Page 17 of The Awakening of Essensia

She turned, and he laughed. “You’ve looked better,” he said, sitting beside her.

Vaelira brushed matted hair from her face. “And yet, you’ve never come close to looking this good.” Her voice came out rough and scratchy, but Jon laughed anyway.

“So?” he asked, nudging her gently.

“So, what?”

“The trial, Lira. Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

She tried to shrug, but pride burned behind her eyes. A smile crept onto her lips. “I passed.”

Jon clapped her on the back hard. She winced.

“Salts, sorry,” he said. “Wait here.”

Jon left the room with a spring in his step. Vaelira let out a quiet laugh, the first in days.

He returned with a long object wrapped in cloth held in both hands. “Lysander gave this to me on my eighteenth birthday,” he said, already unwrapping it. “I’ve been holding onto it for you.”

Her eyes widened. Resting in Jon’s open palms was a blade. A curved crossbar grounded the black leather hilt, the metal polished to a soft gleam. In the simple steel pommel, a small ruby caught the firelight and winked at her.

“How have you kept this a secret for three years?” she whispered.

“I have plenty of secrets you don’t know about,” he said with a teasing grin. She tilted her head, but he didn’t relent. “All you need to know is Lysander gave it to me, and I’ve been keeping it safe for you until your eighteenth.”

“But I turned eighteen months ago.”

“Ah, but you’re not allowed your own sword until you officially join the Guard, are you?”

“What would you have done if I hadn’t passed?”

He huffed a laugh, but it sounded strained. He held the blade towards her, and her hand reached for it without thinking.

“Careful,” Jon said quietly, but he didn’t pull away.

Slowly, she reached again with both hands. The sword was heavier than she remembered, or maybe it was the weight of everything it carried.

Tears stung her eyes as she laid it gently across her lap, her fingers trembling. She looked up at Jon. His eyes shone, their shared grief a balm on an open wound.

Her finger lightly traced the centre of the blade, the metal cold beneath her touch. Her father.

She followed the path up and over the crossguard, along the hilt, until her finger came to rest on the ruby. Her mother.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“He would have wanted you to have it. I knew it would end up with you as soon as talk spread of my little sister spying on recruit training.”

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” she said softly, lost in the beauty of the blade.

He laughed again, his eyes shining at the memory. “You weren’t as subtle as you thought. You were only fourteen but so damn stubborn. My friends used to tease me, said you were tougher than me.” He shrugged, wiping his eyes with the back of his arm. “But I was proud. I was never meant for that life. But you—” He looked at her, his voice catching. “You were meant for this, Vaelira. This was always meant for you.”

The next morning, Vaelira dressed methodically and left the house at first light. She walked as quickly as she could with her stitches, the sheathed sword swinging on her hip with every step.

Her gaze went to the wall. Only guards were allowed to walk the allure, and she couldn’t help but wonder what Eastvale looked like from that height. How it would feel to look down upon the land like a bird, only without the privilege of soaring on feather-tipped wings.

The barracks were abuzz with movement. She recognised a few recruits standing in a group, looking around as if unsure of where to go.

“Vaelira.”