Maisah Mae

Knuckles crunch against my nose, and the world tilts, sky replacing ground in a dizzy, muted blur of dark clouds and dull light.
I hit the sand hard enough for it to burst around me in a fine, stinging spray. For a second, I just lie there, staring up, watching the sky swim in darkness as the grains settle back down against my skin.
I never noticed how… pretty the sand could be this close. Freckled across the ground, catching the light in uneven specks. It would almost be calming if it didn’t burn your lungs every time you inhaled too sharply. “Keep your head on, Grey!” our instructor barks from somewhere beyond the makeshift ring carved into the sand only minutes ago.
I drag my gaze sideways, blinking grit out of my eyes until his figure sharpens into view. His bald head catches what little light breaks through the clouds, shining just the right amount.
Smooth and reflective.
Perfect for attracting a mate.
Thin threads of electricity snap lazily between his fingers, a quiet warning that hums louder than his voice ever could. The air around him feels charged, waiting for an excuse.
Can he hear my thoughts?
“You are not leaving that ring until you get your head out of your ass!”
How encouraging, truly inspiring. I almost feel compelled to get up and thank him. Maybe rub his head for good luck.
Nothing motivates me like the threat of getting my ass beat.
I push myself up with a sharp exhale, sand clinging to my palms and arms as I rise.
Across the ring, I lock eyes with the most irritating man I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing.
James is already watching me, that same easy, genuine-looking smile resting on his face like it belongs there. Like, this is all normal. Like he’s not about to rearrange my face.
It almost pulls a sneer out of me.
I lift a hand and point straight at his chest, narrowing my eyes just enough to make my meaning clear.
I know you’re faking it. I just can’t prove it.
Who smiles during a sparring session?
The red-stoned necklace around his throat sways as he shifts his stance, catching what little light filters through the clouds and glinting with each subtle movement. It’s a fitting complement to his knuckles, already smeared with blood.
I raise my fists, settling into position, bouncing lightly on my toes.
That’s all the signal he needs.
His fists blur toward me in a streak of motion, fast enough to make my breath hitch as I barely slip past the first strike, then the second, air slicing dangerously close to my face. I feel it more than I see it, the force of it brushing past my skin.
His eyes catch mine for half a second, and something in them shifts.
There’s a gleam there, off, yet terrifyingly steady. Like he’s somewhere else entirely, caught in a haze that sharpens him instead of dulling him.
A violent kind of focus.
That’s so comforting to see in a sparring partner.
We circle each other, trading strikes and dodges like we’ve done it a thousand times before, because we have. I know his fighting style like the back of my hand. The tells, the weight shifts, the way his shoulders move just before he commits to something, but he knows mine just as well.
He dips into a crouch, knees bending in a way I’ve seen a hundred times before. I already know what’s coming.
Left leg sweep.
I jump, preparing to counter the moment he follows through, but his movement snaps in a different direction entirely.
His foot slams into my stomach instead, knocking the air out of me in a sharp, violent burst, and before I can even react, his fist connects with my jaw as a sweet little “thank you.” A clean, solid crack.
Damn.
Pain blooms instantly, sharp and familiar, spreading across my face and sinking deep into my gut as I hit the ground again, breath refusing to come back fast enough.
How did he…?
I curl slightly, forcing air back into my lungs in shallow, uneven pulls. My body throbs in all the usual places, the kind of ache that never really leaves, not here. Not after years of this.
All these years at Gwynvir, and nothing has changed.
We spar.
We eat.
We train.
We strategize.
“Grey, Thornecrest! You’re out—next pair…” Instructor Drell’s voice cuts through the haze as I push myself upright again. He scans my remaining squad mates before pointing lazily. “Mercraft, Knightwood. You’re up.”
I bare my teeth slightly as I step out of the ring, resisting the urge to say something I’ll regret later.
If he had hair, I’d cut it off in his sleep.
I’ve barely made it two steps out of the ring before a hand clamps down on my shoulder, grip tight enough to grind bone.
“Let go of me, James.”
Seriously. What is his problem? First, he nearly rearranges my face; now, he’s trying to take my shoulder with him. What’s next?
A lobotomy?
He releases me immediately, hands lifting in mock surrender as he runs one through his caramel hair, pushing it back in a way that looks almost… nervous.
His green eyes flicker, something unreadable passing through them before disappearing.
“Hey, Lyra, I hope you didn’t take that too personally,” he says, voice light, easy. “I didn’t mean to kick you that hard. Sometimes I don’t really—” he huffs out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck “—know my own strength.”
We’ve been training together for nearly five years. Competition like this isn’t new. In a camp built to prepare us for war, injuries aren’t accidents; they’re expectations.
“I’m fine, James,” I say flatly. “We’re in a war camp. We’re training for war.”
Simple. Obvious. End of conversation.
I don’t blame him. I should’ve seen it coming. Still, I can’t help noticing the contrast between us, how freely he showed his every emotion, as if he thought everyone cared about his continual mental state. Compared to him, I feel… muted. Like everything inside me is dulled down before it ever reaches the surface.
It’s irritating to say the least.
He exhales, relief practically pouring out of him.
“Oh, good. I’m glad. I wouldn’t want you holding it against me next time we spar.”
Without waiting for anything else, he jogs back across the ring toward Brynn, calling over his shoulder, “Heal up, Lyra! Sit with the squad at dinner, yeah?”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
He either doesn’t hear me or decides it doesn’t matter.
Probably the second.
Our squad is small—like all squads at Gwynvir.
Five people. Me, James, Brynn, Posey, and Elijah.
Why they insist on odd numbers is beyond me.
The camps group us by closeness in age, training us alongside people whose abilities will manifest around the same time. Five years of training per squad. Five years before your magic surfaces and determines what kind of fae you become.
Or what you’re worth.
Every citizen of Nithaeris manifests magic eventually. It’s as certain as breathing. But strength is dictated by your bloodline, and the type is completely unpredictable.
Some powers reflect personality. Others develop from skill. Craftsmen gain control over their work, scholars develop mental abilities, aggression leans toward destruction. No one knows until it happens. That’s why we train.
If your magic is useful in battle, the army keeps you. If it’s not… you’re free. Simple system. Efficient.
What can I say? We had it down to a science.
Our Kingdom perfected it after an ancient war nearly tore the continent apart centuries ago. They swore never to be unprepared again.
Fortunately, there’s no war now, but there will be, and when it comes, everyone will be ready.
It makes sense, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Because if I had a choice, I wouldn’t be a warrior in this life or the next.
By the time our sparring session ends, I make my way back to the barracks alone, body aching in that dull, familiar way that seeps into your bones.
The air is colder here, quieter. It settles into my skin as I step inside, the silence wrapping around me like something almost tangible.
The space is small, compact, and functional. Beds line one wall, each paired with a large chest meant to hold our belongings. Not that we have many.
Uniforms, a few scraps of personal items, if you’re lucky.
Our Captain calls it unity.
I call it a load of bull.
I drop onto my bed in the corner of the room, staring up at the ceiling as the weight of the day slowly presses down.
Three months.
In three months, everything changes.
At twenty-five, my magic will finally manifest, and if everything goes the way it should, it will be wonderfully, perfectly useless. I will be free.
I already have it all planned out. My family’s magic has always been underwhelming. Mundane. Practical at best, irrelevant at worst. And for once, I’m counting on that because I’m not made for this.
I can fight. I can hold my own. I even rank above average, which says more about my consistency than any real passion for it.
But war?
No.
That’s never been my goal.
Before Gwynvir, I had something else. Music. Training. Purpose that didn’t involve breaking bones or preparing for a future soaked in blood.
I was good, too.
More than good, actually.
I studied with real musicians. Some of the most successful in the region.
I was good enough to imagine a life beyond this place, one filled with theaters, with sound, with something alive.
Music was the only thing that ever made sense. The only way I could take everything inside me, the things I couldn’t name, couldn’t understand, and turn it into something real.
Something that didn’t feel so… empty.
Now, all I have left of that life is a small journal tucked into my pillowcase. Pages filled with fragments of my past.
Poems, scattered thoughts, pieces of emotions that almost make sense in the moment yet fall apart the second I look too closely.
Most of the time, my thoughts feel distant. Blurred.
And when they’re gone completely, the hollow feeling in my chest weighs down the gaping cavity until I can only lie there and endure, waiting for it to pass.
I close my eyes, letting my mind drift somewhere else, somewhere warmer. Somewhere filled with sound and light and the echo of voices that aren’t shouting commands.
A melody forms without effort, soft and slow, unfolding naturally as I hum under my breath. It isn’t from anything I’ve heard before, but it felt right, like my soul was speaking.
It began as a slow melody, melting into a lullaby of sixth intervals that danced into perfect fourths and major thirds.
For a moment, I can almost disappear into it.
Peaceful like the trickling flow of water.
So soothing, I could drift away and lie in the safety of myself…

…

“Wake up, Lyra!”
I feel like a corpse being dragged back to life.
“Leavemealone,” I mumble, words slurring together as I burrow deeper into my pillow.
“Come onnnn,” Brynn groans. “I will rip those covers off if you don’t get up right now. You’re being so lazy.”
“I said leave me alone.”
I push myself upright slowly, blinking sleep from my eyes as the room comes back into focus.
Elijah and Posey are already inside.
I watch as Posey meticulously smooths her bed, again, even though it’s already perfect, while Elijah watches from across the room, silent as ever.
It would be concerning if I didn’t know that Elijah barely spoke, but he seemed to enjoy observation over conversation.
Relatable.
“You missed dinner,” Brynn announces dramatically, dropping onto the edge of my bed like she’s been personally wronged. She wipes a fake tear from her amber eyes as I watch her long, icy blonde hair sway with the motion, a stark contrast to my dark burgundy.
Brynn and I clicked from our very first day as a squad. We’ve always shared a certain connection, and sometimes it almost feels like we’re the same person. We think the same way, like she feeds off my energy.
It’s a nice feeling; having an unspoken connection with someone after being misunderstood by so many.
“I had to eat with James. Alone,” she continues, glaring at me like I’ve committed a crime. “Do you know what that’s like? You left me to suffer.”
“You weren’t alone. Posey and Elijah were there.”
She scoffs loudly. “You know full well that James and I carry the conversation.”
“What did he even do?” I ask, though I already know the answer won’t justify this level of dramatics, but who was I to tell her how to act?
“Ugh, does it matter? He’s annoying.” She says, collapsing on my bed.
“Wow, don’t tell me everything at once. I’ll get overwhelmed.” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No.”
“Ok, good.”
In truth, James isn’t the worst person here.
But there’s something about him that puts me on edge.
He hides behind everything, smiles, jokes, easy charm. It’s too smooth. Too practiced. Like there’s something underneath it he doesn’t want anyone to see.
Moral of the story: I don’t trust fake people, and James is definitely fake.
I’ve been trying to crack it for years.
Maybe I would reconsider our barely friendly relationship if he switches over to the dark side. How someone could be so cheery in a place as depressing as Gwynvir is beyond me.
It might make more sense if we were stationed in Bartold. Their training camps are known for beautiful sunny weather, a dramatic contrast to our current predicament.
Cold, rocky, and wet; with a splash of ocean.
If we could pick where we were assigned, no one would choose Gwynvir. It makes people with depression seem normal.
“Anyway,” Brynn says, suddenly leaning closer, her expression shifting into something conspiratorial. “He kept asking about you. After sparring. Wouldn’t drop it.”
I stared at her as she wiggled her eyebrows like she had something stuck in her eyes.
“Are your eyes ok?” I was only slightly concerned with whatever was going on with her face.
“I’m making a seductive face. Can’t you tell?” Brynn asked, genuinely confused.
“Right, yeah, of course,” I replied nervously. How could she think that was seductive, unless you thought dirt in your eye was a turn on?
“I think he likes you.”
I slap her hands away as she tries to jab at my side.
“James is disturbed,” I said simply because he was.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
“He was probably worried he hit me too hard,” I add with a shrug. “Don’t read into it. He’s weird enough already.”
She hesitates, then sighs.
“Yeah… maybe.”
A beat passes before her expression brightens again.
“Oh! I brought you food.”
She hands me what can generously be described as a sandwich. Mystery meat between two pieces of very tired bread, wrapped loosely in a protective layer. I take it anyway despite its appearance. “Thanks.”
Everything tastes better when you’re starving.
“Next time,” she says, watching me eat, “don’t skip dinner.”
“I won’t.”
She nods, satisfied, and moves back to her bed, slipping into her usual routine.
I lean back against the wall, finishing the last bite slowly as the room settles into a quieter rhythm.
Three months.
Just three more months.
I could only hope it went by without any negative energy bringing me down.