AERWYN

Aerwyn would sooner drop dead than agree to start training right now, not when every part of her body ached and her limbs felt like they were filled with lead. Sevrin, that selfish bastard, didn't care about her predicament. She silently cursed him and his entire generation as she stood in front of him, glaring.

"I could just as easily start when I'm better," Aerwyn said through gritted teeth, her legs barely supporting her weight.

Sevrin rubbed his temples, clearly frustrated. "Look, we don't have much time. You need to start training right now."

Aerwyn clenched her fists, frustration bubbling up inside her. "Don't have much time for what?" she half-yelled, her breath coming in ragged bursts. "Maybe if I fucking knew why it's so urgent, I'd consider risking myself!"

"You agreed," Sevrin snapped, his voice cold and final. "I don't owe you an explanation. I just need you to do it."

Her heart pounded furiously, and her hands shook with a mix of anger and exhaustion. "I didn't agree to shit. I said if I see my powers, I'd do whatever you ask. Last I checked, I don't see nothing . I'm tired as fuck, my whole body hurts, and I'm trying so hard not to burst into tears." Her throat tightened as the words tumbled out. "I'm not even sure of myself."

Sevrin stared at her, opening his mouth to retort, but something in her voice made him pause. "What do you mean by that?" His voice was quieter now, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Aerwyn shifted on her feet, trying to steady herself, the weight of her sickness pressing down on her chest. "I'm getting memories back... but they're not mine. Or maybe they are. I don't know," she said, her voice trembling with frustration. "The whole reason I'm in this fucked-up, war-infested mess is that I can't remember what happened to my princess. There was proof of me murdering her, but when I tried to remember, there was just this... blank. And now I'm getting memories back because of your stupid potion, and I'm scared I'll realize I actually did it. I don't know if I can live with myself."

Sevrin's brow furrowed, his gaze sharpening. "That's not how this works," he said slowly, shaking his head. "My potion wasn't... It doesn't do that."

"Then why am I remembering? I don't want to!" Aerwyn shot back, desperation creeping into her voice. Her chest tightened. "Whenever I tried to remember that night, it wasn't just forgetting—it was like a whole void where memories should be. I made peace with that void, Sevrin. I made peace with the idea that maybe I didn't do anything, that it was all just some fucked-up illusion. But if I get my memories back, and it confirms what I fear..." She choked. "I might just kill myself."

Sevrin stood in silence for a moment, his calculating eyes studying her intently. Then, with a quick motion, he reached into his pouch and pulled out a small vial filled with swirling silver liquid. "Drink this."

Aerwyn eyed it suspiciously, her hand hovering over the vial. "What is it?"

"A potion to calm your sickness," Sevrin replied, his voice cool and detached. "It should help with whatever's happening to you."

She narrowed her eyes, still uncertain. "How do I know you're not poisoning me?"

Sevrin exhaled sharply, clearly exasperated. "If I wanted you dead, I would've done it already. Trust me, there are easier ways to deal with you." He shoved the vial toward her. "Drink. You've got one hour before training starts."

Aerwyn hesitated only a moment before downing the potion, grimacing at the bitter taste that clung to her tongue. "This better work," she muttered, setting the empty vial down.

"Go rest. I'll send for you when the time comes," Sevrin said, his voice cutting through the fog in her mind as he turned away, leaving her to her thoughts.

An hour later, Aerwyn stood in the open courtyard of the training grounds. The air felt too thick, too cold, and the pounding headache she'd hoped would ease still pulsed behind her eyes. She heard footsteps approaching and looked up to see Orayon, his expression grim, striding toward her.

"You look terrible," Orayon said bluntly, his eyes flicking over her face without a hint of warmth.

"Thanks," Aerwyn muttered sarcastically, rubbing her forehead. "Exactly what I needed to hear."

"We don't have time for pleasantries," he replied, crossing his arms.

"Do we ever?" Aerwyn shot back.

Orayon ignored the comment, nodding toward the practice dummies. "You'll start there. Basic strikes, footwork, nothing complicated."

Aerwyn blinked at him, her body already protesting at the mere idea of moving. "Are you serious?" she said, her voice breaking. "I'm barely standing."

"You're standing, though," he replied curtly. "King Sevrin wants you moving. So move. We don't have the luxury of time."

Aerwyn glared at him, feeling a strange tug in her chest whenever he spoke. She wasn't sure what it was, but it unsettled her. Grabbing a practice sword, she found it heavy and awkward in her hands. Guns, sure. But swords? This wasn't the 20s.

Orayon watched her struggle for a moment. "Your stance is wrong," he muttered, stepping forward. "Move your feet wider apart."

Aerwyn did as he said, though every part of her wanted to drop the sword. Her body swayed, the sickness creeping in, frustration boiling over.

Without warning, Orayon stepped closer, his hands adjusting her arms. His grip was firm as he shifted her into the correct stance. For a moment, warmth spread where his hands lingered, and a shiver ran through her. She frowned.

"Why the hell am I feeling this?" she muttered, but Orayon either didn't hear or ignored her.

"Focus," he ordered, his voice sharp again. "Swing the sword."

Aerwyn gritted her teeth, swinging the practice blade as hard as she could. The dummy barely budged. "This is pointless," she growled through clenched teeth.

"You're not trying hard enough," Orayon said coldly. "If you're too weak for this, you're no use to us."

Aerwyn's anger flared. "Oh, I'm so sorry my literal fucking immune system's failing me!" she snapped, swinging again, harder this time, but still not enough to make much of a difference.

Orayon chuckled. Aerwyn's temper spiked. "I am not weak."

"Then prove it."

"I'm trying," she spat, her breathing labored. Her vision blurred, exhaustion pressing down on her like a vice.

She stumbled, her knees buckling slightly. Orayon's eyes flicked toward her, his jaw tightening. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a flash of concern, but it was gone in an instant.

"Take a breath," he muttered, his tone quieter now. "You're pushing too hard."

"What?" Aerwyn asked, confused by the shift in his tone.

"You're no good to anyone if you collapse," Orayon said, glancing at her briefly before looking away, back to his usual gruffness.

"Why do you care?"

Orayon didn't answer. Instead, he turned back to the dummies. "Get back to work."

She'd kill these motherfuckers when she got her powers. She'd tear them limb from limb for making her do this while she was sick.

Aerwyn's vision swam again, and she stumbled forward, catching herself just before she dropped the sword. Her breath came in ragged bursts, and her arms felt like they were on fire. She couldn't focus through the pounding in her head, her thoughts fragmented by waves of anger and pain.

"Ondina."

She barely heard him, her fury boiling over. She could imagine it—every single one of them, Sevrin, Orayon, all of them—reduced to dust when her powers—whatever it was— finally came through. She wanted them to feel what she was feeling, to suffer as she was suffering now. But right now, her body wouldn't cooperate.

She caught herself before she could fall, Orayon's sharp gaze landed on her immediately.

"You're done," he said, his voice firm.

She was grateful, but she was also petty. Part of her wanted to drop dead right now, just so they would feel guilty for pushing her too hard.

Aerwyn growled, "No, I can—"

"You're done," he repeated, stepping closer, his face unreadable. Aerwyn noticed beads of sweat dripping down his face. His breathing was short, and heat radiated off him. For the first time, Aerwyn realized he didn't look that good either.

"Your sickness is exhausting," he said through shallow breaths.

"You're her hook," she recalled Sevrin's words from that morning. Though she didn't fully understand what it meant, she sensed it had something to do with Orayon's current appearance. She eyed him suspiciously

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Lowering the sword, Aerwyn's arms trembled. "Fine," she muttered, though the frustration gnawed at her. Questions swirled in her mind, but now wasn't the time.

"Rest," Orayon said, his voice softer, almost an order.

"But Sevrin—"

"I'll deal with the king," Orayon replied, turning away and leaving her in the courtyard, her mind tangled with confusion and exhaustion.