chapter 6 _Shadows of Kosciuszko

The academy was never truly silent. Even at this hour, when the moon hung high and cold outside the frost-rimed windows, the thick stone walls carried echoes. The rhythmic tread of the night watch in the courtyard. The distant, muffled cough of a cadet two floors down. The low hum of the generator fighting against the winter freeze. It was a constant reminder that I was never alone. Not really. Not where it mattered.

​I sat on the edge of the narrow cot, the rough wool blanket scratching against my bare skin. The only light came from the small, shielded lamp on the battered metal desk, casting long, wavering shadows across the small room. My fingers, trembling slightly, worked at the buckles of my uniform tunic. Each movement was a calculated effort, a fight against the deep, bone-weary exhaustion that threatened to pull me under.

​The tunic fell away, pooling on the floor, leaving me in the thin undershirt. And beneath that, the bindings.

​I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, steeling myself, then reached around to my back, finding the knot. It was tied tight, ruthlessly tight. I had done it myself this morning, knowing the drills would be brutal, knowing I couldn't afford a single slip, a single odd contour in the heavy academy uniform. It had to be perfect. Tarni, the untouchable top cadet, didn't have curves. Tarni didn't have weaknesses.

​My fingers caught the edge of the thick canvas strip, and I began to unwind it.

​The relief was immediate and agonizing. As the pressure released, my ribs screamed in protest, expanding fully for the first time in sixteen hours. I let out a sharp, ragged breath, clutching the edge of the cot as a wave of dizziness washed over me. Red, angry welts dug deep into my skin, mirroring the bruises forming underneath. It was a familiar pain, an old friend by now, but tonight, it felt heavier.

​I dropped the bindings onto the floor next to the tunic and rubbed a hand over my aching side. The cold air of the room bit at my damp skin. I shivered, but I didn't reach for the blanket. I needed the cold. I needed it to stay awake.

​Moving stiffly, I stood and crossed the small space to the desk. Spread across the scarred surface was a topography map of Mount Kosciuszko and the surrounding ranges. The paper was worn, the creases deep from hours of study. It wasn't an assignment. It was an obsession.

​I traced the elevation lines with a calloused fingertip. The academy taught us that the terrain was just an obstacle, something to be conquered, dominated. But looking at the map, I saw something else. I saw the jagged peaks, the deep ravines, the treacherous ice fields. I saw the places where a person could disappear.

​My finger stopped on a small, unmarked ridge near the summit. The air there would be thin, the cold deadly. It was completely uninhabitable.

​I closed my eyes, and for a fleeting, dangerous second, I imagined being there. Not in uniform. Not with a rifle slung over my shoulder. Just… being. Breathing air that didn't smell of floor wax and fear. Standing on the edge of the world with no expectations, no secrets to guard. No act to maintain.

​The longing hit me so hard it felt like a physical blow, sharper than the ache in my ribs. It was a stupid, foolish thought. A weakness. The kind of weakness that got you expelled, or worse. The kind of weakness I had spent three years meticulously stamping out.

​I opened my eyes, the cold reality of the room crashing back in. I was Cadet Tarni. I was the heir apparent to a legacy built on blood and discipline. I didn't have the luxury of longing.

​I pulled a red grease pencil from the cup on the desk and began marking probable enemy approach vectors on the southern slope. The tactical problem was complex, the terrain unforgiving. I forced my mind to engage, to calculate line-of-sight, cover, and concealment. It was safe here, in the numbers and the strategy. It was a place where my secret didn't matter.

​But the silence in the room seemed to press in on me, heavy and suffocating. It wasn't the silence of peace; it was the silence of isolation.

​I leaned back in the chair, letting the pencil drop. The fatigue was a living thing now, gnawing at my edges. I looked at the reflection in the dark windowpane. The face looking back was a mask. Hard eyes, sharp jaw, a mouth set in a permanent line of grim determination. It was a good mask. It had fooled everyone. The instructors, the other cadets, even the Commandant himself.

​But it hadn't fooled him.

​The thought of Elias unspooled in my chest, a sudden, unwanted warmth spreading through the chill.

​I remembered the way he had looked at me during the hand-to-hand combat drills yesterday. The drill was standard: disarm and subdue. I had taken him down fast, pinning him to the mat with a knee to the chest and a forearm across his throat. It was a textbook. Perfect execution.

​But as I looked down at him, my breath coming hard, the mask had slipped. Just for a fraction of a second. I saw the realization dawn in his eyes, not fear, not anger at being beaten. Something else. A question. A recognition.

​He hadn't fought back. He had just laid there, looking up at me with those infuriatingly calm, dark eyes, and for a moment, the entire noisy gymnasium had vanished. There was just the pressure of my knee against his chest, the heat of his skin radiating through his uniform, and that silent, probing question hanging between us.

​I had scrambled off him faster than I should have, barking a sharp reprimand about his stance to cover my sudden panic. He had just nodded, getting up slowly, but the look in his eyes hadn't changed.

​He knew. Or at least, he suspected.

​I rubbed my eyes, a low groan escaping my throat. Elias was a wildcard. He didn't fit the mold. He was quiet, observant, and entirely too smart for his own good. If he figured it out if he exposed me everything I had worked for, everything I had sacrificed, would be gone.

​I should report him. I should find a way to get him transferred out of my squad. It was a tactical move. The safe move.

​I picked up the grease pencil again, staring blindly at the map. The red lines blurred together. The rational, military part of my brain screamed at me to neutralize the threat. But underneath it, beneath the exhaustion and the fear, a terrifying thought took root.

​What if I didn't want him gone?

​What if, in this vast, cold academy where I was entirely, completely alone, I wanted just one person to see me? To really see me.

​The thought terrified me more than the prospect of a winter march across Kosciuszko in a blizzard. It was dangerous. It was a chink in the armor.

​I forced myself to focus on the map. Concentrate. Plan the defense. Secure the perimeter.

​I drew a hard, jagged line across the narrowest pass, visualizing the crossfire, the choke point. I could hold that pass against a platoon if I had to. I was good at holding things back.

​The low hum of the generator suddenly sputtered and died.

​The silence that followed was absolute, deafening in its suddenness. The shadows in the room deepened, the small desk lamp seeming to dim against the encroaching dark. I froze, the pencil hovering over the map.

​Power failures were rare. The academy had triple redundancies.

​A heavy, metallic thud echoed from the hallway outside my door. Not the measured tread of the night watch. This was hurried. Heavy.

​I stood up slowly, the pain in my ribs forgotten. I moved silently away from the desk, slipping into the darkest corner of the room, near the small, reinforced window. I held my breath, listening.

​Another thud. Closer this time. Then, a low, urgent whisper, too muffled to make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. Panic.

​The handle of my door began to turn, slowly, deliberately.

​I reached for the combat knife I kept strapped to the underside of the cot frame, my fingers closing around the familiar, cold grip. I crouched, my muscles coiled tight, ready to spring. The mask was back in place, cold and hard.

​The lock clicked. The door began to open, swinging inward to reveal the pitch-black hallway.

​"Tarni," a voice hissed from the dark.

​It was Elias. And he sounded