Chapter Twenty Three

The sky hung low with clouds, dust clinging to Elowyn’s boots as she leaned against the rough stone wall in the frontyard, arms crossed, grinning at something Callus had said.

Other Cadets were everywhere, talking. It was break time.

Elowyn's favorite time.

Blue-eyed Riven Thorney was there and Elowyn was there.

“You’ll fall flat next round, Elyan. Bet a week’s bread on it.”

“I’ll fall on your face if you keep running your mouth.”

The guys chuckled. Even Callus gave a rare nod of amusement.

Elowyn was starting to feel.... human. Not just tolerated. Almost liked.

That’s when the air shifted — a presence heavy as a storm rolled in.

Lucian Speare.

He strode through the alley like it was his, boots deliberate, head high. Elowyn didn’t notice him in time — still caught up in the small victory of belonging — and stepped slightly into his path while responding to Callus’ passing joke.

Lucian snarled.

“You!”

His voice cleaved the air. The chuckles died instantly. Elowyn froze, still halfway turned, shoulders straightening with panic she masked under stillness.

She stepped back quickly.

“Apologies, sir—”

“I wasn’t aware this was a social alley.”

He took a slow step toward her, boots echoing. The other cadets shrank back. Elowyn stood her ground, spine taut.

Lucian’s eyes trailed over her, slow and calculating. Like he was.... smelling through the air. Through her. The edges of his nostrils flared — subtle but sharp.

“You’ve been dodging me, you stick.”

“I’ve just been learning and training. Sir.”

“Mm. Funny. I don’t recall you standing in the way of training or doing anything better in your life.”

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She knew if he stepped closer, if he leaned in, the truth would come undone like thin cloth soaked in water.

She didn't even know what to say.

Lucian’s voice dropped an octave. Too calm.

“I don’t like being sniffed around, Stick Insect. And I especially don’t like strange things trying to stay hidden.”

"Sorry...."

He pushed her. Very hard that she went grasping the air, staggering back and tumbling over to the other side of the alley.

She said nothing and wasn't sure if she was meant to stand up.

Slowly, she did.

From behind, another presence entered the alley.

Baron Ortega.

He didn’t say a word. Just walked, slow and deliberate, gaze flicking from Lucian to Elowyn… then back to Lucian.

The tension cracked like lightning.

Lucian's eyes narrowed — a flicker of irritation? Disrespect? — before he stepped aside.

“Watch your steps, Ortega.”

Then he was gone.

Only when his footsteps faded did Elowyn exhale — shallow and slow. The cadets began whispering again in low, nervous tones, pretending nothing happened.

Baron walked on.

★★★

★★★

Elowyn kicked her boots off with a smile as she entered the dormitory alone, the others having lingered behind after training.

Her body ached from the day’s drills, but there was something sweet in her soreness—like she was finally learning how to be someone new, someone stronger.

Her mind wandered to that moment during combat class when she'd dodged a blow that should’ve slammed her into the ground. The look on the instructor’s face had been priceless. For once, someone had blinked at her like she wasn’t just dead weight.

Still, she hadn’t been spared the usual taunts.

“Scrawny twig.”

“Try not to blow away in the wind, Froste.”

But today, they hadn’t sunk as deep. Her instincts had led her well, and the tiny friendships she’d started to build felt... real enough.

Elowyn dropped her binding flask on the table in the sitting room and made her way into her room.

Humming softly, Elowyn set her bag down on the small stool by her vanity and tugged her robe loose. Her fingers skimmed over her chest, already feeling the ache begin—the telltale signs of the binding balm wearing off.

She hurried into the bathroom and did what she had to do for womanhood.

She was in a jolly state.

Meanwhile her binding flask fell off the table and rolled under.

She reached under the vanity’s corner sheet, where she always tucked the binding flask—

Her fingers touched nothing.

She blinked.

Lifted the sheet.

Nothing.

Her blood ran cold. “No....”

Elowyn fell to her knees, tossing aside the blanket and digging through her bag again, hands trembling. Nothing.

She paused, trying to think.

Nothing. Nothing.

She touched a hand to her temple and shut her eyes, thinking frantically.

“Where the hell is it?” she whispered, eyes wild now.

She tore the drawer open. Empty. Checked beneath her mattress. Nothing.

Panic bloomed like a fever. That flask held the herbs masking her scent—without it, anyone near her would know she wasn’t a boy. Her cover would burn.

"What if someone had taken it? Who could it be?! Dear Moon, save me...."

Her heart in her throat, she slipped out of her room like a thief and padded down the hallway, ears straining for voices. Nothing yet.

Azpen’s room was first.

She crept inside and darted her gaze around. No flask.

She searched here and there, trying not to touch any property. She was panicking.

Then Baron’s.

Nothing on the table, the dresser, the bed.

She searched and searched.

Her palms were getting sweaty.

The hallway filled with laughter. Male voices.

She froze, recognizing them instantly.

Azpen.

Baron.

They were approaching fast.

Elowyn bolted out of the room and sprinted back to her dorm, slamming the door shut just seconds before their footsteps neared. She mistakenly slid on the wooden surface, gasping, her back hitting the floor hard as she clutched her robe.

Outside, Baron paused.

“You hear that?” Azpen asked.

Baron sniffed the air, frowning. “Something’s wrong. That stick might be sick.”

Azpen glanced toward Elowyn’s door. “Smells like Elyan. But panicked.”

Baron’s eyes narrowed. “That scent... it’s off. Not like before.”

His nose flared slightly.

Inside the room, Elowyn curled into herself, whispering to the floor and crawling away from the door.

“Please don’t find out. Not like this…”

"You'll have to confess if they open the door and find you."

"No!"