The days that followed blurred into rhythm; training, study, exhaustion, and sleep. From the moment the first horn sounded at dawn until long after the sun sank behind the Zandari peaks, the recruits were pushed to their limits.

For two relentless weeks, Arelian Keep became a crucible. The Guardians and Sahar trained side by side, bound by shared purpose and pain. Those destined to be Guardians studied magic, not to wield it, but to understand it. They memorized sigils, learned the properties of ley currents, and how to sense corruption in spellwork. The Sahar, in turn, were forced into the opposite discipline: combat. They sparred barehanded, learned the weight of steel, the pain of impact, and the discipline of breath.

Every mistake drew the sharp crack of correction. Every success, a nod and little else.

Tenzin rose before dawn each day, as he always had. His mornings began in silence, stretching beneath the mountain’s chill before taking his post at the training grounds. He assisted the instructors in the combat divisions, guiding the more advanced recruits through footwork drills and precision strikes. Occasionally, he was sent to the Sahar rings to demonstrate defense techniques, how to move, how to react, how to survive long enough for one’s magic to matter.

Whenever that happened, he made a point to keep his distance from her. He had learned her name now, Vela, and it lingered in his mind more than it should have. He noticed how her wings stiffened when he entered the field, how her shoulders tensed as though bracing for a blow. The reaction puzzled him, he’d done nothing to frighten her, and yet, somehow, his presence alone unsettled her. So he gave her space. It was the only kindness he could offer.

By the third week, their training shifted inward; from body and element to mind and will. The instructors called it mental warding: strengthening the self against intrusion, manipulation, and the dangerous arts of mind magic. Both Sahar and Guardians trained together for this, seated in a wide circle around their teachers. They were taught to defend against whispers in the mind, false memories, and illusions designed to deceive the senses.

Tenzin joined them the first day, as he always did when new recruits began this phase. He had taken the course many times before, refining his focus, reinforcing his defenses, and assisting the instructors when needed, but once the foundations were set and the lessons became repetitive, he left the recruits to continue under the masters’ guidance. He had no need to repeat what had already been drilled into his mind years ago.

After that, the real rhythm of life at Arelian Keep took hold. Weeks passed in a blur of bruises, lessons, and repetition. The recruits moved from one class to the next until even mealtimes became routine, their only reprieve from the exhaustion that carved them into something sharper than when they’d arrived.

Every few days, small things began to appear in Vela’s quarters. A neatly wrapped bundle of herbs slid under her door. An extra roll of bread or a piece of fruit tucked into her lunch tray. Once, her training sword had been replaced, not with a new one, but with her old blade, freshly sharpened and oiled.

Little things, thoughtless kindnesses that could have easily been attributed to the Order’s care for its students. At least, Vela assumed they were.

The herbs especially, she’d thought everyone received them until she mentioned it to her neighbor, who’d only looked confused. After that, she said nothing, though she began to suspect otherwise. Still, the herbs worked. They eased her aches, calmed her mind, and most importantly, quieted the nightmares.

The days left her sore and bone-tired. Her arms ached from the endless sword drills, her wings from the constant restraint, but she never once considered quitting. Pain was proof of progress.

By the end of the first month, she could feel the change. Her muscles hardened, her strikes grew surer, and the hollowness she’d carried when she first arrived, that thin, starved look of someone who had survived on will alone, began to fade. The extra food filled her out, and though she didn’t know it, her strength no longer went unnoticed.

Still, some things refused to come easily.

Combat remained a struggle. Her wings, a blessing in the skies, were a curse on the ground. Their weight threw off her balance, their span disrupted her footing. In flight, she was marginally better, but focusing on both magic and movement fractured her control. The smallest lapse in concentration could send her tumbling.

That was why she stayed behind whenever she could, practicing alone.

❖

The training yard was nearly empty in the late afternoon when she took up her sword again, the handle worn smooth beneath her palms. She had grown used to the weapon’s weight now, but each movement still felt mechanical, forced, as if she were trying to dance in chains.

She moved through the formations slowly at first, then faster, adjusting her footwork for the counterbalance of her wings. She had learned to keep them tucked tight to her back, even when every instinct screamed to spread them wide. Sweat trickled down her spine. The strain in her shoulders burned.

The fifteenth misstep broke her patience.

The sword clattered against the dirt as she threw it, frustration boiling over. The sound rang through the quiet courtyard. Her chest rose and fell with the rhythm of restrained fury.

Her eyes locked on the training dummy. One flick of her wrist, one whispered word and fire erupted. The straw target burst into flame, collapsing into ash before she could even take another breath.

The dummy went up in flames faster than she expected. Vela stumbled back a step, heat washing over her as the straw figure collapsed into a heap of smoldering ash. For a heartbeat, all she could hear was her own breathing, harsh and uneven as the pulse of her magic still thrummed at her fingertips. The scent of smoke and scorched earth filled the air, mingling with the metallic taste of frustration on her tongue.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. She’d only meant to strike the dummy, to vent, to breathe. Instead, she’d burned something down. Again.

Her sword lay discarded a few paces away, half-buried in dirt. The world had gone quiet around her, save for the faint crackle of dying embers and the rush of wind through the open courtyard. The sky above was deepening to amber, the last light of the sun bleeding across the mountains.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, dragging a hand through her hair. She bent to retrieve the sword, but her muscles trembled, her wings heavy against her back.

That was when she heard him.

“I, uh… know you don’t really want my input,” came a low, steady voice from a few yards away, “but I can see why you’re struggling. I’m happy to help, if you want it.”

Vela froze. The sound of him sent a jolt down her spine, instinct, not fear, though the two were close cousins. She turned slowly, her fingers flexing on the hilt of her sword.

Tenzin stood at the edge of the training grounds, half in shadow, his bo staff held loosely in his grasp. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, only a loose pair of dark pants bound by a simple cloth belt. The cool mountain breeze stirred the shorter strands of his mane, carrying the scent of dust and steel. His golden eyes caught the fading light, glinting like embers in the dim.

He looked… different here, away from the crowd. Less like the towering symbol of discipline she saw on the training field, and more like a man at ease with his solitude. She hated that the thought even crossed her mind.

Her voice came out sharper than she intended. “You are correct. I don’t want your input.”

He didn’t flinch, though his brow furrowed slightly. She expected him to leave, but instead he stayed, calm and unreadable.

“But,” she went on stiffly, “I also know I won’t get far if I don’t master this.” The admission tasted bitter, like swallowing pride whole. “So… I suppose that makes me hopeless.”

Her tone was clipped, almost defensive, but beneath it was exhaustion; the weight of someone who had fought too long against herself.

Tenzin tilted his head, studying her posture, the way she held her wings like an anchor. “It’s your wings,” he said quietly.

Vela’s frown deepened, halting the advance she had been making to quietly get away from him. “What about them?”

“You treat them like a flaw.” He stepped closer, not enough to threaten, but close enough for his voice to drop low, smooth as stone. “Something to work around instead of with. You fight them every time you move, trying to keep them out of your way when they’re meant to help you.”

She blinked, thrown off by the certainty in his tone.

“When you fly,” he continued, “you use them to cut through the air, but even that seems… hesitant. Like you haven’t done it much.” He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how intently she was watching him. “On the ground, it’s worse. You focus so hard on hiding them that you lose balance. Wings aren’t a burden, they’re leverage.”

She crossed her arms, the sword hanging loosely in one hand. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to drag them around everywhere.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “True, but I do have a tail. It’s smaller, granted, but if I tried to keep it still all the time, I’d probably fall more often than I’d like.”

That earned him the faintest flicker of a smirk. It wasn’t much, but it softened her eyes.

“Basically,” he said, still smiling faintly, “you’re fighting yourself. You’re working against what’s meant to steady you.”

Vela looked away, wings flexing slightly as if testing his words. “You talk like you know what that’s like.”

“I do,” he said simply. “More than you think.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t tense anymore, just thoughtful. The evening wind whispered through the ring, carrying the smell of smoke and pine between them.

He shifted his staff in his hand and let it rest against his side. “I was going to train a bit, but… I can come back later if you’d rather have the grounds to yourself.”

The dummy had long since burned to ash, the scent of char and smoke still clinging to the air. Vela stood amid the fading heat, the last rays of sunset stretching over the courtyard in molten bands of gold. She was tired—body and mind both wrung out—but his words lingered, echoing with an irritating ring of truth.

The wings. Of course, it was the wings. She’d spent her whole life trying to make them smaller, quieter, less noticeable. They marked her as something other, something hunted. She had learned the hard way that people couldn’t hurt what they couldn’t see, but her wings were part of her. Sensitive enough to feel the slightest shift in air current, delicate enough that even an accidental brush could send pain spiking through her spine. They were both weapon and weakness… And he’d seen that instantly.

She exhaled, pride warred with reason until, at last, she said it, soft but steady.
“No, wait.”

Tenzin, who had already began to leave, stopped mid-step and turned, blinking in surprise.

She hesitated, searching his face. He looked almost startled that she’d spoken to him again, his tail flicking once in faint anticipation. “Do you have… time to show me?”

For a moment, he just stared, amber eyes widening before the faintest smile curved his mouth. “Yeah,” he said quickly, trying not to sound too eager. “Of course.”

He tossed her the staff he was holding and she caught it easily, the wood smooth and warm in her hands. His grin deepened, boyish and genuine. “Stay here,” he said before jogging back toward the shed.

When he returned, he carried another staff, slightly longer than hers. “A longer weapon might suit you better,” he said, spinning it once in his hands to test the weight. “You like distance between yourself and your opponent. It’s instinct, not cowardice. The staff—or any polearm—will let you keep that space and still control the fight.”

He stopped several paces away, planting his staff into the dirt. “Stretch your wings.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the command. Still, she stepped back, ensuring there was enough room between them before she unfurled them fully. The movement stirred the air, sending a faint ripple through the grass and dust. Her feathers caught the fading light, cream, gray, and white speckled together like polished marble.

Tenzin’s jaw slackened slightly. His eyes trailed along the curve and span of them, awe softening the sharp lines of his face.

“Wow,” he muttered before quickly blinking and straightening, ears twitching in embarrassment. “Right. Okay, now relax. Breathe. Don’t force them still. Just… let them be.”

Vela narrowed her eyes, wary of how closely he watched, but followed his instructions anyway. He walked her through slow breathing until her shoulders eased and the tension in her wings began to loosen.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Now, before we do any sparring, try your forms again. Don’t think about the wings, just move. Let them react the way they want to.”

He took a stance beside her, guiding her through the basic sequences. His movements were fluid, precise, every step grounded in calm control. She mirrored him, her motions sharp at first, but gradually smoothing out. Each time her wings locked, he pointed it out gently, never irritated, never raising his voice. Over and over, they practiced side by side, until the motions began to flow together.

Vela could feel it: the difference. Her balance steadied. The swing of the staff felt natural. Her wings no longer dragged her off course, they aligned her. By the time she stopped, her breath came heavy but even, and sweat darkened the front of her tunic.

She pushed her hair from her face and took a long drink from her flask. “Better, I think.”

Tenzin leaned on his staff, smiling softly as he watched her. “Much better,” he agreed. “You’ve been improving since the day you arrived.”

His tone wasn’t flattery; it was observation. She could tell he meant it. His tail flicked lazily behind him, something she’d begun to recognize as interest rather than agitation.

The sun had nearly vanished behind the Zandari peaks, leaving the courtyard bathed in copper and shadow. The mountain air had cooled, carrying with it the lingering scent of ash and the rhythmic hum of evening practice. A few other recruits had wandered in as the day wound down, working through drills under the fading light, their distant shouts and the clack of wooden weapons echoing across the stone.

“You should keep practicing,” he said, resting his cheek on one furred hand. “Try other weapons, too, see what feels right. Once the advanced initiates start pairing with potential Guardians, you’ll need to move fluidly with someone beside you.”

Vela nodded slightly, eyes dropping to the staff in her hands. He was right again. She hated that he was right so often.

Tenzin’s gaze drifted back to her wings, his expression thoughtful. “It must be freeing,” he said softly. “To fly. To see the world like that. I can’t imagine it. I’ve barely left the Keep—just a few times into the city below.” His voice carried a faint wistfulness. “They really are beautiful, you know.”

She turned away before he could see her face. Her cheeks were flushed, though the exertion gave her cover. “Thank you,” she said quietly, folding her wings back. They rustled faintly, betraying emotion her face refused to show.

“You aren’t missing much,” she said after a moment. Her voice was steadier now, though a hint of bitterness edged it. “The world outside is cruel. I haven’t flown much, not since…” She stopped herself, swallowing the rest. “But yes. Being in the air, it’s beautiful. Terrifying, too.”

Her gaze lifted toward the horizon. “At least here, you’re safe. Cared for.”

Something flickered behind his eyes at that, a shadow of thought that he quickly pushed away. “This place has its ups and downs,” he said simply, offering a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Vela ran a hand through her feathers, fingers brushing against one that came loose. She caught it absently, spinning the gray-tipped plume between her fingers. “Thank you,” she said again, quieter this time. “For helping.”

He shook his head, grinning in that easy, unassuming way of his. “You’re doing the work. I’m just here to see it.”

Then, as if only now realizing it, he straightened and added, “I don’t think I ever introduced myself properly. I’m Tenzin.” He smiled wider, and the full length of his fangs caught the dim light, impressive, intimidating, but softened by warmth.

Vela looked at him for a long moment, the feather still twirling between her fingers.
“I know,” she said softly. “Everyone knows who you are.”

For the first time, she saw the surprise flicker across his face, and for the first time, she didn’t look away.

“Tenzin! Tenzin!”

He turned, ears twitching as a young human woman trotted toward them, her tone bright and familiar. Her braid swung with each hurried step, and before she’d even reached him, her hands were already on his arm, fingers brushing along the curve of his bicep like she was inspecting a trophy.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” she said breathlessly, looking up at him with a practiced smile. “You said you’d help me with my hand-to-hand tonight, remember?”

Tenzin blinked, caught mid-thought, clearly not expecting the intrusion. “Oh—uh. Right,” he said, voice even but uncertain.

“I really appreciate it.” She pressed closer, tone lilting into something that barely disguised its flirtation. “I so need the help.”

The girl barely acknowledged Vela. She glanced her way, eyes flitting over the winged woman as though assessing and dismissing her in the same heartbeat, before turning her full attention back to Tenzin.

Vela said nothing. Her wings tucked tight against her back, though the feathers ruffled once in agitation.

Tenzin, for his part, seemed blissfully unaware of the subtext. “Yeah, sure,” he said politely. “Let me finish up here, and I’ll help you.”

“Perfect!” the girl chirped, squeezing his arm before finally stepping back. “Thank you so much.”

He smiled faintly, gently reclaiming his arm from her grip. “Go warm up. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Of course.” She giggled — actually giggled — before hurrying off toward the far end of the training yard, her voice carrying on the cool evening air.

Tenzin exhaled, dragging a hand through his mane. “Sorry about that,” he said, turning back to Vela with a sheepish expression. “She’s always asking for help. Her form isn’t even bad, I think she just likes the attention.” His tail flicked once in mild irritation, the movement sharper than when he looked at her. “Not exactly how I wanted to spend my night.”

Vela kept her expression composed, though the faintest smirk ghosted across her lips. “It’s alright,” she said evenly. “I’ve taken up enough of your time anyway.”

She shifted the staff in her hands and stepped back, giving him space again, those same five careful feet that always seemed to exist between them. She wasn’t sure why the interruption had stung, but it had. Maybe because for the first time, the distance between them hadn’t felt so heavy.

“Thank you for your help,” she added, nodding slightly. “You’ve given me plenty to practice.”

Tenzin hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but instead offered a quiet smile. “You’re welcome,” he said simply. Then he gathered his staff and turned toward the far ring, where the girl was already waiting.

The torchlight caught the edge of his mane as he walked away, turning it to molten gold against the darkening sky. Vela watched him go for a long moment before looking down at the gray feather still in her hand and she tucked it carefully into her belt.

The sounds of sparring echoed faintly through the dusk as she stood alone in the cooling air. Her muscles ached, her mind buzzed with everything he’d said, and yet, for the first time in years, she didn’t feel angry about it. He was dangerous, she knew that, but he hadn’t been cruel.

And when the first stars began to pierce the twilight, Vela spread her wings just enough to catch the breeze. They lifted with her breath, lighter than before — not perfect, not effortless, but free.