Chapter 172: The Eye of the Storm

The stew was gone.

The large iron pot sat empty in the center of the table, scraped clean by six very different appetites.

“I am going to die,” Isaac groaned. He was slumped in his chair, staring at the ceiling with a look of profound regret. “My stomach has expanded beyond its structural limits. This is a medical emergency.”

“It is a vegetable,” Ashe retorted. She was leaning back in her chair, balancing on the two rear legs, picking her teeth with a splinter of wood she had snapped off a log. “You can’t die from a potato, Isaac. It’s biologically impossible.”

“It was a very dense potato,” Isaac muttered, rubbing his belly. “Vane cooks like he is trying to insulate us for hibernation.”

Vane stood by the sink, rinsing the bowls. The water was warm on his hands.

“You need insulation,” Vane said over his shoulder. “If the practical is in a frost zone, you will freeze before you cast your first spell.”

“I have thermal regulation charms,” Isaac argued weakly.

“Charms break,” Lyra said. She didn’t look up from her tablet, but she reached out and stole the last piece of bread from Isaac’s plate. “Fat is reliable.”

Isaac watched the bread disappear with tragic eyes but didn’t fight for it.

The atmosphere in Villa 1 was thick, warm, and loud. It was a stark contrast to the sterile silence of the Academy corridors. Here, the rank patches on their shoulders didn’t matter. The politics of the factions didn’t matter.

They were just students trying to forget that tomorrow morning at 0600, they belonged to the army.

Valerica sat at the head of the table. She had abandoned her usual perfect posture. She rested her chin on her hand, swirling the last dregs of wine in her glass. Her golden eyes were soft, reflecting the firelight.

“My father’s chefs cook venison with a reduction of star-berries and imported silk-wine,” Valerica mused. “It costs a fortune.”

She looked at the empty pot.

“This was better,” she admitted.

“It is the salt,” Isole said softly from the armchair. She had finished her tea and was now braiding a loose strand of Mara’s hair. “Simple things taste better when you are hungry.”

Mara was sitting on the rug between Isole’s knees. The twelve-year-old was fighting a losing battle against sleep. Her eyelids were heavy, and her head kept dipping forward, only to snap back up when Ashe laughed too loudly.

“I’m not sleepy,” Mara slurred, clutching her crayon like a dagger. “I have to finish the dragon’s tail.”

“The dragon can wait until morning,” Vane said, drying his hands.

He walked over to the rug. He crouched down.

“Up,” Vane said gently.

Mara grumbled, but she dropped the crayon. She held up her arms.

Vane picked her up. She was light, barely heavier than a rucksack of supplies. She curled into his chest instantly, burying her face in his sweater.

“Don’t let Isaac eat my drawing,” Mara mumbled into his collar.

“I make no promises,” Isaac called out, though his voice was fond.

The room went quiet as Vane carried her toward the hallway. The others watched him. They saw the way he shifted her weight so her head wouldn’t loll back. They saw the careful, silent way he opened her bedroom door.

It was a side of him they rarely saw. In the arena, Vane was a calculator of violence. He was the guy who broke arms and exploited weaknesses. Here, holding the kid, he looked… human.

Vane returned a moment later. He left the hallway door cracked open so he could hear if she woke up.

He walked to the large window that overlooked the abyss. The storm was raging outside. Snow lashed against the glass in horizontal sheets, obscuring the lights of the other villas.

He leaned his forehead against the cold pane.

He felt a presence beside him.

He didn’t need the [Usurper] to know who it was. The scent of ozone and summer rain gave her away.

Valerica stood next to him. She didn’t look at him; she looked out at the swirling white void.

“She trusts you,” Valerica said quietly.

“She has no one else,” Vane replied.

“She has us,” Valerica corrected.

Vane turned his head slightly. Valerica was close. Close enough that he could see the individual lashes framing her golden eyes. She wasn’t wearing her armor. She wasn’t wearing the heavy, ceremonial robes of the Sol family. She was wearing a simple wool sweater that looked soft to the touch.

“We are dragging her into a war zone,” Vane said. “Villa 1 is a target because I live here.”

“Villa 1 is a fortress because we are here,” Valerica countered. She turned to face him. Her gaze was steady. “Do not insult us, Vane. We protect our own.”

The word hung in the air. Our.

Vane looked at the reflection in the glass. He saw the group behind them.

Ashe had finally tipped her chair too far back and was currently flailing on the floor while Isaac laughed hysterically. Lyra was recording the incident on her tablet. Isole was smiling, a small, genuine expression that reached her mismatched eyes.

They were a mess. But they were a solid mess.

“You are worried about tomorrow,” Valerica observed. It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t like blind drops,” Vane admitted. “No intel. No location. Just a time.”

“We are ready,” Valerica said. She moved her hand. Her fingers brushed against his arm. It was a light touch, barely there, but it sent a jolt of electricity through him that had nothing to do with magic. “You forged the weapon, Vane. Tomorrow, we just swing it.”

Vane looked down at her.

She was the Golden Daughter. The prodigy who could crush gravity with a thought. And she was looking at him not like a rival, and not like a subject.

She was looking at him like a partner.

“Don’t miss,” Vane murmured.

Valerica’s lips curved into a smirk. “I never miss.”

The moment held for a heartbeat longer. The tension between them was a taut wire, humming with unsaid things.

Then, a loud crash from the living room broke the spell.

“I meant to do that!” Ashe shouted from the floor. “It was a tactical roll!”

“It was a tactical failure,” Lyra corrected. “I have the data.”

Vane and Valerica pulled apart. The wire didn’t snap, but it slackened.

They walked back to the group.

“Alright,” Vane announced, his voice returning to its usual command tone. “Show’s over. Pack it up.”

Ashe scrambled to her feet, dusting off her pants.

“Killjoy,” she muttered, but she was grinning. She punched Vane’s arm as she walked past him. “Thanks for the food, Chef. Next time, more meat.”

“Next time, bring your own,” Vane said.

Isaac hauled himself up, groaning. “I need a levitation spell to get back to Villa 5. Walking is oppression.”

“I will drag you,” Lyra offered, pocketing her tablet.

“That sounds worse,” Isaac said.

They moved toward the door. The transition from the warm living room to the cold hallway was jarring. They pulled on their heavy cloaks and boots.

Isole paused at the door. She looked at Vane.

“Sleep well, Vane,” she said. “The shadows are quiet tonight.”

“Goodnight, Isole.”

Valerica was the last to leave. She pulled her hood up, hiding her golden hair.

“0600,” she said.

“Docking Bay 4,” Vane confirmed.

She nodded. She opened the door, and the winter wind roared into the house.

“See you on the other side,” she said.

Then she was gone, disappearing into the whiteout with the others.

Vane closed the door. He locked it.

The silence returned to the villa. It was sudden and heavy.

He walked back to the living room. He picked up the empty wine bottle Valerica had brought. He picked up the crayon Mara had dropped.

He placed them on the mantle.

He extinguished the lamps one by one, until the only light came from the dying embers in the fireplace.

He sat in the armchair Isole had vacated.

He closed his eyes.

He didn’t think about the Second Years. He didn’t think about Nyx or the Dreamscape.

He thought about the warmth of the room. He thought about Ashe’s laugh and Valerica’s touch on his arm.

They were friends.

He smiled.

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