Varek paced restlessly in his room, guilt twisting through every thought. He’d been careless. He hadn’t paid attention. His control had slipped.

But gods, she had come so far. He could still see it: how sure she’d grown, how fluid her movements had become. The way she pushed him harder each time, her blade flashing like firelight, her steps a dance.

He threw his cloak onto the chair as though it were to blame for the cut on her shoulder. His pulse thudded in his throat. He dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard. She’ll be fine, he told himself. It won’t even scar.

Dhahri, she’d called him. Fierce protector. The word tasted bitter now. What kind of protector draws blood from the one he should have kept safe?

His fist tightened. His gaze drifted to the jar of salve on the desk: the one that had been his salvation these past weeks. It eased his body enough for sleep, but it always carried him into dreams he didn’t feel deserving for. Dreams of her.

Not tonight, he decided.

He stormed out of his room, down the stairs, into the training hall. He snatched a staff from the rack and fell into motion. Swing. Pivot. Strike. Each blow sharp, measured, controlled. Each one landing harder than the last.

His palms blistered by the time a shuffle of boots interrupted him. He stopped to catch his breath, listening to the approaching steps.

“What in the gods’ names are you doing?”

Rin. Of course.

“Just training,” Varek said, catching his breath.

“Now? In the dark?” Rin’s tone was pure disbelief. His eyes dropped to the blood on Varek’s hands, and he sighed, heading for the weapons locker. He tossed him a set of wraps. “At least don’t bleed on the floor.”

Varek rolled his eyes and sat to bandage his palms. He tied it off at his wrists, flexing his fingers.

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought this would clear my head,” he said, wiping his hair out of his face.

Rin squinted at him, sniffing faintly, then blinked. “Is this you?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Are you serious? You smell like… wildflowers?”

Varek froze. For once, the darkness worked in his favor: it hid the heat creeping up his neck.

“I crossed a field…” he muttered flatly.

“What field?” Rin questioned, his pitch rising conspicuously.

Varek gave him a look that said drop it.

“A flower field, I suppose.” His tone came as flat as he could manage.

Rin let out a disbelieving snort, tapping his foot against the floor. His eyes flicked toward the rack of weapons.

“All right, fine. Practice with me, then.” He grabbed a staff and jabbed Varek in the shoulder with it.

 “Come on, tough guy. Let me see what you’ve got.”

Varek gave him an eyeroll and a flick of his wrist to wave him off, but Rin didn’t let go.

He just sighed. “Whatever storm this is in you, hit me instead of that thing.” He nodded as the battered dummy.

He spun his staff like a challenge, stepping into the ring with a smirk.

Varek joined hesitantly. Their staves clashed, the sound sharp, rhythmic, familiar. Rin met him strike for strike, steady and taunting.

“Something’s different,” Rin said between blows, “your moves are more fluid. What happened?”

Varek deflected, teeth gritted. “I’ve been trying new techniques.”

“You’re off balance though. Angry doesn’t suit you, Varek.”

Varek groaned at him in frustration, his chest rising fast with each breath.

“Come on, hit like you mean it.”

So he did. The next hit sent a crack through Rin’s guard, and the staff tip caught the edge of his arm. Rin hissed, shaking it off.

“Come on,” Rin said while he sat their staves back in place, “let’s wash off.”

The baths were quiet, save for the low crackle of fire that kept the large hall somewhat warm. Steam rolled across the surface, catching the faint glow of lantern light. Varek sank into the water with a hiss. The ache in his muscles eased, but not the tightness in his chest.

Rin slipped in beside him, tossing his towel aside with his usual lack of ceremony.

“You train, you bleed, you don’t talk. It’s like living with a ghost.”

“Please don’t start,” Varek muttered.

Rin lifted a brow. “Then tell me what’s haunting you.”

Varek’s fingers tapped against the edge of the pool, small ripples moving through the water.

“Tell me something, Riorin. Have you found in the Arcanum what you were looking for when you joined?”

Rin went quiet for a while, tracing circles in the water. His magic stirred faintly, lifting droplets, letting them fall.

“Nah. I don’t think so,” he said at last.

“What was it you were looking for?” Varek asked, voice low.

“Somewhere to belong, I guess,” Rin answered softly, a quiet sadness seeping into his tone.

“Somewhere people wouldn’t be afraid of me. But they still are.”

He waved over the water hard enough to splash Varek in the face.

“Only the reason changed.”

Varek blinked through the drops, rubbing them away.

“It’s not my magic that scares them anymore,” Rin went on, “it’s the robe. The crest. The title. Same fear, different excuse.”

Varek leaned back against the edge.

“Ever wonder how they got this many fireborn in the order?”

Rin tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“After what happened with Ashra… you know… How the Arcanum brought them down.” Varek’s voice dipped low, cautious. The fall of Ashra was not a subject spoken aloud in the Order.

Rin gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Eh, Varek, centuries into a bleached history and propaganda, this generation doesn’t even remember Ashra. They don’ see it as you do. Maybe they never did. If they believe what we are taught, that Ashra was the monster… then joining the Arcanum makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Varek nodded, dragging his fingers across the water’s surface. Steam curled between them. Neither spoke again for a while, only the sound of water and their slow, uneven breathing.