The evening sky above the academy was bright in a gentle, unhurried way, the kind of brightness that felt earned rather than imposed. The Sol hovered high, its light softened by the approaching dusk, painting the stone pathways and open courtyards in warm gold. A cool breeze drifted through the grounds, carrying with it the sounds of laughter, distant conversations—and suddenly, shouts.
"Taren! Taren! Taren!"
The chant rolled through the courtyard in waves, loud enough to turn heads from every direction.
Almost immediately, another chant rose to meet it.
"Kevin! Kevin! Kevin!"
Students gathered from all corners of the academy, forming a dense, excited crowd around one of the long stone benches near the central courtyard. Voices overlapped, anticipation crackling through the air like static. From a distance, it almost looked like a confrontation—two factions pressing inward, Patrols and Craftsmen standing shoulder to shoulder, eyes sharp, energy high.
For a brief moment, one might have thought it was a fight.
It wasn't.
A gust of wind slipped through the crowd, and as bodies shifted instinctively, the centre of attention was revealed. Two hands were locked together on the surface of the bench, fingers interlaced, knuckles whitening with effort. Arms tensed. Muscles strained. The bench itself creaked faintly under the pressure.
Taren Watt leaned forward, teeth clenched, every visible muscle in his arm screaming in protest as he forced his weight into the match. His face was flushed, jaw tight, eyes burning with stubborn determination.
Across from him stood Kevin.
Kevin of the Craftsman class—tall, broad-shouldered, and built like someone who had grown up lifting metal instead of books. His arm was thick with well-earned muscle, veins standing out beneath his skin as if intentionally carved there. His posture was calm, grounded, as if this struggle were merely another form of work.
The difference between them was obvious.
And yet, the match had not ended.
Taren let out a low growl, more instinct than sound. "I won't—lose—this," he forced out, each word dragged from him with effort, his arm trembling but refusing to give in.
Kevin's lips curved into a tight, focused smile. "You will," he replied evenly, voice steady despite the strain.
"Kevin! Kevin! Kevin!" Gin shouted from the side, bouncing on his heels, silver-lined uniform catching the light as he waved both arms wildly. "Crush him!"
Lara bounced on her heels near the edge of the circle, unable to choose a side. "Kevin! Taren! Kevin! Taren!" she cheered, clapping with bright enthusiasm, her voice cutting through the noise like sunlight.
Cyros stood just behind Taren, hands tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed but eyes fixed on the locked hands at the centre of the bench. His expression was unreadable, as usual, but there was a quiet hope in his gaze. Not expectation—he knew how this would end—but hope nonetheless.
Taren wasn't built for this. He was fit, yes, trained enough to keep up with Patrol standards, but raw physical contests weren't his strength. That he was still holding Kevin's arm in place at all was impressive.
Across the small clearing, Aerin stood still, arms at her sides. She wasn't cheering. She wasn't calling out encouragement. Her eyes were locked on Taren, a faint crease forming between her brows.
She hadn't expected this.
This was the first time she'd been surrounded by people outside her usual orbit—outside Cyros, Taren, and Lara. The noise, the closeness, the raw enthusiasm of it all felt unfamiliar. And yet, she found herself focused not on the crowd, but on the boy who refused to yield.
He's still holding, she thought, surprised. He shouldn't be able to.
Taren's arm shook violently now, his breath coming in sharp bursts. Kevin's expression shifted—not to arrogance, but to something closer to respect. Slowly, inevitably, the balance tipped.
A single knuckle touched the bench.
Then the rest of Taren's hand followed.
For half a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause.
Then the courtyard erupted.
Cheers burst from Kevin's side of the crowd, loud and triumphant, while others let out disappointed sighs. But even those who had been chanting Taren's name began to clap, acknowledging the effort, the endurance, the fight he had put up far longer than anyone expected.
"Tough match," someone called out.
"Didn't think he'd last that long!"
Taren slumped back, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temple. He stared at his defeated hand for a moment, then laughed breathlessly.
Kevin straightened, flexing his fingers before extending his hand across the bench. Taren took it without hesitation, gripping firmly.
"Next time," Taren said, lifting his free hand into a fist between them, "I'll win."
Kevin nodded and bumped his own fist against it. "I'll be waiting."
Lara clasped her hands together, eyes shining. "That was just like a movie scene," she said happily. "You know, the kind where rivals become friends."
Gin laughed, slinging an arm over Kevin's shoulder. Kevin glanced briefly towards Aerin, who was offering Taren a quiet, sincere nod.
"You did really well," Aerin said to Taren. "Most people would've lost much sooner."
Taren beamed at the praise, exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
"Good night," Kevin said to the group, his tone warm. Gin echoed him enthusiastically, already dragging Kevin away as they headed back toward the dormitories.
Taren stretched, wincing slightly. "I need food and sleep," he declared. "Preferably in that order."
He waved lazily and walked off toward the courtyard entrance, steps slower now, fatigue finally catching up with him.
That left Cyros, Aerin, and Lara beneath the glowing evening sky.
Silence settled gently between them.
Cyros tilted his head back, eyes drifting to the Sol, his thoughts distant. Aerin stared at the ground, fingers curling slightly at her sides, heat lingering in her cheeks for reasons she couldn't quite explain. Lara watched them both, her lips curled into a knowing grin.
Oh, she thought. This is interesting.
Cyros straightened and took a step away, clearly intending to leave. Then he paused.
He turned back toward Aerin.
"Going to Helior Prime tomorrow," he said casually. "There's a movie. Interested in coming?"
The words were simple. The tone is even.
But to Aerin, it felt as though the world had tilted.
Her heart skipped—once, sharply. Her thoughts collided all at once.
Only me?
Is this a—
A date?
She looked up, startled, meeting his eyes. There was no teasing there. No hidden meaning she could immediately read. Just a quiet invitation.
"Sure," she replied softly.
Cyros nodded, satisfied. "Meet you in the morning."
He turned and walked away, unhurried, hands once again in his pockets.
Aerin stood frozen for a moment longer, staring at the space he'd just occupied.
Her thoughts raced.
Did he just invite me on a date?