The fortress breathed with silence after the horns.
The courtyard still stank of sweat and stone dust, the heavy blocks piled in a crooked heap where the recruits had left them. Kaelen's palms were torn raw, blistered and split from the iron chains, and every step toward the barracks burned in his thighs. Even lifting his arms felt like dragging the mountain itself.
Deren limped beside him, clutching his ribs with one hand. His small frame looked ready to fold under the weight of his exhaustion. His face was streaked with grime, eyes bloodshot from tears he had tried to hide.
Inside the barracks, the air was warm and thick with the scent of straw, sweat, and old woodsmoke. Rows of bunks stretched down the hall, and the surviving recruits collapsed onto them without ceremony, groans and mutters echoing in the dim torchlight.
Kaelen lowered himself onto his pallet with the care of a man who knew even a breath could hurt if it was taken too quickly. He stared at the ceiling beams until they blurred. His body screamed for sleep, but his mind held on.
Across the row, Joric slammed his fists into his mattress in frustration. "Damn it! I should've carried it farther. I was close—I was so close."
"You dropped it," another boy said flatly. "Close doesn't count."
"Shut your mouth, Kair."
Kaelen closed his eyes. Their voices rose and fell in waves around him: muttering, swearing, coughing, crying. He heard it all as if from a distance.
Later, when most had fallen into restless slumber, Deren nudged Kaelen's side.
"Hey."
Kaelen turned his head slightly.
"You—" Deren's voice cracked, and he lowered it, glancing at the shadows as though Ser Varian might appear from them. "You could've let me fall. I know it. If you hadn't pulled my chain up, I'd be in the rocks now. Or worse—sent home in shame."
Kaelen grunted softly. "You kept walking. That was enough."
Deren shook his head, hair hanging in his face. "No. You saved me. I owe you."
Kaelen shifted, ignoring the sting in his arms. "You don't owe me anything. Just… keep your feet next time."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. The only sounds were the crackle of a torch and the soft snores of those too tired to care about their pain.
Then Deren whispered, almost conspiratorial, "Want to see something?"
Kaelen raised a brow. "Now?"
"Yes, now." Deren grinned despite his exhaustion. "Before I lose the will to stand again."
They crept through the barracks, avoiding the watchful eyes of the night guards, and slipped into one of the narrow stairwells that wound down beneath the fortress. The air cooled as they descended, damp with stone and moss.
At the base lay a half-forgotten corridor. Torches hadn't been lit here in years, but Deren carried a stub of candle in a tin holder, its flame casting long shadows along the walls.
They reached a wide chamber lined with crumbling shelves. Old tomes lay scattered, pages half-rotted, the air thick with dust. The underground library.
Kaelen had been here once before, on the first night Deren dragged him sneaking from his bunk. But even now, weary as he was, the sight struck him with awe. The place hummed with a strange silence, as if the stones themselves remembered more than the men who had built them.
And there, carved high on one of the walls, loomed the mural.
A tall figure, wings outstretched, halo chipped with age. Time had worn away the face, but the form was unmistakable: an angel cast in stone.
Deren spread his arms mockingly. "Behold. Sir Swat, patron saint of pigeons."
Kaelen's lips twitched despite himself. "Sir Swat?"
"Yes. Look at him—arms all stretched out like he's trying to scare birds off a field. Tell me he doesn't look ridiculous."
Kaelen huffed a quiet laugh. "If he's an angel, he's the angriest bird herder I've ever seen."
"Exactly." Deren waggled his fingers dramatically. "Begone, foul crows, or Sir Swat will smite you with… wings."
Their laughter echoed too loudly in the cavern, and both of them froze, waiting for the sound of boots on stone. None came.
Kaelen let out a slow breath. He hadn't realized how much he needed that laugh.
They sank onto the cold floor beneath the mural. Deren leaned back, staring up at the cracked wings.
"Do you think they were real?" he asked after a moment.
Kaelen frowned. "What?"
"Angels. Things like that. My father swore he saw one in the war — said it carried a sword of fire. My mother said he'd drunk himself blind."
Kaelen studied the carving. The missing face made it unsettling, as though the angel watched them with a hollow gaze.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Deren shrugged. "Doesn't matter. If they are real, they're not here carrying stones for the Order."
Kaelen thought of Lyra, her laughter bouncing off these same walls when they were younger, mocking the angel just as Deren did now. She had called it pompous, had traced the chipped halo with her finger and declared that if angels did exist, they'd probably be worse liars than men.
The memory made his chest ache.
He forced his voice steady. "Maybe it's better if they're just stories."
Deren chuckled. "Yeah. Can't be disappointed if they never show up."
They sat in silence after that, listening to the faint drip of water in the cavern.
For Kaelen, exhaustion pressed down heavier than the stone he had carried. But beneath it all, a strange warmth lingered — not comfort, but something close. He wasn't alone. Not entirely.
When they finally returned to their bunks, the barracks felt less suffocating. Kaelen lay on his pallet, staring at the ceiling, the ghost of Lyra's laugh still in his ears.
Tomorrow, Varian would put them through another lesson. Another test. Another scar.
But for tonight, Kaelen allowed himself to close his eyes without fear.