"Why do the men always have the honor to fight in war when women have the power to bring the army down to there knees"
A ruthless man is nothing but a man
A ruthless woman is everything a man wishes he could be.
What happens if the rebellion didn't...
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I push through the heavy doors into the mess hall, the warmth from the hearth hitting me almost immediately. It's a welcome relief after the icy tension of the sparring room. The noise is a different kind of chaos here—loud voices, clinking trays, the hum of conversations overlapping. It's easy to get lost in it all, if you want to. And right now, I want nothing more than to get lost.
I don't bother looking around to see who's here. I grab a tray and move down the food line quickly, taking whatever looks decent—stew, bread, a wedge of cheese, the usual. The food here never matters much. It's just fuel for the next few hours, a quick stop before the rest of the day swallows me whole.
I'm about to head for a quiet corner when I feel a shift in the air. A voice cuts through the hum of the room, low and familiar.
"Freysson."
I turn, already knowing who it is, and there he is—Garrick.
He's not hard to spot, even in the crowded mess hall. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that easy confidence of someone who's spent more time than he'd like in places like this. His dark eyes meet mine, and there's that glint behind them. Not quite warm, but not as cold as Xaden's, either.
"Garrick," I nod, my tone neutral. He's part of Xaden's group, one of the quiet ones who never quite fit into the usual hierarchy, but always managed to make his presence known.
He steps a little closer, his gaze sweeping over me, and I can tell he's assessing—just like always. Not that it bothers me. "I was wondering when I'd run into you again. Thought you'd have a little more to say, after... everything." His voice drops, just enough to let me know he's not talking about the general day-to-day, but the unspoken things. The things that run deeper, that I'm not in the mood to address.
I'm not interested in talking about things I've left behind, so I shrug, keeping my face impassive. "Not much to say."
He arches an eyebrow, like he's trying to get me to open up, but I'm not one for indulging that kind of attention. Garrick's never been bad company, but I don't let myself get pulled into conversations I know won't lead anywhere. Especially not with him.
"Always the quiet one, huh?" He lets out a quiet chuckle, and there's no malice in it, just a quiet acknowledgment of my nature.
"Seems like it," I say simply.
He looks around the room then, his gaze moving across the faces of the cadets gathered around. There's a slight shift in his posture when his eyes land on a group of first-years clustered together. He doesn't make a big deal of it, but I catch it—something in the way he watches them, as though calculating. Always observing. Always learning.
Then, his attention snaps back to me. "You're a long way from where you used to be, Freysson. I thought you'd always stick to the shadows, but it seems like you're doing a good job of staying out of the way."
I'm not sure if that's a compliment or just an observation, but I don't bite. "It's easier that way." I take a step to move past him, but he doesn't budge.
Garrick tilts his head slightly, like he's reading something in my words, or in the way I hold myself. His mouth pulls into a half-smirk, but there's no real humor in it. "It's funny, you know. Everyone thinks they can stay in the shadows forever. But eventually, it all catches up with you."
I let the words linger in the air between us, but I don't reply. There's nothing left to say. I've learned how to disappear when I need to, how to blend in and avoid being noticed. It's the one thing I'm good at.
He watches me for a beat longer, and then finally, without saying another word, steps aside. I take my chance and move past him, making my way to the far corner of the hall where I can finally breathe a little easier. Away from the noise, away from the too-curious eyes.
As I settle down at a table, I glance back toward Garrick. He's standing by the door, hands still tucked into his jacket pockets, scanning the room. He's always on the lookout for something—an opening, a piece of information, a crack in the facade that everyone else is too blind to see. I don't care enough to wonder what it is this time.
I pull the hunk of bread toward me and tear into it, trying to shut everything else out. There's nothing here that needs my attention.
