I wake to the cold before dawn.

The air tastes faintly of wet stone and something older, deeper—like the earth itself is holding its breath. My body lies heavy beneath rough linen sheets, muscles tight with remembered strain, joints protesting the stillness of a night spent restless. The bed creaks under me as I shift, and for a moment, the silence is so complete it feels like the world has forgotten I'm here.

Outside, the sky is bruised with dark light, a slow bleeding of stars fading. Somewhere, a lone bird calls—a broken note slipping between worlds.

I grip the windowsill. The Bloodmark beneath my skin hums—a pulse ancient as blood itself. It whispers through my veins.

You are the gate.

You opened it.

You must close it.

I want to scream, to tear the voice from my mind, but it only grows, a fire in the marrow.

Behind me, the door creaks. Callan stands in the dark, eyes like deep green forests—steady, patient.

"You're awake," he says, voice low, a thread of hope tangled in shadow.

"I can't sleep," I whisper. " Everytime I close my eyes. I see it. Over and over again. I see him. And I see the hell I unlocked."

He nods like he knows. I know he pretends not to hear my screams at night. "The past is not done with you. Nor are you done with it."

I want to believe him.

"Today, you train," he says. "Remember who you are. Remember who you were."

I swallow the ache deep in my throat, the truth settling like ash.

If I am the gate, then I must learn to hold it closed. To stand tall in the storm waiting beyond.

I nod.

And I rise.

I peel the linen from my skin, cold like a whispered regret. The worn fabric of my training clothes waits silent on the edge of my bed—familiar, but distant, like a name on the edge of my tongue.

My fingers fumble, slow and uncertain. The rough cloth slides over scars I no longer remember earning. The corset tightens, pressing like a quiet warning, holding back something I'm not sure I want to face.

Then I reach for my hair. Thick and wild, dark as the void between stars. I gather it in trembling hands, twisting it back until it binds close to my skull, like a shackle or a shield.

And then—his hands.

Soft, gentle hands running through my hair, fingers threading through the strands like they were holding on to me, holding us.

The touch burns, but there is no warmth.

I jerk my head, trying to shake off the pain, but it stays— cold like ice against skin.

My breath catches in the hollow of my chest.

The ghost fades.

I am left with silence and the faint scent of cedar. I stand, hands still trembling. The room feels too quiet, too empty. Like the walls are watching, waiting for me to fall apart.

The mirror catches me—pale skin stretched tight over sharp bones, eyes shadowed and hollow. I don't recognise the woman staring back. She's made of cracks and silence, stitched together with memories that refuse to stay buried.

I run my fingers over my neck, where his hands once grazed—where everything feels undone.

Clenching my jaw, I strap my swords to my back and my daggers to my belt as I finally muster up the courage to open the door and step outside the room. The whispers start almost instantly. I pay no attention to my surroundings, I pretend like I don't hear them and walk like the only thing existing in these halls is me.

I can feel the goddess underneath my skin but she stays silent. She hasn't spoken to me since that day. I haven't spoken to her either. People part for me as I walk and I almost stop in my tracks when I see a familiar girl with dark skin and braids. Her hair is adorned with gold jewels, her clothes the same as mine. I watch as her eyes go wide when she sees me, and watch as she runs toward me, gathering me in a hug.

I don't hug her back.

" You're awake." Elira says softly.

I smell the scent of honey and earth on her skin—the life I feel like I lost. I give her a small smile.

" I'm awake."

Her eyes soften as she links her arm through mine. Around us, the whispers swell, voices curling like smoke—some full of awe, others with fear.

"Shut it," Elira snaps. "All of you. She's here. And she's not your ghost story."

Heads snap toward her and the murmurs stop instantly. Everyone disperses.

She turns back to me, a smile breaking through the tension. "Come with me. Callan's waiting for you."

I don't resist as she drags me forward.

My memories of my time here have started to come back to me slowly. I remember walking these halls feeling feared and respected and now I'm just...lost. I've been asleep for ages but it feels like I've been awake all this time. My body feels sore and tired, stiff in all the places it shouldn't be.

" Uri." I hear Callan's voice and my head whips towards him.

" It's Syerin." I snarl.

Callan's eyes flicker—something like pain, or disappointment, or maybe just the burden of knowing what I was and what I've become. He doesn't smile. Ever since I remembered the team I served during my time at Eryndrael, they all stopped wearing those masks. I wish they didn't so I wouldn't have to see the hatred in their eyes.

Callan gestures towards the door behind us. It opens automatically as we approach, with a hiss that startles me. Outside, the dawn pulls its silver breath across the world. The grass glistens with dew like shattered glass.

Elira and Callan lead me towards the sparring ring stand, watching me with that same steady gaze everyone has been watching me with. A faint smile curls his lips.

"Ready?" he asks.

𓆩༒︎𓆪

" Damn it!" I scream. I groan as Elira pulls me up to my feet.

" Sorry Sye. Better luck next time." She says softly.

I lose another match. Then the one after it. Again and again. I lose. But I don't stop fighting.

Someone pulls on my hair.

My head jerks back, breath catching sharp in my throat. The pain rips through my scalp.

"You should just give up," a low, mocking tone says, hot breath grazing my ear. "We all know you're not what you used to be."

I lash out, gripping Korrin's collar and shoving him back against the wall. Korrin used to be part of my team. He's never liked me. He took my position as vice-commander when I left all those years back and he's been determined to prove that I never deserved to be up there in the first place.

I plan on making him forget those lies.

My lip curls. "You think I'm not what I used to be?" My head tilts up to meet his eyes, a snarl replacing my frustration. "Then you've forgotten exactly what I used to do to people like you."

His grip on my hair loosens. Just a fraction.

"Keep talking, Korrin," I add, shoving him back one more step, "and I'll remind you."

I hear him scoff as he smooths out his clothes. " You can't exactly remind me when you can't even stay on your feet for a second." His friends around him laugh.

My eyes snag on the one in the corner. He's beautiful with light hair and green eyes. I watch as he drags Korrin back.

" That's enough, Kor. She's been through shit that you don't have the balls to face so just let her be. And start talking when you can do even an ounce of what she did."

" Korrin."

That's enough for everyone around us to quiet. The laughter dies, and the circle around us tightens, all eyes flicking to Callan, to the man who has always been calm, even when the world teetered on ruin.

I barely notice the tension easing from my shoulders. Callan steps between Korrin and me, but he doesn't touch. He doesn't need to. His presence alone is enough to remind the fools around us that I'm not someone they can mess around with.

"Korrin," Callan repeats again, voice low, almost lazy. "You've forgotten yourself. And you've certainly forgotten who you're standing against. Step back."

Korrin opens his mouth, but the words die in his throat. His friends fidget. I watch the heat of humiliation bloom on his face, a slow, satisfying burn.

I straighten my shoulders and my fingers twitch at the hilts of my daggers, ready, but Callan doesn't flinch. He knows I won't make a move—not yet. I'll make him remember, yes, but on my terms.

"You've got one warning," Callan adds, eyes not leaving Korrin's. "Back down before this becomes ugly."

I inhale, the air biting sharp in my lungs. The dew on the grass glitters at my feet, the dawn pale and bleeding over the horizon. Every loss I've taken today, every bruise, every failure—it has been sharpening me, not breaking me.

Korrin finally steps back.

His lips turn into a snarl, and I know by a long shot that it's not over. Elira stands beside me, glowering towards their group before she drags me away. Callan lifts a hand. The gates at the edge of the training grounds groan, metal scraping against stone, swinging open like the mouth of a predator. Shadows spill from beyond, figures sliding into the pale light. Their faces are strangers, yet the insignia stitched onto their uniforms tells me everything I need to know. One of our enemy nations.

During the time I was asleep, they attempted to infiltrate Eryndrael. Callan filled me in saying they'd followed one of our Sentinels to get here.

I watch as the figures step into the pale dawn, weapons drawn, arrogance in their stance.

Callan leans close, his breath brushing my ear, a ghost of warning in his voice. "Find that power. Use it."

I glance at him, jaw tightening, and step into the center of the ring. No weapon. No shield. I flex my fingers, and nothing happens—until I decide it will.

The first man lunges. His foot barely touches the ground before he collapses, convulsing, eyes wide. Another swings a blade, and it shatters midair, splintering like fragile glass. Their movements twist, jerking against invisible hands, clawing at the earth, choking. I close my fist fully. For the first time since the gate opened, I feel her.

She's alive. She's here. She has awakened.

Their blood stills.

Bodies drop like broken dolls.

I take a step. Daggers slide into my grip, the cold leather familiar against my palms. Blood slicks the dirt beneath me, pooling around my feet but I ignore it as I step out of the ring.

Not a word passes my lips. Nothing needs to. Because everyone knows.

Syerin Cayde. You have returned.