Imeena opened her eyes at 5:47 a.m.
Not because she wanted to.
Because her body refused to sleep more than five hours in unfamiliar territory without checking for knives.
The first sound she registered was silence.
The second was the soft pull of magic through the eastern wall her chains, still humming quietly, reporting no breaches, no flare of threat near Kaelith's quarters.
Imeena exhaled and sat up with a scowl already forming on her face. Her limbs ached—not from fatigue, but from restraint.
Too many days standing still. Not enough blood in her muscles. And the Academy would require... diplomacy.
She spat that word out in her head like a curse as she rolled off the bed and onto the floor.
She started her routine without hesitation.
One hundred pushups.
Then two hundred.
Then three.
She paused only to rip off her sleep shirt and keep going.
Four hundred.
Five hundred.
Focus. Control your weight. Lock the arms. Don't tremble like a show-off swordsman with daddy issues.
By six hundred, sweat beaded along her spine and soaked the waist of her linen training pants. She kept her breath slow. Deliberate. Let pain eat away the restlessness.
At eight hundred, she shifted to squats. Low, controlled and Barefoot.
Then came the crunches. The rapid footwork drills. The slow lunges that tested every inch of her scars.
And finally burpees. The hellspawn of exercises, she only did sixty.
By the end of it, she was slick with sweat, her black hair a damp curtain against her neck, and her pulse finally hammering a satisfying rhythm in her skull.
It wasn't enough.
But it would have to do.
The shower was functional. Too hot. Too clean. The soap smelled to sweet for her.
She used it anyway, scrubbing herself raw, muttering under her breath the entire time about Celestian architecture and their hatred of normal people.
Her towel barely covered her legs, and the mirror steamed in celestial glyphs that read:
You are radiant. May your light bless the day.
She punched it. Lightly.
The uniform sat where she'd left it the night before still mutilated. Still hers.
She pulled it on.
The coat was cropped to just below her ribs. The buttons were black bone, each carved with a different sigil from her family's old crest long erased from records but never from her skin.
Her sleeves were uneven, one slashed up to her elbow, the other rolled down over her gloves to conceal the chain seals glowing faintly beneath.
The pants fit well. That, at least, she respected. Sturdy, dark navy, movement-friendly. She strapped a belt diagonally across her hip, holding a dagger that was definitely not on the Academy-approved weapon list.
Her boots were scuffed. Intentional. Shined boots meant diplomacy. Hers meant survival.
She looked at herself in the mirror and didn't see a student.
She saw a warning.
Good.
She tied her hair back in a rough tail, let a few strands fall forward, and shrugged on her final piece—a ragged black scarf. Not required. Not matching. But symbolic.
Let them whisper. Let them stare.
She didn't want friends.
She wanted distance.
By the time she stepped into the sun-drenched courtyard, it was exactly 7:03 a.m.
She walked with long, even strides, her coat flapping slightly behind her. Servants scattered instinctively.
A guard nodded once, then looked away too quickly. A mage sweeping the walkways muttered a prayer under his breath.
Imeena passed them all without a glance.
The carriage stood in wait just beyond the garden gates—polished obsidian wood, swirling Celestian runes etched across the frame, and two dream-bred steeds tethered to the front, their manes glowing faintly like starlight on black water.
She stopped beside it, leaned a shoulder against the lacquered door, and folded her arms.
Waiting.
Kaelith had exactly 57 minutes.
Plenty of time for her to take six hundred steps in the wrong direction and test my patience again, Imeena thought grimly.
And then the doors opened.
From the palace steps, Kaelith emerged.
She was radiant, of course. Predictably so.
Her uniform had clearly been steamed by angels. The silver thread caught the light like a flirt. Her high-collared jacket fit perfectly across her waist, and her boots gleamed like they'd never touched real dirt.
She walked like someone who had rehearsed this entrance in her mirror six times—and Kaelith being Kaelith, she probably had.
Her hair was coiled in elegant precision, her badge pinned at a slant that spoke of diplomatic rebellion, and her smile was already half-formed when she caught sight of Imeena.
And froze.
Kaelith stopped at the base of the stairs and blinked.
Her eyes those cool grey things that always carried too much fire swept over Imeena once.
Twice.
Imeena didn't move.
Didn't smirk or ask if she liked what she saw.
Didn't say anything.
Just raised a brow.
Kaelith took another step closer, lips parting slightly.
"…You modified the uniform," she said finally.
Imeena tilted her head slightly. "No."
"You definitely did."
Imeena's voice was flat. "I improved it."
Kaelith's eyes narrowed, but not with offense.
With fascination.
The scarf. The buttons. The exposed glyphs. The complete refusal to blend in.
Kaelith's expression wavered somewhere between what the hell and you absolute menace, I love it.
"Is that a dagger?" she asked.
"No."
"It's very obviously a dagger."
"It's an educational pointer."
Kaelith folded her arms. "You're going to scare everyone."
Imeena allowed the smallest flicker of a smile to tug at the corner of her mouth. Not kind. Not teasing. Just... aware.
"Good people won't come to me then."
Kaelith stared at her for another second. Then turned toward the carriage.
Imeena followed.
As they climbed in, side by side, and the door shut behind them, Kaelith leaned back against the plush velvet seat and said, "You look like a villain infiltrating a high school to teach a morality lesson."
Imeena stared straight ahead. "And you look like a trophy wife auditioning for political relevance."
"…Thank you?"
"Not a compliment."
Kaelith chuckled under her breath and turned to look out the window.
The carriage rolled forward.
One hour to the Academy.
And Imeena could already feel the migraine forming.