Roenan lay on the top bunk in a long, wide room lined with beds on both sides. Sometimes the space slightly reminded him of the hatch—dingy and unbearably humid. An old, rattling fan spun lazily above his bed, and he counted himself lucky for the breeze it offered, despite the noise. There weren’t many of them here. Around him, the guys along the walls muttered in various languages about the heat.

He rolled onto his stomach and peered over the edge of the bed. Saive lay beneath him, on top of his sheets, the back of his wrist draped over his eyes. His breathing was steady.

Roenan still wasn’t used to how good he looked now. With color back in his skin and muscle reformed over bone, he no longer looked like the walking corpse Roenan had first met.

His silver eyes, when open, looked unreal against his Jaedan skin. His body had regained its strength—lean and toned, rather than bulky. Every line of sinew spoke of precision, speed, and skill, the kind that came from both natural ability and relentless training.

Roenan had to remind himself that Saive had been through this before. And, he worked for the Jaedan military. It was no miracle that he’d bounced back so quickly after months of weakness.

With proper food, space to breathe, and the freedom to move again, Saive had thrown himself into training with a single-minded drive. He hadn’t just recovered; he had clawed his way back.

Roenan was back in shape too. The constant ache in his body was gone and movement no longer came with pain. He could breathe deeply again, sleep through the night without waking from discomfort.

It was only the nightmares that remained.

Saive had taken it upon himself to give him side lessons in Jaedan combat techniques—methods designed for speed, precision, and efficiency. And it had worked. Roenan moved differently now. Sharper, swifter, and more in control.

Saive had gained some control over his ascensions, though it hadn’t always been that way. In the beginning, Roenan was the only one who could bring him back quickly.

The guards figured that out fast—and used it.

Whenever Saive slipped away, they’d shove Roenan in after him to drag him back. He’d return swinging, sometimes with fists, sometimes with his hands wrapped around Roenan’s throat.

The guards didn’t care. Roenan had even caught them placing bets once. One had been bantering away as he pocketed his winnings while the other scowled at his loss.

But Roenan didn’t care, either. The ascensions clearly unsettled Saive, and Roenan was glad to be the one who could help. They’d quickly built a dynamic, and over time, Saive grew less violent when coming back to himself.

Now, the only sign of an ascension was the flicker in his eyes—brief, electric warnings that flashed a second after someone touched him… and that person usually ended up on the ground. Everyone at camp had learned that by now, and things had gotten slightly easier for Saive because of it.

“Quit staring at me,” Saive muttered, his wrist still draped over his eyes.

“Sorry. I’m restless,” Roenan sighed.

Tomorrow, they would both be graduating from the camp. Roenan felt a growing excitement at the thought of leaving the dingy barracks behind and heading to the fancy university from months ago.

 Honestly, he was feeling a little smug about it—he’d met his personal deadline of six months, and that included passing efficient linguistics, which had been anything but easy.

When Roenan wasn’t physically training, he was buried in Vernajjian—up all hours of the day and night drilling the language into his head, only to shut his books and head to class where it was drilled in all over again. He was especially grateful for the weeks of beginner training he'd gotten from Drakke back at the hospital. It had given him a solid foundation with a decent start on vocabulary and a grasp of grammatical rules that might’ve tripped him up here at camp.

From the moment the linguistics phase of boot camp began, Roenan had flat-out refused to speak Jaedan. He even forced Saive to talk to him in Vernajjian. Saive absolutely detested it. But, he’d given in now and then, offering gruff answers and sharp questions. Roenan knew he owed Saive for that, just like he owed him for the combat training.

“I fucking love you, you know that, right?” he said rhetorically to Saive, in Jaedan. “I’m lucky to have you here with me.”

Saive peeled his wrist back and looked up with his piercing eyes. He made a face like Roenan had just said something vile. Roenan smirked and made a half-hearted ruffle gesture in the air, like he’d tousle his hair if he could.

“I hope we're not dormed together back at the camp,” Saive muttered, shielding his eyes again.

"What?" Roenan laughed. “Come on, don't play coy. Crawl up here for a quick cuddle. I’ve been affection-starved for months.”

He was beginning to understand Saive—his humor, his dry wit, the unexpected comebacks that always caught Roenan off guard. His stone-faced delivery only made them funnier.

Saive liked to lie with his arms up, sometimes behind his head, sometimes covering his eyes—always on his back.

And Roenan’s favorite thing? He was the only one Saive ever really talked to. That made him feel special.

Saive sighed and dropped his arm again. “You’re asking me to climb up there just so you can wrap your arms around me and pout when I toss you off the bunk?”

“Oh?" Roenan smiled. "Hey—don’t tempt me with a good time.”

Saive tsked. “Don’t share your weird kinks with me, you moron.” He dragged both wrists over his eyes this time.

Roenan grinned and seized the opportunity to dig deeper. “Speaking of sharing... what were the people like you’ve dated? I’d love to know the type of person who could tame a guy like you.”

“I don’t date. Don’t care to look.”

“If that’s true, that’s some seriously wasted potential. If I looked anything like you, I’d be putting that to use for sure.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Saive sighed.

Roenan snickered and rolled back over to stare at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting to tomorrow.

Just one more day.

He sat up and glanced around. A few other prisoners lay scattered across the barracks, some on their bunks, others in chairs playing makeshift games with one another. They’d definitely been given the worst dorms in camp. The Vernajjian recruits had better quarters across the field, though the two groups sometimes trained together.

Sparring days were brutal—Jaedans, or their allies, against Vernajjians—and the guards always made a point of watching. Betting was common during this, too. Roenan never forgot how they treated it all like a sport.

Still, the Vernajjian recruits had it easier. Fresh clothes that didn’t smell of mildew, meals that filled their stomachs instead of barely scratching the surface, and rules they bent without consequence. Now, they all buzzed with restless energy, eager to graduate in time for the spring military ball at the university—a celebration marking their accomplishments. For the others, it was just another reminder of the strange life they’d been forced to endure.

Roenan had to stomach more than a few crude stories from recruits bragging about what they’d do to their dates after the ball—how quickly they’d strip them out of their gowns, whether they wanted it or not. One guy went so far as to boast that he’d force his date if she didn’t comply.

Saive beat him so savagely the man spent days in the infirmary.

The fallout was immediate. Saive was dragged off to face military officials and vanished from training for days. Roenan was left alone with no sparring partner and no study help. But worst of all, no company. He hated when Saive wasn’t in his line of sight. 

He never asked what happened behind those closed doors. Some questions, he’d learned with Saive, were better left unasked.

“One more day, Sai,” Roenan murmured.

From below, Saive agreed with a low hum.

The next morning, they dressed in full uniform. Each Vernajjian recruit pinned a small ribbon to their chest—a mark of graduation. Roenan and the other conscripts didn’t get one.

The event had always been for the Vernajjian recruits. Their names were called, ranks announced, badges given. The Jaedans and allied prisoners stood off to the side, applauding when expected—presentable, but peripheral.

The ceremony passed in a blur.

Saive looked bored the entire time. Roenan, though, couldn’t help but feel a sliver of pride. Even if it wasn’t really their moment.

The reception afterward was crowded and noisy. There was laughter, clinking glasses, and people moving around each other like waves. Vernajjian officers mingled with their own. Saive was practically vibrating with impatience.

“When are they going to let us out of here already?” he muttered, scanning the room like he was searching for an escape route.

“Try to enjoy it. There’s alcohol,” Roenan offered, gesturing around them.

“I don’t drink. I've told you this before.”

“Why? Underage and afraid to break rules?”

“I’m your age, idiot. And it dulls your guard.” Saive cast a glance toward a group of Hervortian allies laughing too loudly. A few Vernajjians stared with distaste—others looked like they were listening in. “Besides, they want us drunk. Loosen our tongues. Don’t forget—they’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.”

Roenan blinked, brushing past the usual warnings. “I’m twenty-three, Sai.”

“So am I,” Saive replied, as if it were common knowledge.

Roenan laughed. “You’re kidding. You look a few years younger, at least. At the hospital—”

“I was starved and neglected. Did you forget?” Saive’s voice dropped. “We don’t look all that different now.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Roenan had been around him so long, he’d stopped noticing the changes—the slow return of strength, the way Saive carried himself now. He hadn’t really thought about his age. Not consciously.

But thinking back... the person he met in the hospital felt like someone else. A hollow shell. A fragile, broken kid.

“Anyway,” Saive muttered, shifting under Roenan’s gaze. “I’m gonna find somewhere to nap this off.”

Roenan sighed. “Seriously, just try to enjoy yourself. You’ll survive a couple more hours.”

“I’ll enjoy myself when I’m gone,” Saive said—and with that, he slipped into the crowd.

Roenan sighed after him before wandering around aimlessly. He eventually drifted toward the makeshift bar and lingered a short distance away, eyeing the alcohol, a little unsure if it was actually meant for them.

“That stuff’s strong,” said a Vernajjian nearby as the bartender poured. Roenan looked up. The man was speaking to him.

“Oh, ah, thanks for the warning,” Roenan replied, stepping closer. “Do you... come here often?” He gestured vaguely at the makeshift setup.

The guy snorted and signaled to the bartender to pour Roenan a shot of the liquor he'd been eyeing. “Man, don't remind me. I can’t wait to get back to a real bar. Haven’t had a proper weekend in weeks. Miss the good liquor—and the women, you know?”

“One hundred percent,” Roenan lied smoothly. “Though my circumstances are a little…”

“Swear to Vernajja—that’ll fix your problems,” the guy cut in, casual as ever, then extended a hand. “Urri.”

Roenan kept his expression neutral as he took it.

“Roenan.” They shook.

“A little parting advice,” Urri said, still gripping his hand as he leaned in. Something felt mildly intimidating about the gesture. “You look closer to one of us—use that. Make friends with the right people, the ones with pull. Could earn you some leniency.”

He straightened up and took a sip of his drink, then added, almost offhand, “And drop the creature. He’s already got a reputation out there. He’ll only drag you down.”

The creature.

That nickname had started here, in the camps—passed around by recruits and guards alike. Saive knew about it. Everyone did. But he never reacted. Didn’t even seem to register it as worth his attention.

Roenan almost envied him for that. For that strange, impenetrable calm. For not giving a single damn what anyone thought.

The bartender slid a shot toward him. Roenan lifted it in a silent toast, knocked it back, and set the glass down with a sharp clink.

“Nice to meet you, Urri,” he said coolly, then turned and headed off to find Saive.