Jude studied her quietly for a mont before speaking, his voice calm but tired.
"You’re pushing yourself too hard again."
Alice didn’t deny it.
She simply lowered her gaze to her plate.
"I have to," she replied.
Jude sighed softly, the sound carrying more weight than any lecture.
The candlelight flickered between them.
And for the first ti that day, Alice allowed herself to feel how tired she truly was.
------------------------------------------------------
Grandpa Jude lowered himself into the chair with a quiet groan, one hand braced against the table as his knees protested the motion. Alice was already half-risen from her seat, instinctively moving to help him, but he lifted a hand before she could take a step.
"Sit," he said.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obeyed, returning to her chair with restrained reluctance. Her posture remained straight, alert, as if she were still standing in the training yard rather than sitting in the dining hall of her family’s fading estate.
Jude watched her closely.
"How was your training?" he asked.
"It was fine," Alice replied.
The answer ca too quickly. Too cleanly. Her voice was flat, direct, devoid of any nuance.
Jude sighed.
Eight years.
Eight long years, and the shadow of that day still sat between them like an uninvited guest. He rembered the girl she used to be—loud, bright, endlessly curious, always asking questions she didn’t yet know how to answer. That girl had laughed too easily, trusted too freely.
That girl was gone.
In her place sat soone sharper. Colder. Soone who treated every conversation like a transaction and every mont like preparation for sothing unseen but inevitable.
"You should take so ti to rest, Alice," Jude said gently. "The Wickle boy ntioned you’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately."
Her expression tightened instantly.
A grimace flickered across her face—quick, but unmistakable. Jude knew that look well enough to pity the poor soul who had spoken out of turn.
"I’m fine," she said again, her tone unchanged.
Direct. Final. No room for discussion.
Jude exhaled slowly through his nose. He had raised warriors before. He had trained soldiers who lived and died by discipline and routine. But Alice was different. She wasn’t driven by ambition or glory.
She was driven by loss.
And that kind of fire burned hotter than most people realized.
He studied her carefully as she resud eating, the movents precise, efficient, almost chanical. There was no indulgence in the al, no comfort taken from it. Food was fuel now. Nothing more.
That, more than anything else, worried him.
The real problem wasn’t her dedication. It wasn’t her discipline.
It was her direction.
Alice was stuck.
Not in effort—gods knew she worked harder than anyone—but in growth. She was circling the sa ground, refining what she already knew, sharpening what was already sharp. But there was no breakthrough. No shift. No spark.
And Jude knew exactly why.
She lacked a proper teacher.
The academy she attended was one of the finest among the outer nobles of the Chronos Dukedom. Its reputation was solid, its instructors competent. Under normal circumstances, it would have been more than enough.
But Alice Ivory was not normal.
Her bloodline was not sothing those instructors were equipped to handle. Nor were they expected to. The academy catered to dozens of noble families, each with their own legacies, their own affinities, their own secrets. Unlike the Chronos Academy, they could not afford to focus on a single lineage.
That limitation had beco Alice’s cage.
Under her father, it would not have mattered. He had been an Ascendant of terrifying caliber, a man whose presence alone stabilized the Ivory. Under him, Alice would have grown naturally, guided, corrected, pushed when necessary.
But her father was gone.
Her brother was capable, intelligent, and strong—but burdened. Politics, internal dissent, external pressure. He was fighting a war on too many fronts to personally ntor her the way she needed.
Jude clenched his fingers slightly.
Many Ivory mbers had tried.
Veteran fighters. Retired commanders. Even distant relatives who fancied themselves instructors.
None of them lasted.
They either couldn’t keep up with Alice, or they couldn’t handle her temperant. So broke under her intensity. Others resented her talent. A few simply failed to teach her anything new.
Alice didn’t need refinent.
She needed exposure.
She needed to see sothing different. Sothing greater.
She needed a reason to grow again.
Jude watched her for a long mont as she ate, eyes lowered, expression controlled. But he could see it—the tension coiled beneath the surface, the frustration that never quite faded.
If nothing changed, she would burn herself out long before she ever reached her goal.
An idea surfaced.
One he had avoided for months.
Perhaps years.
The hesitation ca imdiately after. The idea was dangerous. Not physically—Alice could handle danger—but emotionally. It would force her into a space she had avoided since the incident.
It would bring her closer to the Chronos.
And to one particular na she had never spoken aloud again.
Jude hesitated.
Was she ready?
Was he ready to suggest it?
He looked at her again, really looked at her. The way her shoulders were always tense. The way her eyes never softened, even at ho. The way her youth felt almost misplaced on her now.
If he waited longer...
He might not be around when she finally needed this push.
That decided it.
"I have sothing for you," Jude said.
Alice paused mid-motion.
Her utensil hovered above her plate as she slowly lifted her gaze. One eyebrow rose slightly, her expression shifting from guarded neutrality to alert curiosity.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A chance," Jude replied. "To improve your strength. And if things go well... to gain a reward."
She didn’t speak. She simply watched him, waiting.
"There’s an annual event hosted by the Chronos family," he continued carefully.
Her reaction was imdiate.
Her body stiffened.
It was subtle—almost imperceptible—but Jude caught it. The na alone was enough to trigger it. Chronos.
"I know," he said before she could speak, "you don’t like hearing that na. And I won’t pretend the history between our families is simple."
That was an understatent.
"But the event itself is... valuable," Jude went on. "They usually host it for the graduates of their academy. However, they also involve nine other noble families from around the dukedom."
Alice listened in silence, her expression unreadable.
"There are rewards for participation," Jude said, "and greater rewards for victory. They use it to sharpen their descendants. To test them in real conditions."
Her fingers curled slightly against the table.
"Our family wasn’t selected this ti," he admitted. "Under normal circumstances, we wouldn’t qualify."
She looked away briefly at that.
"But," Jude continued, "I have a friend in the Niver family. An old one. He owes more than a few favors. He can secure a slot for you."
Alice’s gaze returned to him, sharp now.
"What’s the challenge?" she asked.
Jude shook his head. "I don’t know. It changes every year."
That didn’t deter her.
"I did hear sothing, though," he added. "This year’s event is supposed to be... difficult. The graduates involved are said to be exceptional. Different."
Special.
The word wasn’t spoken, but it echoed in her mind anyway.
Special.
Orion.
The thought surfaced instantly, unbidden, unwanted. If the Chronos Academy graduates were involved, then the odds were high. Painfully high.
Her jaw tightened.
Risking an encounter with him was not sothing she had planned.
But strength was never gained without risk.
She stared at her plate for a mont longer, then slowly looked back up at Jude. Whatever hesitation lingered in her eyes hardened into resolve.
"I’ll do it."
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