The scent of warm bread and chamomile drifted through the mess hall. The rising sun painted thin gold lines across the wooden floors, catching on dust motes that danced gently in the still air.
Beatrice blinked as she shuffled into the mess, arms tucked into an oversized shawl Isabel had thrust onto her earlier. Her ankle still throbbed. Her head pulsed dully beneath the bandages. But the infirmary nurse had all but shoved her out after deeming her "well enough to eat," and now here she was—still sleep-heavy, hair tangled, staring blankly at a tray of food that felt too colorful to be real.
A slice of soft brown bread. A boiled egg. A spoonful of jam. Stewed berries. She blinked again. Then, across from her, a tray clattered down.
Levi.
Expression flat. Eyes sharp. Uniforml freshly pressed, though the faint shadows beneath his eyes told a different story. He sat without a word, arms crossed, foot tapping quietly under the table.
Beatrice tilted her head slightly. "You're not eating."
He didn't respond.
She glanced at her tray, then back at him. Then down again. Then—His hand moved. He took the egg off her tray. Cracked it, peeled it, halved it. Checked the center. Sniffed it. Beatrice blinked.
"Um…" she began. "Are you… inspecting my food?"
Levi grunted. Peeled off a piece of bread next. Pressed the surface. Touched the jam with a fingertip. Sniffed again.
"…You are," she said, stunned.
"Tch. I'm checking for quality," Levi replied flatly. "This kitchen's run by half-trained cadets. Last week, someone found a nail in the porridge."
"I have no nails," Beatrice deadpanned softly.
Levi stopped. Then turned his head slowly to give her the look. The one that said don't joke like that unless you want me to throttle the whole base.
Beatrice stared at him, completely serious for a beat—then smiled faintly.
Levi sighed and pushed the tray back toward her. "It's fine."
"I thought you hated breakfast with people."
"I hate loud breakfast with loud people." His gaze dropped to her untouched spoon. "Eat."
"Yes, sir."
Levi looked away, ears pink.
"Good morning, you two," came Erwin's smooth voice. But he stepped aside—because the man at his back was not one to be announced.
"Where is my daughter?!" came a booming voice from the entrance.
Beatrice immediately stiffened.
Darius Zackly, Commander-in-Chief of the military and currently wearing a knitted scarf made by Beatrice when she was five, stormed into the hall with all the subtlety of a battering ram. His eyes were sharp and unyielding—until they landed on her. Then they softened to puddles.
"Beatrice," he said with a tremble in his voice, striding forward like he might rip Levi from existence if she so much as winced. "How are you? Are you hurt? Is it your ankle? Your head?" He crouched beside her, inspecting her face as if he could absorb the injury for her.
"I'm okay, Uncle," she said softly, embarrassed but comforted. "The medic said I'm healing."
"You didn't write. You didn't telegraph." He adjusted her shawl like a worried hen.
"You're holding it upside down," she whispered.
Erwin cleared his throat with amusement. Levi, on the other hand, looked like he was reconsidering his life choices.
Zackly stood at last, turned to Levi, and glared.
"You."
Levi blinked once.
"You were with her, weren't you?"
"I was," Levi said flatly.
Zackly stared at him. Then at his daughter. Then back at Levi.
"…Very well," he finally said, but the silence crackled with if she had lost a single hair, I would have torn the wall down with your corpse.
Erwin interjected smoothly. The disciplinary hearing is in one hour. We'll need to make our way there."
"I'll escort her myself," Zackly declared. "And I'll be staying for the hearing."
"You'll be presiding over it," Erwin corrected.
"Even better."
The hall was tense and lined with cadets trying to pretend they weren't blatantly eavesdropping. Beatrice stood front and centre, ankle stiff, posture straight. Levi stood beside her, hands in his pockets, eyes like knives. And at the centre of the panel, presiding over the hearing with absolutely no objectivity, was one Darius Zackly, his brows furrowed like stormclouds. Erwin sat beside him, amused. The other officers tried not to look like they were about to piss themselves.
"Cadet Beatrice Dalca," one officer began nervously, "you are hereby questioned for unauthorised departure from the perimeter, destruction of equipment, and—"
Zackly raised a hand.
"She was attacked by human traffickers in our backyard."
The officer coughed. "Yes, sir, but protocol—"
"Protocol," Zackly growled, "can shove itself into the nearest latrine. This is a formality, nothing more."
Beatrice opened her mouth. "Uncle—"
"I am not your uncle in this room, young lady," Zackly said. "I am the embodiment of impartial military law and reason."
Beatrice blinked. "You're wearing the scarf I made you."
Zackly coughed and tried to hide it under his coat. "Moving on."
Erwin bit back a laugh.
"Cadet Ackerman," one of the braver officers tried, "you remained outside the perimeter knowingly. Why?"
"She was hurt," Levi replied. "You think I'd leave her?"
"Your actions were unsanctioned—"
"I'd do it again," Levi snapped.
Zackly's eyes narrowed. "…Would you?"
Levi met his gaze. Silence.
Then Zackly leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the desk. "Very well. Verdict: Cadet Dalca will receive a formal commendation for survival under duress."
Beatrice's eyes widened.
"Cadet Ackerman will be assigned three days' kitchen duty for insubordination. Effective immediately."
Levi tsked. "Tch."
Zackly's gaze softened as he turned to his daughter. "Beatrice. Go rest. And next time, next time, my dear—bring your scarf. You'll catch a cold."
As they stepped out into the hallway, Beatrice turned to Levi, her cheeks a little pink.
"Thank you," she said.
"For… being there."
Levi grunted. "Tch. Don't get used to it."