Holland didn’t even make it halfway across the cafeteria before the tension in the air told him something was wrong. A split-second later it blew: chairs skidding, a table crashing onto its side, two students throwing raw power at each other like they had no sense of self-preservation. A third kid stood behind them, cheering it on like it was entertainment.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t warn. The valkyrie in him simply surged.
His wings tore open with a heavy crack of air, sending a shockwave rolling across the room. Trays rattled, the instigator hit the floor hard, and the dueling pair stumbled as the pressure of his presence clamped down on them. Holland stepped forward, the gold flare of his valkyrie aura rising off his skin like heat off metal. “Both of you, down. Now.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. It always did when he let that side of himself surface.
When one kid still tried to throw a spark of power, Holland snapped out a hand and crushed it mid-air, the energy collapsing in his palm like dust. The other got lifted clean off their feet by a sudden downdraft from his wings and landed flat on their back. No injuries, just humiliation. The kind that stuck.
Only once they were silent did he fold his wings tight and pull them back into nothing. Staff rushed in to collect the kids, who didn’t look anywhere near Holland on their way out.
Adrenaline still humming through him, he headed for the plaza. Zhartan was easy to find, calm and steady, impossible to rattle. Exactly the opposite of the cafeteria. Holland exhaled and came up beside him, hands dropping into his pockets. “Found a couple of geniuses trying to reenact a war scene in the café,” he said, tone far more casual now that no one was exploding tables. “I, uh... handled it.” He shot Zhartan a sidelong look. “This year is going to be fun...”
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The campus had gone quiet, that particular kind of stillness that settled in after midnight when most students and faculty had finally crashed for the night. Holland definitely wasn't one of them. His mind was still racing from everything that had gone down earlier, his face still holding a faint flush from the leftover frustration and adrenaline coursing through him. He was also a perpetual night-owl and had found himself... stress-baking.
A soft flutter of wings broke through the silence as he touched down on Perry's window ledge, careful to keep his balance. He had a small paper bag clutched in one hand, and the warm, buttery smell of freshly baked red velvet, chocolate chip, and snickerdoodle cookies drifted from it. Holland stood there for a moment, second-guessing himself, before he leaned forward and tapped his knuckles gently against the glass. "Perry?" His voice came out soft but with just enough urgency behind it to carry inside. Hopefully he had the right window. Oh, he prayed he had the right window.
When the curtains shifted and the window slid open, Holland managed a small, sheepish smile. His shoulders were tight with tension, but his eyes were warm, full of genuine concern. "Sorry for showing up so late like this. I just… I thought you might want these." He lifted the bag slightly, his wings folding neatly against his back.
"I didn't know what everyone liked so I just made an assortment." His hair was a little messy, his expression not quite settled. But he pushed all that aside, focusing entirely on Perry instead. "How are you holding up?" The question came out quiet and sincere, he truly hoped Perry was settling in okay. "I just... um... just wanted to check in and make sure you're okay."
The simulation painted the world in shades of rust and ash, emergency lighting bleeding red across shattered concrete. Holland moved through it like he was born to it, greatsword carving paths through digital flesh, wings catching air that didn't quite feel real. His body had stopped being his body somewhere around the third wave. Now it was just motion, just purpose. The valkyrie sigils crawled up his forearms like living things, white-hot and insistent, their light bleeding through the thin fabric of his grey cotton shirt. His veins answered them, lit from within, pulsing with each heartbeat. When he caught his reflection in a shattered window, his eyes had gone completely white, pupils drowned. He looked divine. He looked terrifying.
The greatsword took the first enemy high, the second through center mass. He was already spinning toward the third when Nero's voice cut through the chaos. "Your stance is too wide." Holland's next strike stuttered. His foot landed wrong, and suddenly he was seeing it: Nero's hand on his shoulder, heavy and gentle, fingers pressing between his wing joints. Another enemy came at him and he parried half a second too late, sloppy, the kind of sloppy Nero would've stopped the whole simulation for. The ghost-memory of an almost-smile, the single nod, the quiet "Better. Again." Holland swore and drove his blade through the next target with more force than necessary. He had his own students now. He'd graduated. He didn't need Nero's voice in his head anymore. But his greatsword overextended on the next parry. Basic mistake. Freshman-level mistake.
The simulation should've continued another ten minutes. So when everything just stopped, enemies dissolving mid-lunge, the ruined cityscape flickering out to reveal the training facility's sterile walls, his body reacted on pure instinct. He was mid-swing, full commitment, the greatsword already traveling through the arc that would split his target from shoulder to hip. And then there was no target, just a man standing exactly where digital flesh had been. "NERO?!" His wings exploded open, the sound cracking through the facility like a gunshot. He pulled up, pulled hard, muscles screaming as momentum fought correction. The greatsword's edge stopped so close to Nero's shoulder that Holland could see the fabric shifting in the displacement of air. Close enough to see his own reflection in the blade: eyes still blazing white, face twisted with exertion and fear.
For a suspended moment, Holland just hung there, wings beating frantically, chest heaving. His entire body still lit up like a warning system, sigils burning across his skin, veins pulsing visible and luminescent beneath. Every part of him screaming combat while his brain tried desperately to catch up. His boots hit the ground hard. He stumbled, legs shaking, and the glow started to fade from his skin in uneven patches. His eyes bled back to their normal color but the whites were still too bright, pupils blown wide. The greatsword felt suddenly, impossibly heavy.
"What the hell, Nero?" His voice came out destroyed, rougher than he'd ever heard it. He could feel his hands trembling, could feel his wings twitching against his back. The fear hit him then, really hit him. Not clean adrenaline but something nauseating and human. He'd almost killed him. Had come within inches of carving through his mentor, and his body had been ready to do it without question. "You can't just…" He pushed his sweat-soaked hair back with a shaking hand, wings folding tight against his spine. "Do you have any idea how close that was? I could have killed you." The words tasted like copper. He tried to force his breathing back under control, tried to look like something other than a mess of adrenaline and misfiring instincts. But his hands were still shaking. "You taught me better than to interrupt someone mid-drill. Or did you just want to test whether my reaction time was fast enough to not decapitate my former mentor? Because congratulations…" He gestured with the greatsword, still gripped too tight. "You almost got your answer the hard way."
