A Thread of Kindness

The bruises had darkened overnight.

I could feel them before I even opened my eyes — the rigid ache running down the side of my ribs, the dull throbbing in my shoulder, the sharp, stinging sensation just above my eye, the mark of the final blow. Training had been more difficult than normal. The trainers had worked us beyond fatigue, and my body bore the evidence.

I sat up slowly, my breath calm but slow, my hands instinctively probing the sore places along my arms. Everything ached, but in a way that felt deserved.

The barracks were still dark, the first light of morning seeping in through the cracks between the wooden beams. The other recruits around me were still asleep, their steady breathing and unmoving bodies reduced to that constant clockwork rhythm.

But something was different.

My clothes were folded neatly at the foot of my cot.

Not the ripped, sweat-drenched tunic I had discarded the previous evening, but something else entirely.

I reached out, my fingers sliding over the fabric.

It was dark, denser than my old gear, reinforced with leather straps down the shoulders and across the chest. A cloak sewn with skillful hands, buckles held fast, cloth that could bear more than practice blows.

It was an outfit designed for someone who anticipated taking shots.

Someone who was going to war.

I let out a slow breath as I picked it up. The weight of it had a strange feel — but so right.

That's when I spotted the small piece of paper wedged under the fabric.

I was hesitant to pick it up.

The prose was tight and deliberate.

"Try not to ruin this one."

No signature. No unnecessary words.

But I didn't need one.

It was from her.

I took a swallow, tracing my fingers over the edge of the note.

She hadn't visited me after training. Hadn't said anything. But she had left this.

My jaw clamped shut and I gripped the fabric.

She never gave me gifts. Never, in ways that might be construed as mushy, offered kindness.

But she had given me this.

And I would not waste it.

A Fresh Look, A Fresh Start

I dressed, slowly, adjusting the buckled straps, fastening the cloak at my shoulders.

The fit was almost perfect — the sleeves didn't drag, the leather bracers felt right against my arms, and the tunic didn't restrict my movement. It was different from the rigid, basic armor the recruits had received.

This had been chosen.

For me.

I stretched my hands, turning my shoulder. The bruises still burned, but the feeling didn't quite feel as much of a weight.

The barracks mirror was cracked around the edges but I caught my reflection nonetheless.

The boy I had been was beginning to vanish.

Instead, in his place was something else — sharper, steadier.

I wasn't a knight yet. But I was evolving from recruit to something else entirely.

Behind me, the door creaked open.

I turned around expecting one of the other trainees.

Instead—her.

My mother was standing in the door frame, arms crossed, her eyes scanning me as if doing the math on how to punish me.

Her face did not give anything away, but her eyes lingered for a split second too long.

Then, she exhaled. "It fits."

I swallowed. "Yeah."

A pause.

Then—"Good."

She didn't step inside. Didn't say anything else.

But she didn't need to.

Because this was already a lot more than I ever expected.

I nodded once and adjusted the cloak. "I won't ruin it."

For a split second, something passed over her face. Not exactly approval, not exactly amusement.

Then—"See that you don't."

And just like that, she was no more.

The First Test of a New Skin

The air was cool, morning bright, as I wandered into the courtyard. The weight of my new gear rested softly against my body, and while I was still sore, I felt lighter in some way.

The others noticed.

Their eyes drifted to the outfit, the reinforced bracers, the cloak that made me more than just one of the crowd.

A few whispered. I ignored them.

I was walking near the training ring when I saw Asura stretching lazily, her black hair draping over her shoulder. She turned to me as I approached, her eyes flicking once over my outfit and then back to her own movements.

No comment.

No reaction.

But for a brief moment, her expression changed slightly.

I moved closer, forcing myself to roll my shoulder. "Well?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, what?"

I exhaled. "I suppose you have a comment of some kind."

She smirked. "It's an improvement. You almost fit in here."

Almost.

I scoffed. "I could beat you up in a fight right now."

That made her laugh. "You could try."

I grinned despite myself.

The gravity of everything that had occurred in the last few days hadn't evaporated. The questions, the missing names, the ghost of a brother erased from history — it was all still there.

But for a brief moment, just a moment, it felt lighter.

And I would take that.

For now.