Chapter 5: History Repeats
My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds as the instructor drones on about First Protector battle formations. The chalky scent of ancient stone and the slow, hypnotic flicker of the wall lanterns were a lullaby. My head, still heavy from last night’s session in the Garden, began to dip forward.
A sharp pain exploded in my ribs.
I jerked upright, a gasp catching in my throat. Aria didn’t look at me, her eyes fixed forward, her elbow still subtly extended. “Pay attention,” she murmured, her voice barely a breath.
I forced my spine straight, rubbing the sore spot. The instructor, a wispy man with glasses perched on the end of his nose, tapped a pointer against a faded projection on the blackboard. It showed intricate, interlocking circles of warriors. “The Phalanx of the Veil,” he said, his voice dry as dust. “Designed to counteract the demonic flanking maneuvers during the Third Shadow Incursion. Note the sacrificial rear guard.”
Sacrificial. The word landed in the quiet chamber with a thud. I thought of Ren’s words. They give you a tomorrow. That’s all you get. Was that all history was? A ledger of sacrifices to buy more tomorrows?
The instructor moved on, shuffling through old slide projections. The images changed from tactical diagrams to older, more stylized art. He cleared his throat. “Of course, all our formations, all our victories, stem from the original source. The Gods’ creation of the first Guardians, and how their abilities won the war.”
A different kind of attention tightened the air in the room. Shoulders shifted; a few students sat up. This wasn’t dusty tactics. This was origin. This was myth.
“Not much is documented historically about the first Guardians,” the instructor continued, tapping a new slide into place. It was an artist’s rendering, faded and cracked at the edges. “But we know that their children, and their children’s children, spread the angelic blood into what we are today: Protectors. A dilution, but a necessary one. A sustainable line of defense.”
He adjusted his glasses. “Every few generations or so, the blood condenses. New Guardians are born. We only have one Guardian ruling right now in the Capital.” He paused, and his gaze slid to the left side of the room, to our row. “And one, as we know…” He gestured with his pointer.
All eyes turned to Aria. She didn’t flinch, but I saw the minute stiffening of her neck, the way her fingers, resting on the desk, curled inwards slightly. She lowered her head a fraction, a gesture of deference that looked more like a defense.
“…we have one in training,” the instructor finished, his tone reverent but matter-of-fact. The spotlight passed. He changed the picture on the projector.
This one was a portrait. Four women, rendered in a style that was both beautiful and severe, stood against a storm-wracked sky. Each held a weapon that gleamed with an otherworldly light, even in the faded projection.
“The founding four,” the instructor said. “The first Guardians born of divine will.”
My breath slowed. The one in the center wielded a scythe, its blade a crescent of pure, white flame. Heavenly fire. Her expression was serene, wise, but her eyes… the artist had given them a distant, fractured look. “The center wields a scythe that burned with heavenly fire. She was known for being wise, but she was driven insane by the end of the war. Some believe that line is cursed.”
To her left stood a woman with a greatsword held point-down before her. Her posture was solid, unwavering. “The second, wielding a great sword. Impressively brave and known for the ability to feel the pain of others.”
To the right of the central figure was a woman with two short blades crossed before her chest. Her face was stern, unforgiving. “The one wielding two short blades, known for her strength and mercy, judgment, and ability to unmake.” The instructor paused. “No one elaborated on that.” He said it like it was a fact from a textbook, but the words ability to unmake seemed to suck the air from the room.
And the fourth. She stood apart, slightly separated from the other three, as if the artist couldn’t quite fit her into the same space. Her weapon was less clear—a swirl of dark and light around her hands. “The fourth, at the very end, separate. Known for her ability to read minds and control her enemies.”
A quiet ripple went through the class. Whispers. The instructor raised a hand for silence. “The specifics of their full powers are lost to us. Most of the abilities of the Guardians are forgotten by history, or they are intentionally kept secret so that their enemies are thrown off guard.” He tapped the pointer against his palm. “Though there is a persistent rumor… a rumor that one of them could predict the future. And potentially…”
He let the pause hang.
“…travel in time.”
A chill, sharp and clean as a shard of ice, traced a path down my spine. It was a physical sensation, a tingling that started at the base of my skull and fractured into a thousand tiny sparks along my nerves. My skin prickled. The hum of the projector became a distant buzz. The flickering lantern light seemed to slow, each pulse stretching out like taffy.
Predict the future.
My hand twitched in my lap. A phantom memory of charcoal dust on my fingers, of a dozen sketchbooks filled with scenes strange drawings. Accidents. Faces. Fires.
Travel in time.
The world tilted. The deep, irrational fear of the strange, uncontrollable things—the déjà vu so strong it choked me, the moments where time seemed to skip a beat—rose up in a tidal wave.
I set back in my chair, my eyes glued to the portrait on the projector. The four women stared out, their gazes timeless, heavy with power and madness. The one with the flaming scythe, the wise one driven insane. The one who could unmake. The one who could feel pain. The one who could control minds.
Which one was Aria a descendant of?
The question burned in my skull. I slowly, so slowly, turned my head just an inch to the left.
Aria was watching me from the corner of her eye. Not the instructor, not the projection. Me. Her light brown eyes held no warmth, no cryptic kindness. They were assessing, sharp, and filled with a watchful intensity that felt like a physical weight. She had seen me flinch. She had seen the color drain from my face. She had felt the shockwave that passed through me at the spiraling of my thoughts.
She held my gaze for a second longer, then turned her face forward again, a mask of polite attention sliding back into place. But the silence between us was now a scream. She seemed to know something that she wanted to say, but couldn’t. The history lesson was over. My lesson was just beginning.
My lesson was just beginning. The weight of the instructor’s words, of Aria’s penetrating stare, followed me out of the history chamber and through the rest of the day, a shadow I couldn’t shake. It haunted me through combat drills, where every parry felt like a question, and through the evening meal, where the chatter of other cadets became a distant hum. That night, sleep was a fractured thing, full of half-formed images of flaming scythes and portraits with watching eyes.
I was burning, burning, burning, but I didn’t feel pain.
Engulfed in a golden white flame all around my body, I fell down an endless torrent in my mind. My body was hot and sweaty as I tumbled through the void, a spectator to my own combustion. There was no sound, only the silent, brilliant conflagration turning my bones to light.
I jolted awake, scrambling out of my tangled sheets.
The smell of fresh lavender filled the air. I gagged, my throat closing. I hated the smell of lavender. It was too sweet, too cloying, it reminded me of cheap air fresheners in waiting rooms for bad news. I sat up, my heart hammering against my ribs, to find the bunk room empty. The other beds were neatly made, the silence absolute.
Had I slept past morning drills?
I checked my academy phone, the screen blinding in the dim room. The time glared back: 08:47. Yes! Drills started at 06:00. O.M.G., why did no one wake me?! A bolt of pure panic shot through me. Instructor Borros was going to kill me.
I scrambled into the bathroom, the cold tile shocking my bare feet. I washed the nightmare sweat off in a shower so brief it was just a violent spray of water, then threw on my drills uniform with clumsy, frantic hands. My fingers fumbled over the laces of my worn boots. My mind was a single, screaming loop: Late, late, late.
Just as I was coming out, still damp and frantic, Tsubaki, Aria, and Mark were waiting for me outside the communal bathroom. Their faces broke into wide, conspiratorial grins. “There she is!” Tsubaki chirped.
Before I could stammer an apology about drills, Aria grabbed my arm excitedly. “Come on, you’re missing it!”
“Missing what? Borros is going to have my head on a pike,” I protested, but she was already pulling me down the corridor, away from the training grounds. Mark winked, falling into step beside us, his hands behind his back.
They led me to a small communal room mostly meant for meetings or group meals. The lights were off. On the center of the table, bathed in a soft glow from the high window, was a very large pink cake. Candles protruded from its frosted top, the number ’19’ lit with flickering flame.
My breath caught. My birthday?
They remembered.
I’d been at this academy for eight months now. My body was so much different than it used to be—harder, stronger, a map of new muscles and old bruises. My daily sessions with Ren over the months had drastically improved my performance, had been the gritty, private reason I was able to keep my spot. He never officially terminated our sessions, and though he was still a brute asshole, he wasn’t as cruel as he used to be, probably because he’d seen the improvement. It was a truth I held close, a small, hard-won prize.
“Happy birthday!” they all chorused, their voices echoing in the small room.
They began singing to me, wishing me many more years. The simple, off-key melody was the best thing I’d heard in months. The nightmare’s chill finally left my bones. I looked at their faces—Tsubaki’s beaming smile, Aria’s knowing eyes, Mark’s gentle pride—and my throat tightened. I blinked hard, took a deep breath that smelled of sugar and wax, and blew out the candles.
The smoke trailed up in a thin, celebratory plume.
Then Mark and Aria and Tsubaki pulled out gifts. “First one,” Mark said, holding up an empty hand, “is getting you out of drills this morning so you could sleep in.”
The relief was so profound my knees felt weak. “You have no idea how much I needed that,” I breathed, a laugh bubbling up.
Tsubaki handed me a box. Inside was a new pair of boots, sturdy and supple, perfect for the Garden’s punishing ground. Then she thrust a flat, wrapped parcel into my hands. I tore the paper to find a new sketchbook and a box of charcoal. She’d remembered. I hadn’t had any since I came here. My fingers traced the cover, an old, homesick ache swelling and then dissolving into pure gratitude.
Aria’s gift was a small, elegant bottle of perfume. “To mask the scent of ozone and sweat,” she said with a small, secretive smile. It was practical and strangely thoughtful. I was so happy, the emotion a bright, fragile balloon in my chest. For a moment, there was no Shadow Domain, no demons, no terrifying lineage. Just friends, and cake, and the quiet joy of being known.
The sweetness of the morning lasted until the iron gates of the Garden glowed before me in the afternoon light. The cake was a happy weight in my stomach, but the training ground demanded a different kind of fuel. Ren was already there, a dark slash against the grey, running through a sequence of movements so fast his form blurred.
“You’re late,” he said, not stopping.
“I had a prior engagement,” I shot back, falling into a ready stance across from him. The new boots felt incredible, solid and grounded.
He didn’t smile. “Engagements don’t block fists.”
The session was as relentless as ever. He pushed me through combinations, corrected my footwork with sharp, precise criticisms, and forced me to hold defensive stances until my muscles trembled. He was rude, his comments cutting, but they were almost exclusively about technique now, not my worth. It was a brutal kind of respect. We didn’t speak of chains, or of my first night here. We just moved, a violent, grinding dance under the sickly sky.
After an hour, my uniform was soaked through, and my new boots were scuffed with obsidian dust. He called a halt with a sharp gesture. I bent over, hands on my knees, gulping the metallic air.
“Your guard is still slow on the right switch,” he stated, walking toward the equipment locker at the edge of the ring. He rummaged inside for a moment, his back to me.
I straightened up, wiping sweat from my brow. “I’ll work on it.”
He turned and tossed something at me. I caught it on instinct. It was a pair of gloves. They were simple, made of a tough, grey material that felt both flexible and strong, with reinforced palms and knuckles. They were clearly well-made, practical, and not standard academy issue.
I stared at them, then at him, my mind blank. He stood there, his expression unreadable, the usual severity etched into his features.
“Your hands are a liability,” he said, his voice flat. “You favor your left. The calluses are uneven. Those will help.” He paused, then added, “Don’t let the fit get sloppy.”
He didn’t wait for a thank you. He just turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the pulsing earth. I looked down at the gloves in my hands, the neat, precise stitching. They weren’t a gift. They were a tool, an assessment, a piece of equipment to mitigate a flaw he had identified. But he had chosen them. He had brought them for me.
The gesture was so utterly Ren that it bypassed shock and landed squarely in a bewildered sort of gratitude. I pulled the right one on, then the left. The fit was perfect. They felt like an extension of my skin, like armor for my most used weapons. I flexed my hands, the material moving with me, and watched his retreating back until he vanished into the academy’s dark archway. The ghost of the lavender scent was gone, replaced by ozone and earth and the new leather smell of the gloves. I stood in the silent Garden, the distant clash of blades my only companion, and wondered what, exactly, I was being equipped for.