Unspoken Terms
1291 Words
The training fields were empty at sunrise.
Lyra stood near the stone arch that marked the beginning of the combat grounds, her arms wrapped around herself against the chill. Frost clung to the grass like crystals spun in moonlight. The Academy was silent at this hour—no laughter, no clashing weapons, no whispers about the mute girl.
Only the wind.
And him.
Kael approached from the west gate, his long strides carrying him across the field like he’d been born to command it. No one else had that stillness—the kind that didn’t beg for respect but demanded it. Even in silence, he was loud.
Lyra dropped her arms and straightened.
He stopped a few feet away and looked at her for a long moment. “You’re early.”
She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out her notebook, and flipped to a fresh page. She held it up.
You said ‘at sunrise.’
A ghost of something passed across his face. Not a smile. Just... less frost.
“Most students would’ve taken it as a suggestion.”
She didn’t write an answer this time. She just stared back, calm and unmoved.
That seemed to please him.
“Good. You follow instruction.”
He gestured for her to walk with him. She obeyed without hesitation, boots crunching lightly over the frosted ground. They passed beneath the arch and into a narrow corridor lined with rune-etched stone. Morning light filtered through the trees above them in pale gold streaks.
Even in silence, Lyra could feel the hum of the runes. They were old. Older than the Academy. They pulsed faintly beneath her boots like the heartbeat of the land itself.
“Tell me something,” Kael said as they walked. “Why are you really here?”
Lyra’s pen hovered. Then wrote:
I earned a spot.
He glanced sideways at her. “That’s not what I asked.”
You think I didn’t earn it?
“I think you’re hiding how you did.”
She turned her face away, but her jaw clenched.
He didn’t press.
They arrived at a smaller, secluded arena surrounded by tall hedges and marked only by a silver crest embedded in the stone floor: a crescent moon and sword, intertwined. It was one of the Academy’s oldest and most private sparring zones—usually reserved for elite instructors or ranked duels.
Lyra paused just inside the threshold.
This isn’t a beginner arena.
“No,” Kael said simply, stepping past her. “It isn’t.”
She followed.
Kael stood in the center of the ring. “From now on, your training will happen here. You’ll meet me at this time, every morning.”
Lyra hesitated, then scribbled:
Why?
“Because the others aren’t equipped to teach you.”
She blinked.
“And because your control is poor. You almost broke a student’s ribs yesterday.”
He charged me.
“And you threw him twenty feet with your palm. That wasn’t defense. That was instinctual power release. Raw. Dangerous.”
I didn’t mean to—
“Intent doesn’t matter when you’re holding that kind of power.”
His voice didn’t rise, but it struck like thunder all the same.
Lyra looked down.
Kael exhaled, less sharply this time. “That’s why you’ll train with me. Alone. Until I say otherwise.”
Is this punishment?
He looked at her for a long moment. “No. It’s protection.”
She tilted her head, confused.
“For them,” he added. “And for you.”
They began with movement drills.
Kael had her run footwork patterns across the arena, shifting directions at his quiet commands. No magic. No fighting. Just control.
Lyra moved like a dancer, all precision and silence. Her body listened better than most students listened with their ears.
She turned when he signaled, stopped when he did, shifted her weight exactly where he directed it to go. And still, it wasn’t perfect.
“You lead too much with your right. Predictable.” Kael's tone was sharp, but not cruel. It was a flaw he often saw in raw recruits—those untrained, relying on instinct. But from Lyra, it was jarring. She moved with the fluidity of someone forged in conflict, not school drills. Which meant this wasn’t simple inexperience. It was something else. Maybe a trained suppression. Maybe an old habit of masking strength. Or worse—intentional misdirection, like she’d been taught to hide what she could really do.
She adjusted. He pushed harder.
He wasn’t cruel—but he was relentless.
“Again.”
“Reset.”
“Faster this time.”
She lost track of time. The sun rose higher. Her breath came faster, visible in clouds. Sweat clung to her temples, soaking the collar of her shirt. But still, she didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Because this wasn’t just training.
This was survival.
An hour passed before Kael called for a break.
She dropped onto the edge of the stone ring, grabbing her water flask from her pack. Her hands trembled as she opened it.
Kael watched her quietly from the shadows of the nearby trees, his arms folded across his chest.
“Where did you learn to move like that?”
She paused. Then wrote:
Nowhere.
“That’s not an answer.”
She hesitated again. Then, carefully:
My body remembers things my mind doesn’t.
That made him pause. Really pause.
“Your family—”
She froze.
He stopped, noting her reaction.
“You’re not obligated to tell me anything,” he said, voice lower. “But if there’s something you’re running from, I need to know what it is.”
Lyra didn’t answer.
But she did flip to a page in her notebook that bore a single line, written weeks ago:
Some voices aren’t lost. They’re taken.
Kael’s jaw tensed. He didn’t push again.
When they resumed, he handed her a wooden staff. She weighed it carefully in her hands—lighter than expected, but finely balanced. Not beginner’s equipment.
“Let’s see what your reflexes look like under pressure.”
Kael lunged without warning.
Lyra barely parried in time, her staff clashing against his in a clean arc. Sparks flew at the point of contact—not magical, just friction and force.
She stumbled, but recovered quickly.
Kael didn’t go easy. His strikes came fast, sweeping low and spinning high. Lyra ducked, rolled, countered. He forced her off balance, then waited to see how she reacted.
She didn’t panic.
She adapted.
By the end of the second round, her breathing was ragged—but her grip didn’t falter.
“You’re better than you let on,” he said, circling her again.
She didn’t smile.
But something in her eyes glittered.
Because no one’s ever watched me long enough to see it.
The last thing he did before dismissing her was something she didn’t expect.
He handed her a slip of paper—an official pass. Handwritten. Signed.
“This will excuse you from morning group sessions. From now on, you train under me.”
Lyra traced the ink with her finger, stunned.
She nodded slowly, uncertain whether she felt relieved or more exposed than ever.
“Same time tomorrow.”
She nodded again.
“Don’t be late.”
As she walked back toward the dorms, alone and sore and sweat-soaked, Lyra touched her fingertips to her palm—the same hand that had glowed during the spar.
It didn’t now.
But it still tingled.
Training with Kael would be dangerous.
Not because he was harsh.
Not because she feared him.
But because being seen—truly seen—was harder than any sparring match.
And for the first time in years, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hide anymore.
- Writer
