Ail’s First Betrayal

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The Mentor knows.

She has not spoken of it yet, not directly, but she knows.

Ail can feel it in the way her sharp eyes linger on them longer than usual. In the way her hands—once steady, once sure—hesitate before adjusting their posture during practice. In the silence between her words, a silence heavy with unspoken things.

Ail still performs flawlessly. Their balance remains perfect, their footwork precise, their landings feather-light. But something is missing, something intangible but undeniable. Their heart is no longer in it.

The Mentor watches.

She waits.

And finally, she speaks.

~~~

The confrontation happens late at night, under the dim glow of a single lantern in the practice tent. The air is thick with dust and expectation.

Ail stands in front of her, their arms crossed, their body rigid with a tension that has been building for weeks.

The Mentor does not look angry. She does not look disappointed. She only looks tired.

"You're restless," she says.

Ail's jaw tightens. They do not respond.

"You want to leave."

It is not a question.

Ail swallows hard. The newspaper headline flashes in their mind, the words burned into their thoughts like an iron brand.

"Yes."

The Mentor exhales through her nose, slow, measured. She looks away for a moment, her gaze distant, lost in a memory Ail cannot see.

When she speaks again, her voice is quiet.

"You think the world will love you, Ail?" Her eyes meet theirs, sharp, unyielding. "You think they will open their arms and welcome you?"

Ail says nothing.

"They will chew you up and spit you out."

The words hit like a knife, twisting deep.

Ail clenches their fists. Their heart pounds. Their voice, when it comes, is bitter, sharp, edged with defiance.

"I'd rather be chewed up than rot in this place."

Silence.

A breath.

Then, the smallest flinch—the barest flicker of something in The Mentor's expression.

Pain.

For the first time, Ail hesitates.

But it is too late.

The words have already been spoken.

The damage is already done.

The Mentor does not argue. She does not plead. She only nods once, slow, and turns away.

Ail watches her go, their throat tight, their chest aching with something they cannot name.

They sigh—

"Leaving, huh?"

Ail stiffens.

The voice comes from the shadows, smooth, amused, laced with something cruel.

Avik.

He steps forward, arms crossed, smirking. The dim light catches on the sharp angles of his face, the gleam of something unreadable in his eyes.

"Let's see how long you last."

Ail says nothing.

They hold his gaze, unblinking, unmoving.

But inside—

Inside, something breaks.