to sit up. A dull ache flared behind his eyes, and he groaned. The room tilted for a second before settling. Alistair put a hand on his shoulders—not unkind, but firm enough to remind him who he was.
"Easy, Sorel," the doctor murmured. "You're bodies still adjusting."
Sorel's gaze drifted back to the doorway where the girl exited. The silence she carried seemed to hang there, like a stain the light couldn't quite touch.
"That girl," Sorel said hoarsely. "She had a Special Admission sticker. Just like the one on my suits."
Alistair's smile faltered—just for a heartbeat—but it was enough. He followed Sorel's line of sight, then sighed and straightened, suddenly looking older.
"So you noticed. That complicated things." Alistair sighed. "Shes one of the survivors from the massacre." Sorel's eyes lit up. "Shes from the neighboring village. Palaria, I'm sure, is what it was named."
He turned away, moving towards the small counter by the wall, pretending to be busy with himself with a tray of instruments that didn't need rearranging. The pause felt deliberate—giving himself time, or perhaps denying Sorel what he was ready to hear.
"Unlike the rest of you guys. She didn't receive any injuries. None. No burn marks either. The council calls her a survivor. I call her... An anomaly."
Sorel remembered the girl's red eyes, the way the silence clung to her like a second skin.
"She didn't look afraid." He asked.
"No." Alistair agreed. "She hasn't spoken since she arrived."
The words settled heavily between them.
"You kid," Alistair added, stepping closer. "Share more with her than you realize. Same exception. Same reason why you're here."
Sorel frowned. "Because we sur-"
Allister's mouth twitched. There was no humor in it. "Because fate failed to kill you."