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Dax walks past. "Dax!" Cassian calls.

Dax stops. Looks deeply regretful. "What."

"We're debating whether Nyra's feet are historically significant." Nyra throws bread at Cassian.

Dax stares at us. "I hope Tiravell wins the war without me." And keeps walking. I collapse laughing.

Nyra looks murderous. Cassian looks delighted.

Training resumes at two. Mixed combat. Nothing special. Which has become special. No giant emergency scenario. No Chiefs disappearing. No simulated collapsed tower. Just sparring. I fight a fae.

Win one. Lose one. Draw one. Good. Normal.

At some point, my right dagger sheath tears. Not fully. Enough. I notice after the third round. Wonderful. I put the dagger away differently.

By dinner, Response Quarters are chaotic in the ordinary way. Someone is showering. Someone is looking for a missing boot. Cassian is accusing his roommate of theft. Nyra is trying to dry her hair while reading. Caelen is asleep on top of his blankets with one arm over his face. Rhyven is nowhere. Probably working.

I go to my desk. My dagger sheath is there. Fixed. I stop. Look at it. New stitching. Reinforced loop. Clean. No note. No explanation. I pick it up. Turn it over. The repair is annoyingly perfect. I smile. Then remember— Rhyven skipped half of dinner. Again. Of course. I go to the kitchenette. Find food. Meat. Bread. Fruit. Nothing fancy. Put it on a plate. Take it downstairs.

Operations is empty. Interesting. Training room also empty. Dragon equipment room, there. Rhyven is sitting on a bench. Boots off. One harness beside him. Reading something. Not work. I stop. "What is that."

He looks up. "Book."

"I know what a book is."

"Progress."

I narrow my eyes. "What book." He shows the cover. One of mine. I stare. "You stole from me."

"Borrowed."

"Without asking."

"You weren't there."

"That's not how permission works."

"Worked."

I walk over. Put the plate beside him. He looks down.

Then at me. "You ate?" He asks.

I blink. "That's your first question?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Actual food?"

I stare. "Yes, father."

His expression goes horrified. "There are jokes that shouldn't survive."

I smile. "Agreed."

He looks back at the plate. "You don't have to keep doing this."