The training hall smelled like old wood, dust, and something you’d politely call “hard work“.

  The windows stretched high, and sunlight cut through in narrow, golden slants.

  Lia stood in the dead center, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “Why you, of all people?”

  Ezra strolled in late, wearing a shirt that couldn’t decide if it was still a tank top, and sweatpants hanging way too low on his hips. His hair looked like it’d lost a fight with gravity: messy, cocky but perfect. And that smirk was bad news.

  “Because you got issues with authority.”

  “You’re not even an inch of authority,” she muttered.

  “Thank you.”

  She hated how fast he got her into that half-irritated, half-smirking headspace. Like dealing with a wasp. You ignore it, and suddenly it’s obsessed with you.

  “Alright,” Ezra said, tossing her a wooden staff. “Let’s see how bad you wanna kick my ass.”

  She caught it and spun it in her hand. “How hard can I hit you?“

  He stepped closer. Way closer than necessary.

  “You can do whatever you want if you survive it.”

  At first, the sparring was tame. Feints, quick dodges, soft hits.

  Ezra moved like a predator in a graceful, arrogant manner, and way too good-looking while doing it.

  Lia went in with a solid side hit. He blocked and leaned in. Suddenly their faces were inches apart.

  “You got somethin’ on your nose,” he whispered.

  She stomped his foot hard. “Ouch,” he said, playing low-key offended.

  Then it wasn’t sparring anymore. It was like a dance. A fight with too much eye contact. He dodged, grabbed her wrist, and spun her around so she almost fell, but of course, he caught her. Effortlessly.

  For a split second, that felt way longer, she was half in his arms. Both are breathing too loud. His gaze burned hotter than the sweat on her bruised forehead.

  His hand was on her waist. Her fingers were in his shirt.

  A flicker. A breath. Her heart thundered.

  Ezra opened his mouth and leaned in just a bit: “Whoa there, Puck. You’re not dangerous enough yet.” And then he let go.

  Lia stumbled a step back, lips pressed so tight she could’ve choked on every curse in existence. Her cheeks burned but she didn’t say a word.

  Just gave him a look that said plenty.

  Ezra turned, walked toward the water bottles, tossed it over his shoulder: “Don’t sweat it. I’m allergic to serious vibes.”

  “Sure you are,” she muttered. There was Something she really shouldn’t ignore.

  The moment had barely faded when she felt the sudden, blade-sharp silence that came with a familiar scent.

  Ezra’s grin died instantly. He straightened and pulled a silver-bladed knife from under his shirt in one smooth move. “Out. Now,” he said, voice low, no room for argument.

  “Oh, yeah? And what, light a candle if you die?”

  He opened his mouth to respond but the window exploded above them in a hail of glass.

  A storm of black feathers and shadow crashed in like the end of the world.

  Lia backed up on instinct, still clutching the stick, while something began to take shape in the chaos. Tall. Its wings were pure darkness, feathers made of shadow.

  Its face was beautiful but twisted and furious. “You,” the creature whispered, and its gaze cut straight through her.

  Ezra moved before she could process.

  “Out!” he barked and threw himself at the thing, slamming it back out the shattered window.

  Lia bolted for the stairs, adrenaline blazing through her veins. Behind her, fists collided. Bone cracked. Ezra fought hard with dodging and striking back. But the fallen angel was fast. Supernaturally fast.

  Lia wanted to help. But her legs felt like stone.

  All she could do was watch as the angel paused, stepped back, and said in a voice that chilled her blood:

  “You promised her to us, Ezrael.”

  Ezra froze with widened eyes. “That’s over,” he spat. “I owe you nothing.” The angel laughed low and sharp: “We’ll see.” Lia saw it then. That flicker of something behind Ezra’s eyes. A small crack in the armor.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “What the hell is he talking about?!” she yelled.

  Ezra didn’t answer but struck hard, blade to its throat. A scream ripped the air. Fire burst from the wound, burning through shadow and flesh. The angel disintegrated, just like in her vision. Ash hit the stone floor. The wings went first. Then the face.

  And finally, only smoke remained. Ezra turned to her.

  “What the hell was that?” Lia breathed.

  He looked at her, eyes unreadable.

  “Used to be a friend. Now? Hell if I know. Just an echo, maybe.”

  She stared at the spot where the angel vanished.

  Only ashes now. But the smell clung to the air like honey.

  Ezra stood still, shoulders tight, the knife still clenched in his fist. His breath came rough and ragged. But he wasn’t really looking at her anymore.

  “Ezra,” she said quietly. “Who was that?” He barely flinched. Like her voice tugged him out of some walking nightmare.

  “No one.”

  “That wasn’t no one,” she shot back. “He knew your name. He talked about me.”

  “Training’s over,” Ezra said. Just like that. Mask back on. His Grin fake and sharp again.

  “You did alright. That’s enough for today.”

  “Bullshit, Ezra!” Lia stepped toward him, knuckles white around the staff. “I saw you hesitate. What the hell is going on?” His eyes snapped to her, harder now.

  “I said: It. Was. Someone. From. Before.”

  “And I said that’s not good enough!” Her voice cracked, raw with frustration. He inhaled and Cracked his neck. “Lia…”

  “No!” she cut him off. “I’m not one of your pretty little puppets.” That word ?puppets“ let Ezra’s face visibly twitch. “Watch your mouth,” he growled.

  “Or what? Gonna torch me for asking the wrong question?”

  Silence. Just wind dragging ash across the floor.

  Ezra shut his eyes. Fighting for calm. Then, softer:

  “You don’t get it.”

  “Then make me get it!”

  “Not now.”

  “Oh yeah? Sure, let me just buy that load of crap real quick.” He finally looked at her. Not just angry. But hurt. “Please. Just let it go.”

  She started laughing hysterically “You know what? I’m done. Done with your half-truths, haunted hallways, and ghosts from hell.” She backed away, the staff still clutched like it was the only solid thing in her life.

  “I’m out. I’d rather take my chances on the street than keep getting played in here.” Ezra opened his mouth. Maybe to stop her. Maybe not.

  But he didn’t move. So she turned around and left.

  The hallways felt different now. More narrow, darker, like the whole monastery had slouched under the weight of unspoken truths.

  Lia’s footsteps echoed too loud for the tight corridor, the sound of her anger bouncing off the walls, drilling into her skull, pounding behind her right eye, right where it always started to burn when she tried too hard to cage her thoughts.

  She just wanted out. Out of this place, out of Ezra’s silence, out of his goddamn eyes that cut deeper than any blade. Out of this sick feeling of being a pawn in a game she didn’t know the rules to.

  And then Maliel stood in front of her. Like a shadow, you notice too late, already there before your brain even registers him. That unreadable calm of his said more than words ever could.

  “What’s the matter, Maliel?” she snapped, not stopping, marching straight toward him, chin too high, voice too sharp and loud enough to cover the tremble underneath. “Wanna be a dick, too?”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a dare. A thrown match over an open gas line. And part of her—maybe too much of her—hoped he’d strike back. The first punch came fast. Raw. No finesse, just pure heat. Enough to knock any normal person off balance.

  But Maliel wasn’t normal.

  He lifted his arm with that unnatural grace, absorbed the blow like it was nothing, smoothed it out, shut it down like swatting away the wind.

  Lia gritted her teeth and hit again. Harder and angrier, but still useless. He blocked her without any effort. Like she was a child punching at a wall of light that didn’t even flinch.

  The third time, it wasn’t resistance anymore. A single fluid impossibly fast motion, and he turned her. Caught her, pulling her in close.

  So close she could feel his warm breath against her ear, his voice slipping into her like a knife, too close to be unheard. It settled into her head like a command.

  “Careful,” he whispered. “You’re playing with fire. And you’re expected.”

  Then he let her go Like a leaf between two fingers. She stumbled and caught herself. Wanted to yell, curse, scream something. Anything.

  But he didn’t give her another chance. A firm grip on her upper arm and then he dragged her with him, wordless, steady, straight down the corridor like her choice had never mattered.

  The office smelled of old wood, incense, and something deeper like the dust beneath the furniture.

  Father Benedict sat there like a monument. Only his eyes were too alive.

  Although he was obviously in his late sixties, he had young watchful blue eyes. Watching her like he could see straight through skin and bone and into whatever she didn’t understand about herself.

  “Sit,” he said. Calm, but not inviting. Like someone who already knows you’ll resist but has to say it anyway. Lia stayed standing.

  “You’ve seen more today than what was meant for a newcomer.”

  “Well.”

  Benedict didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

  “But maybe it was necessary,” he continued. “Because you’re not here by accident. This monastery, these halls, these people. They don’t exist separately. You’re a part of it. Whether you want to be or not.”

  Lia let out a dry, bitter laugh.

  “I’m not part of anything. Never have been. I’ve always been alone and guess what? Still breathing.”

  “Living isn’t the same as surviving, child.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Benedict held her gaze for a long time.

  “You’re safe here. But only if you’re willing to adapt. That doesn’t mean bowing. It means understanding that you’re not fighting alone anymore.” She wanted to argue. Screaming that she didn’t need anyone. But the words caught in her throat where something else had started to settle. Realization, maybe. Or just plain old surrender.

  “No one here wants to hurt you,” Benedict added. “Not even Ezra.”

  Ezra. That name again. Like a blade.

  She couldn’t say anything anymore.

  The training hall still reeked of sweat, splinters, and the kinda old wood that told stories if you leaned in close enough and listened. It was dead silent now, the echo of their sparring hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.

  Lia stood frozen, staring at the broken window, which ached in every heartbeat, like her body was screaming what her mouth refused to say.

  A sight flicker in the doorway caught her attention.

  Ezra was Leaning against the frame, casual as hell, sipping something from a bottle like nothing happened. “Maybe,” he said, voice low, no smirk this time, just something softer. “Maybe you are dangerous enough after all.”

  Lia didn’t turn to face him. Just let the pain settle. Let the words fall over her like rain she didn’t ask for.

  “You think that’s a compliment?” she muttered.

  Ezra stepped in, slowly, boots heavy on the floorboards like a heartbeat too loud in a quiet church.

  “No,” he said. “I think it’s the first honest thing I’ve said to you all day.”

  That got her. She turned, finally, face still flushed from the fight, from the run, from the way the air had felt heavy ever since that winged thing burst through the glass like a goddamn apocalypse teaser.

  Her eyes locked on his. “Then say the second.”

  Ezra’s jaw tensed. For a second, he looked like he might. Like something behind his dark eyes wanted to spill. But instead, he exhaled, and whatever it was slipped back behind that grin, back into the place.

  “You should get your forehead looked at,” he said, gesturing with the bottle toward her face.

  “Fuck off.”

  That grin wobbled just a little. “Too late for that.”

  She stepped past him, brushing his shoulder, didn’t say another word.