He tried again.
One more step through the door. One more push, one more desperate attempt to escape the circle.
And yet—
The mont his foot crossed the threshold, he erged into the sa room again.
Sa air. Sa couches. Sa smug prince sitting there like he’d been waiting for him the whole ti.
It was like walking through a mirror that only led back to itself.
Avin blinked once. Then twice.
He reached for the handle again, twisted, stepped—
And—again—the sa damned room.
The repetition gnawed at sothing deep in his skull.
It reminded him of that dream.
The one he’d tried so hard to forget.
The dream where he kept dying—over and over, again and again—each death slightly different but always ending the sa. Every reset left him emptier, colder, more detached from what was real.
That sa weight pressed down on his chest now.
The frustration, the humiliation, the exhaustion—it all tangled into one tight, brittle thread inside him. And with that one last failure to escape, the thread snapped.
His jaw locked. His breath ca out low and sharp.
Enough.
He gripped the sheath of his sword. His knuckles whitened around the handle.
Then he started walking.
Slow, deliberate steps—each one echoing like a countdown.
Theo stood by the door, silent as always, a ghost in human form. He made no move at first. But when Avin’s pace shifted—when his footsteps grew heavier, angrier—Theo’s head turned. His eyes flicked toward him.
He moved.
One step, then another, placing himself between Avin and the prince in a blur of motion too smooth to be reflex.
Avin didn’t hesitate.
He spun.
His movent was sharp, precise—a clean twist that cut through Theo’s interference with the kind of instinct you only got from fighting too long and too hard. The air brushed past him with a low whump, the wind displaced by his motion.
Theo’s hand hovered, caught midreach.
Avin’s boot scraped against the floor as he pivoted back toward the prince.
The prince had risen from his seat now. Calmly. Almost lazily.
He didn’t draw a weapon. Didn’t call for guards. Didn’t even look afraid.
He simply stood there, eting Avin’s glare with the faintest hint of amusent curling at the edge of his lips.
The princess, anwhile, hadn’t moved an inch. She remained seated, legs crossed, chin resting on her palm, eyes glittering with quiet delight. Like soone watching an entertaining play unfold.
Avin stopped a few feet away from the prince, his hand still resting on the sword’s grip.
His voice ca out low. Rough.
"The things in here must be expensive," he said, tilting his head slightly, letting his fingers slide over the sheath. "Would be a sha if I destroyed so stuff."
The faint shing of steel rang out as he drew the sword just enough for everyone in the room to hear the sound. The sound filled the silence like a spark catching dry air.
The prince said nothing.
He simply stared at Avin—expression blank, unbothered.
Avin stared back, eyes narrowed, the tension between them thick enough to choke on.
Seconds stretched.
Neither spoke.
Neither moved.
Until—finally—the prince’s mask cracked.
A smile. Slow. Amused. Calculated.
"You passed," he said.
Avin blinked. The words didn’t make sense. "What?"
The prince gestured with one hand, settling back down onto the couch with all the casual authority of soone used to being obeyed.
"Please," he said, "have a seat."
Avin didn’t move. He squinted at him suspiciously, studying the prince’s relaxed posture, the faint smirk that hadn’t left his face. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he approached.
The sa couch waited—the one that had betrayed him earlier.
His eyes flicked toward Theo, who stood motionless at the side. Avin’s expression hardened. He gave Theo a look sharp enough to cut through armor.
"Nothing will happen," the prince said, tone smooth, reassuring.
Avin hesitated another heartbeat, then exhaled through his nose and sat.
This ti, the couch stayed solid.
Soft, comfortable. Almost insultingly so.
He adjusted his seat slightly, glaring across the table as the prince leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"This is a team," the prince began, voice steady and diplomatic, "and I need this team to be able to advance to the finals of the exam."
Avin resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
The prince continued, "We have to help each other."
No shit, Sherlock, Avin thought, keeping his face blank.
"Because of this," the prince went on, "I wanted soone who isn’t intimidated by my status. Soone who can make decisions regardless of what I think. Soone who’d do whatever it takes for the team to win and for all of us to pass."
He paused to sip the tea placed before him, the movent elegant, practiced, irritatingly composed.
"I might not always give the best orders," he said, setting the cup down with a soft clink. "So I wanted soone who could think critically in critical situations."
He turned his gaze toward Henry, who sat stiffly on the other couch, still trying to process everything that had just happened.
"Your friend over there," the prince said, "obviously failed. I wanted to remind him what happens when you can’t stand up for yourself. So—" he smiled faintly "—I apologize if it seed like I was being too harsh."
Henry blinked. "Oh... um... it’s nothing, Your Highness."
Avin’s head turned just slightly, catching Henry’s eye. Henry looked back at him.
Neither of them said a word, but their shared glance said everything.
This guy’s full of shit.
Still, Avin stayed quiet. There was no point in arguing. The prince’s little performance had a purpose, and playing along—for now—was smarter than starting another fight.
The prince took another sip of tea before continuing.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we begin team-based training. We’ll need to learn how our skills align and how best to complent one another in combat."
He turned his head slightly, eyes settling on Henry again.
"We et after lunch, at the training grounds. I believe your friend knows where that is."
Henry nodded, slow and uncertain. "Y-yes, Your Highness."
"Good."
The prince rose smoothly to his feet, every motion deliberate. The princess followed, mirroring him like a reflection made of gold and pride.
"This will be all for today’s eting," the prince said. "Please, get so rest."
He gave Theo a small nod.
Theo raised one hand.
And—just like before—a door appeared.
Right out of the air.
Avin felt the hair on his arms stand slightly from the energy that rippled through the space. The faint hum of distortion faded as the door solidified into shape.
Theo gestured toward it wordlessly.
"Go on," the prince said, tone dismissive but polite.
Avin rose slowly, giving Theo a warning glare on his way past. Theo t his eyes without a word, his face unreadable.
Henry followed.
The mont they both stepped through, the air warped—and the sound of the door closing behind them echoed once, sharply.
When Avin turned, the door was gone.
No shimr, no trace.
Just the still corridor of a new place.
They stood in a long hallway lined with identical wooden doors, each marked with a silver plate engraved with numbers.
Henry squinted, scanning until his gaze landed on one particular door.
"Ah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "So this is our actual room."
He reached out, twisting the handle. The hinges groaned—creeeeeak—and the door swung open, revealing the kind of "accommodation" that could only be described as aggressively unimpressive.
A small living area. Dull walls. Faded paint. One couch, one table, and lighting that barely qualified as adequate.
After the ornate grandeur of the prince’s space, this looked like a mud hut that had given up halfway through existing.
Avin stepped in after him, scanning the room. To the side, one smaller door led off from the main area, and down the opposite wall, four more doors lined up in a neat row.
"Let guess," he muttered, pointing toward the side door. "Bathroom."
"Most likely," Henry replied through a yawn so wide it could’ve been a scream.
He stretched, rubbed his eyes, and without another word, wandered toward one of the doors on the far left.
He didn’t even check if Avin followed. Just opened the door, stepped inside, and collapsed onto the bed with a muffled thump.
Monts later, a soft snore drifted through the wall.
Avin blinked. "...Okay then."
He turned toward the door farthest right—right next to Henry’s—and grasped the handle.
It creaked the sa way, tired and slow, as it opened.
The room beyond was small, simple, and still.
A single bed rested in the corner, the sheets plain but clean. Opposite it stood a small wooden desk and chair, nothing more. No windows, no curtains, but the faint illumination from unseen sources filled the space evenly. The air was cool, faintly tallic, but not unpleasant.
It was... enough.
And there, beside the bed—
His bag.
The sa one he hadn’t seen since what felt like forever ago.
The sight of it stopped him midstep.
He stared for a mont before letting out a quiet breath that sounded halfway between relief and disbelief.
He crouched slightly, running his hand over the bag’s surface like greeting an old friend. The leather was worn but familiar, the faint scuffs and scratches marking stories long past.
"Nice to et you again, friend," he murmured, a small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
The exhaustion hit him all at once after that. The kind of tired that lives in your bones.
He dropped onto the bed, boots still on, eyes tracing the ceiling for a mont before fluttering closed.
The hum of the room faded into silence.
And for the first ti in what felt like years, Avin let himself sleep without thinking about tomorrow.
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