~ ~ ~Chains of Starlight~ ~ ~

Chapter Eleven: The Mask and the Scar

***Kyla's POV***

~~~The Training Hall~~~

Days passed. Maybe weeks.
She wasn't sure anymore.

Time in the palace flowed strangely — artificial suns and moons shimmered through crystal panels on perfect cycles, but there was no scent of morning coffee, no gravity of Earth pulling at her bones.

And yet she moved. Sometimes of her own will. Sometimes because the collar made her. It forced her to walk when she wanted to curl into the bed and vanish, forced her to eat when her stomach turned like she'd swallowed poison.

Each morning she rose from the too-soft bed in the too-silent guest wing of Nadyr's estate. She dressed herself. She ate little. She trained. She memorized the corridors she was allowed to walk. She tried — and failed — to forget she was a prisoner.

Sometimes she resented him so much her teeth ached.
Other nights, she burned for him so badly it made her sick.
"It was the Starlace," she told herself aloud. "It meant nothing. It didn't count. He took your freedom."

Every morning, she trained with a Vraek. At first, she thought they were machines — all masked, identical in their obsidian armor. But over time, she noticed things.

One tilted his head when listening. Another tapped the hilt of his blade three times before striking. One made a soft scoffing sound when she moved too soon. Little quirks. Habits. Human. Almost.

Today, she pushed herself past her limit. The training hall stank of sweat and static. Kyla wiped blood from her brow — hers, probably — and caught a low sweep from Clanks. Or maybe Prettyboy. She was still sorting them out.

Then the realization hit her mid-duel.
"You're people," she blurted.

The six froze.

"You're not just soldiers in pretty armor. You have tics. Rituals. One of you taps your blade like you're summoning courage. Another—" she pointed, panting "—does that little scoff when I dodge too early."

They looked at each other but stayed silent.

"I thought I was training with ghosts," Kyla said, breathless. "But you're here. You're real."

Stalker — the silent one who'd been posted outside her door since the summit — pointed toward the rest area. A silent order to take a break. Kyla groaned but obeyed, dropping to the cold black floor.

Prettyboy — always the blade twirler — offered her a canister of amber nutrition liquid. She wrinkled her nose but took it.

She watched them spar, her voice low and playful:
"Don't look now, but Prettyboy's going for the dramatic wrist-flex again. Ten credits says he does the slow-turn hair flip next. Grunts is breathing like someone insulted his grandmother. Hiss — Mr. Perfect Posture — will hiss at him any second now. Echo's already practicing the positioning for his next move and Twitch, if I get electrocuted because walked by him again, I'm suing."  She skirmishes.

A dark, amused voice cut through the air.
"Do they know you've named them?"

Kyla froze, her hand instinctively going to the collar. Slowly, she turned. Nadyr stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his coat trailing behind him like smoke. His eyes glowed with far too much amusement to be safe.

"And what, exactly, would my nickname be?"

She cleared her throat. "Still workshopping it."

"Are you now?"

"Mmhm. Needs to be accurate. And humiliating."

"I've been called destroyer, regent, sovereign..."

"Titles," she cut in. "Not nicknames."

He tilted his head. "Then what would you call me, little Miresth?"

She frowned. "Nuh-uh. You can't be giving me nicknames."

"Seems only fair, since I'm due one as well." He pushed off the wall, his gaze catching on her hand still on the collar. Then, unexpectedly, he crouched beside her.

Her breath caught as his fingers brushed the clasp. The collar clicked loose.

"Don't go running," he murmured. "You're suffering side effects. You barely eat, and what you keep down, your body rejects."

His fingers lingered at her neck, sweeping her hair over her shoulder — almost like an apology he wouldn't say out loud.

Kyla's voice broke the moment. "Why do they always wear the helmets? I've never seen their faces. Do you even know who they are under all that armor?"

"They are Vraek," he said simply. "They do not remove their helmets unless ordered. Or unless they choose to."

"So order them."

"They are not soldiers, Kyla. Not in the way you understand."

"Then what are they?"

A pause. His gaze sharpened.
"They are sworn to me. By blood. By oath. By loss. Their identities are no longer bound to names, only to purpose. The mask is both shield and scar."

"They're entrusted with my life," she said quietly. "I want to see who they are."

He studied her for a long moment, then his voice dropped. "If you ask them, and they choose to remove their helmets for you, I will not interfere. But I will not command it."

"Why not?"

"Because removing the helmet is the last vulnerability they have. You do not demand that. You earn it."

The words hit deeper than she expected. She glanced toward where the Vraek had gone, then back to him.

"Then I'll earn it."

"Good," Nadyr said. "They don't kneel easily. And they've bled too much for anyone who treats them like shadows."