The train hummed steadily as it pulled away from Vireth, its motion smooth enough that the transition from stillness to speed felt almost imagined. Outside the wide reinforced windows, space unfolded in a slow, endless sprawl—dark velvet scattered with distant lights, familiar yet impossible to truly grasp. The Sol dominated the view, as it always did, vast and unwavering, its brilliance flooding the void with artificial daylight. It did not look artificial at all. It never had.
Taren leaned forward in his seat, hands pressed against the glass as though he could feel the warmth through it. His eyes shone with the same unfiltered wonder they always did when he looked outward, as if space itself were a story he could never grow tired of rereading.
"Look at that," he said, voice filled with reverence rather than volume. "No matter how many times I see it, it still feels unreal. The Sol doesn't just light the kingdoms. It feels like it's watching over everything."
Cyros sat beside him, back against the seat, posture relaxed but alert in its own quiet way. He listened—not because he was particularly interested in Taren's running commentary, but because there was no real reason not to. Taren spoke the way some people breathed, and interrupting him rarely achieved anything.
"It's the same every time," Taren continued, unfazed by the lack of response. "Same size. Same glow. Same stars around it. But it never feels repetitive. It's like—like it's reminding us that some things don't change."
Cyros said nothing.
Across from them, Aerin sat upright, her hands folded neatly in her lap. There was no book in her grasp this time, no pages to hide behind. She wasn't looking out the window either. Her attention was fixed, unwavering, on Cyros.
She had been watching him for several minutes now.
Cyros noticed, of course. He always noticed. At first, he pretended not to, allowing the moment to stretch, testing whether her gaze would eventually drift away. It didn't. There was no awkwardness in it, no obvious scrutiny. Just quiet focus, as though she were solving a problem that refused to resolve itself.
Finally, he exhaled softly and turned his head just enough to meet her eyes.
"You have questions," he said, not accusing, not amused. Simply observant. "I suppose."
Aerin blinked, as though she had been pulled back from somewhere distant. For a fraction of a second, her composure slipped, surprise flashing across her features before she smoothed it away. She straightened slightly, clearing her throat.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I do."
Taren glanced between them, curiosity briefly overriding his admiration for the Sol. He leaned back in his seat, sensing something more interesting than stars was about to unfold.
Aerin hesitated, choosing her words with care. "During the interrogation," she began, eyes never leaving Cyros, "did you already know how Patrick would react?"
The question hung between them, delicate and sharp.
Cyros did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted back to the window, to the endless dark beyond the glass. Silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but heavy with thought.
Aerin did not press him. She waited.
"Not exactly," Cyros said at last. "But I knew he wouldn't deny it forever."
Aerin nodded slowly, absorbing that. Her fingers tightened slightly against her lap. "And the recording," she continued. "Did you actually send a copy to the academy beforehand? Or was that something you decided in the moment?"
This time, Taren leaned forward, interest fully captured. He replayed the scene in his mind—the tension, Patrick's rising anger, Cyros's calm voice cutting through it all. At the time, it had felt seamless. Too seamless.
Cyros's lips curved, just barely.
It wasn't a smile anyone unfamiliar with him would immediately recognize. There was no show of teeth, no visible change in expression beyond the faintest softening around his eyes. But for those who had been watching him closely over the past days, it was unmistakable.
Taren froze. "Wait," he said slowly. "Was that a smile?"
Cyros ignored him.
"No," Cyros replied. "I didn't send any copy to the academy."
He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms loosely. "The plan was to record him. Evidence was necessary, regardless of how the conversation went. But when I noticed his anger—when it shifted from confidence to threat—I adjusted."
Aerin's brow furrowed. "Adjusted how?"
"I realised he might try to use force," Cyros said calmly. "To destroy the proof. Or us."
Taren winced. "Yeah. That sounds like him."
Aerin studied Cyros closely now, something softer creeping into her expression. "And if he had?" she asked. "If he hadn't backed down? If he had attacked?"
Cyros turned to her then, meeting her gaze fully. His eyes were steady, unguarded in a way they rarely were.
"We had you," he said simply. "Top performer in physical assessments."
The words were spoken without embellishment, without even a hint of teasing. That was what caught Aerin off guard.
Her breath hitched, just slightly. Colour crept up her cheeks before she could stop it, a warmth she hadn't anticipated blooming beneath her composed exterior. She looked away quickly, pretending to adjust her sleeve.
"I—" she began, then stopped, lips pressing together as she recalibrated. "That was… logical."
Cyros watched her for a moment longer than necessary before reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the hand knuckles Nagumo had issued them, the metal catching the train's light.
"And we had these," he added.
Taren laughed, the tension breaking like a snapped wire. "And you had me."
Cyros sighed, the sound lighter than usual. "Yes," he said. "And we definitely had Taren. Who could probably defeat him in a one-on-one fight."
Taren grinned so widely it bordered on smug. "Probably?"
Aerin laughed softly, the sound surprising even herself.
For a moment, the train felt warmer.
As the academy came into view—a distant structure growing steadily larger—Aerin glanced at Cyros again. "So," she said. "Did you ever come up with a team name?"
Cyros shook his head. "Not yet."
Taren groaned. "My reputation suffers with every delay."
When they arrived, the academy greeted them with familiar stillness. Nagumo Sensei waited for them in the Patrol hall, posture as rigid as ever, eyes sharp as they approached.
He listened without interruption as Aerin delivered the report, her voice steady and precise. Taren filled in details when prompted, animated as always. Cyros spoke last, concise and exact.
When they finished, silence settled.
Nagumo regarded them for a long moment.
"You acted appropriately," he said finally. "You identified inconsistencies, applied pressure without escalation, and secured evidence without unnecessary conflict."
Taren straightened. Praise from Nagumo was rare.
"Patrick Neil has been transferred to headquarters," Nagumo continued. "The stolen data will be analysed. We will learn what was deemed worth such risk."
Taren and Aerin exchanged a glance, both thinking of the same quiet certainty Cyros had voiced earlier. The Sol blinked.
Nagumo dismissed them shortly after, granting them a day of rest. As they left the hall, Taren stretched, grinning. "First case done. And we're still alive."
"For now," Aerin said lightly.
Far away, in a place untouched by the academy's light, in the quiet room, a woman's voice cut through the darkness. "I will kill him."
The elder man answered calmly, "He is from the academy. Any misstep, and we expose ourselves. We have what we needed. Let him be."
That night, back in the dormitory, Cyros lay on his bed, facing the wall, the room quiet except for his breathing. Patrick's words echoed in his mind.
There are people. Bad people. Be careful.