The barracks were quieter now. The dorm felt too big without Isabel's chatter. The mess hall too hollow without Farlan's storytelling. And the training field... felt entirely different without Levi's ever-watchful presence—his curt commands, his grunts of approval, the weight of his silence beside her. Still, Beatrice rose every day at dawn.
She stretched alone.
She ran laps alone.
She practiced her formations using her shadows as partners.
The dummy dummies didn't mock her when she muttered self-corrections under her breath, but they also didn't give her the slight grin Levi always wore whenever she landed a perfect strike. Or the shoulder squeeze Farlan gave without fail. Or the chaotic applause from Isabel when she managed to stay upright after a midair roll.
She missed them.
But she trained.
Each movement more precise. Each manoeuvre becomes more confident. The instructors took notice. They whispered, wondering aloud how someone with such a quiet presence burned so fiercely when she moved. Sometimes, at night, she'd sneak back to the attic and lie under the stars—constellations stitched in her mind, her fingers absently tracing imaginary lines on the roof tiles.
And on the seventh night, a letter arrived. No name on the envelope. Just her bunk number.
Inside, in Levi's unmistakable blocky script:
Stop crying.
Practice your counters.
Check your gas levels twice.
They're still underestimating you. Let them. Then make them eat dirt.
—L
Tucked inside the folded paper: a tiny pressed flower, faded but whole. She stared at it for a long time, then smiled.
"Eyes up, Ackerman!"
A wooden sword came swinging toward his ribs—Levi ducked and twisted, blade snapping up and striking the instructor's wrist with precision so sharp it echoed across the field.
"Show-off," someone muttered behind him.
He didn't answer. He wiped sweat from his brow and moved into the next formation. Fast. Efficient. Cold. People respected him already. Feared him, even. But they didn't know him. Not really. He didn't let them. Except maybe Erwin. And Mike. And Hange, who'd already tried to dissect his form and offer him six hypothetical explosives to fight titans with. But Levi didn't talk much. He trained. He wrote his letters. He tied his cravat every morning the same way—Beatrice's stitch line resting perfectly against his collarbone like a secret. He didn't tell anyone about her.
But she was with him.
Every time he corrected a grip or scowled at a sloppy movement, he imagined her watching. Every time he sat alone at breakfast, he imagined what she'd say about his half-burnt toast. Every time he looked at the stars, he remembered the sound of her whispering:
That one's Lyra… That one's Cassiopeia…
Two Months Later
Her paperwork finally arrived.
Transfer to Survey Corps: Approved.
She sat on the edge of her bunk, staring at the seal with a pounding heart. Outside, the wind carried the smell of summer, and her hands trembled as she traced Levi's last letter—creased and reread a dozen times.
Then she opened her trunk.
Inside, carefully wrapped in cloth, were all the letters she never sent.
Because she didn't know what to say without it sounding like too much.
But now?
Now she would follow.
Levi — Field Mission, Western Forests
Their first live operation.
Titans in the wild. Casualties. Screams. And Levi, cold and lethal, moving like a blade through smoke. But then…
A flash of white in the distance. Too small to be a uniform.
A memory struck him. Beatrice. Pale hair whipping in the wind. Her voice, breathless: Levi, should we go?
He froze.
Long enough for Mike to shout, "Ackerman, move!"
He did. He cut. He cleaned the battlefield.
But that night, as they camped under the trees and the others tended wounds and wrote reports, Levi sat beneath a branch and pulled out one of her letters—the one she sent before she joined.
You told me not to trust anyone, but I trust you.
I still follow the stars.
I'll see you soon.
—B
He didn't smile.
But his hand rested over the cravat.
And he looked up.
And whispered to the stars: "You'd better catch up fast, brat."