Chapter 179. You’re the Only One Left Out Here Breaking Yourself Apart
William’s own rest day began with an unfamiliar, almost unsettling lightness. For the first hour, he simply sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands, hands that were usually wrapped in leather splints or stained with the grime of exertion, and tried to process the sheer novelty of having nothing to do.
There was no training regimen screaming in the back of his skull, no urgent debriefings, and no tactical problems requiring immediate solutions.
Just... time.
The morning had started with a rare moment of domestic normalcy. He’d shared breakfast with Catherine, a quiet affair that felt almost fragile in its simplicity.
Their conversation had been interrupted by the sudden, energetic arrival of Ellie, who immediately dragged Catherine toward the kitchens.
"It’s not about the volume, Ellie; it’s about the ratio!" Catherine’s voice had echoed down the hall as they retreated.
"And I’m telling you, a little extra flour never killed anyone, Vice Headmaster!" Ellie’s retort followed, punctuated by the sound of indignant footsteps.
William had watched them go with a ghost of a smile, wisely deciding that inserting himself into a debate about flour measurements and culinary ratios was a tactical error he wasn’t prepared to make.
Afterward, he wandered the academy grounds. The atmosphere was strange, unnervingly still.
Usually, the academy breathed with the chaotic energy of students rushing to drills, the clatter of practice weapons, and the sharp commands of instructors.
But today, the bustle had been replaced by an easy, unhurried stillness. It made the stone corridors and training yards feel almost alien, like he was walking through a memory rather than a living fortress.
Seeking refuge from the quiet, he slipped into the small instructor’s library. The air inside smelled of old parchment, beeswax, and leather, a comforting, scholarly scent that usually helped ground him.
He pulled a tome from the shelf—something about historical siege tactics—and found a shaded corner in the courtyard just outside the library windows.
He tried to read. He really did.
’Page twelve: The deployment of ballistae during the third siege...’
His eyes scanned the words, but his mind refused to cooperate. His fingers unconsciously drummed against the leather binding of the book, mimicking the rhythm of a sword hilt against a palm.
His ears, trained to catch the faintest shift in wind or the scrape of steel, kept twitching toward every distant sound, analyzing them before he could stop himself.
’That bird’s flight pattern is too erratic... Is it startled?’
’Is there something in the trees?’
’That student’s footsteps three corridors over—they’re heavier than usual...’
’Left leg favoring the right... Possible old injury...’
’Could be exploited in a close-quarters engagement.’
’A crack in the courtyard stones... Three centimeters deeper than last week.’
’Could become a tripping hazard during a high-speed retreat.’
"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, closing the book with more force than necessary.
The thud echoed slightly in the courtyard.
He leaned his head back against the stone wall, closing his eyes. His body was relaxed, but his mind was a coiled spring, wound tight by years of conditioning that refused to acknowledge the concept of a ’day off.’
’You can’t just turn it off, William,’ he thought bitterly, a self-aware smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. ’You can’t just decide to be a civilian because the sun is out.’
The muscle memory was too deep, the instincts too ingrained. His body wasn’t just a tool; it was a weapon that had been forged in fire and tempered in blood, and weapons didn’t know how to rest.
They only knew how to wait for the next strike.
Old habits, apparently, didn’t care about schedules.
By the time the sun had climbed to its zenith, baking the academy stones with an unforgiving heat, William found himself walking toward the training grounds.
There had been no conscious decision, no tactical planning, just the unconscious pull of muscle memory, the way a compass needle seeks north even when the traveler has no intention of moving.
His feet carried him toward routine, drawn by the same restless, gnawing energy that made his own skin feel too tight.
’Curiosity,’ he lied to himself as he approached the perimeter. ’Just checking to see if any students are foolish enough to be wasting their rest day on unauthorized drills...’
But as he rounded the corner of the armory, the lie died in his throat. The sight of her stopped him cold, sending a sharp spike of unease through his chest.
Lia was alone in the center of the scorched training ground. She was moving through the opening form of the Tide Stance, a sequence she had mastered months ago, with such terrifying precision that instructors often used her as the benchmark.
Her movements were still technically flawless; every pivot, every extension, and every shift of weight landed with the exact mathematical accuracy required. But the image was wrong. It was grotesquely wrong.
Her training clothes weren’t just damp; they were translucent, clinging to her frame as if plastered there by sweat. Her hair, usually pinned back in a braid so tight it looked painful, had come undone, hanging in limp, salt-crusted strands that plastered against her neck and cheeks.
Her face was drained of color, pale as bone beneath the sheen of exertion. Most concerning of all was her breathing.
To a casual observer, it looked disciplined, controlled, and steady. But William saw the truth.
He saw the minute tremor in her ribcage, the way her lungs seemed to struggle against a phantom weight. She was running on fumes, pushing through a hollow void where her stamina should have been hours ago.
"Lia," William called out, his voice cutting through the heavy heat like a blade.
He didn’t wait for permission; he crossed the distance between them in long, purposeful strides.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t break.
She finished the sequence with the mechanical, soulless precision of an automaton before finally lowering her practice sword. Only then did she turn to face him.
When her eyes met his, he saw the glassy haze of exhaustion threatening to swallow her whole.
"Instructor Wade," she said.
Her voice was steady, but it lacked its usual timbre. It sounded brittle.
"How long have you been out here?" William demanded, stopping inches from her.
He could smell the salt and the raw, metallic tang of overtaxed muscles.
Lia hesitated. It wasn’t a pause of confusion but a pause of calculation; she was mentally tallying the hours, her mind working through the numbers like a soldier counting ammunition.
"Since shortly after your announcement this morning."
William glanced up at the sun, which hung mercilessly overhead, then back at her deteriorating condition. "That’s almost six hours, Lia... Six hours of unbroken repetition."
"I’ve had longer sessions, Instructor," she replied flatly.
"That’s not what I’m making, and you know it." His voice dropped lower, gaining an edge of genuine concern that bordered on anger.
He studied her with the clinical eye of a veteran who had seen countless soldiers break themselves against the whetstone of ambition. "Everyone else is actually living their day off."
"I watched Kaela come back from the forest with small game, looking like she actually enjoyed herself."
"Catherine and Ellie are probably still arguing over a kitchen fire while baking bread."
"Even Clara... Clara spent her morning writing poetry about flowers." He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "You’re the only one left out here breaking yourself apart."
Lia didn’t flinch at the comparison. She didn’t show anger, or hurt, or even embarrassment.
That was what terrified him most. There was no emotion, just a flat, terrifying certainty.
"I know what I want to do with my day, Instructor," she said.
Her words weren’t defensive; they were a statement of fact, as unchangeable as gravity. "This is it..."
"This is what I need."