Collin breathed.
But the noose around his neck didn’t loosen. Not yet.
“You are dismissed from your jobs effective immediately,” Sol said. “You will report to the North Town training camp at dawn. You will train seven days a week until I say otherwise. Until then... your lives belong to me.”
The finality of the words rang out like the toll of a great iron bell.
Sol consulted the roster.
“Gravis of Nereid. Sky of White Wood. You will be assigned host families during training.”
Then, he rose. In full stature, Sol seemed taller than before—his presence heavier somehow.
“Are there any questions?”
No one breathed.
The question wasn’t an invitation. It was a dare.
When no one spoke, the captain gave a slow, satisfied smile.
“You are excused.”
The word snapped the room’s tension like a trap springing open. Everyone stood, chairs scraping across stone like teeth gnashing.
No one spoke until the double doors thudded closed behind them.
Niall exhaled sharply. “Seven days a week. That can’t be legal.”
Nic stood frozen for a heartbeat, still pale beneath his usual swagger—then his eyes lit up as they locked on Helen waiting beyond the steps.
He launched himself toward her, swept her into a tight embrace, burying his face in her curls.
“Sweetheart, is everything alright?” she whispered.
Nic threw an arm around her, guiding her away at a brisk pace. “We need to talk about our plans,” he said, voice falsely bright. “Preferably before I’m turned into military-grade compost.”
Collin and Aries crossed the square, the sun hot on their backs.
“I guess my birthday trip’s off,” Collin murmured, barely more than breath. The words tasted hollow, sour—like cheese left out too long.
Aries gave a hard smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah. Sol owns us now.”
Collin spent the remainder of the day adrift, as if suspended in the eye of a storm that hadn’t yet reached him. Nothing held hisfocus—each task he touched seemed hollow, like going through the motions of someone else’s life. In the garden, his hands worked absently; more than once, he yanked a tender sprout instead of a weed, each mistake a fresh jolt of frustration. He shuffled clutter from one corner to another, convincing himself he was tidying when really, he was just rearranging the chaos to mirror the unrest inside him. Even his glass project, once a refuge, betrayed him—each cut and etch reminded him of Captain Sol’s voice, sharp and cold and echoing with unspoken consequences.
As the house settled into silence, he lay rigid in bed, eyes fixed on the clock. The hands moved, but the weight pressing against his chest didn’t. Tomorrow had already begun to arrive—quietly, relentlessly—and he was nowhere near ready to meet it.
