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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080][i][color=3b9ae1]“Let’s go, lightning legs!”[/color][/i]

Rae’s shout still crackled through Zelia’s thoughts like a spark caught in dry grass, bright and impossible to shake. She sank onto the bench at the front, lungs still dragging in air as though the course clung to her ribs, refusing to let go. Her legs trembled pleasantly from the effort, a warm afterburn humming beneath her skin, but her pulse had begun to slow— softening from thunder to something more like a steady drum.

She watched Rae take her place at the starting line, the world narrowing for a moment to that poised, eager silhouette. A small smile tugged at Zelia’s lips, unbidden but sure, pride blooming in her chest with steady heat. The echo of the nickname fluttered through her again, gentler this time, more like encouragement than a tease. She let it settle there, warm and familiar, as she leaned forward slightly, breath still uneven but her spirit bright and ready to cheer Rae on with every quiet heartbeat. 

Zelia found her breath catching the moment the starting signal snapped through the air. It was as if the sound had struck Rae like a badly aimed lightning bolt— she jolted forward with a kind of chaotic bravery that made Zelia’s pulse leap. The tires greeted Rae like an ambush, and Zelia pressed a hand to her sternum as the girl lurched and tangled, limbs rebelling in a wild flail that somehow kept her upright. Each misstep wrung a soft gasp from Zelia, each frantic recovery tugged her forward on her seat. She whispered encouragement under her breath, little, trembling threads of hope, feeling them snag in her chest as Rae stumbled out of the section looking half-winded and wholly offended by its existence.

Then came the logs. Zelia winced in tandem with every misjudged step, every graceless scramble. Rae tripping over the first felt like watching someone stub their soul, climbing over the next with baffled determination made Zelia bite back a laugh that warmed, despite her anxiety. Sliding down the third on her stomach nearly pulled an actual whimper from her. Zelia’s fingers curled into the fabric of her pants as if she could anchor Rae through sheer shared mortification. Yet there was something stubborn and shining about the way Rae kept going, as though embarrassment was nothing more than an extra weight she carried on her hip.

The low crawl was somehow worse to watch and better at the same time. The sand tried to swallow Rae elbow-first, dragging at her like it wanted her bones for itself. Zelia could see the strain burning through her friend’s shoulders, see the grit coating her arms, see the tremor of effort in every slow push forward. [color=EBCEED]“You’ve got it, keep going,”[/color] she breathed, voice soft and urgent, because Rae looked like a warrior on her elbows even if she’d deny it with her dying breath. When Rae emerged from the trench, dusted in sand and sweat, Zelia’s chest flooded with something bright, pride, relief, awe, all tangled together.

The rope climb, however, nearly undid her. Zelia’s stomach dropped as Rae wiped her hands, the tremor in her fingers visible even from where she sat. The moment Rae jumped and latched onto the rope, Zelia held her breath. The violent shaking of her arms, the slippery scrabble of her grip— every second carved a new line of worry along Zelia’s heartbeat. Rae dangling there, spinning slowly like an abandoned festival decoration, made Zelia’s throat tighten. She wanted to shout, to run forward, to do something, but River’s calm instruction reached Rae first. Zelia exhaled shakily when Rae finally released the rope, her mortified [i][color=3b9ae1]“thanks”[/color][/i] making Zelia’s heart fold in on itself with affection.

The rope bridge was agony— pure, suspended agony. Rae’s first step made the entire structure buck like a startled animal, and Zelia’s hands flew to her mouth. [color=EBCEED]“Steady, steady…”[/color] she whispered, feeling each sway like a tug on her own balance. The swing was worse— Rae colliding with the far ledge in a teeth-rattling thud that left Zelia wincing so hard her eyes watered. But Rae kept going. Gods, she kept going. Then came the beams. Zelia leaned so far forward it felt like her spirit was trying to walk the incline for her. Rae wobbled dangerously— Zelia’s breath hitched. Rae pinwheeled her arms— Zelia’s heart scrambled up her throat. Sweat glinted along Rae’s back, her steps turning into precarious negotiations with gravity itself. A misstep on the flat had Zelia flinching— the reckless sprint down the decline dragged a gasp from her as Rae skidded into the dirt in a defeated puff. 

Zelia didn’t breathe for a moment— not until Rae’s head lifted again, still moving, still pushing. And then the breath came back all at once, shaky and warm, threaded with fierce, terrified, impossible pride. She felt every one of Rae’s final obstacles like they were happening inside her own bones. The nausea twisting Rae’s face made something tight coil in her chest, an ache shaped like helplessness and hope. She whispered encouragement that vanished into the wind— soft, fervent things like [color=EBCEED]you’ve got this, just one more, keep breathing[/color] —because she couldn’t bear the thought of Rae feeling alone out there. When Rae hit the pool, Zelia’s breath eased for a moment. The water cradled Rae in a way the rest of the course hadn’t, smoothing the frantic edges of her movements. For a few blessed seconds, Zelia saw something close to peace settle across her, something earned, something deserved. But then Rae climbed out, and Zelia’s relief shattered like thin ice.

The log ladder stood before her like a punishment carved from the sky. Zelia could feel her own pulse climbing its rungs as Rae hauled herself upward with raw, stubborn grit. Every grunt, every slip, every desperate clutch of her hands made Zelia flinch. She half-rose from her seat more than once, a useless instinct, as though she could run in and hold Rae steady with nothing more than will. Rae’s knee hitting her own stomach made Zelia’s breath stop. The slip that followed turned her veins to ice. But Rae didn’t fall, not truly. She saved herself with sheer, burning defiance, elbow jammed into the wood, face twisted in pain, and Zelia had never seen someone look so exhausted or so brave.

When Rae flopped over the beam at the top— graceless, spent, stubborn—Zelia pressed her trembling hands together like a prayer. Then came the descent. Rae didn’t climb so much as cling her way down, shuddering, trembling, sliding in jerks that made Zelia want to wrap her in the warmest blanket she could find and never let her near a ladder again. But Rae kept going. Her feet hit the ground, and Zelia felt a rush of pride so fierce it nearly hurt.

And then, the final run. She stood when Rae sprinted for the pool. Each step looked like it cost her something, something Rae had no reason left to give. She pushed off—

And didn’t make it.

The splash was soft, almost apologetic, like the water itself felt bad for being part of the humiliation. Rae emerged sodden, hair sticking to her face, eyes too bright with a hurt pride she probably wished she could hide. Zelia’s heart clenched. Hard. The scattered applause felt like salt. The way Rae stood, shaking, small, shattered around the edges, felt like a wound. Before she even knew she was moving, Zelia jogged forward, weaving past lingering onlookers. Her legs burned a little, left over extension, but she ignored it, slowing only enough to approach gently, carefully, like Rae might break if jostled too hard.

She came to stand beside Rae, resting a hand gently on the girls shoulder. Dirt and water smeared against Zelia’s palm, but she only tightened her touch, grounding her friend with quiet certainty. [color=EBCEED]“Hey,”[/color] she murmured, voice low and soft as winter dusk. A small smile curved onto her lips, tender, proud in a way that didn’t ask for eye contact or courage or anything Rae wasn’t ready to give. [color=EBCEED]“Good job, winter fire.”[/color]

The nickname flickered between them like a gentle spark. Zelia’s thumb brushed lightly over Rae’s shoulder, a touch meant to soothe rather than draw attention. [color=EBCEED]“You finished,”[/color] she added, tone warmer than the sun dared to be, glancing minutely toward River when Rae began to dry out the same way she had. Their new leader wasn’t too bad, really, even if he insisted on swimming lessons. [color=EBCEED]“You didn’t quit. Not once. You were brave out there. Even when it was awful. And I’m proud of you, Rae.”[/color] Zelia curled an arm gently around her shoulders, tugging her toward herself ever so slightly in a move her coach used to do anytime they'd lose a race, comforting in it's calm reassurance. [color=EBCEED]“C’mon, let's go sit down so you can rest up some.”[/color][/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]

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Katryna felt the shift before she fully understood it— an almost imperceptible change in the air, like the barometric drop before a storm. Sloane’s color drained with startling speed, a bloom of pallor washing across her features as if someone had pulled a curtain over the warmth she’d worn so easily moments before. Kat’s head tipped, feline and assessing, her gaze tracing the fine tremor in Sloane’s shoulders, the way her smile sat on her face like an ill-fitted mask. Then her eyes slid to Sylas. He was handsome in the way a knife was, sleek, polished, and meant for hurting. His smile held all the right shapes but none of the substance, an actor hitting cues without heart. Something about him felt… off. Too smooth. Too deliberate. And the warmth that had glowed in Sloane’s eyes earlier, bright as late autumn sun, was conspicuously absent now, replaced by something tight, shuttered, quietly afraid. Katryna didn’t move, didn’t speak, but the soft crease between her brows deepened with slow, dawning concern.

Beside her, Kacper went very still. Not visibly— the stillness lived somewhere under the skin, in the beat between breaths. It rose in him like a tide he had no intention of drowning in, a surge of protectiveness sharp enough to scrape bone. It startled him, how quickly it bloomed, how instinctively it coiled around the sight of Sloane’s forced smile and Sylas’s too-smooth posture beside her. That kind of feeling belonged to Kat alone, it had always been that way. But here it was, unwelcome and insistent, an itch beneath his ribs that he couldn’t scratch without acknowledging what it meant— and he [i]refused[/i] to give it shape. Him? Make friends? Ridiculous. So he told himself it was something simpler. Purer. Logical. He didn’t like Sylas’s face. That was it. The guy looked like a creep wearing someone else’s charm— an uncanny valley version of a person with real emotions. Kacper could practically [i]smell[/i] the insincerity radiating off him like spoiled and cheap cologne.

His eyes flicked from Sylas’s extended hand to Sloane’s swift, almost desperate gesture pushing it away. Protective instinct clawed up his chest again, stubborn and unwelcome, heating his blood with an irritation he aimed squarely at her brother. Because it was easier, safer, to be annoyed than to admit the truth pressing insistently against the walls of his mind: Sloane looked scared. And he hated that more than anything. So, he put all the blame on Sylas and his ugly, pug-looking face. 

Katryna startled first, not visibly, not in any way loud enough to draw attention, but in a soft, inward flinch that lived behind her eyes. Russian rolled off Sloane’s tongue like water over river stones, smooth and familiar, and for a breath it didn’t register just how wrong it sounded in this place, at this moment. Her brain scrambled to keep up with the sudden switch, unable to keep up with the unfamiliar language, she only knew Polish and French. She blinked slowly, dark lashes dipping low as Sylas’s voice dripped poison in the same language, each taunt landing with the precision of a needle. The world narrowed to the siblings’ exchange— Sloane rigid, Sylas circling with the practiced cruelty of someone who knew exactly where old wounds lay. 

Kat’s stomach twisted. The cold, sharp edge of not understanding slipped between her ribs as she watched Sloane crumble inward without ever moving. A soft inhale shuddered through her as she followed Sloane’s frantic gaze over the thinning crowd, uncertain what she was looking for but knowing the other woman did not find it. Silent worry clawed up the back of her throat, settling there like winter, bitingly cold.

Kacper, on the other hand, felt his spine snap taut. Russian hit his ears like a slap— unexpected, invasive, and…. agitating, he hadn’t opted to learn any other languages like his sister, though he was fairly certain neither of them knew Russian. His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring as Sylas’s voice slithered in his ears with unfamiliar words, temper spiking sharply. Kacper’s gaze cut to his sister, then to Sloane, then finally, inevitably, to Sylas. He did not hide the way his jaw flexed. When Sylas’s assessing eyes paused on Kat, sweeping her timid posture and layered coats, something ugly and instinctive curled through Kacper’s chest, hot and immediate. It wasn’t protectiveness exactly; it was revulsion. A low, simmering disgust that rose like the stench of something left rotting under the sun. Sylas looked at people the way scavengers looked at roadkill— calculating what he could pick apart first.

And when those same eyes slid to him, narrowing with that hungry, probing curiosity, Kacper met them without blinking. His stare was flat, unyielding, carved from the same iron he saved for threats he intended to outlast. He didn’t bother masking the disdain twisting faintly across his features, lips curling in a barely-there sneer, eyes narrowing as though he were examining something foul someone had set too close to him. Sylas’s charm slid right off him like oil on glass. Kacper didn’t speak, not yet, but the message lived in the cut of his gaze, in the rigid set of his spine, in the quiet, dangerous stillness he settled into like a wolf lowering itself to the ground before a lunge.

Katryna, meanwhile, watched Sloane’s panic bloom with slow, dawning horror. Kat’s hand twitched at her side, an instinct to reach out, to anchor Sloane before she drifted somewhere unreachable. Her throat tightened around unspoken words. She saw the answer in Sloane’s silence— felt its weight like a stone in her palm. And beside her, Kacper leaned ever so slightly forward, eyes still locked on Sylas with a quiet warning coiled in every inch of him.

He hated not understanding. Then, abruptly, almost violently, he cut sideways toward Kat, voice rising loud enough to slice clean through Sylas’s monologue.

[color=54998E]“Myślisz, że ten dupek zna język polski? — You think this asshole knows Polish?”[/color] 

The suddenness of it startled a laugh out of Katryna, soft, breathy, the full sound of someone who had been holding too much tension in her lungs. Relief flickered across her face like a candle finally catching flame. She shook her head, answering in the same lilting Polish that felt warm and familiar on her tongue. [color=A4DED2]“Chyba nie, są tak różni. Myślisz, że jako dziecko upuszczono go na głowę? — I doubt it. They’re so different. Do you think he was dropped on his head as a child?”[/color]

Kacper turned back to Sylas then, looking him up and down in a slow, deliberate drag of his eyes— an appraisal that wasn’t flattering so much as forensic, as though he were studying a particularly disappointing corpse. His lips twitched. Not into a smile, not quite, but into something sharp-edged and wickedly amused. 

He turned back to his sister with a shrug that was almost lazy. [color=54998E]“Może, to by wyjaśniało jego twarz. — Maybe, that would explain his face.”[/color]

Katryna’s laughter, soft, surprised, a little wild around the edges, bloomed like warmth pushing through frost. It loosened the clamp around her chest, easing the ache behind her eyes just enough for her natural mischief to unfurl. She leaned ever so slightly toward her brother, her coat whispering against the fabric of the bench, voice dipping into Polish with the kind of ease that came from a lifetime of shared conversations no one else could hear. 

[color=A4DED2]“Co? Co jest nie tak z jego twarzą? — What? What’s wrong with his face?”[/color]

Kacper didn’t even pause to consider tact, or mercy, or the fact that Sylas stood only a breath away. He answered with the blunt, unfiltered simplicity of a hammer meeting a nail.

[color=54998E]“To brzydkie. — It’s ugly.”[/color]

The words cracked the air between them like dry lightning, and Katryna, already wound tight from Sylas’s presence, Sloane’s fear, and the too-bright hum of the arena, snorted so loudly she startled herself. It was unladylike, inelegant, and utterly, desperately needed. She slapped her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with a laugh she tried and failed to contain, eyes glinting as she looked at her brother like he’d just gifted her a lifeline. Her voice slipped out again, teasing and warm, a thread of gold pulling her back to herself. Her head still hurt awfully, but the distractions were nice. [color=A4DED2]“Czy może jesteś stronniczy, bo go nie lubisz? — Or are you biased because you don’t like him?”[/color]

Kacper didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He met her gaze with a lopsided grin that cut sideways across his face, a flash of crooked teeth and unapologetic wickedness. [color=54998E]“Nie, jest okropny. W niczym nie przypomina Sloane’a. — No, he’s awful. Nothing like Sloane.”[/color]

At that, something subtle changed in Katryna’s expression, softened at the edges, sharpened at the corners. Her lips curled into a slow, feline smile that carried the promise of trouble. The air between them shimmered with sibling intuition, that ancient ability to slot puzzle pieces into place without effort. She leaned in, voice a low, delighted murmur. [color=A4DED2]“Oh? Więc myślisz, że jest ładna. — Oh? So you think she’s pretty.”[/color]

The effect was immediate, delicious. Color flared along the tops of Kacper’s ears, blooming through his pale skin like paint spilled over fresh snow. He recoiled a fraction, scoffing sharply as though her words were physical objects he could shove away with indignation alone. He turned his head in a snap of movement, refusing to look at her. [color=54998E]“Co… Tego nie powiedziałem! — What… I didn’t say that!”[/color]

Katryna’s smile widened, triumphant and unbearably fond. [color=A4DED2]“Jasne, jasne. Skończyłeś już z meczem sikania? — Sure, sure. Are you done with your pissing match?”[/color]

Kacper exhaled the kind of suffering sigh only an elder twin could muster, a long drag of breath, threaded with reluctant amusement despite his best efforts to smother it. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, a concession he’d never admit aloud. [color=54998E]“Chyba. — I guess.”[/color]

Then, with the same graceful malice a wolf uses when stepping into moonlight, he turned back toward Sylas. The smile he wore was sweet enough to rot teeth, rich and dripping like honey left too long in the sun. Every syllable that followed was slow and polite, the verbal equivalent of offering someone a beautifully wrapped gift with a lit fuse inside. [color=54998E]“I hope you break a leg out there, Sylas… you know, for good luck.”[/color] The smirk that followed was razor-thin and glittering, as inexorable as a blade drawing breath.

Kat watched Sylas stride off toward the starting line, his shoulders squared as though he could stare the whole world down and win. The afterimage of Kacper’s honey-poisoned smile still clung to the air, shimmering like heat above sun-baked stone, but it was Sylas who held her attention now. There was something in the way he moved, purposeful, steady, a little too practiced, that made her wonder what shadows curled behind his eyes when sleep finally claimed him. What did a man like that dream of? Thunder? Triumph? Teeth? The thought drifted through her like a feather caught in an updraft, light and strange, and she brushed it away just as quickly, unwilling to peer too closely into someone else’s night. Instead she drew a longer breath, letting her gaze soften as she turned toward Sloane’s retreating frame, calling a soft encouragement to her before she was out of ear range. 

Katryna’s gaze never left Sloane as she moved through the course, body hunched, limbs flailing, determination written in every careful, stubborn step. Her breaths were shallow, eyes wide, and for the briefest moment when Sloane fell from the ladder, a sharp, startled gasp escaped Kat’s lips. Without thinking, she pushed to her feet, every instinct urging her forward to reach her, to steady her. Her hand hovered, frozen in midair, until Kacper’s firm grip caught her wrist and anchored her in place. [color=54998E]“She wouldn’t want help,”[/color] he said softly, voice low, almost reverent. His pale eyes stayed locked on Sloane, following every motion as if reading her strength in real time. [color=54998E]“She’s sturdier than you think. Watch. You’ll see it. To uparta dziewczyna. — She’s a stubborn girl.”[/color] His words were almost a whisper in Polish, a careful mixture of admiration and warning, a note of recognition that he wasn’t about to hand her strength for her.

Kat swallowed, nodding, letting herself sink back onto the bench, hands folded loosely in her lap once she’d tugged the fallen coat back into her lap, watching as Sloane struggled. When Sloane returned, drenched, exhausted, and grinning faintly through her pain, Kat rose slowly and stepped forward. She wrapped her arms around the other girl in a tentative but earnest hug, careful not to crush or startle her. Her warmth pressed against Sloane’s freshly dried coat, her voice soft but filled with an almost fragile certainty. [color=A4DED2]“You did your best,”[/color] she murmured, tilting her head so their cheeks brushed, letting Sloane feel that recognition, that quiet pride.

Kacper leaned back in his seat, one boot propped against the bench in casual defiance. A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his lips as his eyes flicked to Sloane’s blistered hands, bruised arms, and exhausted frame. [color=54998E]“Bet you’re going to be sore later,”[/color] he said, teasing but unmalicious, tone sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion in the air yet carrying the faintest undercurrent of amusement. He allowed the words to hang, letting them be both a warning and a compliment, his way of acknowledging her stubbornness without ever needing to admit how much he respected it. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]

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