The Devil Wears White

Morning hit Freya's eyes like a quiet slap. She blinked away the light bleeding through the cracks of her curtainless window and exhaled. Her muscles ached from the rough mattress and even rougher sleep. She pulled herself together, slipping into dark slacks, a charcoal tunic, and scuffed black boots. As she moved to the door, a prickling sensation danced across her spine—the feeling of being watched. She turned around sharply. Nothing.

Pushing the thought aside, she made her way to the cadet mess hall. The air was heavy with the smell of overcooked vegetables and boiled disappointment. Steel benches filled the room in long rows. Cadets in matching grey blazers, white shirts, yellow ties, and grey mini skirts or pants gathered in buzzing clusters. Some wore epaulets on their shoulders, marking status or division.

Freya, in stark contrast, wore the dark slacks and tunic assigned to new recruits who hadn't yet cleared their entrance exams. Her lack of uniform made her stand out like a smudge on glass.

She approached the counter where an old man stood behind the vats of food. He was thin and shriveled, with a scruffy beard white as bone and deep creases across his face, like his skin had folded under the weight of decades. His lips were perpetually pursed, and his eyes scanned the cadets like they were cockroaches on his kitchen floor. He didn't speak, only grunted as he slapped a ladleful of beige slop onto her plate.

Freya grimaced at the meal—some unidentifiable mash that looked like it had lost the will to live. With no other option, she took the tray and scanned the room. Most of the benches were full: loud groups of boys slapping each other's backs, quiet cliques of girls whispering in low tones, a few loners hunched over their plates.

Then she saw her.

A single girl sat at one of the side benches, deeply engrossed in a thick medical book. Her pale blonde hair glinted under the flickering ceiling light, tied in a neat ribbon. Her petite figure was curled with perfect posture, legs crossed at the ankle like a scene from a boarding school brochure. Something about her was too delicate for this place.

Freya made her way to the same bench, careful not to disturb her, and sat at the opposite end.

She muttered her quiet prayers and took her first bite.

The taste hit like an insult.

It was bland—no, it was offensive. Lifeless. Her throat instinctively tried to reject it. She forced herself to chew, swallowing as if it were gravel. How could so many people be eating this without collapsing in protest?

She gagged slightly, covering her mouth and looking around to make sure no one noticed. That's when the girl next to her—without lifting her eyes from the book—slid a small bottle toward her.

"Use this," she said, her voice calm but precise.

Freya stared at the little bottle. "What's this for?"

The girl finally looked up. Her ocean-blue eyes were large and doll-like—striking, yet impossibly soft. "It's for making this punishment of food edible."

Freya blinked. Confused but desperate, she sprinkled some of the spice and took another bite.

Her eyes widened.

"What the... how is this possible?" she muttered.

The girl grinned, tucking her book away. "I'm a chef."

Then, she launched into her story, rapid-fire. "I work at the restaurant nearby when I'm not stuck assisting Miss Reyna Carlton with medical reports, or grinding through anatomy books, or fixing these poor morons when they come in bleeding from sparring. And let me tell you—this food is a war crime. I've had meals where I wasn't sure if I was supposed to eat them or bury them."

Freya watched, stunned. The girl barely took a breath.

"I'm Daisy, by the way. You're new here?" she said, offering a hand.

Freya took it. "Freya."

Daisy smiled warmly and popped a small candy into Freya's palm. "You'll need that. Sugar helps with the first day jitters. Come on, bestie. I'm late for my exams, but I'll show you around."

"Bestie?" Freya muttered under her breath. What a weird girl.

They walked together down the hallway, Daisy talking nonstop about people Freya didn't know, buildings she hadn't seen, and problems she hadn't yet encountered.

That eerie sensation returned. Like something—or someone—was watching. But with Daisy's endless monologue, the feeling blurred into the background.

They reached the main gathering area. Cadets stood in clusters while various faculty members began calling names.

"Your entrance exam should be held around here," Daisy said, adjusting the ribbon in her hair. Then, spotting a tall woman in the crowd, she waved excitedly. "There's Miss Reyna! Gotta run. Good luck, Freya!"

Freya blinked.

Entrance exam?

She scanned the area. Familiar faces—Levi, Reyna... and no one else. Levi was gathering a group of cadets, and though his eyes passed over her, he didn't stop. Just a glance.

She stared after him, confused.

No one came for her.

She didn't care about the exam. She just wanted someone—anyone—familiar in this crowd of strangers who spoke like they belonged and moved like they knew where they were going. She didn't. Not even a little.

So she waited.

And waited, until the crowd thinned, and finally, she was the only one left standing there.

Eventually, she rose and walked to the nearest door.

She pushed it open—

—and ran straight into a wall.

Or, at least, that's what it felt like.

He was massive. Towering. A wall of muscle and silent menace. She craned her neck up. He had to be over six feet tall, maybe more—broad shoulders wrapped in a white uniform unlike any she'd seen on the other cadets. A flowing white cape hung from his shoulders, trimmed in gold. The epaulets shimmered faintly beneath the hallway lights.

His face was unreadable. His eyes—cold, sharp, and still.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice deep enough to rattle something in her chest.

"I... I'm new here," Freya stammered.

The man studied her. A beat passed.

"Training Ground B. One hour."

He turned and walked away.

Freya stood frozen.

"…Yes, sir."

As he walked away, the thundering beat of her heart finally began to settle, each breath growing less frantic. But in that very moment of stillness, an overwhelming urge took hold of her—to run, to flee as far and fast as her legs could carry her. Yet where would she even go? She didn't know this land. The twisting alleys and vast territories of Stovia were strangers to her. And Mevelior—Mevelior was a distant memory with no road back.

Then she remembered Reyna's voice, brittle and burdened: "We couldn't save anyone."

If only she hadn't seen it—hadn't burned the memory into the deepest corners of her mind—her father falling, crimson blooming across his chest like a cursed flower. If that image hadn't been seared behind her eyes, she could've told herself she'd been taken, kidnapped, lied to.

But she remembered. She remembered all of it.

Robert was dead. And with him, any reason to return home had died too.

"We couldn't save anyone."

The words echoed, looping, tightening around her ribs like a vice.

Had Dolphin killed them all? Everyone who had stood with Robert—had they fallen too?

She didn't know. Reyna had said nothing more. Only: "We couldn't save anyone."

And in the ruins of that sentence, Freya realized something chilling—

She had only ever seen Robert die.

An hour passed in silence, her thoughts circling like vultures over the carcass of old memories. Faces, voices, blood—fragments of a life torn away. She didn't know what she was waiting for. There was no one coming to find her. No familiar path to retrace.

Eventually, with the weight of everything still pressing against her chest, she stood—not because she knew where to go, but because sitting in the wreckage of her thoughts had become unbearable.

She would move—if only for the sake of movement itself.

Freya arrived at Training Ground B and found him alone, smoking.

He faced away from her, back straight, cape barely swaying in the breeze. She stood silently, unsure if she should speak. She didn't.

He didn't turn—but he knew she was there.

Years of battle had trained Edmund D. Smith to sense shifts in the air, the subtle weight of a presence behind him.

He raised the cigarette to his mouth.

The next thing Freya registered was steel slicing through the air toward her neck.

She froze.

He was fast. Unbelievably fast.

"Slow," Edmund said flatly, exhaling a cloud of smoke, eyes already drifting away from her like she wasn't worth the breath.

Freya swallowed hard. Is he human… or a Light?

He tossed his sword down at her feet with a dull clank. "Fight me."

Still frozen, she blinked. "What?"

Edmund tilted his head slowly, like a beast confused by its prey.

"Fight you?" she asked, her voice thin, fearful.

Hell no, I am not fighting him, she thought.

"Don't waste my time, girl" he dismissed, flatly.

Freya bent down slowly, one hand raised in defense, eyes locked on him the entire time, as she reached for the hilt—her only hope against another surprise attack.

The sword was heavy. Too heavy. She tried lifting it with one hand—no luck. She placed both hands on it and heaved it upward.

The blade sagged low. Her arms trembled.

She shifted into a defensive stance—clumsy, barely functional. If she swung it with full force, the sword would probably take her with it.

Edmund noticed and smirked. "Relax. I won't attack first."

Then his face hardened.

"But if you miss… I can't promise your life."

He pulled out a small dagger—barely the size of her forearm.

Seriously?

Freya stared. Just a dagger? She glanced at it, then down at the oversized sword in her grip.

Still, she charged forward, teeth clenched, using everything she had in one wild swing.

A flick of Edmund's wrist. The dagger moved once.

The sword flew from her grip and slammed into the earth, burying itself halfway down. She tripped over her own momentum and hit the ground hard.

Edmund sighed. "Again."

She struggled up, dusted off, stumbled toward the sword—only for him to shake his head.

"No. Without it." 

Freya clenched her fists, lifted her arms, and took a basic sparring stance.

Edmund's eyes narrowed. A physical stance? No Aether? He filed that away.

"Use your aether."

"Aether?" Freya blinked. What the hell is that? He might as well have recited a theorem in Ancient Math. And Freya sucked at math.

"I'm here to see what happened in Mevelior," Edmund said coldly.

Freya blinked, her mind racing in confusion. "Mevelior?" she echoed, pausing as the weight of his words hit her. Then, with a quick breath, she added, "It wasn't me… it was Dolphin." Her voice dropped, bitterness creeping in. "He killed my father and I don't even know how I ended up here and.."

"Quiet," he cut in. "And who killed Dolphin?"

Freya's mouth fell open. Her mind reeled. That bastard's dead?

Edmund read the realization on her face like a page.

She stepped forward, frustrated. "Listen—"

"Lower your voice," Edmund said, clearing his throat. His tone dropped, low and dangerous. "You don't know who you're talking to. Don't make me mad before a fight—I tend to lose my temper."

Freya, scared but still Freya, snapped back, "I'm sorry, SIR, but you're clearly mistaking me for someone else."

His eyes locked onto hers.

"Silence," he barked. "Fight me. Now."

Freya ran, flinging punches—sloppy, desperate swings. Not a single one landed. Each time she hurled her weight forward, she lost balance and slammed hard into the ground.

Her voice rose, frustrated. "You're not even trying!" 

He responded dryly. "If I did, you'd be dead." 

She snapped, "Wow. So generous."

She groaned, pushed herself up, dust and sweat sticking to her skin. Her fists were clenched tight, but her grip was weakening. She charged again.

She missed.

Fell face-first into the dirt.

"Again."

His voice was cold. Unflinching.

She spat out soil, coughed, dragged herself up to her knees. Her arms shook violently as she stood.

She lunged forward again—more desperate than strong.

He stepped to the side, just a shift of his heel. Her punch cut through empty air.

She stumbled.

Fell.

"Again."

She gasped for breath, her chest rising and falling like a drowning girl surfacing for air. Her knuckles left red stains on the ground as she crawled for balance.

She rose again. Wobbling. Dizzy.

Swung weakly.

Missed.

"Again."

The sun blazed above. Her skin burned. Her blood felt heavy.

Another swing. He leaned left.

She collapsed at his feet, face brushing the dirt.

"Again."

He dodged everything with ease—barely moving more than a few inches. A tilt of the head. A subtle sway. A step backward. Each evasion clean, precise. He wasn't even trying. He didn't need to.

She whimpered now. One eye swollen. Her lip cracked.

Still, she moved.

She ran.

She fell.

"Again."

Her body had stopped listening to her. Her legs shook with every step. Her fingers barely curled into fists. Still, she staggered forward.

Another punch.

Another miss.

Another fall.

"Again."

Blood now smeared her palms. Her knees were scraped raw. She sucked in dry air, each breath tearing at her lungs.

"Again."

She coughed violently, nearly vomiting.

Still, she stood. For a second.

Collapsed.

"Again."

On and on.

Time lost meaning.

Fall.

"Again."

Stumble.

"Again."

Breathe too long—

"Again."

Every time she slowed, every time she sank—

"Again."

The sun reached its peak in the sky. Four hours. Her clothes were soaked. Her skin blotched in purple bruises and red cuts.

She had not touched him. Not once.

He had not lifted a hand.

Not even removed them from his pockets.

The cigarette never left his lips.

Not a Smudge on his white..

Freya rose one final time—barely.

Took a step.

Collapsed.

Barely conscious.

She didn't rise this time.

Couldn't.

Her knees buckled, body trembling, face pressed into the dirt. She'd lost all feeling in her arms. Blood trickled from a split brow, and her breaths came ragged, shallow. Her hands twitched against the coarse ground, still trying to lift her.

Edmund stood above her. White cape rippling in the wind, boots unmoving. Smoke curled from the corner of his mouth.

He exhaled, slow and quiet. Then, voice barely above a whisper:

"Is that all the girl from Mevelior has to offer?"

Freya clenched her jaw.

"You killed a monster," he continued, stepping closer. "And yet here you are. Beaten. Whining. No fire. No fight. Just another broken toy."

She bit her tongue hard enough to taste iron.

He crouched beside her, gaze flat. "If this is the best you've got, try the janitor's wing. We don't waste uniforms on garbage."

For a brief second, something shimmered behind his icy blue eyes—a faint, pale light, barely noticeable. A trick of the sun? Or her mind?

Freya blinked. Dazed.

Too broken to question it. Too weak to care.

He flicked the half-burned cigarette into the dirt beside her face. The ember hissed against the blood on her cheek.

"Fred!" Edmund called, annoyed.

Enter Fredrick Ross. Tall, lean, dressed in black suit and white shirt, dark hair tied in a ponytail. Grinning.

He looked down at the unconscious girl and smirked. "Scare another one to death, did you?"

"Take her to Reyna."

"Right, right. The usual. Maybe don't traumatize new recruits before breakfast next time."

Edmund lit another cigarette. "Get lost."

"I love you too, sunshine."

Fredrick's footsteps approached. A soft whistle, low and sympathetic.

"Damn," he muttered. "He really is in a mood today."

He crouched and lifted her with surprising gentleness. "Come on, little warrior. Let's get you patched up before he decides to test your corpse for reflexes."

Freya didn't reply.

She couldn't.