The wind had picked up again.
Not heavy, just enough to rattle the frost-draped trees behind the tavern and bite through the sleeves of anyone foolish enough to leave their coat on the fence.
Which was exactly where Yula had tossed hers.
She moved fast now, faster than she had days ago. Her wooden blade swung wide and low, then reversed direction mid-strike. Ilya ducked it cleanly and stepped inside her guard, raising his own practice sword toward her shoulder.
She blocked it, not neatly, but with force. The wooden clash echoed across the training yard.
"Again," she said, breathing hard.
Ilya stepped back.
Yula lunged.
They'd been doing this every night.
At first, their sessions were uneven. Full of stops and glares and unfinished movements. Yula was recovering, and Ilya wasn't sure what he was doing.
But somewhere along the way, the fight had changed.
There was a rhythm now. Not rehearsed, but known. A weight to every shift of stance, every exchanged look. They spoke less. Listened more. Their feet traced familiar grooves in the snow-packed ground.
Yula struck again. He parried. Her braid whipped past his shoulder.
"You're slow today," she said between breaths.
Ilya raised an eyebrow. "Or maybe you're finally fast."
"Then stop holding back."
She grinned, sharp, narrow, real, and feinted left.
She kicked off the snowbank to the right and caught him under the ribs with a fast upward swing.
He grunted, stumbled one step, then slid back and raised his blade again.
Yula rolled her shoulder, smirking. "There. You're awake now."
He said nothing.
But he smiled.
Not wide. Not showy.
Just a faint, upward flicker that stayed longer than it should have.
The fight slowed, not because they were tired, but because it had become familiar.
Their breath steamed between them, steady and synchronized. Each move now felt less like offense and more like conversation.
Block. Shift. Strike. Pause.
He wasn't counting the time anymore.
Ilya had been sleeping better.
Not much. Not without dreams. But when the memories did rise, when the smoke returned or the screams echoed in the back of his skull, he knew where to go.
Here.
Not because it erased the noise.
But because this place answered it.
Yula didn't ask questions. She just moved. Hit. Missed. Laughed when she shouldn't. Swore when she got hit.
And sometimes, when their wooden swords dropped low and they stood too close, she would look at him like she was trying to say something without breaking the air between them.
He never asked what.
He just stayed.
Yula stepped back now, swinging once, then again, looser this time. The sharp edge in her movement had softened, not into weakness but into flow. She looked taller. Or maybe just lighter.
Ilya deflected, turned her momentum against her, and brought his blade gently to rest against her collar.
She froze.
Then laughed.
He lowered the sword.
"Your grip's too high," he said.
"And your foot's too slow."
"I could've hit you."
"I would've hit back."
She pulled her braid tighter behind her shoulder.
He turned, just slightly, toward the fading sun.
For a second, the only sound was the wind in the trees.
Then a voice called from the fence.
"Well, well. And here I thought you two would kill each other by now."
Both of them turned.
And saw him.
Leaning with casual arrogance over the yard's wooden railing, jacket open, scarf trailing just enough to catch the light.
Felix Morozov.
Smiling like the city never burned.
Yula straightened first.
Her expression didn't shift much, but her brow lifted with a kind of dry disbelief.
"The fox boy."
Felix gave a theatrical bow, still hanging lazily over the fence. "You remember me. I'm flattered."
"I remember you being annoying when I was unconscious."
He chuckled. "Hey, I carried you. That earns me at least one nickname upgrade. Maybe handsome fox boy?"
"No."
"Charming fox boy?"
Yula tilted her head. "Still no."
Felix sighed, resting his chin on the top plank. His grin didn't fade, but it dulled at the edges. Ilya was already stepping back, wiping his sleeve across his cheek where sweat had collected.
"You're leaving," Ilya said.
"Sharp as ever."
"I thought you said your family didn't care what you did."
"They don't," Felix said, pushing off the fence and swinging one leg over with ease. "They just care when I do something they didn't plan."
He landed lightly in the yard. His boots barely made a sound.
"Some little bird sang about Crystalis," he said with mock sorrow. "And now I'm being summoned back to the capital. You know how nobles are, can't have their stray foxes making messes without permission."
"You're noble?" Yula asked, brows lifting.
Felix smiled wider. "And here I thought I had the aura of royalty."
"You have the aura of a spoiled cat."
Ilya coughed once, trying not to laugh.
Felix turned toward him. "Anyway. I didn't want to vanish like a tragic rumor, so. Here I am."
He opened his arms slightly, half mock, half sincere.
They didn't move.
"I'll see you again," Felix scratched his chin. "At the academy. Well, if you two are lucky enough."
Yula narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean it," Felix said, tone softening. "Most don't make it past the first evaluation. Especially people like you."
"People like us?" Ilya asked.
Felix nodded. "People with no last name worth printing. People who weren't born in golden cradles."
He stepped back toward the fence, then paused. His hand drifted to his coat's inner lining, then stopped. He shook his head and turned toward the gate.
"But if you do get in," he gave them a look, something sharper. "Try not to embarrass me."
With a lazy two-fingered salute, he turned and vanished down the path.
No farewell. No dramatic exit.
Just snow crunching under light steps.
Yula stared after him for a long moment.
Ilya stayed silent.
Then she turned toward the door, dragging her coat from the fence.
"You coming?" she asked over her shoulder.
He nodded.
And followed.