The Blade Beneath

The morning light bled through the velvet curtains like a wound splitting open.

Soft, fractured gold poured across the marble floor of their temporary quarters in the palace's eastern wing—a room far too lavish for any of them to feel comfortable in. The walls were carved from pale stone veined with amethyst, the floor scattered with deep violet rugs that cushioned bare feet, and the air held the lingering scent of polished steel and wild orchids.

Nyra lay still.

The sheets tangled around her legs were damp with sweat, the soft fabric too delicate for someone who dreamed in blood. Her silver eyes cracked open, lids heavy with sleep not nearly deep enough. She didn't move at first, listening.

Riven's breathing was slow, deep. He always slept like he'd earned it—arms flung across the pillows, one leg thrown lazily over Seraph, who lay curled beside him like a shadow given form. Seraph never made a sound in sleep, but Nyra could feel her presence—calm, still, deceptively delicate.

For a moment, Nyra allowed the silence.

Then she sat up.

The motion was smooth, practiced. Her body ached, muscles sore from relentless sparring sessions and the constant storm of suppressed energy churning inside her. Three days had passed since the courtyard.

Three days since she'd bled beside royalty and walked away with fear trailing behind her like a cloak.

They hadn't spoken of it much.

Not the duel. Not the confrontation with Princess Celeste. Not the way whispers had spread like wildfire through the palace halls, hissing her name like it was both curse and prophecy.

She rolled her shoulders, stretching the stiffness from her spine, and glanced at the others again.

Riven stirred first. His eyes cracked open, golden-hazel glinting in the early light. He gave her a crooked grin without lifting his head from the pillow.

"Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?"

Nyra snorted softly. "Like a corpse," she muttered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

He laughed, voice still hoarse. "Fitting," Riven said, rubbing a hand over his face. "You almost killed a man before breakfast the other day."

"He started it," Nyra said flatly, walking to the basin.

"You finished it. Brutally," Riven replied, propping himself up on one elbow.

"As always," Seraph said quietly, her voice the soft ripple of water under moonlight. She sat up with feline grace, hair falling over one eye., her voice the soft ripple of water under moonlight. She sat up with feline grace, hair falling over one eye. "What time is it?"

"Too early," Riven muttered, flopping dramatically onto his back. "And we're meeting some mystery ghost in the training yard, right? Who wakes up for that?", flopping dramatically onto his back. "And we're meeting some mystery ghost in the training yard, right? Who wakes up for that?"

"You do," Seraph replied dryly, sliding from the bed with barely a sound., sliding from the bed with barely a sound.

Riven watched her move, appreciative and shameless. "That's because I get to see you wake up. Worth it," Riven said, grinning shamelessly.

Nyra threw a pillow at his head, rolling her eyes with a faint smirk.

He caught it one-handed. "You're just jealous," Riven quipped.

"Of what? Your unrelenting sarcasm or your bedhead?" Nyra shot back.

"Both, probably," Riven said, smirking wider.

Nyra stood and crossed to the wash basin, splashing her face with cold water. It bit into her skin, refreshing and brutal, just the way she liked it. She stared into the mirror for a moment, searching her own expression.

The girl who stared back was not the same one who arrived in chains.

She wasn't sure who she was now.

But she would find out.

The walk through the palace was quiet.

Servants glanced at them and quickly looked away. Guards kept their hands near weapons but said nothing. Nobles whispered behind fans and curtains. The fear was palpable now—coated in silence, sharpened by avoidance.

They were no longer curiosities.

They were warnings.

"I kind of like it," Riven mused as they stepped into the outer courtyard. "All this fear. Makes the air feel electric." as they stepped into the outer courtyard. "All this fear. Makes the air feel electric."

"That's because you're a psychopath," Nyra muttered, adjusting the blade at her hip.

"Not entirely," Seraph said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Hey, I'm charming," Riven protested, pretending to be wounded.

"In the way fire is charming," Seraph replied smoothly, not looking at him.

"Exactly," Riven grinned, clearly pleased.

The sky above was a pale blue, streaked with drifting clouds. The morning chill hadn't burned off yet, and mist clung to the stone as they crossed the bridge toward the training grounds.

The yard was empty.

Or so it seemed.

Weapons lined the racks. Practice dummies stood in organized rows. The echo of their boots was the only sound.

Until it wasn't.

A whisper of motion. A flicker of shadow.

And then, from the far edge of the field, a figure emerged.

Tall. Hooded. Cloaked in obsidian and silence.

Kierian Kierian.

He stepped into view like a ghost fading into form, every movement so precise it was almost soundless. His presence didn't demand attention—it commanded it.

His eyes, silver and ancient, locked onto Nyra first.

Then Riven.

Then Seraph.

None of them spoke.

He stopped five paces away, letting the silence stretch.

Then his voice cut through it like a blade.

"You have one month to become weapons," Kierian Kierian said, his voice low and precise.

Nyra's gaze narrowed slightly at his words, but she said nothing.

Kierian's eyes scanned over them one by one, calculating, brutal, and cold.

"You are not soldiers. Not yet. You are potential. Raw and undisciplined. Potential doesn't win wars—it dies in them," Kierian said coldly, his voice cutting through the morning air.

Riven raised a brow. "Charming motivational speech," he muttered, brushing sweat from his brow.

Kierian didn't blink. "Shut your mouth," he said sharply, not even sparing a glance.

The smile froze on Riven's face. Nyra could see it—the shift. The tightening of his jaw, the hardening in his shoulders. Kierian's voice had a weight behind it that couldn't be ignored.

"For the next month," Kierian continued, "you will learn to break your bodies and remake them. You will learn what it means to be lethal. Not clever. Not lucky. But deadly. If you fail—"

He stepped forward, faster than any of them expected. In a blur, he was in front of Seraph, hand outstretched.

Nyra moved. So did Riven.

Too slow.

His fingers stopped a breath from Seraph's throat.

She hadn't flinched.

He smiled. "—you die."

He lowered his hand, turning from them like they weren't even worth finishing the gesture.

"First lesson. Never blink. Second? Control your instincts. You lunged at me without thought," Kierian said without looking back. "Instinct is good. Discipline is better." he said without looking back. "Instinct is good. Discipline is better."

Nyra clenched her jaw. Her pulse still hadn't settled.

"Drop your weapons."

They didn't hesitate.

Blades hit the ground in unison.

"Bare hands today," Kierian said. "You think you know how to fight? You don't. Not yet. Not until you've tasted dirt and swallowed your own blood."

The next hour was pain.

Kierian made them run—barefoot over the rocky gravel perimeter of the yard, again and again, until their feet blistered and bled. Seraph moved like shadow, graceful but quiet. Riven cursed under his breath every other lap, sweat soaking through his shirt. Nyra said nothing at all, pushing her pace until her legs screamed.

Then came drills.

Stances. Balance. Blindfolded combat sequences. Repeated falls into mud. Again. Again. Again.

Nyra fell once.

He made her repeat the motion twenty more times.

"Why are you on the ground?" he barked, looming over her with his arms crossed.

"Because I moved wrong," Nyra answered through gritted teeth.

"Wrong isn't good enough. Wrong gets your throat opened. Again," Kierian snapped.

By mid-morning, her arms ached from blocking. Her thighs trembled from the stances. Kierian showed no mercy, correcting posture with sharp blows, forcing them to hit harder, hold longer, stay lower.

Seraph never complained.

Riven bit back every grunt.

Nyra bled and kept going.

They paused only for water.

Kierian stood at the edge of the yard, arms folded, eyes like knives.

"You look like corpses," Kierian observed, voice flat and unimpressed.

"Feel like one," Riven muttered, gulping water and collapsing onto the ground., gulping water.

"Good. Get used to it," Kierian replied without sympathy.

He stepped forward again. "Now comes the part you won't like," he added, stepping forward as magic gathered in his palm.

He raised a hand—and the air shifted.

Darkness rippled from his palm. A shimmer of magic.

Nyra felt it before she saw it. Her skin prickled. Her bones tensed.

Shadows coalesced in the yard around them. Four figures emerged—identical copies of themselves.

But wrong.

Their expressions were twisted. Eyes blank. Movements sharp and inhuman.

"Fight yourselves," Kierian said simply, watching them with calculating eyes. "Break the illusion. Or it breaks you." Kierian said simply. "Break the illusion. Or it breaks you."

Nyra lunged.

Her double mirrored her move with terrifying precision.

The yard exploded into chaos.

They fought in silence.

Sweat and blood blurred together.

Each illusion mimicked not just their movements but their weaknesses.

Nyra's opponent read her too easily. Blocked her telekinetic flicks. Matched her blows. When she faltered, it pounced. She adjusted, unpredictability becoming her weapon.

Seraph vanished and reappeared with her phantom step—her double responded in kind.

Riven's daggers clashed midair, his twin grinning with the same cocky tilt of the head.

Kierian watched. Silent. Evaluating.

Finally—

One by one, they destroyed their shadows.

Nyra stood over hers, chest heaving, blood dripping from her knuckles.

Kierian nodded once.

"Again."

The sun had climbed high by the time he allowed them to stop.

They collapsed in the shade. Breathless. Broken. Alive.

Kierian turned without another word and vanished into the courtyard shadows.

"I hate him," Riven muttered, staring up at the sky., staring up at the sky.

"He's not supposed to be likable," Nyra replied, wiping her hands on a rag., wiping her hands on a rag.

Seraph didn't speak. Her eyes were closed, chest rising slow and steady.

A beat of silence.

Then Riven grinned. "But admit it. That was kind of fun," Riven said, glancing sideways at her.

Nyra glanced at her bleeding knuckles.

And smiled.

"A little," Nyra admitted, her voice low but honest.

The bruises had bruises.

Nyra sat on the edge of her bed, jaw clenched as she wrapped her forearm with cloth that was already stained with yesterday's dried blood. Her knuckles were cracked open in three places—angry, red, and raw. The soreness in her shoulders was a slow, pulsing agony, like fire churning just beneath her skin. Every breath pulled against bruised ribs. Her body screamed with every movement.

Outside, dusk had swallowed the sky, leaving their room cloaked in a flickering amber glow. It danced like firelight over the walls and cast jagged shadows across their beds. A tray of food sat untouched by the door, the meat dried and curling at the edges, blood pooled around half-chewed bones. It had arrived hours ago. None of them had the strength—or appetite—to care.

Seraph was already asleep. She lay on her stomach, limbs sprawled, hair fanned across her pillow like black silk. Riven, shirtless and still breathing hard from the evening sparring, leaned against the window frame, staring into the dark.

Nyra exhaled slowly.

"You think he sleeps?" Nyra asked, voice rough.

Riven didn't look away from the window. "Kierian?" Riven replied, his voice low.

"Mm," Nyra hummed, pulling the wrap tighter.

Riven shook his head. "I don't think he even blinks," Riven muttered, shaking his head slowly.

Nyra chuckled under her breath, a sound almost foreign coming from her. "Sadist," Nyra said with a bitter smirk.

"He's not trying to hurt us," Riven said, still staring out into the night. "He's trying to build something. The pain's just… part of the blueprint.". "He's trying to build something. The pain's just… part of the blueprint."

"That sounds like something he'd say," Nyra replied, a flicker of exhaustion in her voice.

"Probably did," Riven admitted, cracking a tired grin.

Nyra finished binding her forearm, flexing her fingers and watching the skin pull taut. "He's still an asshole," Nyra muttered.

Riven smirked. "Absolutely," Riven agreed, his smirk never fading.

They sat in silence again, the kind that wasn't heavy—just quiet. Shared. It had taken three days of training for their bodies to begin adapting, and even then, Kierian didn't relent. If anything, he intensified.

Each morning began in pain. Before the sun even dared rise, icy water was dumped over their heads, and they were thrown into drills without time to think. Ten-mile sprints through uneven terrain, their bare feet torn open on jagged stones. They were forced to crawl under spiked bars that sliced into their backs if they moved too high. Walls slick with frost and grease had to be climbed using only their fingers—blisters burst, fingernails cracked.

Worse were the traps. Trip wires hidden beneath dust. Weighted logs swinging down without warning. Shock enchantments that didn't just sting—they burned. One missed step, and the body convulsed in agony, slamming into the dirt with a sickening crunch. Kierian didn't stop. He didn't flinch. When Riven collapsed after a shock hit his spine, Kierian simply stepped over him and said, "Again."

By noon, they were drenched in sweat and streaked with blood—most of it their own. By evening, they were handed blades dulled just enough not to kill—but sharp enough to flay skin and shatter bone. They fought blindfolded, bound, with weighted chains around their wrists. One mistake meant pain. Two meant unconsciousness.

By noon, their bodies were covered in dirt and bruises. By evening, they were handed blades—and made to fight blindfolded.

Kierian never yelled. He didn't need to. His silence was a blade against their throats. When they failed, he said nothing—just watched with eyes like winter steel, as if already seeing their corpses. He corrected mistakes with strikes to the ribs, knuckles to the jaw, a twist of the arm that left tendons screaming.

He demanded perfection not as an ideal—but as a necessity. Weakness wasn't just punished. It was excised, cut out like rot. Not because he believed they were capable of it now, but because they had to become capable of it.

Nyra had started noticing things.

The way he shifted weight on his right leg when he stood still—old injury. The near-silent way he exhaled when watching Seraph fight—like something about her unsettled him. The tiniest curl of approval at the corner of his mouth when Riven deflected an attack instead of dodging.

He was watching all of them. Studying. Measuring.

And Nyra knew with bone-deep certainty: he was preparing them for something much worse than just the Dominion Institute.

The next morning, Kierian broke routine.

Instead of the training yard, he led them to the edge of the eastern cliffside, where the palace walls opened into a jagged overlook. Below, the ocean slammed against the rocks, dark and endless.

"Jump," Kierian said, his voice devoid of mercy.

Riven blinked. "Come again? As in… jump jump?"

"Jump."

Nyra stepped forward, staring at the drop. It had to be a hundred feet at least. Maybe more. The water churned violently below—sharp black rocks jutting through the waves like teeth.

"You serious?" Nyra asked, voice low, already knowing the answer.

Kierian met her eyes, calm as still water. "No one's coming to save you at the bottom. No spell. No safety net. If you want to live, figure it out on the way down.". "If you hesitate here, you'll die later. Trust your magic. Or learn what breaking feels like."

Nyra swallowed.

No harness. No spell of protection. Just wind, water, and instinct.

She stepped to the edge, wind screaming past her ears like death whispering in tongues. Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs. There was no time to think. No room for fear.

She let go of the ground.

And jumped.

The world ripped away.

Cold air tore at her clothes. Her body plummeted, the jagged rocks below growing teeth. Nyra reached deep—pull it, pull it now—calling on the magic that had become her marrow. Telekinesis flared in her bones. She twisted, flipped, forced her descent into a violent arc.

She hit the water like a blade—angled, hard, but not broken.

Pain exploded across her side. Her lungs screamed.

But she was alive.

The ocean swallowed her.

She came up gasping, coughing salt and blood, limbs flailing until instinct overrode panic. Her magic surged in frantic bursts—telekinetic pressure forcing her to the surface, keeping her above the waves. Her muscles shook from the impact, but she clawed her way back to shore, dragging herself over sharp stones and seaweed.

She collapsed on her back, soaked and trembling, but breathing.

Above her, Riven cursed.

"Godsdammit," Riven hissed, pacing at the cliff's edge. "Of course she survived. She's insane.", pacing at the cliff's edge. "Of course she survived. She's insane."

"Or fearless," Seraph murmured, her voice soft and distant.

"She's Nyra. That's the same thing," Riven said, rubbing his face with both hands.

Without waiting for Kierian's nod, Riven took off at a sprint.

"Riven—!" Seraph started, reaching out, but it was too late., but it was too late.

He hurled himself off the edge with a reckless laugh that echoed all the way down.

He hit the water wrong.

The scream that followed was half-pain, half-whooping laughter.

Moments later, Seraph stepped forward in silence.

She didn't hesitate. She vanished into mist before her feet even left the edge.

They sat together in the sand, bleeding and soaked, coughing salt and seaweed. Nyra spat blood into the surf, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. Riven clutched his ribs, half-laughing, half-groaning. Seraph stared out at the black waves, eyes distant and unfocused. They weren't comrades—they were corpses learning how to breathe again.

Kierian appeared moments later—no splash, no descent, just a blur of shadow reconstituted into form beside them. His boots didn't even leave prints in the sand. His presence was a storm without thunder, an omen standing at their shoulders.

His eyes scanned them—bloody, breathless, half-drowned wrecks. His silence was louder than any reprimand, a reminder that pain was their only tutor.

"Better," Kierian said flatly, his tone devoid of praise. "But better doesn't mean anything if you break before the real fight starts.". One blink, and he was simply there, crouching beside them like he'd always been.

"Better," Kierian said flatly, eyes flicking between their soaked forms. "Still too slow. Still too afraid.", eyes flicking between their soaked forms. "Still too slow. Still too afraid."

Nyra glared at him. "You threw us off a cliff," Nyra growled, her voice low and venom-laced. "No warning. No spell. Just a suicide drop wrapped in your usual silence. What next? Toss us into a pit of knives and tell us to learn how to bleed better?"

"And you lived," Kierian replied, cold and unmoved. "The ones who die don't complain. The ones who survive don't need to."

He stood. "Use that," Kierian finished, turning his back on them like they weren't worth the breath it took to speak. The message lingered in the air like smoke—brutal, suffocating, inescapable.

The next week was worse.

More illusions. More traps. He conjured beasts made of shadow and flame—creatures with no faces and teeth that shredded weapons. Seraph learned to flicker out of range before they struck, her Phantom Step growing sharper, more precise. She began weaving her Illusion Magic mid-combat, using decoys to bait her enemies. The air around her shimmered as if she were part spirit.

Nyra's telekinesis became brutal and exact—no longer just throwing things but pinning, snapping, slamming. She learned to curve a thrown weapon mid-flight, to lock blades in place and wrench them from enemy hands. Her Living Armor magic began to activate more naturally, hardening parts of her skin during strikes. She no longer waited to be hit to react—she moved with her instincts, trusting the storm.

Riven fought dirty.

He combined short-range teleportation bursts with lethal dagger strikes, appearing behind his own shadow clones mid-illusion and slicing through them like silk. He bled more than the others, but he grinned through it, using poison and sleight-of-hand to outwit even Kierian's summoned horrors.

They began to sync.

Riven flanked. Seraph distracted. Nyra crushed.

Kierian said nothing.

But once—just once—he offered a nod.

And it felt like being crowned.

One night, Nyra found herself alone.

Standing before the training dummies, long after the others had collapsed into sleep.

Her hands were shaking. Not from pain. From power.

She stared at the target.

Then moved.

In one fluid motion, she pulled the dagger from her side and flung it—midair, she snapped her fingers, and it curved.

Buried itself in the dummy's neck.

She didn't smile.

But her eyes glowed faintly in the dark.

Blood hit the stone like rainfall.

Nyra slammed into the ground, shoulder-first, teeth rattling as her back scraped across the gravel. The breath punched out of her lungs. Dust stung her eyes. She rolled before she could think, barely dodging the heel that cracked into the dirt where her head had been.

Kierian didn't wait.

His boot struck her ribs with practiced precision—controlled, measured, just enough force to bruise, not break. Nyra grunted, twisting with the impact, dragging herself to her feet.

"Again," Kierian commanded, his voice flat and merciless, eyes cold and unblinking.

She spat blood to the side.

"No shit," Nyra snarled, baring her teeth through the blood at the corner of her mouth.

Across the sparring ring, Nyx and Riven circled each other like coiled serpents. Her grin was feral, eyes glinting with mischief as she twirled her blades in both hands. Riven mirrored her with a cocky tilt of his head, his daggers spinning between his fingers.

"Ready to get embarrassed in front of the class?" Riven asked, voice low and teasing.

Nyx licked her lips slowly. "I was born ready. But I'm more curious—do you moan when you lose, or just whimper?"

Riven blinked. "Is it bad that I'm excited either way?"

She lunged without warning. He barely sidestepped the twin blades that carved into the air where his throat had been. She followed with a roundhouse kick to his chest—he caught it, but she twisted midair, slashing at his ribs with the tip of her weapon.

"You're faster than you look," he grunted, backing away.

"Faster than you, pretty boy," Nyx purred, landing on one knee and rolling back to her feet.

Riven darted forward, blades a blur. She parried with ease, laughing as their weapons clashed in bursts of sparks.

Their footwork was a dance—his agile and erratic, hers precise and savage.

He spun behind her—she bent backward unnaturally, letting his blade pass over her nose, then elbowed him in the stomach.

He wheezed. "You always fight like you want to hurt someone you like?"

She leaned in close, breath hot on his ear. "Only the ones I want to keep."

Then she slammed the hilt of her dagger into his shoulder and flipped him over her hip, sending him crashing to the ground with a satisfying thud.

"Ow," he groaned.

"Say you're mine," she whispered above him.

Riven blinked up at her. "...You terrify me."

"Good." She smiled.

"Also, I think I love you a little."

Nyx laughed and stepped off him with a victorious twirl of her blades.

Across the yard, Kierian didn't react. But Nyra saw his mouth twitch. Just a little.

The training yard was quiet, brutal, and without rest.

Kierian had arranged them in a triangle of torment—each pair cycling between blade training, unarmed combat, and endurance drills that would make soldiers weep. There were no breaks. No words of encouragement. Just motion, pain, correction.

And him.

Always him.

Watching. Judging.

Nyra lunged forward.

Their wooden blades collided with a crack, splinters flying as she spun low and swept his leg.

He stepped over it with inhuman calm, catching her arm mid-spin and yanking her close.

Their chests collided.

His grip tightened.

Nyra stared up into his face, breath shallow, sweat mixing with the smear of blood on her cheek.

His eyes were ice.

But something flickered beneath them. Not warmth. Not cruelty.

Something else.

She didn't move.

Neither did he.

Time slowed, stretched like pulled silk.

Then he let her go.

She stumbled back a step, fists still raised.

"You hesitated," Kierian said, gaze like a knife pressed against her throat.

"You grabbed me," Nyra snapped, stepping back, jaw clenched, silver eyes blazing.

"And you froze," Kierian replied sharply, arms crossed over his chest.

"I was deciding which rib to break," Nyra shot back with venom, a smirk curling at the edge of her bruised lips.

He tilted his head. "Next time, decide faster," Kierian said coolly, like he was discussing the weather instead of violence.

She bared her teeth in a smile that wasn't kind. "Next time, don't get close," Nyra hissed, her voice low and dangerous, laced with defiance.

He didn't smile.

But he didn't correct her either.

The sun blistered overhead. Blades clashed. Fists struck flesh.

Seraph had taken back control.

Nyx vanished like a phantom, and in her place stood the quiet, composed killer cloaked in grace—Seraph.

She now faced Riven in the sparring circle, blades drawn, expression unreadable.

The difference was immediate.

Where Nyx had fought with a savage gleam in her eye and a mouth full of teasing fire, Seraph moved like flowing water—silent, measured, eerily calm. Each motion was a whisper. Each strike, a prayer.

Riven adjusted, warier now.

"Back to the serene executioner, huh?" Riven muttered with a wary smirk, circling her with his daggers raised, sweat beading at his brow.

Seraph didn't respond. She simply moved.

Her war fans snapped open with a metallic hiss, and in a blur she was behind him. Riven twisted just in time, blocking the fan aimed at his throat. But she didn't stop—didn't blink. She danced around him, carving the air with shimmering steel.

"She's faster," Riven gasped, breath catching in his throat as he scrambled to keep up with her relentless pace, parrying desperately.

Seraph tilted her head slightly.

"No," Seraph said softly, her voice barely more than a breath, calm and absolute, her violet eyes never leaving his.. "You're slower."

Then she struck—one fan slicing low, the other high. Riven deflected the first but caught the second across his shoulder with a grunt.

He staggered.

Seraph didn't press the advantage. She stepped back, war fans poised like wings.

"Yield," Seraph said gently, lowering her weapons just enough to give him the illusion of mercy, though her stance remained unshaken.

Riven coughed. "Why are you always so polite when you're trying to kill me?" Riven groaned, wiping the blood from his lip with a crooked grin.

She blinked. "Habit," Seraph replied with a small shrug, folding her fans with practiced ease.

He raised a hand. "Fine. I yield. Again," Riven muttered, dropping one knee to the ground with a dramatic flourish before flopping backward in defeat.

She inclined her head with the elegance of a queen and lowered her weapons.

"Next time," Riven groaned, rubbing his shoulder and wincing, "can you at least pretend to sweat?", "can you at least pretend to sweat?"

Seraph gave a faint smile. "Next time, don't blink," Seraph replied, her lips curling in the faintest ghost of a smile, serene and merciless all at once.

Nearby, Nyra and Kierian circled each other in silence.

Again.

Their footsteps echoed against stone, slow and lethal. The others had stopped sparring just to watch—it wasn't training anymore. It was war without death.

Nyra struck first, blade flashing toward his side. Kierian parried, twisted, and countered with a knee to her stomach. She grunted, catching his elbow before it slammed into her jaw and pivoting on her heel.

She struck again—aiming not for victory, but to draw blood.

He didn't flinch.

His expression remained unreadable, but his movements were faster than anyone she'd ever fought. Too fast. He moved like memory—untouchable, just out of reach.

He countered with a blow to her thigh, sending lightning down her leg. She twisted, swept his feet—and finally knocked him back a step.

Just one.

But he stopped.

"Better," Kierian said, nodding once with a tone that could shatter bone—distant, precise, and unreadable.

Nyra's chest heaved. Her braid clung to her damp back, soaked in sweat.

She said nothing.

But her chest was heaving—not just from effort, but from heat. Every time his hand brushed too close. Every time their bodies locked and his breath hit her ear. She hated how aware she was of him.

Of the sharp lines of his jaw. The way sweat rolled down his neck. The flicker in his eyes when she fought like she had nothing left to lose.

Her heart was a war drum, pounding out a rhythm that didn't feel like fear.

It felt like temptation.

Later, as dusk bled into the horizon, Nyra sat alone on the training stones, blade across her lap.

Footsteps approached. She didn't look.

"You keep watching me like you're expecting me to fall apart," Nyra said, not looking at him, voice rough with exhaustion and restrained anger.

"I'm watching to see what's left when you don't," Kierian replied evenly, voice low enough to cut through bone.

She looked up then.

His face was unreadable. But closer now.

Too close.

And she hated the way her stomach twisted.

Hated it more when she didn't want to move.

"I don't break," Nyra whispered, chin lifted, eyes locked on his with that silver fire burning behind them.

"No," Kierian said, voice low and dark, like the first crack before a thunderstorm. "You fracture. Quietly.". "You fracture. Quietly."

She met his gaze—sharp, defiant, unblinking.

And for just a breath, his gaze dropped.

To her lips.

Then he turned and walked away—his footsteps slow, deliberate, as if he hadn't noticed the way the air cracked between them.

Nyra stood frozen, breath still caught in her chest, fingers tightening around her blade.

She hated the flutter beneath her ribs.

Hated him for causing it.

Hated herself more for wishing he'd stayed longer.

She was breathless.

And furious.

And utterly unprepared for whatever the hell this was becoming.

They were no longer the same three who'd stepped onto this bloodstained field a week and a half ago.

Their movements had sharpened to razors. Their instincts, once raw and reactive, were now honed—calculated, lethal, and unnervingly silent.

Nyra's telekinetic control was no longer a violent burst of force. It was a scalpel. She could freeze a midair weapon, redirect it mid-spin, and split a blade into fragments with a flick of her fingers. Her Living Armor didn't flicker in desperation anymore—it activated before impact, skin hardening just as a strike landed, deflecting force with diamond precision.

Seraph and Nyx moved like twin blades of the same weapon. The shift between them had become seamless. Where once Seraph's calm would falter and Nyx would burst through like wildfire, they now danced between one another like breath and blood. A subtle eye twitch, a sharp inhale—and one presence vanished while the other emerged, bringing an entirely different rhythm to the battlefield.

Seraph flickered across the stones, illusion weaving like ghost-light around her as she split into two, three, four forms—each dancing in different directions before collapsing back into one. Nyx emerged mid-combat with a twisted grin, blades flashing, footwork like a predator circling prey. Her strikes were brutal but beautifully timed—no longer just chaos, but guided fury.

Riven had become a blur. His teleportation was shorter now, but instantaneous. He'd stopped overextending and started predicting his enemy's next move. His poisoned daggers had found flesh more often than not, and his ability to fight blindfolded left even Kierian momentarily impressed.

And today, it was Nyx who stepped into the center of the yard.

The air was heavier.

The others stood at the perimeter, still and watchful.

Across from her—Kierian Kierian.

Silent. Waiting.

The tension was palpable.

No signal was given.

They just moved.

Kierian struck first.

Nyx twisted out of range with feline grace, twin daggers singing. She closed the distance in a blink, slashing high and low simultaneously, aiming for neck and thigh. He blocked one, pivoted away from the other, and retaliated with a palm aimed for her jaw.

She ducked, rolled beneath him, kicked his legs.

He staggered.

Not fell.

But staggered.

Nyx's smile turned feral. "Getting slow, Ghost?"

He didn't answer. His blade sang from its sheath.

She didn't hesitate.

Their weapons met in a blur. Sparks flared. They moved too fast to follow. Nyx phased between illusions and real attacks—some strikes passed through air, others landed with jarring force. Kierian adapted. He struck at both shadow and body, sweeping her legs, driving her back.

She flipped over his shoulder, landing light as smoke.

His strike cut air.

She grinned, eyes glowing. "Come on. Hit me like you mean it."

He did.

The next blow was real.

A knee to her ribs that cracked the air, followed by an elbow she barely dodged. Her heel swept toward his neck—he ducked, grabbed her ankle, twisted. She spun midair, flipped, landed crouched.

Then she vanished.

He pivoted—just in time for her blade to graze his back.

His counter was vicious.

They locked.

Steel to steel. Eyes to eyes.

Breathless.

Nyx lunged.

He caught her wrist.

She twisted.

He shoved.

She slid.

Their bodies collided again—full force, sweat-slick skin, hearts racing.

She drove a dagger toward his thigh.

He knocked it away.

Her hand flashed up—telekinetic force flung sand into his eyes.

He snarled.

She laughed.

Then he grabbed her.

Their feet scraped against stone. She almost swept him—almost—but he braced. His leg slid back at the last second.

He spun her.

Threw her.

She hit the ground, rolled, came up grinning.

He stood across from her, panting.

A thin line of blood trickled down his cheek.

"You're bleeding," she said with a savage grin.

"You're stalling," Kierian replied, eyes like blades.

Then they both charged.

The last clash echoed through the yard—blinding speed, deafening contact. Metal shrieked. One blade snapped. A burst of wind howled as Nyx unleashed a full-force surge of magic.

And then—

Stillness.

Kierian stood behind her.

His blade pointed at her throat.

Nyx froze.

A beat.

Then she laughed. Low. Breathless.

"I almost had you."

"You're getting closer," he said.

Nyra surged forward inside her.

"You're not ready for what happens when I do," she whispered.

Kierian lowered his blade.

His smile was almost imperceptible.

"Good."

From the sidelines, the others were silent.

Even Riven had no words.

That wasn't just sparring.

That was war disguised as training.

That was something else entirely.

Kierian barely had time to reset.

"Again," he said.

This time, it was Nyra who stepped forward.

Not Nyx. Not Seraph. Just her.

Silver eyes locked on his. Every movement was quiet precision. No flash. No grin. Just cold focus.

Riven moved beside her, spinning a dagger once between his fingers.

"You ready for this?" he muttered.

Nyra's jaw clenched. "I've been ready."

They didn't wait for the order.

They moved like a storm.

Nyra struck from the front—telekinetic blades flashing midair, shifting angles with every breath. She hurled one forward, then split it mid-flight, forcing Kierian to deflect three separate trajectories.

Riven blinked behind him, teleporting in short, flickering bursts—left, right, high, low—never the same place twice. His blades flashed in and out like fangs.

Kierian parried a blow from Nyra and ducked Riven's strike from behind. He spun, foot catching Nyra's side—only to be yanked off balance when she pulled him midair with telekinesis.

He flipped, landing hard, rolled.

Nyra advanced.

Living Armor rippled across her arms as Kierian's blade struck her—metal sliding off as if hitting steel.

Riven reappeared mid-air, plunging a dagger toward Kierian's shoulder—he deflected it, barely.

"Faster," Kierian grunted.

Nyra's eyes flared.

She flung a burst of kinetic energy that cracked the ground beneath him. Riven took advantage—sliding low, slicing toward Kierian's ankle. Kierian leapt, grabbed Nyra mid-air and twisted—she used his momentum to flip backward, landing clean.

Riven popped back in, this time from above.

Blade met blade.

The echo rang out.

Then silence.

All three froze.

Sweat dripped.

A single breath passed.

Then—Nyra lunged.

This time, Kierian met her with equal force. Their blades screamed as they clashed again and again—his sword against her whirling telekinetic barrage, dodging bursts of force and sudden traps she summoned beneath his feet.

Riven cut through a shadow illusion Kierian sent his way, and appeared beside Nyra just as Kierian tried to flank her. Their coordination was tight. Practiced. Ruthless.

Blades crossed.

Dust rose.

Kierian ended it with a brutal spinning kick to Riven's chest and a well-timed twist of Nyra's wrist that disarmed her.

But not before her blade nicked his side.

He stood panting.

So did they.

A beat passed.

He looked down at the blood on his tunic.

"Closer," Kierian said again, quieter this time.

Nyra met his eyes.

Riven groaned. "Please tell me we get dinner after this."

Kierian turned.

And walked off without a word.

Nyra exhaled slowly, her arms shaking.

Not from fear.

But from the thrill of almost winning.

She and Riven looked at each other.

They had pushed him.

Hard.

And next time—they might just win.