“Ow—every morning?” he groaned, rolling onto his side and glaring blearily up at her. “At this point, I’m starting to think this is less training and more personal.”

  “If I don’t,” Aylen replied calmly, tapping the stone floor with her staff, “you’ll wake up when the Concord’s already here.”

  Binyamin squinted at the faint light seeping through the cracks in the hideout. “I told you. I wake up when the sun’s up. It’s tradition.”

  She lifted the staff.

  “Bond this.”

  He yelped as it clipped his shoulder and shot upright, rubbing the spot. “One day,” he muttered, “I’m going to beat you for that.”

  Aylen smirked faintly. “Challenge accepted. Again.”

  Training Montage

  The days blurred together into sweat, bruises, and slow, painful progress.

  On the first day, Aylen dropped Binyamin in three seconds flat.

  By the eighth, he lasted ten.

  By the eighteenth, he managed to disarm her for half a heartbeat—before she reclaimed her weapon and planted him on his back.

  By the twenty-sixth day, they locked weapons, boots grinding into stone, both straining. Aylen broke the hold first—but not before a faint grin crossed her face.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Naela trained differently.

  Her battles were quieter. Internal.

  She stood for hours, hands trembling, guiding unstable glyphs through slow patterns. Energy swirled, flared, threatened to tear loose—then settled. Sometimes.

  She sparred with Binyamin too. Once, she caught him clean across the ribs and smirked as he groaned.

  Shared bruises followed. Shared laughter. And shared silence, when neither of them had the strength left to joke.

  One afternoon, Binyamin staggered back into the hideout with a bundle of firewood strapped to his back and herbs tucked under his arm, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.

  “One of these,” he muttered to himself, “has to help her. One of them will.”

  Aylen inspected the herbs later, sorting through them with practiced hands. She shook her head.

  “Not yet.”

  Binyamin’s jaw tightened—but he nodded.

  While he gathered supplies, Aylen patrolled the outer tunnels alone. Her movements were silent, eyes scanning every shadow, every disturbed stone. The Concord didn’t announce itself. It crept.

  Inside, Naela tended to Aylen’s mother.

  She replaced the cool cloth on the woman’s forehead, careful and gentle. Nearby, a pot of stew simmered while open scrolls lay spread across the table. Naela stirred with one hand, studied glyph diagrams with the other.

  For a moment, the hideout felt… peaceful.

  That night, they ate together.

  “Not bad, little chef,” Binyamin said, nudging Naela with his elbow.

  “Eat,” she replied coolly, “before I decide you don’t get seconds.”

  Across the fire, Aylen’s mother’s expression shifted—just barely. A fragile, fleeting smile touched her lips.

  Bruised. Tired. But together.

  Like a family.

  The whispers began shortly after.

  A hum beneath the stone. A pressure in the air.

  Naela didn’t notice it at first.

  Neither did Binyamin.

  Aylen did.

  She watched Naela’s glyph flicker—only once—into a jagged pattern she hadn’t seen before.

  Her fingers tightened around her staff.

  “The Concord doesn’t fight fair,” she said quietly, breaking the silence. “Next time, it won’t be scouts.”

  Her gaze lingered on Naela for just a fraction too long.

  “It’ll be hunters.”

  Binyamin noticed that look.

  He didn’t ask.

  But he remembered it.