Zena: the First Awakening
Copyright© 2025 by Man Of Myth
Chapter 4: The After trial
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 4: The After trial - Before the first stars learned to burn, the Pulse was born, a living rhythm of creation that binds gods, universes, and mortal thought. On the world of Zena, a single clash between two kings reawakens that forgotten power. The impact fractures the laws of reality, echoing through distant realms, awakening watchers, universes, and ancient minds that have slept since the dawn of existence. Now, as the Pulse stirs once more, time bends, empires tremble.
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Fa/Fa ft/ft Mult Consensual Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual High Fantasy Military Mystery Science Fiction Aliens Space Politics Royalty
The morning sun crept over the high walls as they reached the ridge road, the forest fading into a sea of mist behind them. Ahead, carved into the mountain’s slope as if the rock itself had chosen to shape it, stood the Academy of Penza a fortress of light and alloy, gleaming against the dawn.
Situated at the heart of Planet Penza, it was more than a structure. It was a living citadel of learning and discipline, created for one purpose alone: to train the youngsters of Zena in the mastery of their elements, their minds, and their destinies.
From a distance, it looked silent: towers reaching into the thin mist, banners heavy with dew, a ring of training fields cut into terraces that glowed faint gold in the light.
The gate loomed tall, two slabs of dark steel engraved with the academy’s crest, a circle split by four lines, one for each kingdom, each crowned by a single mark for the kingdoms they came from.
To Zyrian, that symbol had always looked less like unity and more like restraint.
They entered through the archway, boots clanging on the flooring. Cool air replaced the scent of soil and blood. The inside opened wide, a courtyard paved with pale stone. Streams of cadets crossed paths, their uniforms immaculate, movements disciplined, faces unlined by what the seven had just seen.
Zyrian stopped in the center of the courtyard. The sound of the academy washed around him bells, chatter, clashing weapons. For the first time, the academy felt smaller. And quieter.
As they neared their wing, a sharp voice echoed through the courtyard speakers, crisp and unmistakable:
“Level Two, Squads One, Two, and Three. Report to the briefing hall immediately.”
Everyone stopped mid-step.
Ryra groaned first, shoulders sagging. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Leon ran a hand through his hair and hissed, “Already? We just got here.”
Cael gave a low grunt. “Guess the academy doesn’t count near-death experiences as training leave.”
Uruses sighed. “Guess rest isn’t part of the curriculum.”
Lyna glanced toward Zyrian. “Still thinking?”
He grinned, tired but unbothered. “Always.” his expression unreadable.
And with that, they turned down the long corridor toward the briefing hall. The corridor leading to the Briefing Hall was long and cold. Their boots clacked against the polished stone, out of sync, each step dragging.
At the end, the wide doors stood open, light spilling from inside, and the sound of other squads already forming lines.
Leon muttered under his breath, “In to the cage.”
Ryra elbowed him lightly. “You mean the lion’s den.”
“Same thing,” he shot back, but followed anyway.
As they entered the briefing hall, the other two squads were already there, lined neatly but carrying the same bruised expressions and dusty uniforms. At the instructors’ dais stood four figures three familiar and one not.
The familiar ones: Lead Instructor Merck, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed; Instructor Tael, who oversaw tactical formations; and Instructor Kriya, the calm but unrelenting strategist.
The fourth was a stranger tall, composed, eyes like still water. No insignia, no words.
Merck stepped forward, his boots clicking against the stone with a deliberate rhythm.
“Level Two,” he began, voice steady but carrying an edge that silenced the faint whispers. “The reason you were called is for the assessment of your recently concluded assignment.”
He let the words hang, eyes sweeping across all twenty-one of them. Each gaze was heavy, not just looking, but measuring. When none dared correct his phrasing, he continued, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Though you were a bit roughed up,” he said, tone almost casual, “we can say that at least we have achieved some part of what we needed to teach you.”
A low, collective groan moved through the hall. Cael rolled his shoulders with a grimace;
Leon muttered, “A bit roughed up, he says,” just loud enough for Ryra to elbow him in the ribs.
A few from the other squads exchanged tired, knowing looks. Merck ignored them all, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Now,” he said, his tone shifting from light to sharp, “let’s get into the assessment part.”
The room straightened, instinctively. He turned slightly, gesturing to Instructor Kriya beside him.
Kriya gave a small nod, nothing more.
Merck continued, “She will be conducting a review of your performance.
Silence. Even the air felt heavier. The faint hum of the ceiling lights was the only sound in the hall.
“Miss Elira, Play the feed,” Merck ordered without turning.
“Yes, sir,” came the reply clear, even, unmistakably familiar.
At the sound of her voice, Zyrian’s bored slouch straightened like someone had flipped a switch. His eyes snapped toward the dais, a slow grin creeping across his face, the kind that always promised trouble.
Elira stepped forward from the side panel, her usual composure unshaken despite the dust-stained chaos sitting before her. She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, fingers gliding over the control pad embedded in the podium.
Across the line of trainees, Ryra groaned softly.
“Zyrian...” she hissed, catching the sparkle in his eyes. “Focus.”
He didn’t even look at her. His grin widened for half a second, quick enough to catch a faint, almost invisible smile from Elira in return, before he straightened his back like a soldier caught off-guard.
Lyna leaned closer and whispered under her breath, “Someone’s failing charm control again.”
Leon snorted.
Uruses just shook his head, muttering, “Every time.”
“Something you’d like to share, Cadet?” Merck’s voice cut through, razor-sharp without raising volume.
“Nothing, sir,” Zyrian said instantly, posture perfect, except for his eyes, still locked forward.
Merck’s gaze lingered a second longer, then he turned away. Behind the dais, the wall shimmered, light bending, lines flickering into shape. A wide holographic screen came alive with a quiet hum.
The image stabilized: the forest. The canopy swayed, shadows shifting.
“This,” Merck said evenly, pacing before the screen, “is your performance feed, captured from the field sensors you were wearing and from every forest node. Unfiltered.”
He paused, eyes flicking to the group. “But for your sake, we’ve filtered the voice.”
A collective sigh rippled through the room. Most came from Squad One, Baxon’s squad.
On the screen, the feed zoomed in, Squad One, moving in tight formation through the trees, their faces tense but focused. The image followed their motion as they entered a clearing.
Then, the figure appeared, sudden, calm, motionless.
Murmurs spread through the hall. The video showed a few quick exchanges between the squad members, gestures too sharp to catch the words. Then they charged.
For a few seconds, it was chaos, flashes of steel, bursts of dust, the soundless impact of blows landing faster than the eye could follow. And then it was over.
Squad One lay scattered, groaning, weapons knocked aside. The figure stepped forward, said something, the lips moved, unreadable without audio, and then simply vanished.
Baxon’s jaw tightened. He folded his arms, staring at the ground.
The projection continued. The squad reformed, speaking briefly among themselves before turning away from the clearing.
The feed cut to Squad Two, the same figure, the same eerie ease of movement. Another quick defeat. This time, the figure lingered longer, as if waiting for something, then disappeared again.
Merck didn’t speak. Neither did the cadets. The hum of the holo-field filled the silence.
Then, the image changed, both squads now visible, moving through parallel paths until they met at a narrow ravine.
“Stop there.” The voice that broke the silence was clear, controlled, Instructor Kriya.
The feed froze. Every head turned toward her.
Her eyes swept the two squads, sharp, assessing. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “someone would like to explain why two squads revealed themselves to each other during a closed-assignment operation.”
Her tone wasn’t raised, but it carried the kind of precision that left no room for excuse. Both squads stiffened.
Baxon cleared his throat. “Ma’am, we thought another unit might be in distress.”
Kriya tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “And you thought abandoning your own mission would help?” She let the silence hang before adding, voice calm but slicing, “You thought, or you heard?”
No one answered. But the air shifted, a ripple of shared guilt passed through both squads.
Everyone knew. They hadn’t thought anything; they’d acted on what the figure had said.
For the first time, Instructor Tael spoke. His voice was low, rough-edged, and carried the weight of someone who’d seen too many cadets make the same mistake.
“You crossed the mission rules based on the words of your supposed enemy,” He continued, his tone still measured. “And played right into his hands. Is that your idea of a clear strategy?”
The room fell utterly silent. The cadets from Squads One and Two stood stiff, eyes fixed on the floor. The sound of the holo-feed hum filled the pause, soft, almost judgmental.
Merck stepped forward again, hands clasped behind his back. “Your intentions, while admirable, compromised the integrity of the operation,” he said evenly.
“What followed was a chain reaction, one that brought all three squads into the same path.”
He motioned toward Elira, who gave a brief nod and tapped the panel beside her.
The feed flickered and shifted, zooming in now on Squad Three. Instantly, everyone’s attention turned to the seven figures standing straighter than before.
Kriya stepped closer to the screen. “It was clearly instructed,” she said, her tone like a drawn blade, “that every member should stay with their assigned squad. No deviation. No individual initiative.”
She turned her head slightly, gaze scanning the line of Squad Three.
“Someone ... enlighten us.”
Uruses started to step forward, jaw tight, but Kriya’s hand lifted, a small motion, perfectly timed.
“Miss Unajar,” she said coolly. “You explain.”
Nira froze for a second, her eyes widening. The others, Lyna, Ryra, Leon, Cael, Uruses, all turned toward her in silent sympathy.
Even Zyrian tilted his head, almost amused, whispering under his breath, “Lucky draw.”
Nira took a steadying breath and stepped forward.
“Uh ... yes, ma’am,” she began carefully. “It was decided as a group that it would be prudent to ... keep an eye from above, to track enemy movement.”
She didn’t flinch or stammer. Her tone was crisp, rehearsed under pressure.
A small pause. The instructors exchanged glances.
Then Merck’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “An elevated position,” he said slowly. “For observation.”
“Yes, sir,” Nira confirmed quickly. Her squad nodded behind her, trying to look supportive but not guilty.
Kriya’s lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And who, exactly, took this elevated position?”
Every eye in the room shifted, not subtly, toward Zyrian.
He stood relaxed, hands behind his back, pretending to study the ceiling.
When the silence became too heavy, he finally looked forward, expression perfectly neutral.
“Technically, ma’am,” he said with practiced calm, “Situation called for it, it wasn’t deviation, it was adaptation.”
A couple of muffled laughs escaped before Ryra elbowed Leon to shut him up. Even Elira, at the console, covered a faint smirk with her hand.
Kriya, however, didn’t react, though the faintest twitch of amusement crossed her eyes.
“Adaptation,” she repeated dryly. “I see. I assume situation also instructed you to stay there until the mission ended?”
Zyrian nodded solemnly. “Situation can be very persuasive, ma’am.”
A few of the trainees tried and failed to suppress grins. Merck exhaled through his nose, half a sigh, half a warning.
“Mr. Verynor, next time the situation calls for initiative, try informing your squad first.”
“Yes, sir,” Zyrian said immediately, tone serious, though his eyes were still bright with mischief.
“Good,” Merck said. “Then perhaps situation will also explain why, despite your... observation, your squad still ended up surrounded.”
That wiped the faint smile from Zyrian’s face. He drew a slow breath, glanced briefly at his team, then looked straight at Merck.
“Hmm ... yes, sir,” he said after a beat, voice casual but steady. “I thought it might make a great warm-up before meeting the real enemy.”
The room froze. Every head turned toward him. Even the other squads looked up, disbelief written across their faces.
“You mean,” Instructor Tael asked, leaning forward slightly, “you let your squad fight against the best fourteen trainees in the academy as a warm-up?”
“Yes, sir,” Zyrian replied without hesitation. He met Tael’s eyes directly, tone sincere, unshaken. “I knew they could handle it, sir.”
His words hung in the air. No smirk. No irony. Just quiet confidence.
His squad turned to look at him, half in shock, half in something close to pride. Even Leon, who usually had a comeback for everything, said nothing.
Kriya tilted her head slightly. “I see,” she said, her voice neutral but her expression unreadable.
For a moment, all four instructors exchanged glances, not of reprimand, but of subtle confusion. It was rare to be both speechless and impressed.
Merck turned toward Elira, as if silently asking her to take over. But Elira’s attention hadn’t left Zyrian. Her lips parted slightly, not to speak, but as if she was seeing something new in him.
“Ahem,” Merck cleared his throat deliberately.
Elira blinked, straightened, and without a word, turned back to the console. Her fingers moved across the panel, and the holographic feed resumed its motion.
Then, it cut to the fourteen trainees locked in combat with the lone figure.
“And after your team’s warm-up,” Merck said, pacing slowly, “you seemed to have disappeared into the forest. Until you appeared again here...” he gestured toward the feed, where the clearing came into view, “ ... care to explain where you were in that gap?”
Every member of Squad Three froze. It wasn’t guilt. It was confusion. Uruses blinked, Ryra frowned, Lyna’s lips parted slightly, but no one spoke.
Finally, Zyrian stepped forward, tone measured.
“We didn’t know about that, sir. We ... decided to regroup and take some rest.”
His voice was steady, but something in his eyes said otherwise.
Behind him, the others nodded, perhaps a little too quickly. Merck’s gaze lingered on each of them in turn, sharp and calculating.
Then, almost reluctantly, he nodded. “Noted.”
He turned toward the feed again. The final fight flickered to life, all twenty-one cadets, dirt and light, the figure moving like wind between them.
Kriya folded her arms. “Despite your earlier ... encounter with the other squads, you still decided to intervene when they were already engaged. Why?”
Zyrian’s grin returned, small, controlled, but unmistakable.
“To be honest, ma’am,” he said, tone half-serious, half-playful, “I thought we might be next. Better with extra numbers than facing him ourselves.”
A few quiet laughs slipped from the back rows before Merck’s glare silenced them.
But even the instructors exchanged a brief glance that looked suspiciously like agreement.
“Whatever your reason,” Merck said finally, “it saved every squad in this assessment.”
He paused, allowing the weight of that acknowledgment to settle.
All twenty-one straightened a little. Pride edged into their exhaustion. For once, no one corrected him.
Merck clasped his hands behind his back. “Take the day off. Report to your training arena in the morning. Dismissed.”
The tension in the hall broke at once, quiet sighs, shuffling feet, muted conversations.
The trainees began to file toward the exit in tired relief.
“Oh, before you go,” Merck’s voice stopped them mid-step. They turned back as one.
He stood at the dais, a faint glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
“I almost forgot,” he said lightly, “you might want to meet the man who beat you all.”
Every conversation died instantly. Twenty-one pairs of eyes widened in disbelief.
Merck turned slightly, gesturing to the fourth, still-silent figure who had stood behind the instructors all along.
The figure stepped forward, slow and deliberate, boots echoing in the hall. The cloak came loose at the shoulder, falling away in a single motion.
The room froze. Gasps rippled through the cadets, sharp, unfiltered.
The man’s face was calm, eyes steady, the same faint smile they remembered from the forest.
Every heartbeat in the room seemed to stop.
Zyrian’s voice broke the silence, quiet but edged with something between awe and disbelief.
“ ... You.”
Every eye turned toward him, then back to the man standing at the front of the hall.
The stranger’s calm gaze swept across the rows, twenty-one trainees, bruised and breathless, suddenly feeling smaller again.
Merck stepped forward, his tone almost satisfied.
“Meet Instructor Pashmin, He will be your instructor from tomorrow.”
Gasps rippled through the room, shock, disbelief, even a trace of excitement.
The man didn’t flinch beneath it. He simply met each of their eyes, one by one, slow, deliberate, and then smiled.
“Lesson’s not over,” he said quietly.
The words hung in the air long after he’d spoken them. No one moved. No one dared to breathe.
And slowly, one by one, the trainees began to leave the hall. The echo of their boots faded into silence as the great doors closed behind them.
“Miss Elira,” Merck said, his tone clipped but polite. “Please wait outside.”
She hesitated for half a heartbeat before bowing slightly. “Yes, sir.” The doors opened and closed again soft, final.
The instructors exhaled almost in unison, the tension they’d held through the briefing finally slipping away. Merck sat first, Tael followed with a tired grunt, and even Kriya always composed leaned back slightly in her chair.
“You think they’re ready?” Kriya asked after a moment, her voice softer now. She looked pointedly at Pashmin, who sat with his unreadable calm.
He met her gaze evenly.
“You still doubt after seeing it all?” he asked. “Maybe not all of them,” he added, “but some of them ... yes.” he said without explaining further.
“Hope they survive you again, especially Squad Three” Tael said. His tone was light,
Pashmin’s lips curved something between a smirk and a sigh. “So, the heirs are giving you trouble. How are they faring?”
Merck leaned back slightly, thoughtful. “Miss Ryra, always reason before instinct. Just like her father, King Winsais Wumran. Calm even in the heat of chaos.”
“And Miss Nira,” Kriya added, “a shadow to Ryra, but a sharp one. Like Unajar before her, quiet, but never unaware.”
Tael chuckled softly. “Mr. Cael and Mr. Leon, though ... Nezamon and Rhaen’s sons to the core. One calculative and fierce, the other all fire and impulse. You can see it in how they move, they never learned to fight the same way, yet somehow complement each other.”
“Uruses Siyazim and Lyna Elmana,” Merck continued, “they’re the stabilizers. The ones who keep the rest together. You can feel the balance when they step in.
A faint silence lingered, and then Pashmin’s tone softened. “And Zyrian Verynor...”
Merck’s eyes flickered at the name. “Reckless,” he admitted quietly. “But necessary. He’s the chaos that forges their unity, the core that binds them all, whether they realize it or not.”
Tael exhaled, half in amusement, half in admiration. “So much like his father after all, then. The same instinct to break order just to remind everyone why order and unity matters.”
Kriya smiled faintly. “And that, gentlemen, is what makes Squad Three so unpredictable, and so vital.”
“Speaking of the reckless one, where was the feed showing that particular action?”
He leaned forward slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “The one not even some of the instructors could have pulled off?”
Merck chuckled and said, “Why do you think I asked Elira to wait outside? She thinks we weren’t aware of it.”
“She removed it?” Pashmin Asked, Merck nodded.
“Why?” Pashmin wondered.
Before Merck could answer, Kriya did, tone dry, almost teasing. “You think Zyrian’s wit, charm, and recklessness affect only young girls and Instructors like you?” With a knowing smile and amusement.
Pashmin blinked, taken aback. Tael gave a short, surprised laugh.
Kriya smirked faintly, folding her arms. “Don’t worry. Her mind’s in the right place ... maybe not her heart. She’s smitten.”
Merck gave a quiet, knowing sigh, and even Tael’s grin faded into thought. Pashmin glanced toward the closed doors, then back to the others.
“Well,” he said finally, his voice dropping lower, “she’s not the only one who’ll be watching that boy closely.”
As everyone exited the hall, each squad separated and went their own way. Squad Three walked in silence through the corridor, the echo of boots faint under the high arches. No one spoke; each lost in their own thoughts.
“Well, one thing’s certain,” Cael finally said, breaking the quiet.
“From tomorrow, we’ll be constantly bruised and tired.”
Everyone glanced at him, but no one replied.
“Come on,” Zyrian said, almost too cheerfully, “at least there’ll be some excitement in training from tomorrow.”
A collective groan answered him, even Uruses joined in.
“Anyway,” Zyrian continued, ignoring their reaction, “everyone, rest well.”
He glanced around, lowering his voice.
“Tonight ... we’re going there.”
At first, they looked at him in confusion, then realization dawned. Understanding flickered in their eyes as they nodded subtly, each one glancing around to make sure no one was listening.
“Going where?”
The new voice cut through the corridor. Everyone jumped, spinning toward the source.
Elira stood a few paces away, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, the faintest smirk curving her lips.
Zyrian’s face brightened instantly.
“Elira!” he greeted, voice just a touch too enthusiastic. “Nothing, you know, just ... to the training area. New instructor and all. We wouldn’t want to be late, right?”
He grinned wide as she walked closer, her expression calm but unconvinced.
“Oh?” she asked, tone playful but sharp. “Funny. You said that like someone planning something tonight.”
Zyrian blinked innocently. “Did I?”
Behind him, Leon muttered, “Yes, very clearly.” Ryra elbowed him before he could say more.
Elira stopped in front of Zyrian, close enough that the lamplight caught the faint dust still on his collar.
“You really don’t know when to stop testing boundaries, do you?” she said quietly, eyes holding his for a moment longer than necessary.
Zyrian’s grin softened, his tone dropping low.
“Only the ones worth testing.”
Her smirk returned, smaller, but real.
“Then I suppose I should make sure you survive them.”
And with that, she turned and walked past, her steps fading into the corridor light.
For a second, no one spoke. Then Cael muttered under his breath, “We’re doomed.”
“Completely,” Leon agreed.
Zyrian stood still for a heartbeat longer, watching Elira disappear around the corner, his grin gone now, replaced by something quieter.
Then he turned back to the group, the familiar spark flickering again.
“Same plan,” he said simply. “Tonight.”
Everyone went to their wing and settled into their rooms.
Zyrian showered and fell onto his bed, closing his eyes and drifting into sleep almost instantly.
Suddenly, he opened his eyes and looked around. I swear I heard a voice, he thought, scanning the dimly lit room.
The clock on the wall showed seven in the evening. He sighed, got up, and made his way back to the shower.
As the cold water ran over him, his thoughts wandered, to the river, the carvings, the voice. The memory sent a small thrill through him. Maybe there’s something more to find.
After the shower, he threw on a loose T-shirt and a pair of soft training pants, then stepped out into the corridor. The other rooms were still locked; everyone was clearly asleep.
He hesitated for a moment, then turned toward the cafeteria. Maybe I’ll grab food for them too. We can save some time later, he thought.
Inside the cafeteria, the lights were low, the night staff moving quietly between counters. After eating, Zyrian picked up a tray and began piling food onto plates, meat, fruits, vegetables, until six plates were stacked high.
“Are you planning to eat the entire cafeteria?”
The voice made him turn.
Elira stood a few steps away, a mock smile playing at her lips. She wasn’t in her instructor’s uniform, her silver hair fell freely down her back, blue eyes catching the warm light. A sleeveless top reached her midsection, paired with knee-length shorts that showed the smooth definition of her arms and calves.
For a second, Zyrian just looked, surprised, caught off guard by how different she looked outside the academy’s rigid frame.
“Are you going to keep staring, or answer me?” she asked, amusement in her voice.
He blinked, snapped out of it, and quickly looked back at the food.
“Hmm? No, I’m just taking food for my friends. They’re tired, you know,” he said, trying to sound casual and convincing.
“I see,” she said, stepping a little closer. “Can I help?”
“No, no, you eat,” he said too quickly, stacking the six plates carefully against one arm. “I’ll take care of it.”
Elira’s eyes followed him as he walked past, the corners of her mouth curling into a knowing smile.
He slowly made his way to the nearest room and knocked. When there was no response, he fumbled with the lock one-handed and let himself in.
Zyrian walked over to the bed and placed the stack of plates on the small table nearby. Then he leaned down and shook the sleeping figure.
“Lyna, Lyna, wake up.”
Lyna groaned, blinking groggily as her eyes adjusted. The moment she recognized him, she shot upright.
“Zyrian! What are you doing here?”
Then she looked down, realized what she was wearing, and her face went red. She yanked the blanket over herself.
“Zyrian, can’t you see? Turn around!” she snapped.
“How did you even unlock the door, wait, don’t answer that,” she said quickly before he could speak.
Zyrian rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Like I was interested in seeing you in your underwear,” he said. “Quit being dramatic and get ready. I brought food.”
He pointed toward the plates.
Lyna peeked out from under the blanket, raising an eyebrow at the pile.
“It’s for everyone,” Zyrian explained, pulling one plate off the stack and setting it beside her. “Get ready and eat. We should move early.”
Nodding, she tossed the blanket aside and stood, her annoyance fading as she straightened her hair in the mirror.
“I’ll go wake everyone else,” Zyrian said, heading for the door.
As he stepped out, he paused and turned back with a grin.
“Though I have to say,” he added, mimicking an exaggerated ogling expression, “you look good.”
It was such a poor attempt at being a pervert that even he knew it.
Lyna groaned, rolled her eyes, and shut the door in his face, but she couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips.
Zyrian walked to the next door and knocked twice. No answer.
He sighed, balancing the stack of plates against his hip, and called,
“Leon, open up!”
Still nothing.
Rolling his eyes, Zyrian twisted the lock the same way as before and slipped inside.
The room was dark except for a faint light from the window. Leon was sprawled on his bed, face buried in the pillow, one leg hanging off the edge, blankets twisted like he’d fought them all night.
“Figures,” Zyrian muttered. He set a plate down on the desk, then walked over and shook him lightly.
“Leon. Wake up.”
Leon groaned into the pillow. “Five more minutes...”
“You’ve been sleeping for five hours,” Zyrian said dryly. “Wake up, soldier.”
“Not a soldier,” Leon mumbled, turning over but keeping his eyes shut.
Zyrian leaned closer. “Fine. Then wake up, sleeping legend.”
Leon cracked one eye open. “What time is it?”
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