Six months at the Stone Bastion had turned Caleb’s mind into a finely tuned clock—every gear and lever calculated for survival. Today’s drill was a descent: a fast-rope insertion into a pitch-black ventilation shaft that led to the "Root-Core" of the Jungle.

  Caleb stood at the edge of the abyss, his heavy bronze harness clinking against his chest. The squad leader, a Senior named Jax, barked the order. Caleb was the first to drop. He didn't just slide; he used the friction of the rope to maintain a perfect, steady descent, his eyes scanning the dark for the bio-luminescent moss that signaled a structural weakness.

  Halfway down, the "Crisis" triggered. The shaft began to rotate, the massive iron rings grinding together to crush anything caught in the middle.

  While others scrambled in a panic, Caleb didn't even break a sweat. He kicked off a protruding bolt, swung into a momentary gap between the gears, and landed flawlessly on the bottom platform seconds before the rings could seal shut.

  "Beginner's luck?" Jax joked as the rest of the squad tumbled down behind him, bruised and cursing.

  Caleb didn't respond; he just let out a short, quiet chuckle. He unhooked his harness and checked the digital display on his wrist-link. The date flickered in the dark: November 16.

  A smile touched his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. It was Mable’s birthday. He could practically see the scene back at the Forge right now. Grace would be causing a riot—probably "accidentally" blowing up a target dummy to look like a firework just to celebrate, or arguing with Silas until his veins popped just to get a rise out of the recruits.

  Grace would be the loud, defiant heartbeat of the day, making sure Mable felt seen even from miles away. Caleb, meanwhile, remained the silent observer, counting the seconds and keeping the memory safe in the dark.

  Back at the Tempest Forge library, Grace was ostensibly working on a project about weapon-grade Luma-force.

  "You already sent it, didn't you?" Sasha asked, her voice hushed as they scrolled through data on a screenless display.

  Grace didn't look up, her eyes fixed on the flickering light. “Huh? I don't know what you're talking about.”

  The Librarian cut a sharp look their way. Sasha immediately pulled her uniform collar over her mouth to muffle her voice, leaning in so close her hair brushed Grace’s ear. “The letter,” she whispered.

  The word was a key. A massive, unrestrained smile broke across Grace’s face, and she gave a sharp, frantic nod. Sasha couldn't help but be amused—Grace’s usual "Cavalier" mask was nowhere to be found, replaced by pure, childish excitement.

  "What did you even write?" Sasha whispered.

  The Librarian cleared her throat—a dry, rasping warning. Sasha straightened up instantly, waiting until the woman’s gaze drifted before leaning back in. She wagged her eyebrows expectantly.

  Grace opened her mouth to answer, then paused, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Why do you care? It’s for Mabes.”

  "Oh, shut up," Sasha chuckled, nudging Grace’s shoulder with her elbow. “If anyone deserves to know the contents, it’s me. I’m the reason you got it sent!”

  Grace couldn't argue with that. She leaned back, her mind drifting to the battle she’d waged with Silas a month ago.

  She had pestered the Commander for three days straight, shadowing him after class with a request he rejected every time. By the third day, she didn't even wait for him to say 'No.'

  “It’s her birthday, Commander! I can’t just not send it,” Grace had insisted, stubborn as a mule.

  “Grace, it is always someone’s birthday,” Silas had groaned, exhausted.

  “What do I have to do with 'others'?” she shot back.

  Silas had tried to explain the labyrinth of rules guarding the Sanctum. It wasn't like the Bastion; they didn't just let paper and ink through their gates. But Grace wouldn't budge. She had spent three hours the day before just standing like a shadow outside his office.

  When Sasha had finally joined the fray, she found Silas at his wit's end.

  “Who is this 'Mabes' anyway?” Silas had demanded.

  Before Grace could answer, Sasha stepped forward with a heavy, dramatic presence. “Mabes is Mable—Grace’s lifeline.”

  “Lifeline?” Silas looked at Grace. She simply nodded, as if it were a scientific fact.

  “Commander, please,” Sasha had pleaded, joining the assault. “I just want to sleep peacefully again. She’s been sighing randomly at all hours with this grim face. I’m scared to stay in the dormitory with all the strange, mournful sounds she's making.”

  Silas was dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open slightly. Sensing the flicker of hesitation, Grace had pivoted, pulling her best "tragic hero" face.

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  “Sasha, I’m so sorry,” Grace lamented, her voice dripping with fake guilt. “I think your studies are going to suffer because of me. We have that big project coming up... if only I could just send a letter, I’m sure I could focus again.”

  Silas had sneered at the blatant acting, but he was beaten. “Fine. I’ll write to Chancellor Sophia and see if she’ll allow it under maximum security.”

  Back in the present, Sasha expected Grace to be a little embarrassed by the memory of their performance. Instead, Grace’s smile only widened.

  Before they could say another word, a shadow fell over their table.

  Both girls looked up. The Librarian stood there, her face a mask of cold, grim fury. She didn't say a word; she just pointed a finger toward the exit. There faces looked at the direction; In the next heartbeat, the Luma-threads embedded in their chairs flared to life. With a violent, magnetic shove, the seats slid across the floor, ejecting them both out the library doors without warning.

  The Sanctum’s Refectory was, for once, filled with a different kind of tension. Mable sat with Hana, Ben, and Bryan, the four of them picking at a lunch that felt unusually festive—mostly because the twins had managed to "acquire" a small jar of honey to sweeten their tea.

  "You're unusually quiet today, Mable," Ben noted, his gentle aura a comforting presence against the cold stone of the hall. "Even for you."

  Hana nudged her. "Is it because it's your birthday?"

  "It’s nothing. It’s just another day," Mable replied, though she couldn't stop her eyes from darting around. She missed Grace. They had never been apart this long—Grace had been there with her every step of the way since she was seven months old.

  "Statistically, every day is 'just a day' until something changes the variables," Bryan added. He didn't look at her, but he did slide a piece of his bread toward her in a silent, sisterly gesture of support.

  Their conversation was cut short by the heavy, rhythmic click of boots on the ivory floor. A high-ranking security officer, clad in silver-and-white plate, stopped directly behind Mable’s chair. The table went silent.

  He reached into a sealed pouch and pulled out a letter. It wasn't standard paper; it was a high-tech, encrypted Luma-parchment, glowing with a faint blue security seal that required a biometric touch to unlock.

  "Special correspondence for Recruit Mable," the officer stated, his voice booming. "Authorized by the Head of the Forge and the Chancellor of the Sanctum."

  Hana gasped. The twins exchanged a look of pure shock. Private, encrypted letters were unheard of for first-year recruits. Even the highest nobles couldn't pull this off; no one was brave enough to pester the Headmaster of the Forge until he broke.

  Mable took the letter, her fingers trembling. She didn't open it; instead, she tucked it into her sleeve, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew that handwriting, even through the digital encryption. It was crooked, messy, and absolutely Grace.

  "Who is it from?" Hana asked, leaning in with intense curiosity.

  "Just a friend," Mable said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear to hide the heat in her cheeks.

  "Is it Grace?" Hana pushed.

  Ben looked up, confused. "Who is Grace?"

  He was met with the brightest smile he had ever seen on Mable’s face. It was an expression so radiant he hadn't thought her capable of it.

  “She is a friend," Mable said softly. "A very important one."

  Hana, who had heard plenty of Grace-stories by now, grinned. "You guys must have seen her back during the intake trials."

  Bryan paused, his eyes narrowing as he made a connection. "Wait. Is she the one who was practically threatening the Chancellor during the selection ceremony?"

  Mable looked down, a little shy and deeply embarrassed, but she gave a slow, proud nod.

  The high of the letter was short-lived. An hour later, Mable was summoned to the Chancellor’s private balcony.

  Sophia stood with her back to the door, looking out over the sprawling, ivory spires of the Sanctum. The silence between them was thick—a familiar wall they had been building for six months.

  “Happy Birthday, Mable.” Sophia turned, offering a gentle, tentative smile.

  "Thank you," Mable replied, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

  Sophia began to inquire about Mable’s progress, asking about her studies and her day-to-day life. Mable offered nothing but one-word answers, a wall of frost that Sophia couldn't seem to melt. Desperate to find a common ground, the Chancellor reached for the only thing that had made Mable smile that day.

  "The letter you received today," Sophia began, her voice softening, though it still carried the weight of practiced authority. "It was a significant exception, Mable. I had to personally vouch for your 'emotional stability' to allow it. I hope you understand that—"

  "I didn't ask you to vouch for me," Mable interrupted, her voice cutting like a shard of glass.

  Sophia turned fully now, her eyes reflecting the cold silver light of the city. "I am trying to help you, Mable. I’ve watched you these past months. You are becoming a powerful healer, but you are brittle. You act as though you are a guest here. It never feels like you’re home."

  "My place isn't here," Mable snapped, her composure finally cracking. "I didn't come here for relationships. I came here to be a healer."

  "Mable!" Sophia’s voice rose, the mask of the Chancellor slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal a desperate, weary woman. "I did what was necessary to ensure you had a future! You cannot treat me like an enemy forever—"

  "Stop it," Mable commanded, her eyes flashing with a rare, dangerous spark. "Stop acting like you care about my future when you only care about my utility."

  Sophia stepped forward, the frustration and pain finally boiling over. "Mable, I am your mother! You are my blood, and I care about your wellbeing! Can you please, for once, try to accept that?"

  Mable stared at Sophia, her expression hardening into something unbreakable.

  “My mother died when I was eleven,” Mable said, each word a slow, deliberate strike. “And she was a great mother. I am not looking for a replacement.”

  The words hung in the air, suffocating and final. Sophia looked as though she had been struck.

  "If that's all, Chancellor," Mable said, her voice dropping back into a dead, hollow whisper. "I'll take my leave."

  She turned and walked out without waiting for a dismissal. As she stepped back into the silent halls, the encrypted letter in her sleeve felt like the only real thing left in a world made of ivory lies.

  I Miss You.