A year into Camp Hell, on my eleventh birthday, I met her — the second student joining me at Camp Hell.
The genius prodigy who was to become my right-hand advisor once I learned enough to take the reins. She was young. Eighteen at the time. She had a fierce aura. She might have been weaker than me, but her sheer confidence would lead one to think she was as strong as Hope.
Admittedly, she scared me a little.
"What's your name?"
I asked her as I peeled off the metal suit after a long day, feeling a slight breeze through the cloth and leather under garment.
Her amber eyes shone like fire through the slits in her visor.
"Cecelia Wreath."
We'd spent that entire day together, watching our comrades be slaughtered, yet it was only after a reprieve in the fighting that we spoke to each other.
"I'm Ixion."
The pleasantries between us ended there. The awkward waif I was, I didn't know how to talk to people casually. The most I could do then was command or reprimand.
