Episode-963
Chapter : 1925
She looked at her hands. They were smooth again. The white scar on her thumb was gone. The heavy olive jacket was replaced by her simple cotton nightgown.
But the feeling remained.
For a long time, she just sat there in the dark, touching her thumb where the scar had been in the dream. She felt a profound, aching sadness, a sense of loss so deep it made her throat tight. It felt like she had left something important back in that grey, rainy world.
"Who are you?" she whispered to the empty room.
She wasn't asking about the man. She knew the man was Lloyd. She was asking about the woman in the dream. The woman who wore the soldier's clothes and spoke with such calm strength. That woman felt more real to Airin than the reflection she saw in the mirror every morning.
Airin got out of bed. It was still early, the sun just beginning to turn the sky purple. Her roommate, a girl named Zeba, was still fast asleep.
Airin moved to her small desk. Usually, she moved quietly because she was shy. Today, she moved quietly because she was precise.
Without thinking, she began to organize her desk. She didn't just stack her books; she aligned them perfectly with the edge of the table. She took her pens and lined them up by size, exactly one inch apart. She folded her uniform with sharp, crisp creases, her hands moving with a speed and efficiency she didn't recognize.
It was a "bleed-over." That was the only way to describe it. The habits of the woman in the dream were leaking into Airin's waking life.
Yesterday, during lunch, a student had dropped a metal tray in the cafeteria. The loud clang had echoed through the hall. Most students just jumped or laughed. Airin had instantly dropped into a crouch, her eyes scanning the room for a threat, her hand reaching for a weapon she wasn't wearing.
She had stood up quickly, blushing furiously as people stared at her. She had pretended she dropped her spoon, but her hands had been shaking. It wasn't fear of the noise. It was a reflex. Her body had reacted to the sound of a "gunshot" before her brain realized it was just a tray.
Gunshot.
The word floated into her mind. She didn't know what it meant, not really. There were no guns in Riverio. But the woman in the dream knew. The woman in the dream knew the sound of death very well.
Airin finished dressing. She looked at herself in the small mirror on the wall. Her face was the same—the freckles, the soft eyes. But there was something new in her expression. Her jaw was set a little tighter. Her eyes were a little more focused.
She wasn't just a scholarship student anymore. She felt like a soldier who had forgotten her mission.
She grabbed her bag and headed out the door. She needed to walk. She needed to clear her head. But as she walked through the stone corridors of the Academy, she found herself checking the exits. She found herself watching the hands of the people she passed. She was assessing threats in a school full of teenagers.
And in the back of her mind, the image of the man in the olive uniform burned like a coal. He was Lloyd Ferrum, the man she respected, the teacher who had protected her. But in the dream, he wasn't her teacher. He was her partner. He was her equal.
And she missed him. She missed him with a pain that felt eighty years old.
________________________________________
The seventh night was different.
The dream started the same way. The rain. The black ground. The smell of burning oil. But this time, the noise in the distance had stopped. The silence was heavy, like the world was holding its breath.
Airin stood on the black stone. She was wearing the olive uniform again. She felt the weight of the strange black tool on her shoulder—a weapon, she realized now, with a strap that dug familiarly into her collarbone. It was heavy, but it felt comforting, like an old friend that had kept her alive.
The mist parted, and he was there.
He looked tired today. There was dirt on his cheek, and his uniform was stained with mud and something darker. But his eyes were bright. He walked toward her, moving with the weary, practiced gait of a soldier returning from patrol, and the rest of the world seemed to blur and fade away. There was only him.
Chapter : 1926
He stopped a few feet away. He didn't take her hand this time. Instead, he reached into one of the many pockets on his tactical jacket.
Airin’s breath caught in her throat. She knew what was happening. She didn't know how she knew, she just did. It was a memory that hadn't happened yet.
He pulled out a small object. It wasn't a fancy velvet box like the nobles used. It was just a small, silver ring. It was simple. No giant jewels, no magic runes. Just a band of polished metal that wouldn't catch the light in the field.
Slowly, carefully, he went down on one knee.
The ground was wet and dirty, but he didn't care. He looked up at her, and the look on his face broke her heart. It was a look of pure, unhidden adoration. It was the look of a man who had seen the ugliest parts of the world and found the only beautiful thing left in it.
"I don't have much," he said. His voice was soft, barely a whisper over the sound of the rain. "I can't promise you a palace. I can't promise that tomorrow will be safe. But I can promise you this."
He held up the ring.
"I will never leave your side," he said. "In this life, or the next. I will always find you."
Airin felt tears hot on her cheeks. In the dream, she wasn't the shy student who was afraid of princesses and politics. She was a woman who had fought beside this man. She knew his flaws. She knew his grumpiness after a long watch, his strange sense of humor in the face of danger, his obsession with keeping his gear clean. And she loved him for all of it.
"Yes," she whispered.
He smiled. It was a real smile, wide and boyish, making him look ten years younger. He took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
He stayed on one knee for a moment, holding her hand. Then he looked deep into her eyes and spoke a name.
"Anastasia."
The word hit her like a physical blow. It wasn't just a name. It was an identity. It was a key unlocking a door in her mind that she didn't know was there.
Anastasia.
That was her.
She wasn't just Airin, the vegetable seller's daughter. She was Anastasia. She was the woman who marched in the mud. She was the woman who made him laugh when the war got too loud. She was the woman who had died...
The dream shattered.
Airin woke up screaming.
She sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. Her roommate, Zeba, groaned and rolled over, muttering in her sleep, but didn't wake up.
Airin pressed her hands to her face. Her cheeks were wet with real tears. Her heart was racing so fast it hurt.
"Anastasia," she whispered into her hands. The name tasted familiar on her tongue. It felt right. It felt more right than "Airin."
She looked at her left hand. There was no silver ring there. Her finger looked bare and lonely. The phantom weight of the metal band was still there, a ghost sensation on her skin.
She couldn't go back to sleep. The sun was rising, painting the room in soft grey light. Airin got up and dressed mechanically. She put on her Academy uniform—the white shirt, the blue skirt—but it felt like a costume. It felt flimsy compared to the durable olive jacket.
She needed answers.
She skipped breakfast and walked straight to the Great Library. She needed to know what that uniform was. She needed to know what that black stone ground was. She needed to know if the name "Anastasia" appeared in any history book.
She spent three hours searching. She looked through books on military history, books on foreign kingdoms, books on ancient clothing. She found nothing. There were no armies that wore olive green jackets with zippers. There were no roads made of black stone with white lines.
It was a world that didn't exist.
Frustrated, she slammed a heavy book shut. The noise echoed in the quiet library.
"Careful with the merchandise," a dry voice said from behind her.
Airin jumped and spun around.
Standing at the end of the aisle was Professor Ferrum. Lloyd.
He was holding a stack of papers, looking at her with his usual calm, unreadable expression. He wore his fine noble clothes—a dark vest, a crisp white shirt. He looked nothing like the soldier in the dream.
And yet, he was exactly him.