Night descended on the orphanage, cloaking the ancient stone halls in shadows. The wardens-in-training had returned from the grueling training fields, their bodies aching and their minds weary. The faint glow of torchlight flickered across the walls, illuminating the faint carvings of old battles and forgotten heroes.
Arteja sat on her cot, her mask resting beside her. The smooth, silver surface reflected the dim light of the room, its delicate engravings of vines curling around the edges. It was a beautiful, haunting piece—designed to hide their faces and emotions, to remind them that their identities belonged to the empire.
Her lighter brown hair was slightly damp from the earlier sparring session, clinging to her forehead. She absently brushed it back, her piercing blue eyes scanning the room. Most of the girls were quiet, lost in their thoughts, but the tension in the air was palpable.
Lirael sat across from her, meticulously sharpening her knife. Her jet-black hair fell in a straight curtain to her shoulders, her dark green eyes focused on the blade. "You're brooding again," she said without looking up.
"I'm not brooding," Arteja replied, her voice soft but firm.
Lirael smirked. "You always get that look after Rowyn shows off."
Arteja glanced at her friend. "What look?"
"The 'I'm going to train until my arms fall off so I can beat her' look."
Arteja couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at her lips. "Maybe you're right."
Lirael leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Rowyn's strong, Arteja, but she's reckless. She fights to prove something—to be the best, sure, but also because she's scared. You? You fight like you've got nothing to lose."
Arteja stared at her friend, the words sinking in. She wanted to argue, but deep down, she knew Lirael was right.
Before she could respond, the door creaked open, and Rowyn strode in, her presence commanding as always. Her auburn hair was tied back in a loose braid, and her hazel eyes scanned the room like a hawk surveying its prey. She tossed her mask onto her cot, revealing the sharp angles of her face.
"Another day, another victory," Rowyn announced, her tone dripping with arrogance.
Lirael rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "Here we go."
Arteja kept quiet, watching as Rowyn sauntered toward them.
"You've been quiet today," Rowyn said, her gaze locking onto Arteja. "Still licking your wounds from earlier?"
Arteja met her gaze, unflinching. "Just thinking about how to beat you next time."
Rowyn smirked, but there was a flicker of unease in her eyes. "We'll see about that."
Corliss's voice echoed from the hallway, sharp and commanding. "Lights out in five minutes! Masks on!"
The room erupted into a flurry of motion as the girls scrambled to prepare for the night. Arteja slid her mask back into place, feeling the cool metal press against her skin. It was both a comfort and a burden—a reminder of who she was becoming.
As the torches were extinguished, plunging the room into darkness, Arteja lay awake, her mind racing. She thought of the empire, the missions that awaited them, and the battles she would have to fight.
And for the first time, she wondered if she was truly ready.