1022 LC, Lugos

In the sparring amphitheater, Haru wound his hand wraps over his thumb, over his wrists and around, falling into the rhythm of the practiced motion. He didn’t have to think about it. Didn’t have to think about anything here. It was the only place his mind could be still long enough for him to let go of the cyclical thoughts that threatened to eat him alive, both chasing each other and caught like an ouroboros.

Haru hadn’t slept in days. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for him, not anymore. In the last year he had often found himself a sentry to the dark, waiting as the black of the night faded to grey, with only the brightest stars daring to shine.

When the night was gone, this was the only place that he could feel close to it.

The amphitheater contained within the Palamidia’s Tower was washed in white. Circular slabs of marble were the only form of seating, and stairs in the four cardinal directions staggered through the rows. The steps narrowed as they descended, ending at the mat covered floor.

From his place at the lowest tier, Haru kept his eyes on the east entry, but the open passageway remained unoccupied.

He finished his wraps and stepped onto the mats. They had little give, but the Palamidia’s design did not protect or preserve. The Palamidia broke anything it presumed was weak, held nothing sacred but its own power.

There were always willing bodies that wanted to test themselves against him. Despite the fact that he remained the Legatus’s Second in name, he had failed in his duty, leaving the Palamidia without a leader. And without that leader, brutality was the most prized thing an officer could have. If he had failed in the most intrinsic of his duties, he could fail again, and glory would belong to whoever managed to take him down.

Haru did not have to invite confrontation. It found him in the form of an eager Prospect, a new recruit that had not known the previous Legatus. The other wore his pride like an armour, most likely earned from an unwavering success in the trials that had come before. The world was at his feet, and he had yet to taste the bitterness of it.

The boy approached, and Haru was comfortable considering him as such. He had been the same when he first stood here.

Haru set his stance, and nodded to him. It was all that was needed.

His opponent went for a quick offense, closing the gap between them without testing the limits. The boy brazenly attempted a roundhouse. Haru caught the kick with one arm, swept out his support leg and shoved him back to the mats.

Another joined, and then another. Even a shared victory could be a victory.

It didn’t matter.

Haru struck, clenched fists slamming into every taunt his mind threw at him.

She wasn’t dead.

If she wasn’t dead, then it was something far worse.

He spun to kick, colliding with the temple of one of the challengers and sending them to the mats.

He didn’t want to think about what could possibly keep her away, so maybe it was better if she was dead.

She couldn’t be dead.

The second tried to move into Haru’s space but he kicked out low and his opponent stepped back. Haru lowered his weight in preparation.

She wasn’t dead.

Haru’s kick landed, sending his second opponent sprawling.

He pulled his arms in to guard against a blitz attack. He could barely feel the hits land, the pain failing to break through the numbness inside of him.

He remembered the way she had moved, the sleek shifts of weight to distract before an attack. And he remembered the hard drop of her heels when she walked the halls, eyes forward but distant and then how, alone, her feet would barely lift from the floor. He remembered the way her head would tilt when she concentrated, as if she was listening to something ancient that only she could understand.

Haru could never understand the same way that she could. She knew the cipher for the noise, could find the thread of a simple truth buried in the ever shifting intentions of those around her.

When his knuckles cracked the nose of the final Prospect that had challenged him, his red blood spilling on the scuffed mats, Haru wondered what she would think of it.

It should matter, and it did.

He pulled back his fist and struck again, twisting the Prospect’s shirt in his grip to keep him where he wanted him. And again.

Because she wasn’t here to stop him.

“Haru.”

A familiar voice cut through the haze and Haru stopped to glare at Osawa, who had entered with Vahn.

Osawa was a simple constant, a simple connection. Shorter than Vahn by several inches, the top of his head was at Vahn’s jaw.

Haru blinked, attempted to focus.

The Saint of Fire’s violet eyes could draw more attention in a room than Haru, but it still took him a moment to recognize him. Haru was used to Vahn’s long white hair contrasting sharply with his bronze skin, but Vahn had hacked it off. That was nearly a year ago, Haru reminded himself. Vahn’s white uniform jacket was half-buttoned, his thumbs hooked in his pockets and his elbows relaxed.

Osawa, on the other hand, was classically Icaunian in appearance, dark hair and dark, deep set eyes as calm as a wakeless lake. He was buttoned to the neck, his hands clasped at his back.

“Are you done?” Vahn asked, his lips quirking into his ever present, semi-amused smirk.

“I think he is,” Osawa said, nodding to Haru’s opponent and adjusting the glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose, even though they never slid from their place.

Haru looked back to the Prospect he held. His head was lolling back, his eyes soft as he neared unconsciousness. Haru shoved him back into the mat, knocking what sense remained from him, before standing.

He left the defeated behind and paced past Vahn and Osawa, unwinding the handwraps. The blood that soaked them streaked on his skin, and beneath his knuckles were bruised from the repeated force. He traced the scarred gouge between his thumb and forefinger that trailed over the back of his right hand.

He flexed his fingers, knew there was pain.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.