Chapter 11: Steel Morning From the perspective of Ririka Kanzaki
The courtyard was soaked in morning chill, and even now, as the sun finally rose above the spires of the holy capital, it felt like the cold had sunk beneath her skin.
Ririka stood in line, arms folded tightly across her chest, watching the world without seeing it.
Their training instructor—Captain Wendel—was a storm made flesh. Every word he spoke felt like it had been dipped in rusted iron, pulled straight from a battlefield. She didn’t flinch like some of the others when he barked orders. She didn’t gasp when the first student, Kazuya Nagase, was knocked unconscious by a single brutal kick to the gut. She just watched.
But her fingers were curled tighter than she realised.
She hadn’t spoken to anyone since arriving at the field. There was no need to. These people weren’t her friends. Not Haruka with her silent dignity. Not Mirei with her gssy calm. Not even Shouta, who kept looking around like he didn’t belong.
Ririka didn’t belong either.
But she wouldn’t say that out loud. Weakness was blood in the water.
Kazuya y twitching on the ground, breath shallow, eyes fluttering. A few students recoiled. Captain Wendel didn’t even blink.
Before anyone else could move, Mirei stepped forward—not hesitating, not asking. She knelt beside the boy, checking his breathing with quick, practised movements. Like she'd done it before, like she knew how fragile people were.
Ririka turned her gaze away.
She didn’t want to admire that composure. She didn’t want to see herself in the reflection of someone who could act so swiftly, so kindly.
She didn’t want to feel the twist in her stomach—the jealousy, maybe. The ache.
The line shuffled forward as Wendel motioned for the next student. A boy went. Then another.
Then it was her turn.
She stepped forward with her usual grace, chin slightly lifted, shoulders rolled back. Cold wind nipped at her ankles. Her uniform clung a little too tightly across her ribs. Her long, dark hair swayed as she moved, and she saw his eyes flick toward her, not with interest. Just assessment.
She hated that.
"Kanzaki Ririka," she said clearly, voice ft but firm.
Wendel didn’t respond. Just nodded.
"Attack me," he said.
And Ririka did.
She lunged forward—not with fear, not with recklessness, but with every ounce of will she had forged over the years. Her fist cut through the air toward his chest.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was honest.
A punch from someone who no longer wanted to stand behind others. A punch from a girl who still carried a ghost on her back.
A right hook — sharp, desperate — aimed straight for Wendel’s jaw.
He caught it with one hand, barely flinching.
“Strong-willed,” he murmured. “But that alone won’t save you.”
And in the span of a blink, Wendel’s leg shifted.
Crack.
Pain exploded through her stomach like a lightning bolt. Her vision swam.
Her punch never nded.
She felt weightless for a second, then heavy, crashing into the stone like a doll knocked from a shelf.
No air. No sound. No pride.
Just darkness.
Darkness didn’t come in silence.
It came with ughter.
Warm. Familiar. A boy’s voice, teasing, easy. Her name in his mouth like it had always belonged there.
“Ririka, if you keep scowling like that, your face’ll stick that way.”
They were walking along a narrow path lined with trees, school bags slung over their shoulders. The sun spilt through the leaves in molten gold, painting his hair in soft firelight. She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t mind. Not with him.
He was always saying dumb things like that. Saying them just to make her ugh.
“You’re the one who can’t stop smiling like an idiot,” she had shot back, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Aren’t you tired of pretending to be happy all the time?”
He shrugged, as if the question didn’t touch anything real. “It’s not pretending if I’m with you.”
Stupid. So stupid.
She remembered the flutter in her chest—the panic she’d hidden behind a scoff. He always said things like that. She always pretended they didn’t mean anything.
She reached out for him now, in the dream. Called his name.
But the path was empty.
The warmth was gone.
She stood in bck, rain pouring down. Cold, so cold. Her umbrel is useless in the wind. The world was grey. And the photo on the altar showed his smile, frozen in time.
He was gone.
No final words. No heroic death. Just a tragedy. Just one more boy swallowed by a world too cruel for kindness.
She hadn’t cried.
She’d stood beside his mother at the funeral, dry-eyed, spine straight, hands curled into fists at her sides. She didn’t shed a single tear. She didn’t speak. She didn’t scream.
But she remembered wishing someone—anyone—would pull her out of that moment.
No one did.
And so, she became Ririka Kanzaki. The girl with perfect grades. The untouchable queen of cold smiles. The one no one could hurt, because no one could reach her.
Not anymore.
“…Seiya.”
The name stirred in her chest like a whisper of warmth that didn’t belong in this frozen morning.
She opened her eyes.
A white ceiling. Sunlight was slipping in through the small window above her bed. Pale sheets twisted around her legs. Her heart still pounding like she’d run miles through rain.
No crowd. No field. No Mirei.
Just silence.
And a weight in her chest that never really left.
“…Seiya.”
The name echoed inside her chest.
Her eyes fluttered open, slow and unwilling. White ceiling. Faint warmth of morning sun pooling across the stone floor. The scent of washed linen and polished marble. Silence.
No Mirei.
The bed next to hers was already made, perfectly smooth. No trace of its occupant, as if Mirei had never been there at all.
Ririka blinked again.
She stayed like that for a moment, lying still, arms crossed over her stomach like a doll, eyes unfocused. She could still feel the sun in her dream. Still hear the ughter. Still remember the warmth of his hand brushing hers.
The ache hadn’t faded.
Neither had the shame.
Why did I remember that now? Why today?
Her fingers curled into the sheets. That same helpless heat burned behind her ribs, crawling into her throat like she might choke on it.
She hated this.
She hated waking up like this—soft, slow, human.
There was no space in her for fragility. Not here. Not anymore.
With deliberate control, she pushed herself upright and reached for the pitcher on the nightstand. The water was cool, slightly metallic. She spshed it across her face, letting the sting clear the st remnants of sleep—and memory—from her head.
It doesn’t matter. It’s gone.
The mirror across the room caught her reflection. Pale skin. Hair likespiltd ink. Eyes too sharp for a girl her age.
No one would see the dream. No one would know about Seiya.
Not again.
Her hand drifted briefly to her chest, just over her heart, then dropped.
Outside, the courtyard was beginning to stir. Voices. Metal. Orders.
She rose.
Piece by piece, she rebuilt the armour.
A knock came, soft but practised. Not hesitant—professional.
Ririka didn’t speak. Just turned toward the sound, already expecting what came next.
The door opened slightly. A young maid bowed her head just enough to be polite, not familiar. She was maybe a year older, dressed in the light blue uniform of the pace attendants.
“Lady Kanzaki,” she said, eyes respectfully averted. “Breakfast is being served in the southern hall.”
Ririka nodded, starting to move past her.
“There’s more,” the maid added quickly, tone clipped but not unkind. “After breakfast, you’re scheduled for your first magic css with
Priest Ira, then physical training after lunch—Captain Wendel will be instructing again.”
Ririka’s expression didn’t change.
But something in her chest shifted.
Wendel.
Her bruises hadn’t even started to fade. The phantom pain still pulsed beneath her ribs.
“Understood,” she said ftly, brushing past the maid with smooth, silent steps.
The girl didn’t follow. Just bowed again as the door shut softly behind Ririka.
She walked the hall alone, hair still damp from the spsh of cold water, the world outside her room slowly waking.
Magic. Training. Routine. Discipline.
It was good, she told herself.
This was good.
Because if she kept moving forward, maybe she wouldn’t remember.
Maybe she wouldn’t whisper his name again.
