Avian's Dream - Training Grounds, Year Nine of the War

The dream came without warning, dragging him five hundred years into his own past.

Dex's muscles burned. Good. Pain meant you were alive, and alive meant you could still fuck up whoever needed fucking up. He rolled his shoulder, feeling the protest of a partially healed wound from three days ago, and raised his practice blade.

Across from him, Vaerin grinned. Bastard looked fresh as morning dew despite the fact that they'd both been up since before dawn running drills with the new recruits. Some people just had the audacity to look heroic even when covered in training ground dust.

"Ready to lose again?" Vaerin asked, settling into his stance. The Veritas style, all flowing lines and elegant footwork. Pretty as hell and surprisingly effective if you had the talent for it.

Dex didn't bother with a stance. Just held his sword loose, weight balanced, ready to move in any direction. "Lose? You mean like the last time when I put you on your ass?"

"That was a draw and you know it."

"Your definition of 'draw' is real generous considering you were face-down in the dirt."

Vaerin lunged. Fast, precise, the kind of strike that looked effortless because he'd practiced it ten thousand times. The blade traced a line toward Dex's chest that would've been perfect if Dex fought like a normal person.

He didn't.

Dex shifted sideways, not quite dodging, letting the blade pass close enough to feel the air displacement. His counter came from an angle Vaerin's form didn't account for—low, dirty, aiming for the knee because fuck fighting fair when you could fight smart.

Vaerin's leg shot up, the strike whistling under his raised knee as he twisted mid-air, his blade coming down in a defensive arc that transitioned into another attack. The guy was good. Really good. Made fighting look like a dance instead of organized murder.

They exchanged blows for a solid minute, wood clacking against wood, both of them settling into the rhythm of it. This wasn't like fighting demons or undead or whatever fresh hell the war threw at them. This was just... sparring. Two friends beating the shit out of each other in a socially acceptable way.

"You're telegraphing," Dex said, blocking an overhead strike.

"I'm—what? No I'm not."

"Yes you are. That thing you do with your shoulder before the big swings. Gives you away every time."

"I do not have a tell."

"Sure you don't." Dex feinted left, went right, his blade cracking against Vaerin's ribs hard enough to hurt through the padding. "Just like you don't have a thing for that healer girl."

Vaerin's face went red so fast it could've been a divine ability. "I—what? I don't—that's not—"

His guard dropped. Just a fraction. Just enough.

"Your neck is open."

Dex was behind him before Vaerin could process the movement, practice blade resting against his friend's throat.

"You would've died," Dex said, but he was grinning. Couldn't help it. The look on Vaerin's face was too fucking good.

"That's not fair! You can't just—" Vaerin spun around, face still flushed. "Why did you bring her up?"

"Because watching you turn into a tomato is hilarious?" Dex stepped back, lowering his blade. "Also because we've been at war for nine years and you deserve to think about something that isn't death and strategy for five fucking minutes."

"I think about plenty of other things."

"Yeah? Name one that isn't your duty to the realm or some other noble bullshit."

Vaerin opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I... there's the supply line improvements I've been working on."

"That's still work, you idiot."

"It's important work!"

"Everything's important work to you." Dex sheathed his practice blade, heading for the water barrel at the edge of the training ground. His throat felt like sandpaper. "When's the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Not because it helped the war effort or served some greater purpose?"

"I'm sparring with you right now."

"Because I dragged your ass out here. Doesn't count." He took a long drink, the water lukewarm but wet. "The healer girl. Elara, right?"

"Yes," Vaerin corrected automatically, then looked like he wanted to die. "And it's not—we're not—she's just very skilled at her work."

"Uh huh. Very skilled. That why you volunteered for that supply run to the eastern medical camp last week?"

"There were strategic reasons—"

"The strategic reason being you wanted to see her?"

Vaerin grabbed the water ladle, took a drink that was probably more about having something to do with his hands than actual thirst. "You're insufferable."

"One of my better qualities." Dex leaned against the fence post, letting the afternoon sun warm his back. Around them, the military camp hummed with its usual chaos. Soldiers drilling, smiths hammering, the distant sounds of someone yelling about missing rations. Normal war shit. "You should talk to her. Actually talk to her. Not just show up and stand there being heroically noble while she works."

"I don't stand there being—" Vaerin stopped. "Is it that obvious?"

"To everyone except maybe her, and that's only because healers are too busy saving lives to notice when someone's making puppy eyes at them."

Vaerin slumped down next to the fence, looking more like a tired twenty-three-year-old than a legendary hero candidate. "The war's almost over. Maybe when it's done, when we're not constantly surrounded by death and horror, then..."

"Then what? You'll suddenly develop the ability to talk to women?" Dex snorted. "War's not stopping you from being a person, Vaerin. You're stopping you from being a person."

"That's not—" He paused, something shifting in his expression. "It's just... I'm supposed to be better than this. The golden heir, the symbol of hope, all that shit they put on me. Heroes don't get distracted by personal feelings when there's work to be done."

"Heroes are people. People have feelings. Pretty sure that's how it works."

"You don't."

"The fuck I don't." Dex picked at a splinter in the fence post. "I just express them through violence and creative profanity. It's called emotional range."

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That got a laugh—genuine, not the practiced one Vaerin used for morale purposes. "You're an ass."

"Yeah, but I'm right."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the camp move around them. Someone was singing off-key near the cook fires. A group of new recruits stumbled through formations with the kind of earnest incompetence that meant they'd either die fast or learn faster.

Nine years of this shit. Nine years of blood and mud and watching people die for a cause that mattered but god, at what cost?

"You know what I'm doing when this war ends?" Vaerin said suddenly.

"Becoming insufferably heroic on a national scale?"

"Haaaaaaaaaaahhhhh." Vaerin let out a long, exhausted breath, slumping back against the fence. "Fine. When this war ends, I'll ask Elara out. There. Happy?"

"Fucking finally. Took you nine years to admit you're capable of wanting something."

"I want lots of things—"

"Yeah, peace and justice and all that noble horseshit. I meant something for you. Just you. Not the realm or the cause or whatever else you've martyred yourself to." Dex kicked at a rock. "What about after you ask her out? Assuming she doesn't laugh in your face."

"She won't—" Vaerin stopped. "Would she?"

"How the fuck should I know? I'm not a healer. But you're a war hero and moderately not-ugly, so probably you're fine."

"Moderately?"

"Don't get cocky." Dex grinned. "So? After the asking out? What's the grand Vaerin plan?"

Vaerin was quiet for a moment, and something soft crossed his face. "Maybe just... live. Find a place that isn't a military camp. Read books that aren't tactical manuals. Learn to cook something that doesn't taste like sadness and preserved meat." He looked at Dex. "What about you?"

Dex thought about it. Really thought about it, which was dangerous because thinking about futures felt like tempting fate. "Maybe open that inn me and Brick talked about. The Stubborn Bastards. That'd be nice."

"You'd be terrible at running an inn."

"That's what he said! But I think it'd be great. Throw out anyone who annoys me, water down the drinks for assholes, probably start a few fights for entertainment—"

"That's not how successful businesses work."

"Which is why it would be amazing." Dex grinned, but it felt brittle. Brick was dead. The dream was dead with him. "Knowing my luck, I'll probably get stabbed in the back right after we win anyway."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's honest." He kicked at another rock. "Or maybe I'll just find a quiet corner of the world and never talk to anyone again. Seems appealing."

"You'd last three days before the isolation drove you insane."

"Probably."

More silence. This was the part Dex hated—when the conversation died and the weight of everything came rushing back. The war, the losses, the impossible task still ahead of them. Three more kingdoms to liberate. One final push into the Demon King's throne room. Then it would all be over.

If they survived.

"The Church is driving me fucking crazy," Vaerin said suddenly.

Dex looked at him. "Yeah?"

"They want me to—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "They want me to start framing everything in terms of divine mandate. Not just fighting for survival or justice, but because the gods have chosen our path. Started hinting that maybe some of my victories should be attributed to divine intervention rather than strategy and skill."

"That's a load of horse shit."

"I know! But they're relentless about it. Every briefing, every strategy meeting, there's always a Church representative suggesting how we can make the narrative more... palatable to the faithful." Vaerin's hands clenched. "They want to control everything. How we fight, how we talk about fighting, even how we remember the dead. Like the truth isn't good enough, it needs to be packaged in divine justification."

"Tell them to fuck off."

"I can't just—"

"Sure you can. Watch: Fuck off." Dex demonstrated with a casual hand gesture. "See? Easy."

"You make everything sound simple."

"Most things are simple. People make them complicated because complicated means they can hide their bullshit behind procedure." He kicked at a rock. "They're building a narrative, Vaerin. Not recording history. Building it. That should scare you."

"It does."

"Good. Scared means you're paying attention."

Vaerin looked at him for a long moment, something complicated working through his expression. "What are you going to do when they come for you? When they try to fit you into their perfect story of divine heroes and noble sacrifice?"

"Me? I'm a footnote at best. Common-born soldier who got lucky and survived longer than expected. They'll probably forget I existed five minutes after the war ends." The words tasted bitter, but Dex kept his tone light. "You're the one they're building statues for. Lucky you."

"I don't want statues. I want—"

An explosion cut him off.

The blast came from the east side of camp, near the supply depot. Huge, loud, the kind that meant either an accident or an attack. Probably attack because their luck wasn't that good.

"Fuck." Dex was already moving, hand on his real sword now, practice time over. "Eastern advance force?"

"Has to be." Vaerin was right beside him, his heroic exhaustion replaced by instant battle readiness. The Church could package that transition however they wanted, but Dex knew the truth—it wasn't divine power, it was just Vaerin being who he was. Someone who couldn't not help when people needed him.

Around them, camp exploded into organized chaos. Veterans moving to defensive positions, new recruits trying not to panic, officers screaming orders that may or may not be useful. Another explosion, closer this time.

"Rally point?" Vaerin asked.

"Central command. We need to—"

The dream lurched.

No. Not yet. Not when—

Avian's POV - Academy, His Room, Dawn

Avian jerked awake, heart hammering, hand reaching for a sword that wasn't there. His sheets were soaked with sweat, twisted around his legs like they'd been fighting him. The pre-dawn light painted his room in shades of grey that felt wrong after the vivid memory-dream.

Not a dream. A memory. My memory.

He sat up, pressing palms against his eyes until stars burst behind his eyelids. The conversation felt fresh, like it had happened yesterday instead of five centuries ago. Vaerin's laugh. The way he'd blushed talking about Elara. The genuine exhaustion under his heroic mask.

His friend. They'd actually been friends.

And then that bastard had put an arrow through his heart.

"Why?" Avian asked the empty room, his voice rough. "Why the fuck are you showing me this now?"

His mind didn't answer. Just kept replaying fragments. Vaerin saying he'd ask Elara out when the war ended. Dex joking about opening an inn. Two idiots planning futures that would never happen because one of them was already planning murder.

"I'm doing this for you, so you're at peace."

"Fuck your peace." The words came out strangled. "Fuck your mercy. Fuck—"

His fist hit the wall before he realized he was moving.

Stone exploded. Not cracked—exploded. His fist punched clean through the wall like it was paper, plaster and stone crumbling into dust and rubble. A hole the size of his head gaped in the formerly pristine wall, edges still crumbling as structural damage spread outward in spiderweb cracks.

"You could've TALKED to me!" His voice cracked, raw and furious. "You could've said something! Anything! But you just smiled and planned your fucking future and made jokes while knowing—"

He yanked his fist back. Not a scratch on it. His body was too strong for the wall to damage, Seventh Tier Aether Core and Grandmaster aura making his flesh harder than the stone he'd just destroyed.

Vaerin had complained about the Church wanting to control everything. Had been scared of their narrative building. And then he'd gone and done exactly what they wanted, hadn't he? Killed his best friend, claimed the victory, let them rewrite history into whatever divine mandate bullshit they needed.

Or maybe the gods had already gotten to him by then. Maybe that cracking skin meant he wasn't fully Vaerin anymore.

Avian stared at the hole in his wall, chest heaving. The rage was still there, coiled in his chest like a living thing, but now exhaustion was creeping in around the edges.

Five hundred years. Five hundred fucking years and it still hurt like it happened yesterday.

"Young master?"

Elira's voice came from the hallway, carefully neutral. Of course she'd heard. He'd probably woken up half the dormitory wing.

"I'm fine," he said, voice flat.

"Of course, young master. Shall I arrange for wall repairs?"

He looked at his hand. Not even a scrape. The wall had lost that fight badly.

"Wall repairs..." He touched the edges of the hole, feeling how deep the cracks went. "Yeah. That's going to be expensive."

"I'll see to it immediately." A pause. "Would young master like breakfast sent up? Or perhaps you'd prefer to visit the training grounds?"

Training grounds. Where he could hit things that were meant to be hit instead of load-bearing walls.

"Training grounds," he said. "Give me ten minutes."

"As you wish."

Her footsteps faded, leaving him alone with his destroyed wall. The dream was already starting to fade, details blurring the way dreams did. But the core of it remained, sharp as broken glass.

They'd been friends. Real friends. And Vaerin had killed him anyway.

Avian looked at his reflection in the window—storm-blue eyes, sharp features, noble bearing that didn't quite hide the exhaustion underneath. Behind that reflection, he could still see Dex. Rough-handed, exhausted, making dark jokes about getting stabbed in the back.

Prophetic, that joke. He'd known, on some level. Known that planning futures was dangerous, that hope was just another way to set yourself up for disappointment.

"Should've listened to my own advice," he muttered.

He grabbed a training shirt, moving on autopilot. Right now, he needed to hit something. Preferably something that wouldn't require expensive repairs.

But as he headed for the door, he couldn't help one last look at the hole in the wall. Evidence of rage, yes. But also evidence that even after five hundred years, even knowing everything he knew now, part of him had still hoped his friend had a good reason.

That hope was dead now. Buried under stone dust and the memory of Vaerin's laugh.

Good. Hope was fucking useless anyway.

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