Training

Namaah sat cross-legged, her back straight, eyes half-closed as her acolytes sparred before her. The training grounds were a whirlwind of dust and sharp cries, as Dog and Raven led the newer recruits—Snake and Reptile—through a grueling routine. Sweat poured from their bodies, but none dared to show weakness. Especially not under Namaah's gaze.

Her eyes, however, were not on them. Instead, they were distant, her fingers twirling the Soul Eater wand, an extension of her very will. With each flick of her hand, a Black Needle shot out from the wand, embedding itself into a random acolyte. Dog was the first to fall to his knees, his body writhing in agony as the needle struck his soul directly. His face twisted, lips trembling, but he didn't scream. He knew better.

Snake, on the other hand, wasn't as disciplined. His scream tore through the air, earning a disapproving glance from Raven, who muttered under his breath, "Pathetic." Snake collapsed, gripping his chest where the needle's invisible wound burned into his core. Yet, despite the searing pain, they all knew the truth—this was how they grew stronger. No physical scars marked their bodies, but the soul, the essence of their being, was forced to endure the harshness of Namaah's power. In time, their mana pools would expand, and their regeneration would increase.

Pain was their teacher. Pain was survival.

"Good pets," Namaah murmured, her voice barely audible. The wand moved of its own accord, casting another Black Needle into Reptile's back. The acolyte bit down hard, forcing himself not to scream. She liked that. A smile touched the corner of her lips.

These were her creations. Weak, yes. But malleable. She would mold them, shape them into something better. Into something useful.

Her thoughts drifted to the past as her body moved almost automatically, casting needles with precision and rhythm. The recent encounter with the Black Lord still weighed heavily on her mind.

*** 

She had knelt before Beherit in the vast, dark hall of the Black Temple. The walls were adorned with ancient relics, the remnants of countless forgotten conquests. The weight of his presence was suffocating, even to someone of her power. She had faced death a thousand times, yet in front of him, a knot of anxiety tightened in her gut. She kept her face expressionless, her hands steady as she handed the replica of the Amulet of Origin to her lord.

It gleamed in the dim light, a deceptive twin of the true artifact. The moment of truth.

Beherit took the amulet, inspecting it with a discerning eye. His expression was unreadable, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns on its surface. Silence stretched between them, each second an eternity. Namaah remained still, her heart pounding in her chest, but her body betrayed no signs of the tension boiling within.

The Black Lord finally spoke, his voice a deep rumble that echoed in the chamber. "Do you know what this is, Namaah?"

She forced her voice to remain calm. "No, my lord."

He chuckled, the sound grating like metal against stone. "It is the key. The key to the heart of the island."

Namaah's pulse quickened. The heart of the island? She had heard whispers, ancient rumors of a core—something that could grant power beyond imagining. But this? Could it be?

"What is special about it, my lord?" she asked, her voice measured, respectful.

Beherit's gaze turned distant, as though looking far beyond her. "My freedom," he said softly. "And the way to achieve it. Power is not everything, Namaah. One day, you will understand this."

Namaah's lips tightened. Freedom? The word felt foreign coming from Beherit, a man who had ruled with an iron grip for centuries, with ambitions as vast as the abyss. Then his next words nearly broke her composure.

"Your master, Baltimar," he said, almost absently, "died searching for it, two hundred years ago."

The mention of her old teacher's name was like a dagger through her heart. She hadn't heard it in decades. Her fists clenched, and for a brief second, rage flickered in her eyes. The old wound of losing Baltimar to Beherit's impossible quest resurfaced, the helplessness, the hatred. He sent Baltimar to his death, she thought. Now he dares mention him as if he's a mere footnote in his twisted path to godhood.

Namaah had loved her master like a father, and she had never forgiven Beherit for sending him on that doomed mission. She had tried for centuries to uncover the truth, to understand why Baltimar had been sacrificed for Beherit's ambition. Now, here he was, casually revealing the secret she had sought for so long.

"Lord," she said, barely keeping her voice steady, "my master never spoke of this."

"No," Beherit said, his tone almost mocking. "He wouldn't have. It was not for him to know."

Namaah's hatred festered beneath the surface, but she smiled, hiding the venom in her heart. One day, Beherit would fall. She would see to it herself. But for now, she played the obedient servant.

"May I return to my acolytes, my lord?" she asked, bowing her head. "I wish to ensure their victory in this year's tournament."

Beherit waved his hand dismissively. "You've done well, Namaah. Choose an artifact from the temple's treasury. Consider it a reward."

She bowed once more, concealing the cold rage within her. "Thank you, my lord." And with that, she had left the hall, the weight of the encounter heavy on her shoulders.

Back in the training grounds, Namaah flicked her wrist again, casting another Black Needle into Dog's chest. He winced, but didn't falter.

"Good," she murmured, her thoughts still on Beherit. "Just wait, old man. One day, I'll be the one to take your place."

The Soul Eater wand pulsed in her hand, feeding off the dark energy in the air. But for now, she had to play the part of the loyal servant.

Her eyes sharpened, focusing back on her acolytes. "Dog," she called out, her voice a whip in the air. "The tournament!"

Dog nodded, sweat dripping from his brow. "I won't disappoint you, my lord."

Namaah smiled, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. "You'd better not."