People fear many things. The dark. Insects. Animals. The depths of the ocean. Death, hunger, sickness. But in this age, the thing people feared most could be summed up in a single word: Creatures.
A week had passed.
Eren had counted it in his head — every morning, every night. Seven days. Seven days since Luna and Sahra had died. Seven days since the hole in Raphael's stomach had closed, still leaving a scar despite the healing potion.
Raphael was getting better. Slowly, but he was. Eren had visited every day — the first two days Raphael hadn't spoken, just stared at the ceiling. On the third day he'd said one thing: "Luna had nice hair." Nothing else after that. Eren hadn't asked.
The Academy's corridors were empty in the early morning. The kind of hour where footsteps echo and no one has woken up yet. Eren and Kayra walked side by side, neither of them talking. There was nothing to say — or there was, but neither of them had found it yet. Some things traveled better in silence.
At the end of the corridor their paths split.
Kayra turned left. He stopped for a moment, looked at his badge — then walked.
Eren turned right.
The Academy was large.
Eren had known that — he'd seen it from the outside, seen it on a map — but walking through it was different. The corridors were long and high-ceilinged, the stone walls cold and quiet, every step producing a faint echo. It felt like a place where thousands of people had walked for years. That weight was present.
Before finding his room, he stepped outside into the courtyard.
It was the Academy's inner garden — a stone fountain in the center, trees arranged around it, benches in the corners. A calm place. At this hour it was nearly empty.
Eren sat down on a bench. He looked at his badge. Team number: 3. Candidate number: 47.
The numbers were abstract. They didn't mean anything yet.
He closed his eyes. There was a breeze — light and cool. For a moment he just stayed there, in the Academy, in the garden, in this new place.
Then someone came and sat directly on top of him.
Both of them stood up at the same time. Eren turned — green hair, lean build, looked about his age. The other guy turned too. They looked at each other for a second.
"I was sitting here." Eren pointed at the bench.
"Didn't see you." His voice was flat. Not apologizing — explaining. "Your eyes were closed."
Eren started to say something. Then let it go. He was technically right.
He glanced at the green-haired guy again — looked at his badge, looked at his own.
Different teams? Same team? He didn't know.
"Are you new?" he asked.
"Everyone's new." The guy had already turned away, already walking. "This is the Academy."
Eren watched him go.
He shrugged. Turned around. Went to find his room.
Team Three's room was small. Four beds, four wardrobes, one table, one window. Through the window the city's rooftops were visible — the morning mist hadn't cleared yet, everything grey and soft.
When Eren opened the door, three people were inside.
One was sitting at the table — green hair, lean build, leaning back in the chair in a way that made it clear he considered the chair his. He looked up. His eyes moved to Eren. One second.
He recognized him.
"You—"
"The garden." He said it first. Voice flat, no surprise, no interest. "Yes."
Then he turned back to the window. The conversation was over.
One was sitting on the bed in the corner — orange curly hair in full morning chaos, a staff in his hands that he was turning slowly between his fingers. He startled when he saw Eren, sat up straight, opened his mouth, started to say something — then seemed to forget what it was and gave up. He just lowered his head, fixed his hair, looked back at the staff.
One was checking a bow mounted on the wall — long black hair, her movements economical, nothing wasted, no unnecessary glances. She looked at Eren once. Brief, measuring, the kind that draws a conclusion. Then she turned back to the bow. She'd seen enough.
Eren stepped inside. Closed the door.
Nobody said anything.
"Eren Duskhaven."
The green-haired guy turned. His expression held something — not interest, not hostility. Just assessment, cold and quick, the way a merchant looks at a price.
"Dean Guilliman." He didn't stand, didn't extend a hand. "Your weapons are a revolver and a sword."
"Yes."
"Weak combination." He hadn't said it as an opinion — he'd said it as a fact. Then he turned back to the window. The conversation was over.
Eren said nothing. There was something in him that wanted to respond, but it wasn't worth it yet. Not yet.
The orange-haired guy jumped up from the bed, nearly tripping. "I'm Rowan. Rowan Thornveil." His voice came out at an awkward volume — not too quiet, not too loud, stuck somewhere in the middle. "I'm a mage. Water magic." He glanced at the staff, then at Eren. "It's an apprentice staff but it does the job."
"Mira." The black-haired girl kept it short, no wasted words. "Bow and traps. That's all." A brief pause, then she added: "I'm good at what I do."
Eren looked around the room. Four beds. Four wardrobes.
"Eren Duskhaven." He said his own name again, this time for himself. "Sword and revolver. I'll try to pull my weight."
Dean's shoulder shifted slightly — he'd heard it, but he hadn't turned.
The Academy had given each candidate an equipment allowance — a standard amount, in a standard envelope, with a name written in standard handwriting. Enough but not more. Calculated.
When they stepped outside the sun was directly overhead, the market was busy. The morning mist had fully lifted, city noise coming from every direction — vendors calling out, horses on cobblestone, the sound of hammering somewhere.
Dean walked in front. He wasn't waiting for anyone, hadn't said he would. He simply walked, and the others either followed or didn't — to Dean both options were the same.
Rowan walked in the middle, looking around carefully — he seemed uncomfortable with the noise of the market, stepping slightly sideways whenever someone passed too close.
Mira was at the back. Quiet, even steps. She was observing the surroundings — but not the way Rowan was, not with discomfort. With a hunter's habit. Taking notes on everything.
Eren was in between. Not in front, not behind. He didn't have a place in the team's geometry yet.
The market was loud. Vendors shouting, people bargaining, two kids chasing each other around a corner, an old man dozing at his vegetable stall. A normal day. Completely normal, completely ordinary for the city. As if nothing had happened last week. As if there was no forest, no vampire, no sound.
Eren swallowed. Kept walking.
When they reached the blacksmith's quarter he stopped.
This was the source of the hammering — stalls in rows, swords and shields and armor hung on walls. The smell of iron and copper sat in the air. Eren had always liked that smell, since he was a child. His father used to pass through here sometimes, Eren alongside him.
He stopped.
Two men were arguing. Or one was arguing and the other was just standing there.
The one arguing looked wealthy — thick, well-made jacket, clean boots, his voice carrying with the confidence of someone who didn't question whether he was right. The swords on his stall were polished, the price tags large.
The other was younger, mid-twenties. His clothes were worn but clean. The swords on his stall looked plainer, less shine, less display. His face held no anger and no fear — just tiredness. The kind of tiredness that came not from this argument but from arguments like it, for a long time.
"He's my customer!" The wealthy man slapped his palm on the stall. "How long have you even been here, how many months in this market? I've been here fifteen years — fifteen! Your blades aren't even properly forged, who's going to buy from you anyway!"
The younger man said nothing. A potential customer had gotten stuck between the two of them, unable to decide, waiting for the argument to end.
People nearby were watching. Nobody was stepping in.
Eren stepped in.
"Can I see both of them?"
Three men turned to look at him. The wealthy one raised an eyebrow — who is this kid, what does he want, why is he here in an Academy uniform. The younger one just looked, no hope and no expectation on his face.
Eren stepped up to the stall. He picked up the wealthy man's sword — felt the weight, ran his fingers along the blade, gripped the handle. Then set it down and picked up the younger man's. Did the same things, more slowly.
He ran a finger along the edge. Felt the balance of the handle in his arm.
"This one." He set the younger man's sword on the stall. "Better balance. Cleaner edge. The handle geometry is more accurate." He glanced at the wealthy man's sword. "The other one's shinier. But shine doesn't do anything in a fight."
The wealthy man's face reddened. "What do you know about swords, how old are you—"
"You asked, so I answered." Eren shrugged. "If you didn't ask, I apologize."
A silence. The potential customer looked at the younger man's sword, then reached into his pocket.
The wealthy man muttered something. Packed up his stall. Left.
The younger man looked at Eren for a long time. Something in his eyes — not surprise, more like recognition. Then he laughed. Tired but real, the kind that comes from somewhere genuine.
"Taron." He put out his hand. "I'm a blacksmith. My grandfather forged, my father forged, I forge." He looked at his stall. "Today wasn't going well."
"Eren." They shook hands.
"I owe you one, Eren." Taron turned back to his stall and gestured broadly. "Pick whichever sword you want. My gift. I forged every one of them myself — I stand behind all of them."
Eren looked at the stall.
Swords were lined up — long, short, single-edged, double-edged, some with engravings, some plain. All of them clean. All of them well-made. Taron's craft was visible in each one.
But one was different.
It sat in the corner. Looked ordinary — blue-embroidered handle, plain scabbard, medium length. But Eren's eyes landed on it and didn't want to leave. As if the sword had been waiting there. As if coming here this morning, getting involved in that argument, meeting Taron — all of it was a path leading to this moment.
He stepped forward. Reached out. Wrapped his hand around the hilt.
It was cold. Iron was cold. Then it wasn't — something in his palm warmed slowly, naturally.
He drew it.
The sword came out of the scabbard silent and clean, without a single sound of friction. The blade caught the sunlight — a blue shimmer, just for a moment.
Just for a moment.
Taron watched. His eyebrows went up. Then he laughed — longer this time, deeper, the laugh of someone recognizing something.
"So that's it." He shook his head. "Couldn't sell that one for three months. Nobody wanted to look at it, nobody wanted to hold it. Now I understand why." He looked at Eren. "A good sword can't hide from the right swordsman. It always finds a way. Always ends up in the right hands."
Eren looked at the sword.
It was right in his hand. The weight was right, the balance was right, everything was right. He couldn't describe it any other way — it was just right.
He slid it back into the scabbard. Hooked it to his belt.
When he turned around Dean was standing at a distance, arms folded, wearing that same cold expression. But his eyes had gone to the sword — just for a second, just once.
Rowan was looking at another sword on Taron's stall, not touching it, just looking from a distance. Mira was gone — then she appeared, two stalls over, examining arrows, speaking quietly with the fletcher.
A normal morning. Normal and ordinary for the city.
But Eren had a new sword at his belt.
And for the first time this morning, something felt right.