Memory. Part: 2

The dining hall of the fortress was cast in a warm golden glow, the flickering torches mounted on the stone walls struggling to keep the shadows at bay. The long wooden tables were worn, scarred with the marks of countless meals, rough training hands, and the occasional knife. The scent of roasted meat and thick broth filled the air, mingling with the murmur of exhausted voices.

It was the only time of the day when they weren't being drilled to the bone—when they weren't swinging training swords or running across the harsh, rocky terrain that served as their proving grounds. But even in rest, competition burned.

Kael sat hunched over his bowl, his silver hair still damp from training. His golden eyes, sharp and restless, flicked toward Zirath, who sat across from him. The black-haired boy was eating with a measured calmness, his crimson gaze half-lidded, as if he were above the exhaustion that weighed on the rest of them.

Seraphina sat beside Zirath, her posture straight and composed, crimson hair tied back neatly. Her plate was barely touched—she always ate slower than the others, always watching first, listening.

Their mentor sat at the head of the table, a man whose name was rarely spoken—only Commander. He was a mountain of a man, his weathered face lined with scars, eyes like cold steel. When he spoke, his voice carried authority without effort.

And tonight, as their meal settled, he decided to speak.

"Tell me," the Commander said, his voice low but cutting through the chatter. "What do you brats know about the Demon Realms?"

The hall fell into an uneasy silence.

A few of the younger trainees glanced at each other, muttering under their breath. Others shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to draw attention to their ignorance.

Then, a bolder voice rose from the far end of the table. "It's where demons come from, right? Monsters that feast on souls."

Another scoffed. "I heard there's a realm where the dead walk, their bodies rotting but their minds still intact."

Zirath, ever composed, continued eating as if the question was unimportant. But Kael's interest sparked.

"The Demon Realms?" he echoed, setting down his spoon.

He had heard whispers before, stories passed around in hushed tones—legends of places beyond mortal comprehension.

The Commander leaned forward, his broad arms resting on the table. The firelight caught the edge of his deep scar, running down the side of his cheek like an old wound that never truly healed.

"There are many Demon Realms," he said, his voice lowering just enough to force the recruits to listen carefully. "And each one is worse than the last. But there is one that stands above all others in its cruelty."

His gaze swept over them, as if measuring their worth before revealing the truth.

"Malzathar's Abyss."

A murmur rippled through the hall. Even Zirath paused mid-motion, his red eyes narrowing slightly.

"The Abyss is where the infernal lords clash for dominion," the Commander continued. "A realm ruled by chaos, where the strongest devour the weak. Every war fought there shapes the balance of the world—more than any kingdom, more than any mortal empire." He exhaled slowly. His fingers tapped against the table. "It is said that some of the greatest warriors in history vanished there—whether by choice or by force."

"And whether you believe it or not, its influence reaches even here."

Kael leaned forward, intrigued. "What do you mean?"

The Commander smirked. "Ask yourself—why do some wield powers beyond human understanding? Why do some of us tap into elements as if they were a part of our very being?" His gaze lingered on Zirath, then shifted to Kael, then Seraphina.

"You think your abilities are just gifts?" he murmured. "You don't know the half of it."

________________________________________

The hall buzzed with murmurs as the words sank in.

Kael's mind raced. His lightning—his power—had always felt like something within him, something natural. But the idea that it was connected to forces beyond this world? It unsettled him.

Zirath, on the other hand, seemed… unbothered. He sat back, arms crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

"It doesn't matter," he said finally.

Kael turned to him. "What do you mean, 'it doesn't matter'?"

Zirath met his gaze, unfazed. "Power is power. Whether it comes from the heavens or the Abyss, it belongs to those strong enough to wield it." He tilted his head slightly, smirking. "You wouldn't understand."

Kael's jaw tightened. "And why's that?"

Zirath leaned in slightly, resting his chin on his hand. "Because you're too busy thinking about what power means instead of claiming it."

Kael slammed his hand against the table, silver hair falling over his eyes. "Tch. That's rich coming from someone who was born with power. Try working for it instead of acting like it was handed to you by fate."

Zirath's smirk faded. His crimson gaze darkened.

"You think I haven't worked for it?" His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it—dangerous. "You think power comes without sacrifice?"

"Maybe for you, it does," Kael shot back. "But not for the rest of us."

The room had gone completely silent now.

Seraphina exhaled softly, pushing her plate aside. "That's enough, you two."

Neither of them listened.

Kael's fists clenched. "You act like strength is everything—like nothing else matters."

"And you act like strength isn't the only thing that matters," Zirath countered, his voice as sharp as a blade. "Tell me, Kael—what will you do the next time you lose? Just think your way out of it?"

Kael's golden eyes flashed.

The tension thickened, the air between them charged—lightning against thunder, a collision waiting to happen.

Then—

Their mentor's voice cut through the rising tension, his sharp gaze pinning them both in place—"Enough."

A wooden spoon smacked against Zirath's forehead.

The black-haired boy blinked, stunned. Kael nearly choked on his own breath, startled.

Seraphina was glaring at them both, arms crossed, her expression cold and unamused. "If you two are done trying to measure your egos, eat your damn food before I set it on fire."

Zirath scowled, rubbing the faint mark on his forehead. "You didn't have to throw the spoon."

"I really did," Seraphina said flatly.

The Commander chuckled. "You two are idiots," he muttered, shaking his head. "But I suppose that means you'll both be fine."

Zirath exhaled, leaning back, but the intensity in his eyes didn't fade. Kael, his pride bruised, swallowed back the words he wanted to say.

Seraphina shook her head, her crimson hair shifting over her shoulders. "You two are the most childish warriors I've ever met."

Zirath snorted. "He started it."

Kael shot him a glare. "You're the one who—"

"Enough," Seraphina interrupted, her voice firmer this time. "If you have the energy to argue, then train instead."

Kael exhaled sharply, pushing himself up from the table. His frustration was a storm raging inside his chest, and he needed to get away before he said something he'd regret.

"I'm done here," he muttered, stepping away.

Zirath raised an eyebrow. "Storming off already?"

Kael didn't look back. "I'd rather breathe fresh air than sit here and listen to your nonsense."

With that, he left the hall, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor.

Zirath watched him go, his expression unreadable.

Seraphina let out another sigh before turning toward Zirath. "Go talk to him."

Zirath frowned. "Why? He's the one who walked away."

Seraphina's gaze was unwavering. "Because if you don't, he'll hold onto this. And I don't want to deal with him sulking for the next week."

Zirath hesitated for a moment, then exhaled. "Fine."

He stood, stretching his arms. "But if he tries to punch me, I'm not holding back."