We walk back to our room slowly.

  The Academy is large enough that even a direct route takes time. Fifteen minutes at a steady pace, winding through corridors that feel more like thoroughfares than hallways. Windows open onto the valleys below, and through them I catch glimpses of moonlight reflecting off a lake tucked between dark slopes. The surface looks like polished glass, pale and still.

  It’s beautiful.

  The thought lands unexpectedly, sharp and almost painful in its own way. A reminder that things like that can still exist in a world that can hurt you this badly and keep going as if nothing happened.

  As we get closer to our corridor, I realize my pace has picked up without me meaning to. My body is pulling me forward, impatient, eager in a way I don’t quite trust yet. By the time we reach the door, I’m slightly winded.

  That stops me cold.

  A brisk walk. No packs. No drills. And my breathing is already elevated, my pulse thudding harder than it should. I glance at Kai and see the same realization hit him at the same time. His jaw tightens, eyes flicking away.

  The nurse was right.

  I unlock the door and step inside, the familiar scent of wood and stone hitting me all at once. Relief washes through me before I can stop it. Everything is where we left it. Our packs leaned against the wall. Our staffs resting where we’d normally place them. I’d wondered about that, whether they’d been lost somewhere between spaces. Someone brought them back for us.

  Apparently not.

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

  There are art supplies scattered on the table, exactly as I abandoned them weeks ago. Beside them sits a chipped mug with a cat painted on the side. The rim is cracked just enough to catch your lip if you’re not careful. Kai’s mug. A gift from his grandmother.

  I see him look at it, just for a second, something tightening behind his eyes. I squeeze his shoulder and move farther into the room, giving him space to follow if he wants.

  The room feels smaller. Not literally. Nothing’s moved. But the walls seem closer, the ceiling lower. Like the last two weeks stretched us somehow and the space hasn’t caught up yet.

  I don’t think I like this kind of growth.

  People say the System rewards growth through conflict. Maybe that’s true. But this doesn’t feel like a reward. I don’t feel stronger. I look at Kai, then down at myself. Where we used to have dense, hard-earned muscle, we now look like active kids who haven’t eaten enough. Lean in the wrong way. Edges softened by exhaustion. Anger and pain burned it away.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I shake my head, already calculating how long it’s going to take to recover. Weeks. Months. Longer, maybe. The thought sits heavy in my chest.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  My heart spikes instantly, panic slamming through me so hard my vision narrows. For a split second, all I can see are hands and white coats and instruments. I force myself to move anyway.

  When I open the door, it’s Banks. Whip-thin. Pale skin. Eyes sharp enough to feel like they’re cutting through me. He offers a small, careful smile.

  “Mind if I come in?” he asks.

  I step aside and let him pass. He doesn’t rush. He takes the room in piece by piece. The beds pushed close together. The art supplies. The staff resting against the wall. Us.

  He pauses, just long enough to read something he doesn’t comment on.

  Then he looks back at us. “You want to go get a bite to eat?”

  Kai and I nod immediately, almost in unison. The enthusiasm surprises even me.

  For the first time since we left the infirmary, the thought of food doesn’t make my stomach twist. Instead, it feels like the first small step forward.

  Banks doesn’t say much as we walk.

  He keeps pace with us easily, Kai and I flanking him on either side, close enough that I don’t have to think about it. Every so often he glances over, checking without being obvious. He asks how we’re feeling, and I give him a handful of vague answers that don’t really say anything. Tired. Sore. Getting there.

  It’s true enough.

  I’m not ready to unpack more than that yet. I don’t think Kai is either. Still, I do feel better, and I can tell he does too. Not healed. Not fixed. Just… less brittle.

  We get our food and sit down, the conversation drifting into idle territory. Nothing important. Nothing that demands attention. I get the sense Banks is doing this on purpose, steering us gently back toward something that looks like normal.

  I ask where Finn is. Banks rolls his eyes, but there’s a smirk tugging at his mouth. “He’s discovered a new game,” he says. “You throw rubber balls at each other. The goal is to hit more people on the other team than they hit on yours.”

  “That’s it?” I ask.

  “That’s it.”

  He rolls his eyes again, but the fondness is obvious. Finn being Finn.

  We eat, and for the first time in a while I actually finish everything on my plate. My body doesn’t object. It just accepts it, like it’s remembering how this works.

  When we’re done, Banks sets his tray aside and looks at us more seriously.

  “Instructor Jin asked Finn and me to help you get back into fighting shape,” he says. “The infirmary sent paperwork over. About your condition.”

  Part of me bristles immediately. The idea of more people knowing details makes something hot and sharp twist in my chest. Another part of me relaxes, just a little, at the thought that someone’s paying attention.

  Banks seems to read it on my face. “We’re not overseeing your recovery,” he adds quickly. “Just helping. Nudging. Stopping you if you’re about to do something stupid.”

  He pauses. “An injury at this stage would be catastrophic.”

  I don’t argue. Neither does Kai.

  “That’s a perfectly logical course,” Kai says, nodding once.

  I scoff and lean into him, bumping his shoulder lightly. “You’re such a nerd.”

  He shoots me a look. “You compared yourself to fruit.”

  “Valid metaphor,” I argue.

  “Who’s the real nerd here,” he asks.

  Banks snorts before he can stop himself.

  The tension drains out of the moment, laughter loosening something that’s been tight for days. We joke through the rest of the evening, easy and unforced, the kind of laughter that doesn’t hurt afterward.

  By the time we part ways, the weight feels lighter.

  Not gone. But manageable. For the first time in a while, I think everything might actually be okay.