Ascendrea woke with her heart already racing.
The air pressed thick and humid against her collarbone, heavy with the perpetual dampness that clung to everything on Servitous. For a moment she couldn't breathe past the familiar knot in her chest, that daily terror that somehow, despite all her preparations, she had failed before the day even began.
Above her, the coral ceiling stretched in near-darkness. The orphanage had been built from interlocking tiles of dark blue coral, each one grown underwater and then transported to be fitted together with precise grooves. The tiles had been smoothed into graceful curves after construction, creating seamless walls that barely showed their segmented origin. Vivid sea-green piping threaded through channels carved specifically for the purpose, the coral treated and hardened in alchemical baths until it could withstand the pressure of the steam flowing within. The pipes glowed faintly in the pre-dawn gloom, their bright color a cheerful contrast against the deeper blue of the walls. That sharp, medicinal scent always leaked through before dawn—cleaner than the salt air outside, harsher than the ocean's natural perfume. It reminded her of the smells that drifted from workshops, where the alchemists learned to mix and handle the more stable solutions.
She forced herself to lie still and listen. Around her, the other girls breathed in the slow rhythm of sleep. Kess snored softly two beds over, the same gentle wheeze she'd made every night for as long as Ascendrea could remember. Even in sleep, Kess's golden-brown skin seemed to glow with warmth, and her short-cropped auburn hair caught what little light filtered through. Everything about her looked so effortlessly right, so perfectly suited to this place. Nira murmured something incoherent from across the room, lost in whatever dreams visited her. Her deep bronze skin and the small, spiraled horns that curved back from her temples marked her as Marakari, but even those distinct features seemed to belong here in a way Ascendrea's never did. The hallway beyond remained silent—the instructors hadn't begun their rounds yet.
Good. She hadn't overslept. She never did, but the fear came anyway.
The panic should have eased, but it clung to her ribs like seaweed, soft and choking. Her stomach ached with it. She pulled herself upright, the sea-silk sheets slipping against her skin with their perpetual coolness. The fabric was beautiful—woven from fibers harvested from silk shrimp that lived in the deep grottos—but it held no warmth. Wherever it touched her skin it gave the impression of being submerged in water. It was soothing and a necessity when faced with the heat and humidity of the island. That said, the sea silk and the chill from cooling pipes together were a bit too much.
The stone pouch waited beneath her pillow, exactly where she'd placed it the night before. Her fingers closed around the worn sea-silk fabric, and some of the tightness in her chest began to ease. The pouch was simple and practical, like everything else the Legion provided, but it had become precious to her over the years.
Three stones inside, each one carefully dyed. She pressed them through the fabric, feeling their familiar shapes without needing to see them. The soldier stone was perfectly round, polished smooth and dyed the deep blue of Legion uniforms. The red artillery stone was rougher, its edges worn but not quite perfect—volcanic glass that had taken the dye unevenly, creating darker and lighter patches. The yellow scout stone was smallest, smooth as polished shell, dyed bright as morning sunlight. They were meant for simple strategy games, but she'd kept them long after the other children had moved on to more complex pursuits.
The ritual pulled her back from the edge of panic, one careful breath at a time. This was hers. This small, quiet moment before the world could start demanding things from her. Before she could look at her gray skin and silver hair and remember what she was.
Across the dormitory, someone's sleeping area was a disaster. Blanket twisted and half fallen to the coral floor, boots kicked carelessly beneath the bed instead of placed neatly side by side. A water cup sat empty on the small shelf—the shelf itself was a warm yellow coral, grown in a simple rectangular shape and polished until it gleamed. Ascendrea stared at the scene and felt her chest tighten again.
She could picture Instructor Nalia discovering it during morning inspection. The woman never raised her voice, never showed anger. That was what made her so terrifying. She would simply pause beside the messy bed, her weathered face calm and patient. Her eyes would take in every detail—the crooked blanket, the misplaced boots, the empty cup. Then that small tightening around her mouth, that barely perceptible shake of her head.
Disappointment. Quiet, measured disappointment that somehow cut deeper than any shouting ever could.
And what if Nalia's eyes moved on from that bed to sweep the rest of the room? What if she found some flaw in Ascendrea's area that had gone unnoticed? A wrinkle in the sheet corner, a smudge on the boots, a pillow not quite centered? What if trying so hard to be perfect only drew more attention?
Ascendrea slipped from bed, her bare feet meeting the coral floor. The surface was polished mirror-smooth, its deep blue color interrupted by delicate veins of lighter coral that had been encouraged to grow in decorative patterns. Always cool against her skin, like everything grown from the sea. The color reminded her of open ocean, of depths she'd never seen but somehow missed.
Her uniform waited at the foot of her bed, folded with military precision. She lifted the tunic, feeling the weight of the sea-silk fabric.
She smoothed the tunic, then again, running her palms over fabric that was already perfect. The motion was soothing, familiar. A ritual within a ritual.
The tunic slipped over her head like cool water, settling against her skin with that perpetual chill. Her trousers came next, then the belt, adjusted twice before it sat just right against her hip bones. Everything had to be perfect. Everything had to be exactly as the instructors expected. She knew, logically, that no one would judge her for being Elfriche—the Legion's values ran too deep for that, and the consequences too severe. But logic couldn't quiet the voice in her head that whispered she had to work twice as hard to earn what others received freely.
The thought made her stomach twist with guilt. To even think such things was a betrayal of everything the Legion stood for, everything they'd taught her. Unity Through Purpose. Judge by contribution, not blood. She was the problem, not them—the only one who couldn't let go of what she was born as instead of what she'd chosen to become.
Her boots sat beside the bed, already polished to a mirror shine. The soles were carved from dense white coral and treated in alchemical baths until they were harder than stone, while the uppers were still made from leather—one of the few materials the Legion struggled to maintain a steady supply of, since only source came from the predators of the island. She'd spent twenty minutes on them the night before, working the leather conditioner into every crease, buffing away every scuff. But she checked them anyway in the dim light filtering through the coral walls. The alchemical lines pulsed brighter now—dawn was coming, and the building's systems were stirring to life.
Still gleaming. Still perfect. But she pulled out the polishing rag anyway, just to be sure.
The cloth was soft against the leather, and the familiar motions calmed her. Polish, buff, inspect. Polish, buff, inspect. The sharp-sweet scent of the boot oil filled her nose, mixing with the medicinal tang from the wall piping. Smells that meant preparation. Readiness.
She tucked the stone pouch into her pocket—a weakness she couldn't quite abandon, no matter how much Head Instructor Calidus insisted that everyone needed help sometimes. The stones clinked softly against each other through the sea-silk, a gentle percussion that only she could hear.
Her space was ready. She was ready.
At the door, her fingers hovered over the handle for one breath too long. Through the coral walls, she could hear the building stirring. Footsteps in distant hallways. The deeper hum of steam engines spinning up. Outside, something that might have been a bird called softly—though on Servitous, it was hard to tell what was creature and what was simply the island itself. Soon the morning bells would ring, and the day would truly begin.
But for now, in this moment between sleeping and waking, she was still in control.
She turned the handle and slipped outside into the hallway. The corridor stretched ahead in pre-dawn dimness, lit only by the faint pulse of alchemical lines threading through the walls. The air here felt cooler than the dormitory, carrying the sharp medicinal scent more strongly. She moved with practiced quiet toward the courtyard exit, counting her steps without meaning to.
The heavy door gave way beneath her palm, and the courtyard air wrapped around her like a warm embrace. Thick and humid, it pressed against her skin with the weight of the coming day. The scent hit her immediately, the sweet perfume of flowering vines that cascaded down the outer walls in curtains of pale purple blooms. Even this early, she could feel the promise of the island's relentless warmth building.
Her boots found their rhythm against the courtyard tiles, each step deliberate and measured. The coral beneath her feet was a lighter shade than the walls—cream-colored with veins of soft pink that caught what little light filtered down from above. She'd walked this path so many times that her body knew the way without thought, but still she counted each footfall, grounding herself in the familiar numbers.
A breeze stirred across the courtyard, barely more than a whisper, but enough to lift the loose strands that had escaped her braid. She felt them tickle against the back of her neck, damp with the morning humidity. Her fingers moved automatically to smooth them back, tucking them behind her ridged ears—a gesture so habitual she barely registered it anymore.
She breathed in deeply, tasting the complex layers of scent that made up the courtyard's morning perfume. Salt from the distant ocean, earthy and green from the moss that grew in the shaded corners, and underneath it all, that familiar ozone bite that meant alchemy—the scent of solutions moving through pipes, of steam building pressure somewhere deep in the building's belly.
Past the coral cistern she walked, where tiny crickets clung to the rim like living jewels. Their chirping filled the air with a low, rhythmic sound that reminded her of hinges creaking in the wind. The cistern itself was a marvel of coral-growing—shaped like a giant flower with petals that curved inward to catch rainwater. Pale blue coral shot through with a light shade of green, creating patterns that swirled and twisted like veins beneath translucent skin.
A sharp bark split the morning quiet.
"Form up!"
Her body snapped to attention before her mind could catch up, spine straightening, shoulders squaring. Her head whipped toward the sound, heart suddenly hammering against her ribs. Above her, perched on one of the coral trellises that supported the flowering vines, sat the source of her panic.
A mimic bird—pink and green and absolutely insufferable. Its feathers were the exact color and texture of dragon fruit, scaled and bright, designed by nature to blend perfectly with the island's abundant fruit trees. Even knowing what it was, her eyes wanted to dismiss it as just another piece of tropical color. The perfect camouflage that everything on Servitous seemed to possess.
"Attention!" it barked again, its voice crisp and commanding, so close to an actual instructor that her stomach clenched.
She hated those birds with a passion that surprised her in its intensity. Hated the way they made her jerk like a marionette, hated how they could trip her nerves so easily. Every time—every single time—it seemed like someone was watching when she flinched at their borrowed commands. Not this morning, thankfully. The courtyard was empty, the other children still lost in sleep. But her skin prickled anyway, heat creeping up her neck as if invisible eyes were tracking her humiliation.
She forced herself to turn away, to resume her walk at a faster pace. Her fingers twitched toward her pocket, seeking the familiar comfort of the stone pouch. She didn't pull it out—that would be too obvious, too childish—but just feeling the weight of it through the sea-silk fabric helped. Blue, red, yellow. Soldier, artillery, scout. The simple rhythm of their arrangement in her palm, even through the cloth, pulled her back from the edge of panic.
Not far now. Just a loop around the courtyard's perimeter. Just long enough to breathe, to find her center before the day began demanding things from her. She moved in time with the stones' familiar weight, each step calculated to bring her back to the door at exactly the right moment.
At the far end of the courtyard, where the morning light hit the coral walls just right, an archway rose in graceful curves. The coral here was different—a pale green that seemed to glow from within, becoming almost golden where the light caught its edges. Like sea-glass, she thought, or the way water looked when sunlight slanted through it in the shallows.
This was where she usually saw them. The two girls who came here most mornings, settling in the archway's shelter to braid each other's hair. She could picture them clearly: one with her braid half-finished, legs tucked beneath her in that careless way that spoke of absolute comfort. The other's fingers moving steady and sure through the strands, like tidewater flowing over rocks. Always talking softly, heads bent together, laughing at shared secrets.
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The ease of it was what caught her attention every time. The way one would lean back into the other's knees as if closeness wasn't a question that needed answering. As if they knew, without doubt, that their place in the world included each other.
Ascendrea tried not to stop when she reached this spot, tried not to stare at the empty archway. But something about the memory of their togetherness always made her steps slow. Sometimes, in moments like this when the world felt quiet and full of possibility, she let herself imagine sitting there too. Knees folded, braid half-finished, chin tipped up as gentle fingers worked through her hair. As if she belonged there, as if she was a piece that had always been missing and had finally found where she fit.
The fantasy always featured the same face, though she couldn't quite understand why. Dawn—another girl from the orphanage, someone she'd never actually spoken to. She just saw her around. At meals, sitting with her own group of friends. In the corridors, walking with easy confidence. In the courtyard sometimes, smiling at people who smiled back without reservation.
Every time their paths came close to crossing, every time Dawn's attention seemed to drift in her direction, Ascendrea felt her feet freeze and her throat close. The weight of potential conversation, of having to find words, of risking some terrible mistake—it was too much. She always found an excuse to turn away, to disappear before Dawn could come close enough to speak.
She was a coward, and she knew it.
She rounded the corner again, heading back toward the courtyard exit. Her internal clock told her there was just enough time left—she'd calibrated this routine perfectly over months of practice. Always back before the bell, always ready when the others woke, always invisible in her competence.
One breath. Two. Her fingers found the stone pouch again, pressing against it through the sea-silk of her pocket.
She reached the courtyard exit and hesitated for just a moment, looking back at the empty space where the other girls would sit. Then she stepped through the doorway into the cooler air of the corridor. The medicinal scent was stronger here, and she could hear the building stirring around her—distant footsteps, the deeper hum of machinery spinning up to meet the day's demands.
She moved quickly but quietly back down the hallway, her steps muffled by years of practice. The dormitory door came into view, and she reached for the handle with practiced precision. Her internal clock was never wrong—she'd calibrated this routine perfectly over months of careful observation.
She turned the handle and stepped inside just as the morning bell began to ring—a clean, shivering tone that seemed to emanate from the coral walls themselves, carried through the building's bones like a breath held too long. The sound covered her entrance completely, masking any small noise the door might make.
Perfect timing. Always perfect timing.
By the time the bell's echo faded and the others began to stir—blankets rustling, the soft groans of children reluctantly greeting another day—she was already moving toward her bed, just another figure in the dim dormitory preparing for the day ahead.
Movement rippled across the dormitory like a tide rolling in—blankets peeled back with practiced efficiency, boots hitting coral with soft thuds, the whisper of sea-silk tunics being shaken out and smoothed. The sounds layered over each other in a familiar symphony of preparation, but underneath it all lay a weight that pressed against Ascendrea's chest.
She moved with them but not among them, each motion deliberate and controlled. Her hands found her belt, adjusting the buckle even though it sat perfectly against her hip bones. She tucked at a non-existent stray thread, smoothed fabric that held no wrinkles. There was nothing to fix—there never was—but the motions soothed her anyway, familiar rituals that helped quiet the tremor in her fingers.
Around her, the other girls performed their own morning preparations. She watched them from the corner of her eye, timing her movements to match theirs. Too early and she'd look eager, desperate to please. Too late and she'd draw attention for being slow. She'd learned long ago that both extremes brought unwanted notice, just different flavors of scrutiny that made her skin crawl.
A line began to form near the center of the room, loose and informal at first. No orders had been given, but everyone knew their place through years of routine. Bodies shifted into position with the unconscious precision of a school of fish moving as one. Ascendrea found her spot in the formation, neither too close to the front nor too far back. Invisible in the middle, exactly where she belonged.
The stone pouch pressed against her thigh through her pocket, a small weight that grounded her. She resisted the urge to touch it directly—that would be too obvious, too childish. But knowing it was there helped steady her breathing.
A second bell chimed, softer than the first but no less commanding. The few stragglers still adjusting their uniforms hurried into position. Ascendrea kept her gaze forward, refusing to look at them even though part of her wanted to see who was running late. Looking would only stress her out more, would make her imagine herself in their position, arriving breathless and disheveled to face Instructor Nalia's disapproving stare.
The door at the far end of the dormitory opened with a soft hiss of displaced air. Coral against coral, but polished so smooth that what should have scraped instead glided like silk. Instructor Nalia entered, her presence filling the room even before she spoke. Her boots clicked against the coral tiles, her Legion blue tunic fell in perfect lines, her belt gleamed like lacquered shell in the dim light.
Ascendrea's heart climbed into her throat and lodged there, beating so hard she was sure everyone could hear it.
The line straightened without any visible signal, the children moving as one. Someone coughed—a nervous, muffled sound quickly stifled. Two places down, a girl with copper-colored hair and distinctive fur cover ears sitting atop her signs of Savari heritage kept twisting the hem of her tunic between her fingers, the nervous gesture small but noticeable.
Nalia began her inspection with the methodical patience that made her so terrifying. Always Nalia in the mornings—the other instructors handled evening routines, but dawn belonged to her. Her gaze moved like a slow tide across the front row, cataloging every detail with the precision of someone who missed nothing. A wrinkle in a sheet corner earned a pause. A crooked collar merited a slight tightening around her eyes. A boot not quite aligned with its partner brought that barely perceptible shake of her head that somehow felt worse than any shout.
She paused three people away from Ascendrea.
Ascendrea's breath caught and held. She didn't blink, didn't dare move even the smallest muscle. Through her peripheral vision, she watched Nalia's weathered fingers lift the corner of someone's bedsheet, examining the way it tucked beneath the thin mattress. The instructor's brow twitched—not quite a frown, but close enough to make Ascendrea's stomach clench in sympathy. Then Nalia moved on, the moment of judgment passing without words.
Another step. Another pause.
Then Nalia stopped directly in front of her.
The pause stretched like a held breath, like the moment between lightning and thunder. Ascendrea felt the weight of those sharp brown eyes taking in every detail of her appearance, searching for flaws that might have escaped her own meticulous attention. Her spine remained perfectly straight, her hands at her sides, her gaze fixed on a point just over Nalia's shoulder.
Don't flinch. Don't breathe. Don't give her anything to criticize.
"Excellent as always, Ascendrea," Nalia said, her voice pitched low enough that it seemed meant for Ascendrea alone.
The words hit her like a physical blow. Ascendrea managed a small nod, her throat too tight for anything more elaborate. "Thank you, Instructor."
But even as she spoke the proper response, her mind was already spiraling. Had the others heard? Nalia's voice had been quiet, but in the perfect silence of the dormitory, even whispers carried. Her stomach twisted as she imagined the thoughts that might be racing through her dormmates' heads.
Look at her, getting special attention again. Acting like she's better than the rest of us. Teacher's pet.
Or worse—what if they'd missed Nalia's exact words and assumed she was being corrected? What if they thought she'd messed up somehow, that the perfect inspection was a lie?
Either way, it was attention. Unwanted, suffocating attention that made her want to sink through the coral floor and disappear entirely.
But even that wasn't the worst possibility. The worst would be if someone decided to look up to her, to study her too closely in hopes of earning similar praise. What if they started copying how she made her bed, how she polished her boots? What if someone approached her with wide, eager eyes, asking for advice?
The thought made her feel sick. She wasn't qualified to guide anyone. She was barely holding herself together most days, clinging to routines and rituals that kept the panic at bay. If someone tried to follow her example and failed because of something she'd said or done...
What if they misunderstand? What if I explain it wrong? What if they do it my way and get it wrong and fail and it's my fault?
She wasn't a model to emulate. She didn't even want to be herself most days—why would anyone else want to be like her? The very idea felt like a cruel joke, or worse, like evidence that she was fundamentally misunderstanding something about her own nature.
Her throat felt too tight, her chest too small for her lungs. Fingers pressed against her pocket, seeking the familiar shapes of the stones through the sea-silk fabric. Blue. Red. Yellow. Soldier, artillery, scout. She focused on their weight, their edges, trying to ground herself in the simple rhythm of their arrangement.
Blue. Red. Yellow. Count them. Feel them. Use them to anchor herself against the tide of panic that threatened to sweep her away.
It wasn't enough to stop the spiral entirely, but it held the worst of it at bay. Just long enough to get through the rest of the inspection, just long enough to maintain her perfect posture while Nalia moved on to examine the remaining girls.
Every second felt like an eternity. She barely registered when the inspection finally ended, when Nalia's crisp dismissal released them to prepare for the day ahead. It took everything she had not to bolt from the room like a spooked animal. Instead, she moved with careful, measured steps, making her way toward the door with the same practiced invisibility that had served her so well.
The hallway beckoned like a promise of sanctuary, and she slipped into its cool embrace as soon as she could manage it without drawing attention. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, but she forced them to carry her toward the one place where she could breathe again without judgment.
The hallway stretched before her, cool and dim after the charged atmosphere of the dormitory. She moved through it without conscious thought, her legs carrying her on autopilot while her mind remained trapped in the echo of Nalia's words. The corridors curved and turned with familiar precision, but somehow she felt disconnected from the journey—as if she'd been pulled through the building by some invisible current and deposited somewhere entirely different from where she'd started.
Her sanctuary waited at the far end of the corridor, tucked away behind the alchemical engine that served as the heart of the building's cooling system. Few people ventured here, deterred by the bitter cold. Here, the massive coral apparatus heated and pressurized alchemical mixtures, transforming them into the intense freezing steam that flowed through the cooling pipes threading the orphanage walls. The engine itself was a marvel of alchemical engineering—grown in organic curves but fitted with precisely grown components that pulsed and hissed with barely contained energy.
The machine cast strange reflections in the shallow pool that had formed beneath its condensation vents. The freezing steam condensed and dripped steadily into the depression worn into the coral floor, creating a perfectly still mirror rimmed with delicate crystals of frost. She watched a single droplet form at the end of one pipe, grow heavy, and fall—striking the water's surface without creating so much as a ripple. The liquid was too cold, too thick with dissolved minerals to behave like ordinary water.
She felt a sharp pang of jealousy watching that droplet disappear without trace. How wonderful it would be to pass through the world so quietly, to make no mark, to go completely unnoticed.
Lowering herself to the coral floor, she felt the cold surface press hard against her knees through the thin fabric of her trousers. The discomfort was sharp and immediate, but she didn't shift position. The pain helped ground her, gave her something concrete to focus on besides the spiral of thoughts that threatened to pull her under.
Her breath came shallow and quick, each exhalation visible in the frigid air around the pool. Faint wisps of freezing fog rose from the water's surface, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that should have been beautiful. But the mist wasn't thick enough to obscure what she'd come here to see—or rather, what she couldn't stop herself from looking at.
Her reflection stared back from the pool's surface, clearer and more detailed than it had any right to be in the dim light. The frost-edged water acted like a dark mirror, showing her everything she tried so hard to escape.
Skin the color of deep charcoal, smooth and unblemished except where that telltale shimmer flickered across her cheekbones. The starlike glitter was subtle—nearly invisible unless the light hit it just right—but she could see it now in the pool's merciless clarity. It wasn't beautiful, despite what the stories about Elfriche might claim. It was just another mark that set her apart, another sign that she didn't belong.
Her hair caught her attention next. Pale silver, pulled back into the tight braid she wore every day, but even her careful preparation couldn't hide its alien quality. One strand had worked loose and clung to her temple, damp with the morning's humidity. She pressed it down with fingers that trembled slightly, her jaw clenching as she tried to make it lie flat. Even like this—even after every check and double-check, every precaution she could think of—she still looked wrong. Like someone caught between two worlds, belonging fully to neither.
Her ears drew her gaze next, and she felt her stomach clench at the sight of them. Long and angular, tapering to sharp points, with those distinctive ridges that marked her heritage as clearly as a brand. Elfriche. Obvious. Unmistakable. No amount of careful hair arrangement could hide them completely, no posture perfect enough to make them seem normal. They declared what she was to anyone who cared to look.
But it was her eyes that held her longest, that made her breath catch in her throat. Red-black, like dried blood seen through dark glass. Dangerous. Frightening. They seemed to glow with their own light in the pool's reflection, sharp as a blade's edge, carrying warnings written in a language she couldn't read but somehow understood.
Enemy, they seemed to whisper.
That girl—the one Instructor Nalia had just praised for her excellence—that perfect Legion child didn't belong in this reflection. The two images couldn't be reconciled, couldn't exist in the same space. Either she was the model student earning quiet approval, or she was this strange, alien creature staring back from the freezing water. She couldn't be both.
As she gazed into those unsettling eyes, something shifted inside her chest. The ground beneath her knees felt suddenly more solid, more real. Her breathing steadied and deepened, each exhalation turning to fog in the bitter air around the pool. The panic that had driven her here began to transform into something else—something harder and more focused.
Defiance. The will to fight. To prove that she belonged here despite what the mirror showed her.
Her fingers found the stone pouch through her pocket, pressing against the familiar shapes with deliberate force. Blue. Red. Yellow. Soldier, artillery, scout. Count them. Feel their weight. Let their simple arrangement anchor her against the storm of self-doubt.
Blue. Red. Yellow. Count again.
She let the silence wrap around her like a protective cloak, drawing strength from this moment of solitude. Soon she would have to return to the world of watching eyes and careful judgments. But for now, in this hidden place where only the dripping condensation bore witness, she could simply exist without pretense.
The frost-rimmed pool reflected her true face back at her, unforgiving and clear. She met those alien eyes with growing resolve, accepting what she saw there even as she refused to let it define her. She was Legion.
