The Military Academy — Chapter 4 part 7

In the penumbra of the room, the tension seemed to double, but no one dared to break the ritual.

Deep down, they all knew: nothing, not even any god, had ever done what Mother Ceres had done for them. And she would never forgive anyone who turned against her.

“Mother Ceres feeds. Mother Ceres educates. Mother Ceres devours.”

The room filled with that dark mantra, like a confession of fear and devotion.

The projector went dark with a dry click, leaving the room in penumbra, illuminated only by the red EXIT sign.

The teacher, standing beside the screen, let out an audible sigh and simply said:

— Good. Now you understand.

No one moved immediately. The air was heavy; their anger toward one another still pulsed like electricity between the rows of chairs.

The venomous glances — from Ana to Ceres, from Dark to Theo, from Dru to Ceres, from Kat to Dru — crossed in silence.

But there was no sound of fighting, no open threat.

Because they all knew: that hatred... wasn't only theirs.

The teacher, slowly walking toward the door, cast them one last cold look and said, almost with contempt:

— Haven't you realized yet? Even the hatred you feel toward one another... was given to you by Her. Shaped to serve. Even for this, you owe Mother Ceres.

Ceres's eyes, in the penumbra, finally rose, burning.

She opened a dangerous smile, as if confirming it.

— She even united our hatred — she murmured, to no one in particular. — She even feeds that.

Daime couldn't take it anymore and laughed dryly, clapping softly, mockingly:

— There it is, class. Even when you want to kill each other in here... it's just another service rendered to Her.

One by one, still without lowering their eyes, they repeated the mantra again, almost angrily:

— Mother Ceres feeds.

— Mother Ceres educates.

— Mother Ceres devours.

And for a moment, it didn't seem like there were winners or losers there — only servants. Servants with hatred.

Servants united by Her.

They all slowly stood up, the silence still heavy in the air as they left the projection room.

Ceres, like a solitary shadow, shot down the corridor ahead, her steps determined and firm, leaving a trail of cold in the air.

Daime watched, shrugged at Theo, and commented with a mischievous smile:

— Go after her, Theo. The ice princess wants company.

Theo turned, his eyes cold, and threw it right back:

— If she wants to run, let her run alone. Going after her is a waste of time and energy.

Dru, trying to disguise it, cleared her throat and said something to ease the tension, but Daime already had an answer ready:

— Haste makes waste, my dear. Ceres knows what she's doing.

At that moment, the technician entered the corridor, his voice firm and authoritative, calling the team for the final briefing:

— Everyone to the field. Arcadia is coming here to show what they can do, and they're not going to make things easy at the Ceres stadium.

The atmosphere turned electric. The challenge had been issued. The city's stadium awaited — a stage for yet another battle, where the honor of Ceres and her team would be put to the test.

In the empty courtyard, Ceres walked with slow steps, as if each one marked a silent command. Her hair tied up in a bun made her pale face look even more austere, and her icy gaze cut through the air around her.

Dru, hesitant, slowly approached, trying to keep her posture and her tone as gentle as possible.

— Hey, Ceres... I know this might not be the best time, but... I just wanted to say that, I don't know, you don't have to hate me. Or feel sorry for me, okay?

Ceres stopped, slowly turned toward Dru, her eyes shining with a mixture of contempt and curiosity.

— Pity? You think I need your pity?

(Her voice was cold, almost like a blade.)

— I don't want anything from you. Not even your forced diplomacy. Just keep your distance.

Dru swallowed hard, forcing a tense smile.

— Okay, I get it. Just... if you change your mind, you know where to find me.

Ceres let out a sarcastic half-smile, more frightening than friendly, and walked away, leaving behind an aura of heavy silence.

Dru remained standing there, feeling the weight of that almost brutal indifference, but something inside her told her that Ceres wasn't easy to read — and much less easy to face.

Ceres entered the gymnasium like a contained storm, every movement seeming to carry a silent rage and a concentration that made the air heavy. She was a caged beast, shaped by hatred — the same hatred Theo had described as a stepping stone toward something greater.

Ana watched her from afar, eyes wide. She knew her leadership was seriously threatened. Not only by Ceres's physical strength or brutal talent, but by the fire burning in her gaze — that icy sky and that frozen hell inside her.

During training, Ceres showed astonishing progress. Her body, still marked by the traumas of detention, seemed to rebuild itself with tireless ferocity. Her dives became more precise, her concentration sharper. She was determined to dominate, to win.

Ana, seeing it, felt defeat approaching. She tried to hide it, but couldn't: she was already rehearsing her surrender in her mind while Ceres advanced relentlessly.

Ana finished her training exhausted, her body begging for rest, every muscle aching as if it had been whipped. Her breathing was heavy, and the urge to stop was almost irresistible. She looked at Ceres, expecting her opponent to give in, to finally stop as well.

But Ceres didn't stop.

With a serious face, her hair tied in a bun, eyes of ice and an impenetrable aura, she continued. Even tired, every dive seemed like a silent provocation, as if saying:

— 1–0 for me. So, are you going to try to catch up?

Ana realized, at that moment, that this wasn't just a physical competition — it was a psychological duel, and the advantage was already on Ceres's side.

It was only when she left the gymnasium, already far from those suffocating walls, that Ana allowed herself to acknowledge the defeat approaching.

The next day, the sun had barely illuminated the gymnasium when Ana arrived at exactly 8 a.m. To her surprise — and unease — Ceres was already there, warming up alone, steady and focused like a machine.

Ana felt her heart tighten. The sight of that girl there, so calm and relentless, made her own determination waver.

When the coaches arrived, they exchanged glances, and one of them commented in an admiring voice:

— Have you seen Ceres's progress? From one day to the next, she seems like a different athlete. It's impressive.

Another coach agreed:

— Her recovery after detention was almost miraculous. It seems she absorbed all that energy from the hatred and turned it into fuel.

Ana lowered her gaze, biting her lip, feeling the weight of that reality.

After training, Ceres didn't wait for anyone. She went straight to the cafeteria, her body still sweaty and her self-esteem slowly returning to occupy space in her posture. With every step, she felt less like a victim and more like a beast. She took the metal tray, served herself calmly — rice, protein, vegetables — and sat alone at one of the corner tables, as always.

From where she was, Ceres spotted little Cora through the window. The thirteen-year-old girl, wearing a simple dress, glasses, and a scarf holding back her hair, was outside the building, beside the flowerbeds. Cora was collecting leftover bread and scraps of meat in a bag, and every now and then, she crouched down to separate fruit peels into another, smaller bag.

Ceres watched for a moment, curious.

Cora wasn't doing it for herself. It was for the dogs and cats that lived in the field behind the school, all of them already known by the students. Even the rats were fed — no one in Ceres needed to go hungry, neither animal nor human. That was the law. That was the promise.

The girl carried the bags carefully, balancing them in her small arms, and smiled at a tabby cat following her from a distance, as if it already knew it would soon be fed.

Ceres narrowed her eyes, feeling a strange pang in her chest. That was... kindness. Mercy. Like the kind Mother Ceres taught — even if it was sometimes a cruel mercy.

The girl disappeared behind the wall, carrying sustenance for the little animals. Ceres took a deep breath, lowering her eyes to her own tray. It was inevitable to think: even the rats don't go hungry here. But us... sometimes we have to devour one another just to remain whole.

She drove her fork into the meat and continued eating.

Ceres was still chewing slowly when the cafeteria door opened. Theo entered, coming from the side corridor, cutting through on his way to the gymnasium. He didn't need to pass through there — but he did.

Their eyes met almost by instinct. There was no fear in either of them. She, sitting alone, her hair still tied in a rigid bun; him, standing straight, his training towel thrown over his shoulder.

Neither looked away immediately. It was a silent war, each one reaffirming: I won't lower my head first.

After a few seconds, Theo simply raised an eyebrow, as if he didn't care, and continued walking toward the other door. Ceres bit the corner of her mouth, curious about his audacity, but soon returned her gaze to the tray, as if it were nothing.

It was then that, on his way, Theo stopped beside Cora — the girl had been there the whole time, collecting crumbs and leftovers from trays at the ends of the tables, almost invisible. Cora looked at him with her huge, clear eyes and spoke softly:

— Can you help me? Like last time... the bag is heavy.

Theo let out a soft sigh, but the corner of his mouth lifted into a restrained smile. There was no way to deny that girl anything.

— Of course, little one. — He picked up the larger bag with one hand, effortlessly.

As they left together, Cora looked at him as though keeping a secret that belonged only to them and said quietly, like a mantra:

— Here in Ceres... the dogs, the cats, and even the rats don't starve.

Theo chuckled through his nose, amused.

— That's right, Cora. Mother takes care of everyone.

Ceres, watching the scene from the corner of her eye, narrowed her gaze at the exchange between them. There was something about Cora's purity and the way Theo allowed himself to smile because of her that unsettled her. She wondered — for only a moment — whether she had ever had that look of faith herself.

And then she lowered her eyes again to her tray, stabbing her fork into the rice with a hint of anger, repeating to herself silently: In Ceres... no one starves. No one.

Still sitting in the cafeteria, with the cold tray in front of her, Ceres watched little Cora and Theo walk away toward the door with that heavy bag of leftovers. He didn't look back, nor did he put on a show to impress her. It wasn't a gesture for her — it was his.

And somehow, it was hers too.

Ceres closed her eyes for a moment, and like a blur, the day he first came to her aid returned to her mind. She remembered his words as an indistinct buzzing at the height of the pain, but she had fallen into his arms anyway. Not because of some cheap heroism — but because earlier, that same day, she had heard Daime openly laugh at and humiliate Theo in the courtyard... and he simply didn't care. Not a drop of resentment on his face. She also remembered Tycho, hungry, and Theo pushing half of his own piece of cafeteria cake toward him — a piece he might have wanted to eat himself, but still gave to his brother.

Theo was arrogant, impulsive, steadfast. But he also had an almost cruel way of not being afraid to show vulnerability, and of being hard on those who needed it, without masks for anyone.

And that was how Ceres understood. That the crack she herself carried also existed inside him.

And it was through that crack, the one that hurt and bled, that the light entered.

Theo wasn't perfect — but he was the one who, without realizing it, taught her that even the most broken things could still illuminate.