Two sets of eyes locked.
One burned with open fury. The other—cool, unreadable—hid something else entirely. Calculating. Watching.
Around them, the crowd thickened.
Senior soldiers jeered from one side, eager for blood. Tarrin's crew stood opposite, arms crossed, jaws tight. No one was laughing now.
Tarrin knew what this was.
Not a duel. A statement.
He didn't need to win. He just needed to make them remember him.
His fists curled at his sides, knuckles popping. No weapons. Just bare hands—and the promise of pain.
The other guy looked like he'd been forged out of leftover scrap metal and bad decisions. Tarrin was leaner, maybe faster. But strength? Not his game.
A sharp shout cracked through the air.
"Alright, start!"
The older soldier lunged like a beast let loose, fist already cutting through the wind.
Fast. Too fast.
But not faster than Tarrin.
He slipped under the blow by a breath, feeling the wind skim past his ear. His counter came in a flash—two quick jabs to the gut, sharp and clean.
They landed. Barely did a thing.
The man grinned like he was swatting flies. "All bark."
Tarrin didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just smiled back—tight-lipped, dangerous.
Tarrin moved fast—one step in, then a spinning kick that screamed style over substance.
He knew it was flashy nonsense. That was the point.
The veteran dodged easily, sidestepping like he'd seen the move a hundred times before. But Tarrin was already turning, pivoting mid-spin, and driving an elbow hard into the man's ribs.
A solid hit.
The crowd erupted as the grunt slipped past the older man's lips. But he didn't stumble. Not even close.
Instead, he snatched Tarrin's arm like a snake, yanked him in, and drove a knee straight into his ribs. Pain lanced through Tarrin's side like a red-hot needle.
That should've folded him.
Didn't.
Tarrin grinned through the pain—then did something no one expected.
He wrapped his arms around the man's waist and spun.
With a guttural shout, he heaved.
Two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle went airborne.
Time slowed. Jayden's jaw dropped somewhere in the blur. And then—boom.
The veteran slammed into the ground, face-first. He caught himself at the last second, palms scraping stone. Barely.
Tarrin backed off a few steps, chest rising fast, ribs screaming.
But his voice came out cool.
"Surprised the bunk holds you, Fatty."
Laughter erupted across the yard—deep, rolling, amused. The veterans weren't mocking now. They were impressed.
Even the one fighting him chuckled, eyes narrowed with new respect. The kid had grit.
Then, without warning, the veteran moved.
Faster than before. Faster than Tarrin could track.
A high kick sliced through the air, so close it brushed his hair. Tarrin jerked his head back just in time.
Shit—That one would've taken his face off.
What followed was a storm of punches, each one thundering toward him like a battering ram. No wasted motion. No mercy.
Tarrin weaved, bobbed, barely staying in the fight. One wrong move and he'd be out cold till next week.
Then—an opening.
The veteran overextended, just a little, his footing sloppy from the last swing.
Tarrin moved.
He feinted low, foot sweeping forward as bait—then pivoted, his leg snapping up in a vicious drop kick straight into the man's solar plexus.
It landed.
The veteran staggered back, face scrunching—not from pain, but satisfaction. Like he'd been waiting for the kid to show teeth.
Then Tarrin felt it.
A grip—tight and iron-clad—snagged his ankle.
"Oh, come on—" he muttered.
And then the world flipped.
Up became down. His gut somersaulted inside his body. Airborne again. That made the second time this week.
'I hate flying.'
He twisted mid-air, tried to land clean. Failed.
Instead, he crashed down, hands and knees scraping the ground. Not ideal, but he was still breathing.
His head snapped up, instincts already coiled for the next strike.
But the veteran wasn't looking at him.
He was staring past him—upward.
A fleeting feeling passed in his gut on the realization that he wasn't even watching him, but it disappeared just as fast.
A ripple of silence fell across the yard like a curtain. Every soldier turned to look.
Tarrin followed their gaze.
On the balcony above, someone stood, framed by steel railings and the morning light. Watching them like ants at war.
Then came the voice.
Cool. Distant. Absolute.
"That's enough. Leave it for the Banes."
Like a switch flipped, every spark of violence vanished. The yard stilled.
Even breath dared not disturb her command.
The crowd slowly dispersed, boots scraping against the packed earth, murmurs fading like smoke. But the two fighters stood still, eyes locked across the clearing.
The veteran gave a firm nod, something unspoken simmering behind his weathered gaze—respect.
"A good fight," he said, reaching down and clasping Tarrin's hand, hauling him back to his feet.
Tarrin straightened with a wince but didn't look away. "A good fight indeed."
They turned without another word, each walking back to their own sides. The tension dissolved, but something lingered—earned, not given.
Jayden broke the silence first, his voice bubbling with adrenaline. "Man, you were winning!"
Tarrin just shook his head, brushing dust off his sleeves. "He was going easy. I'd guess his saturation's sitting at seventy, maybe eighty percent. He could've flattened me if he wanted to."
Jayden blinked, the realization dawning. "Yeah... but still, you held your own."
Tarrin gave a noncommittal grunt—but his mind had already drifted elsewhere.
A prickling sensation crawled across his neck.
He turned, just slightly.
Irene Dio.
She was watching him again, arms crossed, that same unreadable expression painted across her face like it had been carved from marble. Cold. Detached. Unmoved.
He looked away like he hadn't seen her. But he'd caught something.
A subtle nod. Barely there. Directed toward the veterans.
Most wouldn't have noticed. But Tarrin did.
She was connected to them. Loyalists, from the looks of it—old guard, army-born, too long in the field to be anything else.
His eyes flicked to Celith.
She'd know something. Maybe.
Tarrin drifted closer and dropped his voice. "That Dio girl keeps staring at me. Creepy as hell."
Celith raised a brow, the corner of her lip twitching upward. "She's always like that. Watching, never blinking. Dio clan special."
Her tone was light, but her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword—just a little.
Tarrin rubbed his ribs, the ache flaring under his skin. He kept his voice casual.
"So what's she even doing here? She's Scarbound, older than all of us. Can't she just... walk off if she wants?"
He let the question hang, airy and innocent—just a curious recruit asking around.
Celith hesitated, then gave a slow shrug.
"Irene? She's army to the bone. Family's been serving for generations. Discharge isn't in their dictionary. It's duty... or death."
There was something in her voice. Admiration. Maybe even a hint of envy.
Tarrin felt a low buzz pulse behind his temples. A warning bell.
"Huh. Intense," he muttered, storing the details.
That nod Irene gave the old soldiers lingered in his mind, clicking into place.
They were hers. Or she was theirs. Probably the earlier.
He glanced at Celith again. Her eyes were on the horizon, distant.
"Guess we're stuck with her, then."
The others drifted back into the barracks, basking in a few more moments of calm before everything inevitably turned to hell.
Tarrin didn't follow.
He mumbled something about needing to piss and slipped away. But instead of heading for the latrines, he circled back around the outer yard—quiet, deliberate.
Irene was still there. Same spot. Same posture. Watching the horizon like it might flinch.
He approached in silence, his footsteps light on the stone. No sudden movements. He needed to be sure.
Then, without a word, he dropped beside her and flicked a protein bar into her lap.
She caught it with a glance, eyes narrowing as she spotted the faint scrawl across the wrapper.
I've always wanted a white pony.
A beat passed. Then another.
Her gaze slid toward him, slow and measured. Tarrin sat with the same relaxed confidence he always wore, like a second skin. The doubt beneath it? Hidden, as always.
He cracked his neck and spoke, voice casual—like they were discussing the weather.
"So. What was that? A test run? Competency check?"
Her lips curved—not quite a smile. "Bravo. Didn't think you'd piece it together so quickly. If ever, honestly."
He leaned back, arms draped over his knees. "So, you're the handler. What's the method? Written notes? Whispered passwords in the shower? Secret rendezvous under the Light-spire?"
She snorted, dry amusement flashing in her eyes. "In person. Bi-weekly, if possible. You've been briefed on what to do?"
He gave a short nod. "Yeah. Vincent was clear enough—nudge her toward loyalty, keep her inside the army's sphere, marry her if neccessary."
He rose without waiting for a reply.
The smirk stayed on his face as he walked away, but his heart had grown heavier with every step.