Chapter 133: Graduation Part 2

Words : 1137 Updated : Oct 8th, 2025

The clearing felt different after the final run. The urgency was gone. The pace had slowed. For once, there was no yelling, no drills, no targets to drop. Just food, warmth, and the fading scent of pine smoke curling into the late afternoon sky. They ate in clusters, sprawled across tree stumps, smooth boulders, and blankets that Lyra had laid out earlier in the day. It wasn’t a grand feast by noble standards—no silver cutlery, no roasted boar or honey-glazed duck—but it was the best meal they’d had since arriving. Warm bread, still soft in the middle. Dried berries soaked in sweet wine. Smoked fish wrapped in fresh-picked leaves. And mugs of spiced cider passed hand to hand, always refilled before anyone could ask. Sark groaned as he leaned back on a log. "This is what the gods must eat in their halls." "You say that about every meal," Lio replied, tearing another chunk of bread with his teeth. "Because it’s always true. I have a refined palate." "You once ate a boot sole to win a bet," Hal added. "That was for glory," Sark said, raising his mug with a grin. "Not flavor." Laughter rippled through the group. Meryl sat near the edge of the group, the SAW resting beside her like a loyal dog. She wasn’t eating much, just picking at the berries and sipping her drink slowly. She looked up when Lyra joined her, settling on the grass with folded legs. "Not hungry?" Lyra asked. "I am," Meryl said. "Just... thinking." Lyra waited. "I never finished anything before," Meryl admitted. "School, apprentice work, even chores. I’d always quit halfway. My parents thought I was lazy. Maybe I was." Lyra tilted her head. "And now?" "I finished this." She looked down at her band. The phoenix symbol caught the fading sunlight. "I think I can finish more." "That’s not lazy," Lyra said. "That’s just someone who hadn’t found the right fire to stand in." Meryl smiled at that. Just a small one, but real. Across the clearing, Brenna and Feron were trying to braid wildflowers into a crown. Neither had the dexterity for it, and every few minutes the whole thing collapsed in their hands. But they kept trying anyway. "You know," Feron said, "when I signed up, I just wanted food and boots. I didn’t think I’d actually... become anything." "You’re still not much," Brenna teased, but gently. "But at least now you don’t run when things explode." "That was one time." "It was three." Feron chuckled and tossed a petal at her. "You think we’ll stay together?" he asked, more serious now. "After all this?" Brenna looked across the group. At Meryl, quiet and focused. At Lio, who was teaching Hal how to juggle acorns. At Sark, dozing with a smile and crumbs on his shirt. "I don’t think we could split apart," she said. "Not really. Even if we’re sent to different towns or guardposts... we’re always going to remember this. The pain. The fire. The way we came out." Feron nodded slowly. "Family." She looked over. "Yeah. Family." On the other side of the fire, Inigo sat alone with his journal, half-listening, half-writing. Every so often, he’d glance up and make a mental note—a posture, a reaction, a smile that hadn’t existed a week ago. He didn’t join the feast in full. He’d eaten early. He had no more orders to give tonight. But watching them? That was enough. Until Lyra walked up and dropped a plate into his lap. "Eat," she said. "Or I’ll tell everyone you’re secretly a softie." He raised an eyebrow. "I thought they already suspected." She sat beside him with her own plate. "Let them suspect. Doesn’t mean we give them proof." For a few moments, they ate in silence. The sun began to dip, casting golden streaks across the clearing. Fireflies hovered near the edge of the woods. "They’re good," Inigo said finally. "They are," Lyra replied. "You did well." "I didn’t make them strong," he said. "They chose that." "You gave them the place to choose it." Inigo glanced toward Meryl, now laughing softly at something Lio had said. Toward Sark and Hal, who were arm wrestling with dramatic flair. Toward Brenna and Feron, who had finally finished a lopsided flower crown and placed it on Sark’s head while he slept. "You think they’re ready?" he asked. Lyra didn’t answer right away. Then: "No one’s ever ready for the real thing. But they’ll survive it. Together." He looked at her and gave a small nod. "Then I’ll send them with peace in my heart." Lyra leaned closer. "And when do you rest, Inigo?" He chuckled. "Same answer as always." "When I’m dead?" "When I’m no longer needed." She nudged him gently. "Maybe you already are. Just not in the way you think." Across the fire, someone pulled out a lute—Lyra’s, though she hadn’t brought it out tonight. It was Meryl. She held it awkwardly but determined. "I, uh... I watched Lyra play. So, I tried learning something." Fingers fumbled, strings twanged, but after a moment, a melody emerged—clumsy, but heartfelt. The fire grew quieter. Then voices rose. Not in perfect song. Not in tune. But together. "By moonlit stream and ember’s glow,We walked the path the brave men know..." Inigo didn’t sing. But he listened. And if anyone had been looking, they might have seen his shoulders relax. Just slightly. Later, when the fire had burned low and bellies were full, they shared stories. Of childhoods, of losses, of the dumbest thing they’d ever done. Lio’s story about trying to tame a wild goat with honey earned the most laughter. Brenna’s tale about getting stuck in a chimney while hiding from chores got second place. And when it was Meryl’s turn, she paused. Then said, "I once watched the stars with my brother for six hours straight. He told me each one had a name, and that when I felt small, I should remember I had a name, too." The fire went quiet at that. No jokes. No follow-ups. Just silence. And then a quiet voice from Hal: "What was his name?" "Elden." They all murmured it, like a shared blessing. "Elden." It felt like the right way to close the night. When the last cup was drained and the coals flickered low, Lyra stood. "Tomorrow, we begin a new Chapter," she said. "Not as trainees. Not as children. But as those entrusted to carry what comes next." They rose with her. Inigo approached last, placing a hand on the phoenix-marked armband worn by each of them. "You’re not soldiers," he said. "You’re not warriors. Not yet. But you are ready." A breeze swept through the trees. The stars blinked above, silent and eternal. And the fire burned low, but never out.

Chapter 133: Graduation Part 2

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