Chapter 33 - Cira
Cira dodged Orlan's attack. Then another one.
Her muscles burned, her breath came in sharp bursts, but she forced herself to stay focused. Orlan was relentless, as always, his strikes calculated and precise. He moved with a grace that belied his size, each swing of his weapon a blend of power and control.
She ducked under a sweeping strike, pivoting on her heel to the left, and launched a quick counterattack. He blocked it with ease, the flat of his blade smacking her weapon away before spinning into a follow-up slash. She stumbled back just in time to avoid the blow, her boots scraping against the training ground's gritty surface.
Two months out of commission and it shows, she thought bitterly. Her muscles screamed in protest with every maneuver, every block, reminding her of the injuries that had sidelined her. She had barely escaped the last encounter with Elohan's forces. Charging in unprepared now would be suicidal.
But that didn't stop the gnawing urge in her chest. The memory of Liora's defiant face and Aren's screams in the distance haunted her every waking moment. She wanted to storm Elohan's tower right now, to rip apart whatever defenses stood between her and her friends. And if Cain happened to be there? She'd bury her blade in his chest for good measure.
Yet Orlan's words rang in her mind like a reprimand: You're no good to anyone if you can't fight.
He was right, damn him. She had let herself get soft, and the bruises from their earlier sessions were proof. But today… today was different. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of pinning her so easily.
Orlan's blade slashed toward her ribs, but Cira anticipated it, sidestepping at the last moment. The move wasn't perfect—she felt the sting of the blade grazing her leather armor—but it was enough to keep her standing.
«You're learning,» Orlan said, his voice calm.
Cira didn't respond. She couldn't afford to. Instead, she pushed forward, her strikes coming faster now, her footwork more precise. She was beginning to find the rhythm of the fight, the ebb and flow of Orlan's movements.
For the first time, he looked surprised. It was subtle—a flicker of his brow, a momentary hesitation—but Cira saw it.
Her lips twitched into a grin. «Getting nervous, Old man?»
He snorted, spinning his blade in a tight arc to deflect her next strike. «Not yet.»
But there was a shift in his stance, a slight lowering of his center of gravity. He was taking her more seriously now.
The fight escalated. Orlan's strikes became sharper, faster, but Cira kept up. Her body moved instinctively, adapting to his patterns, countering his feints. She wasn't winning, not yet, but she was holding her own in a way she hadn't before.
Orlan's next attack came with startling speed—a diagonal slash aimed at her shoulder. She barely managed to sidestep it, feeling the rush of air as the blade missed her by inches. He followed up with a spinning kick that she narrowly avoided by dropping into a roll. When she sprang back to her feet, she was breathing harder, but her focus remained unbroken.
And that's when she noticed it.
Orlan's movements… they felt familiar. A twist of the wrist here, a pivot of the heel there. She couldn't place it, but something about the way he fought stirred a sense of déjà vu.
Another attack. She parried it, but the sheer force behind his blow nearly sent her stumbling. He was pushing her harder now, testing her reflexes, forcing her to adapt. And she did. With each passing second, she found herself reading him more clearly, predicting his next move just a fraction of a second before it came.
It wasn't just familiarity. It was something deeper, something instinctive. I've seen this before. I've fought this before.
But how? Orlan had been a Godhunter long before she'd joined them. Their paths had never crossed until her capture—at least, not that she remembered.
Her next dodge came a fraction too late, and Orlan's blade nicked her arm. The sharp sting yanked her back to reality.
«Focus!» Orlan barked, stepping back to give her a moment. «If you're going to zone out, you may as well let me hit you.»
Cira shot him a glare, flexing her fingers around her weapon. «I'm focused.»
«Doesn't look like it,» he replied, lowering his stance. «If I can land a hit that easily, you're nowhere near ready.»
Cira lunged, her movements sharper now, fueled by a mix of frustration and determination. Orlan blocked her strike with ease, his blade deflecting hers with a loud clang. But there was something different in his expression—a flicker of respect, maybe, or surprise.
She pressed harder, forcing him to take a step back. Her body moved on instinct, her blade cutting through the air in a flurry of strikes. Orlan's defenses tightened, his movements losing some of their fluidity as he adjusted to her growing speed.
Her adaptability was her greatest strength. Rian used to say it was what made her dangerous—that once she got a sense of someone's style, she could learn it, counter it. She could still hear his voice in her mind, calm and steady as he corrected her stance, her grip.
«Keep your weight centered, Cira. Don't overcommit.»
She pivoted, feinting left before slashing at Orlan's exposed side. He blocked it just in time, his blade sliding against hers in a screech of metal.
«Good!» Orlan said, a grin breaking through his concentration. "You're finally Starting to make me work for it.»
She lunged, her blade flashing toward him. Orlan parried with ease, twisting his weapon to guide hers harmlessly away. The clang of metal echoed in the training hall.
«Sloppy,» he said, his voice calm but firm. «Where's your follow-through?»
Cira gritted her teeth, shifting her grip on the hilt. She circled him, her eyes scanning for an opening. This wasn't just training; it was a test. Orlan's critiques always carried a double-edged purpose—to push her limits and to remind her that she wasn't there yet.
She darted in again, her movements sharper this time. Her blade aimed for his shoulder, but he deflected it, forcing her to pivot and swing low. Orlan blocked with a quick downward strike, their blades locking for a brief moment before he shoved her back.
«Better,» he said, his lips twitching into what might have been a smile. «But you're still overthinking. Trust your instincts.»
Instincts. That word stirred a memory. ‹You think too much,› Rian had said once, his tone light but teasing as he leaned casually against the post of their sparring ring. ‹Sometimes you just have to move, Cira. Feel the fight, don't plan it.›
She could hear his laughter now, blending with the ringing of blades as she pressed forward, her strikes coming faster. Orlan's grin faded into focus, his stance shifting subtly as he adjusted to her pace. For a moment, she caught it again —a motion in his step, the way he turned his wrist. It was familiar.
«Don't let your guard down!» Orlan snapped, snapping her focus back to the fight.
Cira barely ducked in time as his blade whistled past her ear. She dropped into a low stance, kicking out at his shin to force him back. He stumbled but recovered quickly, bringing his blade up in a sweeping arc.
Her adaptability took over. She pivoted, twisting around his strike and bringing her weapon down toward his exposed shoulder. He blocked at the last second, their blades colliding in a screech of Wood.
«Good!» Orlan said, stepping back to reset his stance. He was breathing harder now, his grin returning. «You're getting faster.»
Cira smirked, despite the ache in her arms. «Maybe you're just getting slow.»
He chuckled, shaking his head. «Careful, or I'll show you slow.»
She moved first this time, her blade cutting through the air in a flurry of strikes. Orlan's defenses tightened, his movements growing less fluid as he adjusted to her relentless pace.
Kruz's voice overlapped with Orlan's in her mind. ‹Stay on them, Cira. Make them work to keep up with you. The more they're reacting, the less they're thinking.›
Orlan's foot slipped slightly as he shifted his weight, and Cira took the opening. She feinted left, then spun, her blade slicing toward his right. He blocked again, but his stance faltered, and she pressed the advantage, driving him back step by step.
Cira surged forward, her movements quicker now, more calculated. She could see the faint shift in his stance as he prepared to block her attack. There— she thought, adjusting mid-strike to aim for his leg instead.
Orlan barely managed to deflect the blow, his grin widening. «That's more like it.»
The compliment didn't register. Cira was too focused, her mind zeroing in on the patterns in his movements. Every swing of his blade, every step he took, seemed to echo something familiar. She couldn't place it at first, but then it finally hit her: Cain.
Orlan moved like Cain.
The realization threw her for half a second—long enough for Orlan to sweep her leg out from under her. She hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of her lungs.
«You're distracted again,» Orlan said, stepping back to give her space to recover. «What's going on in that head of yours?»
Cira pushed herself up, her body protesting. «Nothing,» she muttered, brushing off his concern. But her mind was racing, replaying moments with Rian and Kruz.
Rian's voice echoed in her memory, calm and patient as he guided her through countless sparring sessions. «Don't get caught in your own head. See the fight for what it is—not what you want it to be. Trust you instincts.»
She exhaled, forcing herself to let go of the thoughts. Instincts. Right. She could do that.
This time, when she attacked, her movements were fluid, almost reckless. Orlan had to work harder, his defenses tightening as she pushed him back. For a moment, she thought she had him. She feinted left, then struck low, her blade a blur.
But Orlan was faster. He countered with a speed and precision that left her breathless, disarming her in a single, decisive motion. Her weapon clattered to the ground, and she found herself staring down the tip of his blade.
«And that,» Orlan said, lowering the weapon with a satisfied grin, «is why I'm still the teacher.»
Cira frowned, frustrated but not entirely surprised. She reached down to pick up her weapon, wiping sweat from her brow. «You got lucky.»
«Luck had nothing to do with it,» he said, his tone softening. «You're good, Cira. Better than most. But you've got to get out of your own way. Stop overthinking. Trust yourself.»
She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. «I'll keep that in mind.»
«You'd better,» Orlan replied, giving her a rare, genuine smile. «Because next time, I won't go easy on you.»
Cira huffed a laugh, rolling her shoulders as she prepared to go again. This time, she wouldn't let him win so easily.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The dining hall was quieter than usual, the soft hum of conversation blending with the clatter of utensils. Cira sat across from Orlan at a long metal table, her tray of food barely touched. She poked at the lukewarm stew absently, her mind still on their earlier sparring match.
Orlan, meanwhile, was halfway through his meal, eating with the efficient focus of someone who saw food as fuel rather than pleasure. He glanced up at her, his sharp eyes catching her distraction. «You're awfully quiet. That loss hit your pride harder than usual?»
Cira snorted, leaning back in her chair. «You wish. I'm just thinking.»
«Dangerous habit,» he said with a smirk. «What's on your mind?»
She hesitated, rolling her spoon between her fingers before finally speaking. «You move like Cain.»
Orlan froze mid-bite, his expression unreadable for a moment before he set his fork down. «Do I now?» he said carefully, his tone lighter than the look in his eyes.
«Yeah,» Cira said, leaning forward. «It's not exact—he's… sharper, maybe, more precise. But there's something about the way you both fight. The stance, the timing. It's similar.»
Orlan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. «That's because I trained him.»
Cira blinked, her spoon stilling in her hand. «What?»
«Back when I was with the Ascended Army,» he explained, his voice steady. «Cain was one of my recruits. A good one, too—quick learner, disciplined. Stubborn as hell, but I respected that about him.»
She frowned, trying to reconcile the image of Cain as a recruit under Orlan's command. It didn't fit. Cain was too… Cain. The idea of him taking orders from anyone, even someone like Orlan, was almost laughable.
«You're serious?» she asked, her tone skeptical.
«Dead serious,» Orlan replied, his gaze distant now, as though he were seeing something she couldn't. «He was younger then, rough around the edges. But even back then, you could tell he had potential. He just needed someone to push him. To sharpen him.»
Cira's brows furrowed. «So what happened?»
Orlan's jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he might not answer. But then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. «What always happens. The Ascended have a way of turning good soldiers into something else. Something colder. Cain was no exception. He surpassed me in a lot of ways, but not all of them were for the better.»
The weight in his voice was hard to miss, and it left a strange knot in Cira's stomach. She looked down at her tray, her thoughts a jumble of questions and doubts.
«I didn't know,» she said quietly.
Orlan shrugged, his composure returning. «Not many do. It's not something I bring up often. But you're right—there's a similarity in how we fight. I guess old habits die hard.»
Cira looked up at him, searching his face for something she couldn't quite name. «Do you regret it? Training him, I mean.»
He met her gaze evenly. «No. But I regret what he became.»
Orlan shifted in his seat, his eyes distant, like he was reliving memories he'd rather forget. Cira waited, her curiosity tempered by the sudden heaviness in the air.
«Cain didn't always have the arm and the eye,» Orlan said finally, his voice low. «That came after a mission—classified, of course, but word gets around. He was sent into hostile territory alone, a retrieval op, if I remember right. The details are fuzzy, but something went wrong. He got caught in an explosion. Lost his arm, his eye… and nearly his life.»
Cira's breath hitched, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. «But he survived.»
«Yeah,» Orlan said grimly. «They replaced both with state-of-the-art augmentations. Better than before, if you ask the Ascended. But it changed him. Made him colder. More calculating. Cain's always been relentless, but after that... it was like something in him hardened. He stopped seeing limits—not in himself, not in others. Everything became a means to an end. But all of it came with strings, like everything else in the Ascended Army.»
«Strings?»
«Loyalty,» Orlan said, his gaze darkening. «Once you're enhanced, you're theirs. Body and soul. Cain knew that, but he accepted it. He's still in the army, and by now, he's climbed higher than most ever dream of.»
Cira tilted her head, processing his words. «And that Abel guy? Where does he fit into all this?»
Orlan's lips twitched into a faint, almost bitter smile. «Abel is Cain's opposite in almost every way. Where Cain honed his skills on the battlefield, Abel was groomed for politics. He studied diplomacy, governance—became the shining star the Gods wanted. And yet, somewhere along the line, Abel picked up the blade. Rumor has it he trained under some of the finest duelists among the Ascended.»
«And now?» Cira pressed. «Where is he?»
Orlan exhaled sharply. «Abel works directly under the Great One.»
Cira tilted her head, intrigued. «The Great One?»
«Highest of the gods,» Orlan explained. «And Abel's mentor. That's why he's where he is now, rubbing elbows with the gods and calling the shots. It's a position Cain has always coveted but could never reach. But don't let any of that fool you—he's just as dangerous. Maybe more so.»
«Why?» she pressed.
«Because Abel doesn't need a weapon to cut someone down,» Orlan said simply. «He'll disarm you with words, make you think he's your ally right up until he takes what he wants. He's sharp, calculating. The kind of man the gods trust with their dirty work because he's so damn good at staying clean.»
«Sounds like he and Cain aren't exactly close,» Cira mused.
Orlan snorted. «You could say that. They're brothers, but they couldn't be more different. Cain respects strength, action. Abel thrives on words and manipulation. It's no wonder they're always at odds.»
Cira's brow furrowed, a new question forming. «What about you? Which god did you serve under?»
Orlan's expression softened, his gaze growing wistful. «The God of the 12th District. He was a good one—fair, compassionate. The kind who didn't just rule from a throne but walked among his people. I respected him. Hell, I admired him. But he left. One day, he just… disappeared. Now the 12th District's nothing but slums, a shadow of what it used to be.»
«You sound like you still care about him,» Cira said, watching him closely.
«I do,» Orlan admitted, his voice quieter now. «He wasn't perfect, but he tried. That's more than I can say for most of them.»
The silence stretched between them for a moment, heavy but not uncomfortable. Finally, Orlan shook his head, his serious expression fading into something lighter. «Enough about the past. You've got enough to worry about without my war stories dragging you down.»
Cira managed a small smile, though her mind still turned over everything he'd told her. «Thanks for telling me,» she said quietly.
Orlan nodded, picking up his tray. «Get some rest, Cira. Tomorrow, we train harder. You'll need it.»
As he walked away, Cira sat there for a moment longer, the echoes of their conversation swirling in her mind. Cain, Abel, the 12th District—all of it felt like pieces of a puzzle she wasn't sure she wanted to solve.
But she would. Eventually.
Because that was who she was.