#elira

Their training was getting boring

OMFG I FINALLY WON 😍

Always better to be doomed with a friend, isn't it?

Chapter One: Iron in the Blood

The dawn bell rang cold and merciless over the stone barracks of the Royal Military Academy.

Elira- no, Elliot, she reminded herself- was already up, lacing her boots in the dark grey light before dawn, every knot as precise as the blade’s edge she'd walked since her enrollment two seasons ago. Around her, the groans of other trainees stirred like slow thunder. The stink of sweat, wet wool, and old pride lingered in the air as each of them began the same practiced, precise dressing routine. She’d had very little time to dress her bindings before they woke up each day, she had to keep everything secured down and hidden away. Her ribs ached with every breath.

Across the aisle, in the next row of beds, Saren Veylan, son of the powerful Duke Veylan and her most persistent tormentor, rose from his cot like a lion stretching for the kill. His sharp eyes flicked to her as if drawn by some sixth sense.

“You’re up early, Summers,” he said, voice slick with disdain. “still haven't shaken those farm habits? Off to feed the pigs before morning muster?” he snorted derisively 

Elira didn’t answer. She’d learned silence was her best armor- better than chainmail, better than lies. He wanted her to react, to act out of turn or in a way that would be unbecoming of a knight.

They all called her Summers, never Elliot. Never "Sir," like they'd call each other, not even in jest. To them, she was a stain on their noble tradition, a common-born smear who never should have passed the Trials, a scholarship enrollment. And worse- she was better than they were, faster on foot and with her hands, and stronger than even some of the senior squires. Her swordwork was forceful and unrefined, the instructor lamented even now how she wielded a sword like a bat, but she won her sparring matches more often than she lost them.

Putting her thoughts aside and stepping away from Saren’s glower, She joined the line of cadets filing into the outer courtyard, where frost crusted the flagstones like old bones. Knight-Commander Berthold stood waiting, a steel sentinel. His eyes were as gray as a whetstone, and just as unforgiving. A hero of the kingdom of Solaris and veteran of the Black Sun war that had seen it emerge in the ruins of Noctis. His hair and beard were almost the same silvered shade as his armour but his age had done little to dampen his imposing presence as he gave his morning address, much the same as it was every day.

“You are not children,” he barked, voice cutting through the morning fog. “You are blades in the making. And I do not train dull steel. You earned your way into this academy, that does not mean you've earned the right to stay, only I can grant you that.”

Berthold’s gaze swept the rows and stopped- ever so briefly- on her. A pause. Not long enough to be sure. But Elira felt it like a dagger on the back of her neck, a cold breathe catching in her lungs, Knight-commander Berthold wasn't a gentle teacher, and he certainly wasn't the kind of man you wanted taking note of your or paying extra mind to your training.

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“Pair off,” the instructor barked, his voice slicing through the clatter of shifting feet and drawn training blades. The morning air was damp with sweat and anticipation.

Elira turned just in time for a shoulder to ram into hers with enough force to knock her off balance. She staggered, catching herself with a half-step and clenching her jaw.

Saren. His ashy brown hair was slicked back from his face, the oily sheen making him look more snake than soldier. The usual sneer tugged at his mouth, his cold eyes flashing with cruel amusement.

“Just my luck,” he snarled softly, teeth bared like a predator savoring the kill, a smile that wanted to close around her throat. “Looks like you’re my warm-up partner this morning.”

Elira- Elliot here, the lowborn farm boy with calloused hands and barely enough education to write his own name- forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She shifted her grip on the dulled blade, grounding herself.

She couldn’t afford to make mistakes. Couldn’t afford to be Elira- not here. Not now.

The spar began with the usual feints and strikes, but Saren quickly turned it from a match into a test, his blade hammering against hers with aggressive rhythm. His smirk grew with each step he forced her backward, and his taunts followed every clash of the light wooden swords.

“What's the matter, farm rat?” he spat. “Forget how to hold a sword in your sleep?”

Elira moved with tight, controlled precision. She had to. Her true strength- coiled deep in her muscles like a drawn bowstring- could shatter a wooden blade with a single blow. She had done it once, back home. The village boys had scattered like birds.

That couldn’t happen again. Not here. Not with the eyes of the nobility and the Knight-Commander sharp as razors. If they learned who she really was- what she was- there’d be no trial. Just a rope and a whisper.

“You’re slow,” Saren jeered as he lunged, forcing her toward the edge of the sparring circle.

The crowd was half-interested, half-bored. Drills were routine. But when Saren picked someone, everyone watched. The noble's could choose new toys as they pleased, and there was always a kind of morbid curiosity to it, especially since Elliot had been his favourite for a while now.

She twisted—parried—redirected. Saren stumbled past her with a curse, off-balance. But he turned mid-stumble and drove an elbow into her side, sharp and punishing. Her ribs screamed in protest, a hot flare of pain that almost broke her composure.

She grit her teeth and responded in kind- a sharp, kick to his ankle. Saren’s leg buckled and he hit the stones hard.

A small cheer rippled from the other side of the yard, quickly smothered under the louder clash of another pair’s blades. No one would admit to enjoying the sight of Saren losing. Not out loud.

He spat grit, eyes blazing with humiliation, and surged back up- this time with rage. His next strike came not for her shoulder or arm but her neck- fast, and high, and entirely illegal.

Elira's instincts screamed.

She ducked low, knees slamming into rough stone for a moment, sweeping his legs out from under him. He was mid stumble as she surged forward, elbow driving into his ribs hard as he fell.

He hit the ground, the breath rushing from his lungs like a bellows punched shut. His hands curled around his ribs, his face twisted in pain.

But the look in his eyes that made her blood go cold for a moment.

Fear.

Not fear of injury.

Fear of her.

He knew. Or he thought he knew. That she had been holding back. That she wasn’t just some lucky village boy who made it into training by scraping a name onto a form. That she could have hurt him if she actually wanted to.

A hush spread like spilled ink. No one moved. Even the other sparring pairs froze.

Elira’s heart thundered. Her hands shook- just slightly. But enough.

Too much.

She had gone too far.

Saren wheezed on the ground, not rising. Not sneering. Just staring.

Knight-Commander Berthold’s boots echoed ominously as he crossed the courtyard, his face a mask carved from stone.

“Summers,” he said, her own name felt like a winter wind up her spine. “Report to my office after drills.”

She swallowed hard and nodded once, blade still clutched in her hand, blood roaring in her ears.

She could feel the eyes on her- the weight of doubt, of suspicion.Whispers slithered through the ranks.

Being called to his office meant one of two things: punishment- or promotion. And in this place, neither was safe.

Elira exhaled, slow and shallow, only when the knight-commander and their audience moved on from her, taking the limping, wheezing Saren with them.

One day, she'd change this kingdom. One day she’d look Berthold in the eye without hiding or cowering. One day.

But today- she had to survive it.