chapter 5

The night was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made the air feel sharp with every breath. Nix sat by the fire, her silhouette outlined by the flickering flames. She held a stick in her hand, absently tossing it into the fire to feed the hungry blaze. The crackling of the wood and the occasional pop of embers filled the silence, a stark contrast to the chaos of the day. "It’s fine, but he’ll need to rest more," Liam said, sitting down beside Nix. His face was marked with scratches and dried blood, evidence of the battle he hadn’t bothered to clean. His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed his unease. "I know, but we can’t leave yet," Nix replied, her tone distant. She threw another stick into the fire, her gaze fixed on the flames as if they held answers she couldn’t find elsewhere. Liam studied her face, the firelight casting flickering shadows across her features. Her eyes were empty, a storm of thoughts hidden behind a mask of indifference. The silence between them was heavy, making Liam shift uncomfortably. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern. "No, just a scratch," Nix replied dismissively, brushing him off without so much as a glance.

Liam wasn’t blind. He could see the blood staining her shoulder, the small hole in her uniform where a bullet had grazed her. He had never met anyone like her—someone who seemed to thrive on pain, who could endure it without flinching. "You’re hurt. I can see it," he pressed, trying to catch her attention. But Nix’s eyes remained locked on the fire, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she stood and walked away, leaving Liam sitting alone by the fire. He watched her retreating figure, a sigh escaping his lips. Another failed attempt to understand her. "Give up, man," a voice called out, breaking the silence. Liam looked up to see Ren approaching, his arm wrapped in bandages. The man had a knack for showing up at the worst times. "Don’t start, Ren," Liam muttered, his tone sharp. He wasn’t in the mood for games. "Oh, man, I know how you feel," Ren said, plopping down on a rock next to Liam. He picked up a stick and began idly drawing lines in the mud. "But nothing can defeat her. She’s... different." "Stop, Ren. This isn’t what you think," Liam snapped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "I just want the rank sooner. That’s all." Ren raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "She’ll never let you go," he said, his tone annoyingly matter-of-fact. "We’ll see," Liam replied, standing abruptly. He walked away from the fire, his footsteps heavy with frustration.

Ren watched him go, shaking his head. "He never learns," he muttered, turning his gaze to the full moon overhead. Its pale light bathed the camp, offering a clearer view than the dying fire. Nix patrolled the perimeter, her senses sharp as she scanned the shadows for any signs of movement. The forest was alive with the sounds of the night—the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl. A rabbit darted across her path, followed by a boar rooting through the underbrush. Nix pushed a branch aside, her eyes narrowing as she continued her watch. Back in the Human Federations’ stronghold, Leanna stood in her father’s study, her hands clasped behind her back. The room was opulent, filled with the scent of cigars and hint of polished wood. "We were under attack, Father," Leanna said, her voice steady but laced with tension. "I do not care ," came the reply, cold and dismissive. Leanna’s father, Voximilas Hanstrol, sat at his desk, his aged frame hunched over a stack of documents. His white hair was thin and unkempt, his skin pale and almost translucent. His yellowish eyes, sharp and calculating, bore into her. "I’m sorry," Leanna said, bowing her head in deference. She knew better than to argue. Voximilas leaned back in his golden chair, the leather creaking under his weight. A black screen flickered on his desk, and a box of cigars sat within arm’s reach. He picked up a cigar, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down again.

"Do not forget who you are, my flower," Voximilas said, his voice softer now but no less commanding. His artificial canines glinted yellow in the dim light, a reminder of the power he wielded. Leanna met his gaze, her mind drifting back to the battlefield. She remembered the Gaian girl with the golden-silver eyes, her expression one of feral excitement as she tore through Leanna’s soldiers. That image haunted her, a keepsake from the enemy they faced—and the stakes of their war. —----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Vall gritted her teeth, her muscles straining as she pulled herself up and over the metal bar. The cool, rough texture of the bar bit into her palms, but she ignored the discomfort. She couldn’t thank Cloe enough for healing her broken bones. Without her, Vall would still be lying in bed, immobilized and drowning in pain. With one final push, Vall brought her head over the bar, her body swinging forward as she landed on the ground with a soft thud. She steadied herself, her chest heaving as she wiped the sweat from her forehead. The salty taste of perspiration lingered on her lips, and she reached for a water bottle, gulping down the cool liquid in quick, desperate swallows. "I think I told you to lay off, Vall," a voice called out, cutting through the quiet of the playground. Vall froze, the empty bottle still in her hand. She turned to see Cloe approaching, her flaming red hair catching the sunlight like a wildfire. Cloe’s arms were crossed, her expression a mix of concern and frustration.

"Don’t bother me," Vall muttered, setting the bottle down with a clink. She knelt to check her shoes, her movements sharp and dismissive. "I healed you, so at least listen to your doctor," Cloe said, her tone firm but not unkind. She stopped a few feet away, her green eyes narrowing as she studied Vall. "Give me a break," Vall snapped, standing abruptly. She brushed past Cloe, her pace quickening as she made her way across the playground. The area was vast, resembling a soccer field with wooden figures scattered across the grass, their shapes vaguely human. Weights and benches lined one side, while a wide running track circled the circumference of the field. Vall’s feet pounded against the dirt as she broke into a run, her breath coming in short, angry bursts. Cloe watched her go, her lips pressing into a thin line. She had had enough of the Whitehill sisters’ stubbornness. With a sigh, she stretched her neck and took off after Vall, her movements swift and effortless. Vall glanced to her side, her eyes widening as she caught sight of Cloe keeping pace with her. "What the—?" she gasped, her voice tinged with disbelief. Cloe smirked, her red hair streaming behind her like a banner. She ran as if the wind itself were guiding her, her feet barely touching the ground.

Vall slowed to a stop, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She hated feeling outmatched, especially by someone like Cloe. "Fucking bullshit," she muttered under her breath, turning away from the track. Cloe noticed Vall leaving and skidded to a halt. "Hey!" she called out, her voice carrying across the field. Vall didn’t respond, her shoulders stiff as she continued walking. "Vallary!" Cloe shouted, her tone sharper this time. She caught up to Vall and grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn around. "Let the fuck go!!" Vall screamed, her voice cracking with emotion. She yanked her arm free, her blue eyes blazing with frustration. Cloe took a step back, her expression shifting from irritation to concern. "What’s wrong?" she asked softly, her gaze searching Vall’s face. "You just don’t get it, do you?" Vall shouted, her voice trembling. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over and streaking down her cheeks. Cloe’s confusion deepened, but the sight of Vall’s tears made her heart ache. "Vall, I—" "Everyone just treats me like an outcast !" Vall cried, her voice breaking. She swiped at her tears, but they kept coming, mixing with the sweat on her face. "Even you!"

Cloe reached out, her hand hovering near Vall’s cheek. "Hey, I’m sorry. I just wanted to help you," she said, her voice gentle. Vall recoiled, shrugging off Cloe’s touch. "Forget it," she muttered, turning her back and walking away. Cloe stood alone in the middle of the playground, her fists clenched at her sides. She hated this feeling—the helplessness, the frustration. Vall wasn’t ready to understand, and Cloe didn’t know how to reach her.

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