It's been two days since my fight with Roark.
Pain is manageable.
That's what I tell myself as I force my body through another drill, ignoring the way my ribs scream in protest.
Pain is temporary.
It's irrelevant.
I've fought through worse. I've survived worse.
And I refuse to let this slow me down.
"Again," Aaric orders.
I clench my jaw, resetting my stance.
The sparring gym is empty, save for the two of us—just like it's been since sunrise, when I showed up, just like his note had told me to.
In the sparring gym at 5:30 every morning. I hadn't asked questions. Hadn't argued.
Because despite every bone-deep ache, despite the way my body still hasn't fully recovered from my fight with Roark, I need this.
I need to prove that I can still fight. That I can still win.
Even if my ribs feel like they're about to snap apart all over again.
I lunge forward, ignoring the blinding pain that flares through my side as I throw a punch toward Aaric's ribs.
He sidesteps it easily.
Too easily.
Then he knocks my arm aside with a sharp movement, his fingers clamping around my wrist for half a second before he lets go.
"Sloppy," he mutters.
Frustration flares hot in my chest.
I exhale hard through my nose, hating that he's right.
"Again."
I move before I can think.
This time, I feint left before twisting, barely managing to land a hit against his ribs.
It's weak. Slower than it should be.
Aaric exhales sharply, eyes darkening.
"Better," he says. But he's not satisfied.
I brace myself for his next words.
"Again."
And again.
And again.
Thirty minutes go by and everything hurts.
I can barely see straight.
Each hit I throw is weaker than the last, each block slower, more desperate. But Aaric doesn't ease up. He circles me like a shadow, eyes narrowed, movements controlled.
I lunge again, trying a low sweep he drilled into me days ago—but I miss. My foot drags too slow across the mat, and he catches me mid-motion, spinning me off balance. My ribs scream, but I grit my teeth and pull back to my feet.
"Again," he says, and this time there's something sharp in his tone.
I glare at him. "You know I can't do this right now."
"You can," he says flatly. "You just won't."
That hits harder than any blow he's landed. "I'm trying—"
"No," he cuts me off. "You're repeating the same mistake over and over and expecting it to work. You think effort counts for anything out there? If Roark comes at you again, you think he'll care that you're trying?"
I step forward before I can think, adrenaline spiking. "Then maybe stop making me fight like I'm already dead."
His jaw flexes. He doesn't respond. Doesn't move.
But I can see it—beneath the stillness, he's seething.
I shift my weight. "What? Gonna say I should've fought harder against Roark too?"
"Don't." His voice is low. Dangerous.
I don't back down. "You said it yourself—my enemies won't care. Neither did he."
Aaric exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Gods, Emiana."
"What?"
"I'm trying to keep you alive."
His words hang in the air, too loud in the silence that follows.
We stare at each other for a long second—both of us breathing hard, both of us refusing to back down.
Then he moves.
Without warning, he lunges. I try to dodge, but my body's too slow. He catches my wrist, twists, then pushes me back a step. Not hard. Just enough to throw me off center.
"Again."
I snap. "I'm not—"
"Again."
I push myself into the stance, limbs trembling. I move out of instinct now—nothing fluid or clean, just motion for motion's sake.
He blocks. Steps aside.
I twist, try to fake left.
He's already there.
My ribs throb so violently I nearly scream.
But I don't stop.
Because I can't.
Because stopping means failure.
Because pain is irrelevant.
Because the General never let me stop.
Because he never stopped.
I move again.
Then—
The world tilts.
Everything blurs.
My knees give out.
I don't even register the fall—just the sharp, searing snap in my side and the way my vision goes white.
Arms catch me.
Strong. Warm.
Aaric.
"Emiana," he breathes, voice strained, half-panicked. He lowers me carefully to the mat, one hand behind my shoulders, the other steady at my ribs.
I try to push away.
I can't.
Everything hurts. My limbs won't cooperate. My head is spinning, and I can't tell if I'm burning or freezing.
"Gods, you're burning up," he mutters, brushing sweaty strands of hair from my face. His palm cups my cheek briefly. "You're done. That's it."
"No," I rasp.
"Emiana," he snaps, more force behind it now. "Look at yourself. You're shaking. You can't breathe. You're not proving anything by passing out on the mat."
"I can keep going," I whisper.
His hands still on me. His eyes bore into mine. "Why the hell would you want to?"
Because I was trained to.
Because weakness meant punishment.
Because I don't know what it feels like to stop.
But I don't say any of that.
I just look away.
His voice softens—barely. "You don't have to kill yourself to prove you're worth something."
"I'm not," I whisper, barely audible. "I'm proving I can survive."
Aaric exhales hard, eyes scanning me like he's trying to piece something together—like he's trying to hold back everything he's not saying.
"You already did survive," he says eventually, quietly. "Now you need to learn how to win."
Then his arms tighten around me again, steadying me as I try to sit up. I collapse against his shoulder without meaning to, breath shaky, body limp.
He doesn't let go.
He doesn't say anything else, either.
But for a long moment, we just sit there on the mat—my pulse racing, his chest rising and falling against mine—like the fight has finally, finally stopped.
Eventually, I pull away—barely—and sit up fully on my own. Aaric lets me, but his hands hover close like he's not convinced I won't collapse again.
"I'm fine," I say, even though I'm not.
"You're not," he mutters, standing and offering his hand.
I stare at it for a second too long before finally taking it.
He pulls me up slowly, careful not to jostle me. His touch lingers at my elbow even after I'm upright.
"I'll walk you back," he says, already gathering his jacket from the bench.
"I can walk myself."
"You're still shaking."
I open my mouth to argue, but he's already halfway to the door, clearly expecting me to follow.
So I do.
We don't speak the entire way back. The silence between us is heavy—not hostile, not quite warm either. Just full.
When we reach the barracks, he holds the door open but doesn't come in.
He just says, "You shouldn't have to fight like that."
And I don't know if he means today or in general.
Before I can ask, the door swings shut behind me.
I stand in the silence for a long moment, the chill of the air biting against sweat-soaked skin, his words echoing louder than I want them to.
I don't know what to do with the way he looks at me. With the way he doesn't say everything.
So I move.
Back to the showers. Back to routine. Back to pretending I'm fine.
. . . .
I sit on the edge of my bunk, freshly showered and dressed in my uniform, but my hands won't stop shaking as I try to lace up my boots. Every movement sends a sharp sting through my ribs, but I grit my teeth and force myself to ignore it.
Pain is temporary.
Pain is irrelevant.
Pain is—
"Why do you look like you're trying not to die?" Lynx's voice cuts through my focus, amused but sharp enough to carry actual concern.
"I'm fine," I mutter, yanking the laces harder than necessary. Pain flares again, white-hot, but I don't react. Won't react.
Baylor lets out a low whistle. "Damn. Aaric really did a number on you, huh?"
I don't look at him. Don't acknowledge the way my shoulders tense at the sound of that name.
Lynx smirks. "I dunno, Baylor. Looked more like she did a number on herself."
Baylor laughs, shoving Lynx's shoulder as he drops onto his own bunk. "Yeah, because Aaric totally forced her to fight him for, what, two hours?"
"A little over an hour and a half," a smooth voice says.
My head snaps up before I can stop it. Aaric is lounging on his bunk—three down from mine—back against the head of his bunk, arms crossed. He looks completely at ease, but his eyes are sharp. Irritated. Still.
Lynx huffs a laugh. "Oh, well that makes all the difference."
Baylor grins. "Right? 'Cause we all know an hour and a half of getting your ass kicked is way more reasonable than two."
"I didn't get my ass kicked," I snap, still fighting with the laces.
"You can't even tie your boots," Sloane says flatly.
I glare at her. "I can do it."
She lifts a brow. "Sure."
Lynx snickers. "Go on, then. Prove us wrong."
I don't move. My ribs are screaming. My hands are still trembling from exhaustion. And I'm not sure I can finish without making it obvious just how bad it is.
Sloane sighs and steps forward. "Let me do it."
"No."
She crouches in front of me anyway, waiting. "Come on, Em. Just let me help."
My jaw locks. Stubbornness burns through me, but it's losing to the throbbing in my side. Sloane doesn't say anything else. She just waits, calm and steady, hands resting on her knees.
After a long moment, I let out a sharp breath. Quiet. Reluctant.
She takes it as permission and starts lacing my boots without another word.
Her fingers move fast, efficient.
Lynx whistles. "Damn. Sloane wins."
Baylor leans back against his bunk. "That was so much easier than fighting Aaric for an hour and a half."
"I didn't—" I start, but Lynx cuts me off.
"Honestly, it's kinda sweet," he says. "Big, bad Aaric putting our dear Em through hell before sunrise. Bet that was fun."
Aaric exhales through his nose, shaking his head like he's not even going to dignify that with a response.
Sloane finishes the second boot and rocks back on her heels before standing. "Done."
"Thanks," I mutter.
She shrugs like it's nothing. "Try not to die in class."
"No promises," I mumble.
"If you do, at least make it look cool," Baylor calls.
"Gods, you're all idiots," Sloane mutters, walking off.
Then Aaric speaks, voice unreadable. "Try not to fall on your face in class."
I don't answer. I just stand, ignoring the tight pull of my ribs, and follow the others out of the barracks—pretending like I didn't just need help tying my damn boots.
. . . .
The courtyard is almost empty at this hour.
The moon's just started to rise, pale and distant behind the clouds. Most cadets are already turned in for the night, some still lingering in the dining hall. The air is cooler than usual, the stone wall beneath me rough and cold against my palms.
I sit with my hood pulled low, tucked into the shadows at the edge of the courtyard gardens, trying to stretch out the ache in my ribs without drawing attention. My breath hitches when I lean too far, pain lancing beneath my sternum. Still not healed. Still not strong enough.
But I'm out here because I needed air.
Because inside the barracks, the walls feel too close.
And I'm so tired of pretending I'm fine.
I hear them before I see them.
Laughter. Footsteps. Arrogant. Familiar.
I don't move. I don't look up.
But I know it's who it is.
And he's not alone.
Roark's shadow stretches across the stone before he steps into view, his grin already forming like it's been waiting there, just beneath the surface.
"Well, well," he drawls, veering toward me like he's just stumbled onto a fun little surprise. "Didn't expect to find you out here. Thought your boyfriend had you on bedrest."
I don't look at him.
But I feel my body tense.
Madsen walks just behind him, silent and sharp-eyed, like always. Rowe flanks the other side—his smirk more smaller, but present all the same.
Roark doesn't stop walking until he's just a little too close. Just enough to make the space feel smaller.
"You healed up nice," he says, voice dipping lower. "Didn't even bruise your face. Shame."
I clench my fists in my lap.
"But the ribs—that's what really got you, huh?" His grin spreads. "Could feel them give under my elbow. Bet you still can."
I keep my gaze forward. "Walk away, Roark."
He tsks under his breath. "Still so mouthy. You'd think getting your ass handed to you would've humbled you a bit."
I feel Madsen's eyes on me like ice. He says nothing. Never does. Just watches.
"I'll admit, you looked good on the mat that day," he says, voice low. "Under me, all broken and breathless. Almost made me sorry they stopped the match."
I don't move.
But my breath shortens. Then his voice drops even lower, poisonous and meant only for me. "Tell me—did he kiss it better after? Or did he just lay there and watch you fall apart like the rest of us?"
My chest tightens.
And that's when I hear it—measured footsteps, calm and slow.
Roark hears it too.
He straightens as Aaric steps into view, all dark shadow and sharp edges, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. His expression is unreadable, eyes locked on Roark like he's already bored of this entire interaction.
"Didn't realize the rats came out this early," Aaric says mildly.
Roark smiles wider. "Graycastle. Didn't know you were on escort duty."
"I'm not," Aaric says. "But you keep sniffing around like a stray. Starting to wonder if you're housebroken."
Aaric stops a few paces away. Calm. Centered. Not smiling.
Rowe snorts, then quickly looks down like he regrets it.
Roark's expression darkens. "Maybe I just enjoy the view."
Aaric's jaw flexes.
But he doesn't move.
Madsen studies Aaric now, sharp and silent.
Roark's smirk twitches. "Tense tonight, aren't we? Trouble sleeping? Long nights? Or just sick of cleaning up after her?"
I finally glance up.
And Roark sees it.
Sees the flicker of anger in my eyes and presses forward.
"Honestly," he says, voice darkening, "you've got to be getting tired of carrying her weight. You could've picked anyone in our year—Malek, someone who could actually throw a punch. But instead, you're stuck guarding something so soft you can practically hear her bones crack."
Then he grins at me.
"Must be exhausting, protecting a thing that's already so broken."
My vision flashes hot.
"Say that again," I snap before I can stop myself, rising to my feet too fast. Pain shoots through my ribs, but I don't care.
Roark turns toward me, something ugly flickering behind his eyes. "You want a repeat of last time? Don't worry, doll. I won't hold back."
And then—
He steps towards me.
So does Aaric.
But faster.
One long stride and he's between us, broad shoulders cutting Roark from view. His hand reaches back instinctively, palm gripping at my hip—not forceful, not hesitant. Just there. Fingers anchoring there like he doesn't even think about it.
Like he just needs to know I'm still standing.
Aaric stands in front of me, slow and calm—but every movement is loaded. Controlled.
His other hand lifts slightly, blocking me back without shoving. He doesn't look at me, but his fingers remain lightly at my side, steady and deliberate. Not possessive.
Protective.
Roark raises a brow, his eyes dropping to the contact between us.
"Well," he says, grin curling. "Didn't realize things were official."
Aaric's voice doesn't change. "They're not."
He pauses. Then adds, colder, "But I don't need to be official to end you."
Roark's eyes flash.
The moment stretches tight.
Madsen, silent this whole time, finally speaks. "Roark."
Roark doesn't look at him.
But Madsen takes a step forward anyway. His voice remains flat. "Not tonight."
Roark doesn't move for a beat.
Then he rolls his shoulders and lets out a short breath, like this is all some game he's choosing to walk away from.
"We'll finish this later," he mutters.
I don't know who he means.
But I don't like the way he says it.
He turns. Walks.
Rowe follows quickly.
Madsen lingers a half-second longer. Watching Aaric. Then me.
Then he's gone too.
The courtyard falls silent.
Aaric doesn't speak. Doesn't move.
His hand is still on my hip.
And I realize I haven't breathed.
I let the air out slowly, the tension in my chest heavier than before.
"I had it under control," I say quietly.
Aaric exhales through his nose. "No. You didn't."
He doesn't say it cruelly.
Just fact.
I look up at him.
And I realize that, for all his calm, he's barely holding it together.
His jaw is tense, clenched tight beneath the faint shadows cast by moonlight.
He's still facing Roark's path, like he's expecting them to double back.
But I'm not looking at Roark.
I'm looking at him.
And gods—he looks good like this.
Sharp and focused. Controlled and unreadable. Dangerous in the quietest, calmest way.
Before I know what I'm doing, my hand lifts—reaching for the edge of his jaw, like I can somehow ease the tension there.
But at the last second, I catch myself.
Instead, I drag my fingers down my own face, pressing my palms there for a beat too long before letting them fall. Fuck, me. What am I thinking?
"You don't have to keep stepping in," I say quietly, needing to say something.
He looks down at me, his fingers press ever so slightly against my side—then release.
"I'm not stepping in," he says. "I'm keeping watch."
Then he turns without waiting for an answer and walks back across the courtyard—shoulders tense, head high, never looking back.
And I stay there, spine tight, ribs aching, and breath short—not from fear, but something else I'm not ready to name.
Something that feels a little too close to the surface.
A/N — A LOT more between Aaric and Emi coming up, as well as some more with the squad! Sorry for any mistakes here, this one is not edited.
I'd love to know what you think! Also, thank you all so, so much for all the support I've gotten with this book. The views and the votes are just insane to me, I appreciate you all so much! Xx