The room was silent now—no jokes. No whispers.

  Professor Uzaki pointed to a highlighted segment on the holomap, the battlefield glowing faintly beneath his fingertips. “The success of any mission,” he said, “hinges on seamless integration. Each role matters. Each weakness, if left unchecked, becomes everyone’s failure.” He straightened, gaze sweeping the class. “When you’re placed on a squad—if you’re placed on a squad—you aren’t just fighting. You are the unit. One mind. One mission.”

  The words landed like steel dropped on stone.

  No bravado. No platitudes.

  Just truth.

  The classroom buzzed with low murmurs, students digesting the sharp edges of that reality. Some leaned in. Others leaned out.

  Then, from the back—sharp and clear:

  “When do we get placed on squads?”

  A pause.

  Uzaki’s eyes narrowed slightly, voice dropping a degree colder. “You’re not guaranteed anything. You’ve been here a week. Some of you still think strategy is just reacting faster. It’s not. It’s predicting outcomes before the field is even set.”

  He let that hang.

  “But there will come a time,” he added, softer but no less firm. “You’ll get one chance. And you’ll need to be ready. Because out there—readiness is the only currency that counts.”

  Silence settled like dust.

  Then, briskly, “For homework—submit a detailed breakdown of squad roles and formation strategies. Due next class.” He nodded once. “Dismissed.”

  Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. The room erupted into scattered chatter as cadets filtered out, many still chewing on Uzaki’s warning. I moved slower, still half-lost in thought.

  Be ready.

  Whatever that meant—whatever it would cost—I knew I had to be.

  “MacKenzie.”

  The voice cut through the static like a blade.

  I looked up.

  Greyson leaned against the doorway, rolling a toothpick across his teeth with the ease of someone who never took anything seriously—and never missed a thing.

  “Commander wants you,” he said. “Now.”

  A few students still packing up went quiet.

  I didn’t sigh, but it echoed in my chest. Cold and low.

  Of course.

  These kinds of summons never came with context—just weight.

  I shouldered my bag, gave no response, and walked past Greyson with a nod.

  The moment I crossed the threshold, I left strategy class behind.

  Whatever came next… was no longer theoretical.

  Greyson led the way with practiced ease, his boots a steady rhythm on the stone floor. He didn’t say much at first, but the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw said enough—whatever this was, it wasn’t routine.

  After a moment, he glanced over at me. His voice was casual. Too casual. “How’ve you been, MacKenzie?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you ask?”

  “Since you started making headlines,” he said, smirking—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Rumors are everywhere. And I wish Okami wouldn’t interfere so damn much.”

  His words landed between us, heavy with implication.

  “Trust me,” he added, quieter now. “I’d kill anyone who touched you too, but…” He let it hang, unfinished.

  But I wasn’t his to protect.

  But Okami wasn’t the only one watching me.

  But maybe he didn’t like what that protection meant.

  “It’s okay,” I said, more for him than for me. “I can handle it.”

  I needed him to believe that. I needed someone to believe that.

  “You shouldn’t have to,” he muttered, voice sharp as steel. “Okami might be a legend, but that doesn’t mean he gets to shove you into his shadow. He’s painting a target on your back—and if he’s not careful, he’s going to get you killed.”

  His anger simmered, protective and personal in a way that caught me off guard.

  I reached out and touched his arm, gentle but steady.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, offering a soft smile. “I promise.”

  His gaze dropped to my hand, and for a breath, something flickered behind his eyes—frustration, maybe. Or something more dangerous.

  But he exhaled, and I felt the tension ease from his frame.

  The rest of the walk passed in silence, not cold but thoughtful, the kind of silence that came from shared concern. When we stopped outside the heavy wood door of Captain Landeskog’s office, I stared at it for a long moment.

  “Do you know why he wants to see me?” I asked, voice low.

  Greyson shook his head. “No idea.” He paused. “But… if Landeskog didn’t care, he wouldn’t call for you at all. Most cadets? He doesn’t even remember their names. Too many of them don’t last long enough to be worth learning. But you…” He gave me a look that was equal parts respect and something else I couldn’t name. “You’ve always been different, Petal.”

  He smiled then—quick, crooked, real. It hit harder than I expected.

  I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed this. Normalcy. Camaraderie. Someone seeing me as a person, not a rumor.

  “I’ll see you,” he said, stepping back. “And MacKenzie?”

  “Yeah?”

  His eyes were serious now. “Don’t flinch in there.”

  I watched him walk away before turning back to the door. My hand hovered above the handle.

  Don’t flinch.

  Noted.

  I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped inside.

  Nineteen

  The door creaked open with a reluctant groan, and I braced for what I expected—Captain Landeskog’s clipped tone, a tactical lecture, or some new warning wrapped in cold authority.

  Instead, I froze.

  Jeremy stood in the center of the room.

  Alive. Solid. Real.

  And everything else in me—the restraint, the distance, the composure I’d worn like armor all day—shattered.

  I crossed the room before I could think better of it, arms wrapping tightly around him. The scent of leather and soap hit first—familiar, grounding. I pressed my face into his shoulder, gripping him like I’d never let go.

  He stilled for a heartbeat, surprised.

  Then he chuckled and wrapped me up in return, strong arms closing around me with an ease I hadn’t felt in years.

  “Easy there, kid,” he murmured, voice low and warm. His hand ruffled my hair in that same infuriating, endearing way he always had, like no time had passed at all.

  But it had.

  He looked mostly the same—spiky hair, amused eyes, that crooked grin—but there was something else now. The fine lines etched deeper, the wear in his stance. He wasn’t just older. He was tired.

  I stepped back, eyes narrowing.

  “Why are you here?” My voice cracked with emotion I didn’t bother hiding.

  His grin held, but his gaze darkened just slightly. “Just checking in on my favorite runaway protégé,” he said lightly—but the look he gave Landeskog said this wasn’t a social visit.

  “I was briefing the Eldermyst on your progress,” Landeskog said, tone clipped. “And your recent… challenges.”

  “And Okami’s overzealous babysitting,” Jeremy added, his voice a touch drier now, eyes flicking to me. “I heard.”

  That look. That look promised a future conversation I was already dreading—one where no sarcasm or clever deflection would save me.

  I shifted my weight, feeling suddenly sixteen again, caught with mud on my boots and blood on my collar.

  Captain Landeskog folded his arms, expression unreadable. “It’s not every day an Eldermyst shows up unannounced.” Then his gaze cut to me—sharpened by something I couldn’t quite name. “You have powerful connections, Cadet MacKenzie. Useful. Complicated.”

  His tone was laced with something that wasn’t quite judgment—but wasn’t comfort, either.

  Jeremy gave me a sidelong glance and muttered, “So being popular is a problem?”

  I almost smiled.

  Almost.

  But beneath the banter, the room held a weight none of us had quite spoken aloud.

  Something was shifting.

  And whatever brought Jeremy here—it wasn’t just to say hello.

  I shifted where I stood; the unease creeping in like a draft through a cracked door. Jeremy. Landeskog. The Eldermyst. None of this felt like it belonged in the life of a cadet barely two weeks into training.

  This wasn’t about drills or field tests anymore. This was about names whispered in corridors, decisions made behind closed doors—my name, my future, being shuffled like a chess piece in games I hadn’t asked to play.

  I forced a thin, practiced smile. “It seems so,” I said, trying to sound steady. Confident. Like I belonged here—even as the walls felt like they were pressing in.

  Landeskog gestured to the chair opposite his desk. The motion was brisk. Impatient. A silent command wrapped in clipped authority.

  I hesitated, glancing instinctively toward Jeremy.

  Bad move.

  Landeskog caught it immediately. “You’re a cadet in my academy,” he snapped. “You take orders from me. Not him.”

  The air in the room crackled with tension.

  Jeremy, unfazed, chuckled as he eased into the other chair like he owned the place. “And here I thought you were finally learning to play nice with Eldermysts.”

  He stretched his legs out, relaxed as ever—unbothered by the fact that the temperature in the room had just dropped several degrees.

  I slowly moved to sit, folding my hands in my lap to keep from fidgeting. The chair felt colder than I remembered.

  Landeskog watched me for a beat longer than necessary. Then finally, he spoke—tone quieter, but no less commanding. “I was just telling your former guardian,” he said, “that I believe you should be placed on a squad. Early.”

  My breath caught.

  Squad placement was more than a promotion. It was a declaration. A shift in status, responsibility, danger.

  It was a step forward—fast. Maybe too fast.

  I blinked, caught between pride and panic. “Why?”

  Landeskog didn’t blink. “Because if someone’s going to come for you again, I’d rather you not be alone when it happens.”

  Next to him, Jeremy’s jaw ticked—barely. But I saw it.

  The weight of what they weren’t saying settled like stone in my chest.

  I wasn’t just being moved forward.

  I was being positioned.

  Used. Or protected. Or both.

  And either way, the game had changed.

  Captain Landeskog leaned forward, forearms resting on the desk, his voice crisp with conviction. “Her healing affinity makes her irreplaceable,” he said, eyes locked on Jeremy. “We barely have half a dozen with the gift in the academy. We can’t afford to waste her sitting in lectures while squads are bleeding in the field.”

  His tone was calm, but behind it was the unmistakable drive of a man who made decisions for armies—not individuals.

  Jeremy’s jaw tightened. “She’s been here a week, Landeskog. She doesn’t even know the layout of the north barracks.”

  “She knows enough.”

  “No, she survives enough,” Jeremy snapped, voice still even but laced with steel. “That’s not the same thing.”

  I sat frozen between them, not quite part of the room—and yet entirely the subject of it.

  “She’s resilient, adaptive—she’s proven that,” Landeskog pressed. “What she needs now is field exposure. Pressure forms weapons.”

  “She’s not a weapon,” Jeremy bit out, leaning forward now, mirroring Landeskog’s posture with barely controlled frustration. “She’s a person. A cadet. You throw her on a squad now, and you’re not sharpening her. You’re setting her up to break.”

  “She’ll break faster doing nothing,” Landeskog countered. “This academy was never built for slow progress. It was built for survival.”

  Their words thudded against me like blows—neither meant to wound, but both leaving bruises.

  Jeremy shook his head, his voice dropping low. “And what happens when the first mission kills someone next to her? When she blames herself? What then?”

  Landeskog didn’t flinch. “Then she’ll understand what it means to wear this uniform.”

  The silence between them stretched, brittle as glass.

  Then Landeskog turned to me—and shattered it. “She’s taking Mission Scarlet.”

  The name cut through the air like a gunshot.

  Jeremy stood so fast his chair groaned. “Absolutely not.”

  His voice thundered through the office, louder than I’d ever heard it. His composure cracked, replaced by something raw and furious. Protective.

  Landeskog didn’t blink. “We need confirmation of the Shadow Veil’s movement,” he said coolly. “The intel we’ve received puts them within striking distance. If we don’t move now⁠—”

  “You’re gambling with her life.”

  “I’m choosing the only one we have who can survive it.”

  I barely heard them anymore.

  The Shadow Veil.

  The name echoed inside me like a cold bell.

  It wasn’t just old history.

  It was real. Present.

  I found my voice, though it barely left my lips. “They’ve really returned?”

  Neither of them looked at me.

  Jeremy’s gaze snapped back to Landeskog. “Does Okami know?”

  Something passed in Landeskog’s expression—just for a moment. A flicker. Guilt? Frustration?

  My blood turned to ice.

  “I don’t need his approval,” Landeskog said, brushing a speck of lint off his uniform like the conversation bored him. “Not his. Not yours.”

  Jeremy’s jaw flexed. “You need his compliance,” he said evenly, voice edged with warning. “Especially if the rumors are true. You think he’d let her on the Scarlet Squad? You’re out of your mind. That’s not a bear you poke unless you want to bleed.”

  Landeskog didn’t answer right away. Then, with a calm nod that carried just enough arrogance to ignite a fight, he said, “Perhaps. But if he wants control so badly—he can captain the squad himself. That way he gets to keep his pet cadet on a leash.”

  Jeremy stiffened.

  A flash of fury darkened his face, and he surged forward, fists curling tight on the armrests. “Cut the shit, Landeskog,” he snarled. “This isn’t about deployment. This is about manipulation. You want him back in the field. Back on a leash of your own.”

  Landeskog tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. “I want him leading. He’s too dangerous without direction. You know that.”

  “You mean since he stopped obeying.”

  “He stopped serving,” Landeskog corrected, voice like a blade being slowly drawn. “After his wife died, he abandoned the structure that made him effective. He works alone now. Untethered. Unaccountable. I’ve watched him for years, Jeremy. But now?” A flicker of something like satisfaction glinted in his eyes. “Now he’s vulnerable. And vulnerability is leverage.”

  Jeremy rose halfway from his chair. “So you’re using her.”

  “She’s nearly twenty-five,” Landeskog snapped. “And if Okami’s this protective over her, she’s not that innocent.”

  That did it.

  Jeremy’s Dojo exploded.

  A sharp crack filled the room as a wave of raw energy burst from his hands, shattering Landeskog’s desk into splinters and scattering reports like falling ash. The force surged through the air—violent, unfiltered emotion turned kinetic.

  I flinched.

  Landeskog didn’t move.

  He sat there amid the wreckage, hands still folded, expression coldly composed.

  Jeremy stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. “Say one more thing like that, and I won’t aim for the desk next time.”

  For a long, charged moment, neither spoke.

  Then, finally, Landeskog looked up through the dust.

  Jeremy shook his head in disgust.

  “You want my blessing?” he asked, voice rough with fury. “You don’t have it.”

  “I didn’t ask,” Landeskog said calmly, voice slicing through the air like a blade. “But since you decided to drop by, I’m informing you of my plan—in case things go sideways and you start asking questions.” He met Jeremy’s glare without flinching. “I’d hoped you’d talk to Okami. But clearly, that’s off the table.”

  “You’re damn right it is,” Jeremy snapped. “She’s not joining any squad after a week, Landeskog. She’s not ready.”

  Landeskog leaned back slightly. “You, of all people, should understand how critical MedMara are. Especially if—” he hesitated just long enough to draw the tension taut “—if the rumors are true.”

  “There’s no evidence,” Jeremy growled.

  “The missing girls,” Landeskog said flatly.

  My breath caught.

  “What?” I asked, the word ripped from my throat before I could think. “What about the missing girls?”

  The silence that followed was heavy. Confirming.

  Jeremy clenched his jaw.

  Landeskog’s gaze didn’t leave his. “You didn’t tell her?”

  I turned to Jeremy. “Tell me what?”

  “I thought your mission out of Kiri was to find proof,” Landeskog continued coldly. “To connect the disappearances to the Shadow Veil.”

  “Landeskog,” Jeremy warned, voice low, strained, “don’t.”

  “No,” I cut in, my voice sharp. “I want to know. I need to know. What’s going on?”

  Landeskog turned his full attention to me now, eyes dark and unflinching.

  “Tell me, Cadet,” he said quietly, “what do Shadows feed on?”

  “Light,” I replied, almost reflexively.

  “And how do they get it?”

  I swallowed. “From… human souls.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “And what do you think happens when a source of light disappears?”

  My skin prickled with cold.

  “You think the missing girls were taken by the Shadow Veil?”

  His expression didn’t waver. “Or by people working with them. Trafficking light.”