CHAPTER 3 (Embers in the Dark)
SCENE 1
Afternoon light filtered down through the towering spires of Beacon, bright but too gentle for the storm still echoing inside his chest. The world had kept turning, indifferent to the kind of grief that didn't leave bruises.
Ashen kept his pace steady as he crossed the courtyard, one hand resting on the strap of a newly issued dark gray backpack slung over his shoulder. It was standard military surplus, sharp-lined and pristine, a perfect match for his uniform, and just as hollow. Empty, for now. His boots hit the stone with quiet, deliberate steps, echoing faintly in the open space. The breeze tugged at the hem of his coat, brushing cool air against his neck, but he didn't react. He focused on the rhythm of movement, letting it anchor him. One step after another, like he was marching toward something that might silence the noise in his head.
He didn't take the main path toward the airship platforms. Too open. Too many eyes.
Instead, he cut through the quieter edges of campus, past empty benches, trimmed hedges, and a maintenance tunnel that let him skirt the usual crowd near the dining pavilion. He knew these paths well, quiet corners and tucked-away routes he'd memorized during his first few months. Back then, it was because he preferred the stillness, the solitude. These were the places he used to go when he needed to think, or when the world felt too loud. A few students milled around at a distance, laughing over shared scrolls or talking with food in hand. He kept his head down and didn't look their way.
This morning had broken something in him. Seeing them, his old teammates. His friends smiling like nothing had ever happened. Like they hadn't died screaming in agony. Like he hadn't failed them.
It was too much.
He had barely made it past the dorm room door before it all came crashing down. The mask slipped, then shattered, and he'd collapsed against his bed frame, body shaking from sobs that had clawed their way out of him, relentless and raw. By the time it passed, he'd been empty. Silent. Eyes sore, throat dry. Passed out on the floor like a child.
Now, he walked.
Because he didn't know what else to do. All he knew was that he had to get away.
The docks were quieter with only two bullheads idling at the platform. A pair of students waited nearby, chatting softly, and a pilot leaned against the hull of one ship with a datapad in hand. Ashen made a beeline for the other transport, the one with its ramp already lowered and engines humming low.
The pilot glanced up as he approached. "Heading into Vale?"
Ashen gave a short nod. "Just for the day."
The man gestured him aboard without a second thought. No roll call, no fuss. Beacon students had a level of autonomy most civilians didn't question.
He climbed the ramp and slipped into a seat near the back, facing the window.
He didn't look back at the school.
SCENE 2
The bullhead touched down with a gentle thrum, hydraulic systems exhaling steam as the ramp lowered to meet the city's landing pad. Vale stretched out beyond the platform, clean stone streets, scattered trees lining wide walkways, and storefronts buzzing with quiet life.
Ashen stepped off the transport and into the afternoon warmth, his boots meeting pavement with a subtle finality. The air smelled of fresh bread and distant ocean salt, carried in by the soft breeze drifting up from the harbor. Sunlight reflected off glass shopfronts and slow-moving traffic, painting the city in gold.
It was beautiful here.
Too beautiful.
The Vale he remembered had been littered with fear, evacuation orders, smoke clinging to the skyline. What stood before him now was a memory of peace untouched by war. He took it in like someone walking through a dream, everything just slightly out of reach.
People strolled past with bags of produce, laughing. Children chased each other around lamp posts. Somewhere nearby, a street musician plucked at a guitar, notes floating lazily through the air. The normalcy of it all was almost insulting.
Ashen adjusted the strap of his backpack and began walking, slipping into the flow of pedestrian traffic without drawing a second glance.
At first.
As he passed a café patio, he caught the low hum of conversation and a pause. One voice leaned in close to another. "Do you think he's from Atlas? Look at what he's wearing."
Another chimed in, softer. "I think you're right. No way he's a student. He walks like he's already seen a war."
Further down the block, a shopkeeper lingered in their doorway, eyes narrowing just slightly as Ashen walked by. Two teenagers waiting for a crosswalk nudged each other, whispering with wide eyes.
"Think he's a Specialist? Look at how he walks."
"Atlas wouldn't send someone here without a reason. Maybe he's undercover or something."
"Undercover in uniform, he definitely has official business here."
Ashen kept his eyes forward, but the air felt heavier with every step. He could feel their glances sticking to him: curious, uncertain, suspicious. Maybe it was the way he moved, too upright, too alert. Maybe it was the look on his face, hard lines carved from years most people hadn't lived yet.
But the uniform sealed it. Military-cut, formal, unmistakably Atlas.
He hadn't thought this through.
He was supposed to be blending in, disappearing into the city to clear his head. Instead, he was turning heads. People were going to talk, speculate. Rumors had a way of reaching the wrong ears.
He needed to fix this before it spiraled.
He turned sharply at the next intersection, cutting across a quieter street. His reflection caught in a store window, stiff posture, crisp lines, the unmistakable look of someone trained for war. He looked exactly like what they thought he was.
Too sharp. Too clean. Too military.
A clothing store sign swung gently above the door ahead. He angled toward it without hesitation.
He needed to blend in. Fast.
He needed to stop looking like a ghost from a different life.
SCENE 3 – Lunch Stop
Ashen stepped out of the clothing store a few minutes later, the door clicking shut softly behind him. The reflection in the glass to his left showed a man no one would remember.
He wore a slate-gray hoodie layered over a plain black shirt, the hood down and sleeves pushed to his elbows. The cargo pants were a muted charcoal tone, comfortably loose but not baggy, paired with nondescript sneakers built for walking long distances. A simple ball cap shaded his eyes, and a pair of mirrored sunglasses hid the rest. The only color on him was the maroon scarf still tucked loosely around his neck, half-hidden under the hoodie. He told himself it was for warmth, but he knew better.
Gone was the sharp-cut uniform and soldier's stride. Now, he looked like any other young man wandering the streets of Vale on a weekend afternoon.
On his back, the same military-style backpack remained, though now it looked slightly fuller and less pristine. Inside, carefully folded and zipped away, was his Atlas Specialist uniform, every line and badge stowed like a piece of armor waiting for its next war. He'd carry it with him, just in case. But for now, it was better out of sight.
He adjusted the cap slightly and took a breath, watching himself in the glass. Nothing about him stood out anymore. He blended in. Exactly as intended.
Gray man. No edges. No story.
Just another face in the crowd.
Perfect.
He turned and started walking again, the rhythm of city life folding around him as he searched for a place to eat.
A few blocks later, he found it. A small café tucked on a quiet corner, with ivy climbing the side walls and a row of tables set outside beneath a striped awning. It smelled like roasted garlic and fresh bread, and the handwritten menu board out front promised coffee, sandwiches, and something called a hunter's stew.
Ashen chose a table at the edge of the patio, one with a view of the street but close enough to the wall to avoid standing out. He slid his backpack under the seat and leaned back, letting himself exhale.
A waitress approached with a notepad and a practiced smile. "Welcome in. You know what you'd like?"
He glanced at the menu, then pointed to one of the hand-drawn items. "Turkey sandwich. Extra mustard. And a black coffee."
She nodded. "Good choice. Locals swear by it. Be right out."
As she walked off, Ashen let his shoulders ease down. The table was worn, paint chipped at the edges. A couple sat across the patio sharing dessert, their conversation low and relaxed. Somewhere behind him, kitchen staff clattered dishes and called out orders. Normalcy. Mundane, peaceful, simple.
He hadn't realized how much he missed it.
The food arrived quickly. The sandwich was thick, pressed flat from the grill, cheese melted at the edges. The coffee came in a heavy ceramic mug with a faint chip near the rim. It was all exactly what it needed to be.
Ashen took a bite. Warm. Real. Comforting. For once, his body didn't tense with the act of eating. He didn't check over his shoulder. Didn't scan for exits. The only sound was the hum of life drifting through the city.
It felt wrong.
He sipped his coffee, watching people pass on the sidewalk. Most didn't even glance his way. Some smiled politely, others too lost in their own routines to notice.
For the first time in days, he wasn't a soldier. Wasn't a ghost. Wasn't someone holding back the tide.
He was just a guy with a sandwich and too much on his mind.
The waitress passed again, offering a friendly glance. "Doing alright?"
Ashen nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."
She moved on, and he let the silence linger, finishing his meal slowly. One bite at a time. One sip at a time.
It was the first peace he'd felt since coming back.
And it wouldn't last.
SCENE 4 – Liquor Store
The sun had shifted by the time Ashen left the café, warmth clinging to the pavement as shadows shortened. He wandered past storefronts without truly seeing them, letting the rhythm of the city guide his steps. A familiar itch tugged at him, not for food, not for rest, but for something deeper. He followed it without thinking.
The liquor store sat wedged between a boutique clothing outlet and a digital scroll repair kiosk. Narrow. Older than the buildings beside it. A flickering neon sign buzzed above the door: "Vale Spirits & Sundries."
Ashen stepped inside. Removing his sunglasses.
The air changed immediately, cooler, still. Dim lighting hummed overhead, casting long shadows across dusty shelves lined with bottles. The wood-paneled walls and scuffed tile floor gave the space a forgotten feel, like it hadn't changed in a decade. It was quiet, save for a soft jazz tune playing from an old speaker behind the counter.
He moved with purpose.
A display of flasks caught his eye near the register: polished metal, leather-wrapped, matte black. He picked the latter. Simple. Sleek. Easy to conceal.
Next came the bottle. He ignored the flashy brands and reached for something strong, dark, familiar. A Vacuan spiced whiskey. The label was cracked and worn, the way he remembered it.
As he approached the counter, the shopkeeper looked up. An older man, balding, with sharp eyes that immediately clocked everything about him.
"You got ID?" the man asked, not hostile, but not casual either.
Ashen met his gaze without flinching. "Yeah."
He slid his Beacon student scroll across the counter. The man scanned it briefly, eyes narrowing at the listed birthdate.
"Eighteen," he muttered. "Barely."
Ashen gave a half-smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "Old enough."
The man shrugged and rang him up. As he placed the bottle and flask into a small bag, his glance lingered.
"Don't usually get kids like you buying this brand. Strong stuff."
Ashen took the bag and slipped it into his backpack without a word.
"You military?" the shopkeeper added.
Ashen paused. "Used to be."
It wasn't entirely a lie. In his last life, he had gone AWOL from Atlas, slipping through the cracks of protocol and politics to hunt down Salem on his own terms. He stopped being a soldier the moment he broke from command. More correctly when Atlas fell, but that time was gone. Now, here in this new start, he was once again eighteen, again wearing the badge of Specialist, again playing the part he hadn't yet walked away from.
The man nodded slowly. "Yeah. Figured. You carry it different. Eyes like they've seen too much."
Ashen didn't answer. He turned toward the door.
"Take care of yourself, kid," the man called after him.
Ashen paused in the doorway. For a moment, he thought about saying something, something honest, something human.
But instead, he adjusted his grip on the backpack strap and stepped back into the light.
The door clicked shut behind him as he put back on his sunglasses.
He didn't remember the first time he drank this brand. But he remembered the worst. Sitting in a crater of burning debris after a mission gone sideways. Blood on his hands, some his, some not. He'd had a bottle in one hand, Ashpiercer in the other, and the only thing louder than the silence had been his own heartbeat.
Now, he walked through peaceful streets with the same bottle hidden in his bag.
It felt like carrying a memory. Or maybe a weapon.
Either way, he'd brought both.
SCENE 5 – Pastry Cart & Park
Ashen wandered a little farther from the liquor store, weaving through side streets that slowly opened back up into a busier square. The sun hung high now, casting golden light over food stalls and cheerful storefronts. A fountain burbled at the center of the square, surrounded by colorful umbrellas and the low hum of city life.
Near the fountain was a pastry cart.
It was painted in faded reds and whites, with hand-painted signs advertising dusted cream rolls, honeyed fruit tarts, and fresh-baked cinnamon twists. The scent hit him before the sight did, sugar and spice and warm, flaky bread. For a second, it knocked the breath from his lungs. The kind of smell that didn't belong to a battlefield. The kind that belonged to mornings off and quiet moments. To memories.
Behind the cart stood a Faunus woman, older, with graying chestnut curls and curled ram horns. She was wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron and humming a tune he couldn't quite place. Her smile was quick and kind as he stepped up.
"Well, now," she said, leaning forward with a glint in her eye. "You've got that look."
Ashen blinked. "What look?"
"The one that says you didn't plan on stopping, but your nose made the decision for you."
His lips twitched. "That obvious?"
She grinned. "To me? Always. First visit?"
He nodded. "Yeah. First time in Vale."
"Well then, sugar, first one's on the house." She reached behind the counter and wrapped up a small cinnamon twist in wax paper. "Best you'll ever have. Scout's honor."
He hesitated. Then took it. "Thanks."
She nodded to the tip jar. "Next time, you pay me double. Deal?"
He cracked a smile, small but real. "Deal."
Ashen didn't eat it right away. He took a breath, letting the warm scent linger, then carefully tucked the pastry into his backpack safe, for later. He gave the woman a short nod. "Thanks again."
She winked. "Come back when you need a little joy."
Ashen turned and walked on, steps carrying him toward the park.
The trees came into view as the streets faded behind him. A stretch of green cut through the cityscape, dotted with benches, shaded paths, and the occasional jogger. Birds chirped from the branches above, and a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves.
He found a bench beneath one of the larger trees and sat down, backpack slipping to the ground beside him. It was quiet here. Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Ashen reached into his bag and pulled out the flask and the bottle. He poured slowly, carefully, the burn of the liquor already familiar even before it touched his lips. He sealed the flask and slipped the bottle back into the bag, then leaned back, letting the silence wrap around him.
The cinnamon twist came next.
He unwrapped it and took a bite, slow, thoughtful. The flavor was still there, bright and rich, sweet in a way nothing else in his life had been for a long time. It wasn't just food. It was a memory of better moments. Or maybe just quieter ones.
He watched the wind stir the branches overhead. Listened to the sound of life drifting on without him.
The flask sat in his lap. He didn't drink from it.
Not yet.
Old memories pressed in. Streets filled with smoke. Friends who never made it back. Laughter turned to screams. He blinked, forcing his focus to the now, the birds, the light breeze, the laughter of children playing on the other side of the park.
This world didn't know what was coming. They were soft. Safe.
He was a ghost sitting in the middle of it all.
He took another bite of the pastry.
Then finally, a small sip from the flask.
Just enough to steady his hands.
The memories didn't stop. They never really did. Faces he'd buried long ago flickered behind his eyes, Clover, bleeding out beneath a shattered sky; Elm's final stand; Harriet's scream, cut off by fire. People he loved. People who trusted him. People he couldn't save. Ironwood was corrupt. His way of thinking is flawed. Why couldn't they see that?
He gripped the flask a little tighter.
They were all gone. Well, technically, not any more. But here he was, eighteen again, eating pastries under a tree like the world hadn't ended once already.
Ashen exhaled and reached into his backpack again, pulling free his leather-bound journal, still new, its spine only beginning to loosen, pages crisp beneath his fingertips. This was only the second time he'd opened it. The first entry felt more like a warning. This one, maybe a step toward something better.
He flipped it open to a fresh page, uncapped his pen, and began to write.
-/-/-/-/-/-
Journal Entry: Day Two
Vale is too peaceful. Too quiet.
It's not just the city. It's everything. The way people laugh. The way they live without fear.
I'm not ready for it. Not yet.
They were all there this morning. Jaune, Ruby, Pyrrha… They looked happy. Like nothing ever happened. Because nothing has. Not for them.
I can't keep flinching at laughter. Can't keep running from the sound of their voices. If I want to help them, I have to be around them. I have to face them.
If they don't trust me, I can't protect them. And if I can't protect them, this cycle repeats.
I won't let that happen.
I have to get better.
I don't need to be perfect. Not yet. But I do need to function. I need to look them in the eye and not see the way they died. I need to smile when they joke. Nod when they plan. Train beside them without flinching.
They don't remember the fall. They don't remember what it felt like when Beacon burned. But I do. That memory alone has to be enough to carry us all.
The plan isn't complex. Just survive. Just stay near. Build trust, little by little. Sit at their table. Talk. Train. Fight. Laugh when they laugh, even if it hurts.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe it's the only way to earn their faith. Because when the time comes, they need to follow me, and believe I'll lead them somewhere worth surviving for.
-/-/-/-/-/-
He stopped writing, stared at the ink until it stopped blurring in his vision. He took a larger swig from the flask, then he closed the journal and tucked it gently away.
The wind shifted, brushing the side of his face. He closed his eyes for a moment and let it pass through him. He then marked this moment with his semblance. If he had to come back he wanted it to be at this moment.
Tomorrow, he'd start again.
SCENE 6
Ashen had spent longer in the park than he meant to. The bench had anchored him, and the wind through the trees had dulled his instincts enough to keep him seated well past his intention. He realized, as he stood and gathered his things, that the flask had hit harder than expected. His balance was fine, his eyes clear, but there was a warmth in his limbs and a quiet buzz in his head that hadn't been there earlier.
His body was younger now, reset, like everything else. No tolerance built up. No years of training his system to handle drinks without slipping.
He blamed that.
Ashen left the park as the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the streets. The light had taken on that late afternoon hue, soft, gold-touched, and melancholy. He adjusted the strap on his backpack, his steps unhurried. Ahead, the road split.
The direct path to the airship platforms ran straight through the main shopping district, bustling, loud, predictable. The other path, veering off to the left, led through the older side streets. Fewer people. Fewer distractions.
He hesitated.
Then turned left.
Just a little longer.
The further he walked, the quieter it became. The buzz of traffic faded, replaced by the rustle of wind through alleys and the occasional hum of distant music spilling from a tavern. He passed graffiti-tagged walls, old mailboxes, and shuttered windows. The world softened with each step, but the edge in his chest remained.
The alcohol was catching up with him. More than a buzz now, just enough to throw off his focus, to muddy the space between steps. It was harder to center his breathing, harder to stay fully grounded in the moment. The weight in his limbs wasn't fatigue. It was warmth. Sluggishness. Familiar in a dangerous way.
He muttered under his breath, annoyed. "Too much."
His younger body wasn't built for this, not yet. He hadn't adjusted, hadn't rebuilt the tolerance he used to rely on. It was a miscalculation. One he couldn't afford to make again.
Then he heard it.
Glass shattering. A voice raised in anger. Something metallic hit the ground with a sharp clang.
Ashen stopped.
He was near a dust shop, a small one tucked behind a grocery store, its back facing the alley. The main lights were off, but he saw the flicker of movement inside. Shadows against broken display cases. The unmistakable shape of a White Fang operative in a mask.
There were four of them.
Ashen stepped back into shadow, eyes narrowing. He scanned the alley: one by the door, two inside, one posted as lookout across the street. Sloppy perimeter. No coordination. No real discipline.
He could handle them.
He tucked his scarf into his hoodie. No Ashpiercer. No show of force. Just hands. Aura. Precision.
Ashen took a long breath, back pressed to the brick wall as he watched the lookout from across the alley. He needed to focus. He slapped his cheeks lightly with both hands, once, twice, trying to shake off the sluggish fog and alcohol that clung to the edges of his thoughts.
"Focus," he muttered. "Come on."
He stepped out casually, walking toward the lookout with an easy, loose gait. Just a drunk kid out late. Just another face in the city.
The White Fang operative didn't notice him until he was about ten feet away. Then, the masked head snapped up.
Ashen raised one hand slowly. "Hey, uh, is this place still open? I heard they've got good rates on dust—"
"Get lost," the lookout snapped, reaching toward his belt. "Shop's closed. Now move."
Ashen didn't.
In one clean motion, he stepped in fast, closing the distance in a single stride. His hand came up, sharp and practiced, palm to the throat. The man's voice cut off with a choked breath. A twist of the wrist followed, dropping him to the ground in a silent heap. At the same time dropping his bag just outside the door of the shop.
Next, the one by the door. Ashen rushed in low, grabbing the heel of the man's ankle and yanking it out from under him. He crumpled with a grunt. A knee to the chest ended the noise.
Inside, voices still argued. They hadn't noticed.
Ashen slipped through the broken door and struck.
He moved like smoke, sliding between them with sudden, sharp force. A fist to the temple. Elbow to the ribs. One tried to swing a rifle; Ashen knocked it from their grip and drove a forearm into their sternum, sending them sprawling into the shelves.
The last one managed to pull a blade, and this one was different. His Aura flared, weak, but active. Ashen's first strike glanced off, absorbed by a shimmer of light. The second caught the man's arm but didn't disable him. They squared off in the wreckage, breathing hard.
Ashen narrowed his eyes. "The White Fang used to stand for something. Peace. Unity. What the hell is this? Robbing dust shops in back alleys?"
The man sneered. "Why do you care? What are you, some wannabe Huntsman with a death wish?"
Ashen took a step forward, calm despite the pulse in his veins. "No. I'm Specialist Frost of the Atlas Military. And Vale is our ally. That makes its people my responsibility."
The White Fang operative froze, just for a second. "Specialist...?"
"Stand down," Ashen said, his voice low but clear. "This doesn't have to get worse."
But the man didn't listen. He lunged.
They exchanged a series of sharp, brutal blows. Ashen absorbed a hit to his side, letting his Aura take the brunt before twisting inside the man's guard. A strike to the ribs, then the leg. He swept the man's feet out from under him and dropped him to the ground with a final, crushing elbow to the back.
The man hit the floor hard and didn't move.
Ashen stood over him, panting quietly. His knuckles ached.
The others hadn't had Aura. One of them had a bloody nose, red smeared across his cheek and pooling under his head. But this one had been trained, armed with more than just ideology.
And still, it wasn't enough.
Silence followed.
Ashen stood in the wreckage, chest rising and falling with steady breaths. None of them had seen it coming. None of them would forget it, if they woke up remembering anything at all.
Ashen stood among the wreckage, breathing steady now. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out his scroll, quickly dialing in the local police contact number listed for emergencies.
"This is Specialist Ashen Frost, Atlas Military. I've just subdued four armed suspects attempting to rob a dust shop near Third and Bay. No civilians harmed. Request immediate dispatch for containment and retrieval."
The operator confirmed his location and assured officers were en route.
With the call made, Ashen moved to each downed attacker one by one. On the one who had drawn the blade, the one with Aura, he found a bundle of zipcord restraints tucked into a utility pouch. Practical. He took them and made quick use of them, binding each operative's wrists securely behind their backs.
Next, he began to search them systematically. No movement. No sudden threats. He collected their weapons, mostly sidearms, knives, one cheap dust rifle, and placed them in a single pile out of reach. Then he pulled off their masks, tucking three into a plastic grocery bag and slipping the fourth into his own backpack. It could be handy to have later.
If the local authorities wanted proof, they'd have it.
He checked pulses, pupils, and breathing again, making sure none had suffered lasting damage. The first three had no Aura. One bled from the nose, red pooling beneath his cheek. Ashen tore a strip from a clean rag hanging on a shelf and pressed it gently to slow the bleeding, then shifted the man's head to keep his airway open.
The fourth, the one with Aura, was bruised but breathing evenly. Ashen left him with an extra zipcord looped through his belt, just in case.
By the time sirens echoed down the alley, Ashen had finished. He stepped back, leaning against the wall near the exit, hoodie up and expression unreadable.
When the officers arrived, they'd find everything secured. The suspects restrained. The weapons and masks collected. No casualties.
Ashen was already gone.
SCENE 7
The bullhead ride back to Beacon was silent. Ashen sat near the rear, hood drawn, arms folded over his chest. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind a dull ache in his side and a sharper one in his mind. The city lights dimmed as the cliffs of Beacon came into view, and by the time he stepped onto campus, the world had gone quiet again.
He returned to his dorm, slipping inside with as little sound as possible. The clock on his scroll lit up as he checked it.
10:03 PM.
The room was dark but not untouched. Clothes still scattered from the morning outburst. Items knocked loose. The bottle from earlier still sat on his shelf. The note Clover had left with it, untouched on his desk.
He stood in the doorway for a long moment.
He'd spent the entire day running. Into the city. Through his memories. Toward something that didn't feel like peace, but wasn't quite war either. And during the fight, it had all faded. The grief. The fear. The self-doubt. It had been quiet inside his head.
But now it was back.
He sighed, kicked off his shoes, and began to clean.
He refolded the clothes he'd thrown. Hung up the uniform he had worn out. Picked up the items strewn across his desk and shelves and put them in place with calm, steady hands. There was comfort in the routine. In setting something right, even if it was just his own space.
After everything was tidy again, he showered. The hot water hit like clarity, washing away sweat, smoke, blood. He stood under the stream longer than necessary, letting the steam dull the sharp edges of the day. Once again taking in a luxury he had long gone without.
Once dry, he unpacked his bag in silence. From it, he pulled the bottle from the shop he had used to fill his flask. He placed it and the one on his shelf from Clover side by side in the deep bottom drawer of his desk. He stared at them for a beat longer than needed before sliding the drawer closed.
Then he reached into the backpack again and withdrew the White Fang masks. Unlike the others, this one wasn't going to evidence. He turned it in his hands, the white cracked slightly at the edge where his elbow had landed.
He set it on the shelf above his desk.
A trophy. A warning. A mark.
His first full day at Beacon was over.
And the war had already started.
Later, with the room dark and quiet around him, Ashen sat down at his desk and reopened the journal he had started in the park. The ink from his earlier entry had dried, crisp against the page. He flipped past it to a blank one and uncapped his pen.
-/-/-/-/-/-
Day Two Cont.
Fighting felt good. Too good.
For a few minutes, I forgot about the ache in my chest. The weight of memory. The pain of seeing them smile like nothing ever happened. During the fight, there was only purpose, clarity. Everything narrowed into instinct, into precision. That kind of focus... it felt like coming home.
But that isn't the answer. I can't chase conflict every time the past overwhelms me.
Still, today gave me something I didn't expect, perspective. I survived the hardest part. I faced the ghosts. And now... I have to face the living ones too.
Tomorrow, I'm going to talk to them. All of them.
I'm going to apologize for this morning. For how I acted. For disappearing.
Then I'll introduce myself. For real this time.
I need them to know me, not the soldier, not the ghost. Just Ashen.
Because trust is the first step. And if I'm going to save them, they have to believe in me.
One step at a time.
– A.F.
-/-/-/-/-/-
A lot to unpack here, but it's also our first fight. LET'S GO!
Ashen is learning that feelings are hard and sometimes all you need is a drink, dessert, and a good fight.
Remember if you are liking this story please remember to follow, favorite, and review the story. It's a lot of fun to write and it keeps me motivated to write more!