The Silent Tides

The echo of her footsteps resonated through the marble hallways, each sound amplifying the weight of the conversation with her father.

«It wasn't just frustration. There was something else beneath it, something denser that clung to her chest. It hadn't been a rejection, but it wasn't permission either.» Her father had been firm, tense, each word measured with precision. He hadn't told her to stop, but he hadn't given her a clear reason to continue either. It wasn't just his words but the way he had looked at her, as if he were measuring not only what she was asking but what she truly wanted to know. And then there was the detail she couldn't ignore.

«He called me Gwendolyn.» Not Gwen, like he usually did when they spoke casually. Not with the indifference he used when his attention was elsewhere.

«He called me Gwendolyn, as if he was making it clear that this wasn't a game.»

«My full name almost always appeared when I was in trouble or when someone wanted me to understand something without room for discussion. And this time, it had been the latter.»

«That was what bothered me.»

«He didn't speak to me as his daughter. He spoke to me as someone who needed to understand the rules before breaking them.»

Her fists were still clenched, muscles tense since she had left that room. She hadn't realized it until now. Her breathing, though controlled, was still deeper than normal, as if her body was still trying to regulate the agitation she hadn't shown in front of her father. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to release the tension. But the weight in her chest didn't disappear. And not only that.

«Because even though the knot in her stomach warned her that her father had wanted her to understand something more, she also knew one thing for certain—she wasn't going to stop.»

Her mind kept replaying every word, every pause in the conversation, as she moved down the hallway. She wasn't paying attention to anything else. Only when her hand brushed against the wooden door did she realize she had already reached her room.

From inside, she heard laughter and murmurs. They sounded muffled, blending with the light breeze filtering through the hallway balconies. It wasn't strange for Seyna and Lirien to already be there, but for some reason, at that moment, the familiarity of their voices made her hesitate.

She pressed her fingers against the polished wood. She stood like that for a moment, letting the echo of the previous conversation run its course inside her, like a current that had yet to settle. Then, without thinking too much, she turned the handle and stepped inside.

The room was spacious, with high ceilings. The white marble floor reflected the soft light streaming in through the windows, bathing everything in a gentle glow. Every detail spoke of nobility and tradition. Fine fabric curtains fell in elegant folds, the dark wooden desk remained pristine—except for the open books she had left that morning. Above her, a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, its warm light contrasting with the coldness of the marble.

Everything was in order. Everything as it should be. Except for Seyna. She paced restlessly, touching objects at random without permission. Her blonde hair fell carelessly over her shoulders, and her orange eyes gleamed with their usual mischief. Lirien, seated on the sofa, maintained her serene posture, holding a teacup with the same precision with which she assessed everything around her. Her pale pink gaze never left Gwen for even a second.

"Oh, you're back," Seyna said without turning around. "How did the meeting with your father go? Did you survive, or should we start planning your funeral?"

Lirien tilted her head, observing her closely. Gwen picked up a teacup from the table and sat down on the sofa. The warmth of the porcelain against her fingers gave her an excuse to keep herself occupied—a point of focus while she organized her thoughts.

"You haven't said anything yet," Lirien noted, her voice calm but inquisitive. "It wasn't an easy conversation."

Silence stretched for a few seconds. Gwen drummed her fingers against her leg, weighing her words. Her father's responses still spun in her mind—every pause, every nuance in his tone. There had been no rejection, but no acceptance either. Only when she felt Lirien's gaze pressing on her did she speak.

"We talked about the university."

Seyna turned with a raised eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And?"

Gwen shifted on the sofa, moving the cup between her fingers. "I told him I want to study History."

Seyna blinked, then let out a short laugh. "History? So you plan to isolate yourself among books and become part of the library furniture?"

Gwen arched an eyebrow, her tone more serious than usual. "Would you rather I spend my life entertaining nobles with empty eloquence?"

Seyna tilted her head, her smile making it unclear whether she was mocking or simply amused. "I suppose that makes sense. But… did he approve?"

Lirien set her cup down on the table. "He hasn't forbidden it yet. But he hasn't approved it either."

Gwen pressed her fingers against the armrest. "Exactly."

"Then he'll forbid it when he decides it's a problem," Lirien concluded.

Seyna scoffed and flopped onto the rug. "What a surprise."

Gwen shot her a look, somewhere between tired and amused. "Say it without sarcasm."

"That's asking too much. I literally don't know how."

Lirien exhaled, patient. "Or maybe he's just waiting to see how serious you are about it."

Gwen tensed, but took a sip of tea to mask it. Lirien was reasoning with the logic she knew, but she wasn't entirely correct. Her father wasn't evaluating her decision—he was warning her. But she couldn't say that out loud.

"Or maybe he simply doesn't want to discuss it now," she replied, in a lighter tone than she felt.

Seyna clicked her tongue. "That's a very polite way of saying he left you hanging."

Gwen merely raised an eyebrow.

Seyna shifted, propping herself up on her arms. "Well, let's drop that. There are more interesting things to talk about."

Gwen lifted an eyebrow. "And does that include not talking about the future?"

Seyna smiled slyly. "It includes talking about the present before our families decide what to do with us."

Lirien took another sip of tea, pausing before responding. "I will do what is expected of me."

Seyna looked at her with evident disappointment. "Boring," she said with feigned indignation.

"Realistic," Lirien replied without flinching.

"Without excitement," Seyna insisted, rolling her eyes.

"Without unnecessary chaos," Lirien corrected.

The voices of Seyna and Lirien continued beside her, a familiar murmur that filled the space, but Gwen barely heard them.

Lirien's comment faded from her mind, as if the conversation continued but her attention had shifted elsewhere. No unnecessary chaos. That was exactly what her father wanted to avoid. Gwen observed the interaction with a half-smile, though not out of true amusement. Her mind was still elsewhere, fixated on the exact way her father had spoken to her.

«He always leaves spaces open. He never says everything. Just enough for me to understand what he wants me to understand. » Her gaze drifted to a fixed point on the table. «It's not that he can't be direct. It's that he doesn't want to be. » Her father never said anything without intention. He never left words to chance. And that meant that what he had said… and what he hadn't said were equally important.

She brushed her fingers over the fabric of her sleeve, feeling the texture between them—an anchor, silent but grounding, as she tried to sort out her thoughts. She wasn't angry, but the discomfort persisted, taking the shape of an incomplete truth, of a warning disguised as advice. Her father hadn't told her to stop. But he had told her to be careful. Not for her own sake, but because of who might notice she was asking questions.

«It's not a matter of whether I should keep going. It's a matter of how to do it without being noticed. » She adjusted the edge of her sleeve and exhaled slowly, letting her friends' conversation blend into her own thoughts. If there were limits, it was because something lay beyond them. And if her father had pointed them out, it meant they were worth understanding.

That was when a fragment of a poem she had read that very morning at the academy returned to her. A passage that had intrigued her at the time but now took on a new meaning:

«No throne stands without its shadow, nor bond without a fracture;

No star decrees what the breeze may carry.

Neither flame nor dawn forges the path,

But the voice that offers itself to the ruins.»

She had read the poem as an observation on history, on how every power had its cracks and no inheritance was eternal. But now… now it felt different. More like a reminder that every choice had a cost. That no one built their own path without leaving something behind.

«But what? What did it really mean? That everything she sought would come at a price? That she couldn't simply learn and discover without losing something in the process? And what exactly was she supposed to lose?»

Her fingers stopped at the seam of her sleeve. «Her father hadn't said it in those words, but he had implied it. Not that she couldn't find answers, but that doing so would make others notice her. And people who didn't want to be noticed always had reasons for it. The question wasn't whether she would continue. She already knew the answer to that. What she didn't know was how much she was willing to pay for it.»

Elsewhere in the world, where decisions weren't debated with words but through blows and resilience, the answer to that question could only be found at the edge of a blade.

The sharp clang of metal against metal tore through the air.

"Kaelin, move." Ronan rested his sword against his shoulder with his usual air of feigned patience.

Kaelin huffed and got back on his feet, brushing the dust from his hands before gripping his weapon again. He wasn't in a hurry. He never was. His athletic build reflected years of training, his stance firm but never rigid. He had been born to move in combat, and he knew it.

Across from him, Ronan was already waiting, idly spinning the hilt of his sword in one hand. They were similar but not identical. His friend was quieter, more observant. His skin was lighter, his straight brown hair cropped just above the nape of his neck. They had the same foundation, the same training, and a rivalry that was settled on the ground—not with words.

Kaelin rested his sword against his shoulder and exhaled.

"It's always against you."

Ronan barely smiled.

"You could lose once in a while, just to shake things up."

Kaelin let out a short laugh and spun the blade between his fingers with ease.

"That's exactly what I was going to say."

The wind stirred up dust between them. Neither of them moved. Neither one needed to say anything more.

Kaelin bent his knees slightly, ready to strike.

"Whenever you're ready."