Weight Behind the Blade

The world didn't end.

But it cracked.

And sometimes, when the house is quiet, when the candle burns low and the wind sounds a little too much like breathing—I feel it.

Again.

That hum beneath the skin.

That silence under my bones.

That pull.

Last night, it came in my sleep.

Not like a nightmare. Nightmares have shape. Teeth. Screams. This was different.

This was the Void.

I didn't fall into it this time. I woke into it.

One moment I was wrapped in my blankets, body sore from drills, head spinning with spells.

The next—I was standing barefoot on nothing.

No floor. No ceiling. Just… dark.

Endless. Weightless. Hungry.

I didn't feel cold. I didn't feel anything.

Except pressure.

Like something was watching.

No. Not watching.

Waiting.

A voice stirred in the black. Not loud. Not human. But I understood it.

"You've opened the gate again."

I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. But it heard me anyway.

"You walk paths unmeant for you. That is power."

The dark rippled.

Shapes began to stir in the distance. Not solid. Not real. Echoes, maybe. Memories.

A cracked mirror.

A locker slamming shut.

Blood on tile.

Tobashi's voice.

"You think this world is different?"

Then—silence.

The voice returned. Closer now.

"You took the second breath, child. But the first still echoes."

"What you carry is not yours. But it will become you."

My hands were shaking.

I looked down—only to find they weren't mine.

Calloused. Burnt. Ink-smeared fingers clutching something that hummed. A blade? A book? A body?

It changed every time I blinked.

I didn't know what it meant. What I was becoming.

But the Void did.

"We remember."

And then I woke up.

Sweat-soaked sheets. Candle flickering low. Nareva's notebook still open beside me, ink smeared where I must've gripped it too hard.

But the hum was still there.

Faint.

Buzzing behind my ribs like a warning I didn't know how to read.

The Void didn't threaten me.

It reminded me.

That I'm not just learning spells.

I'm becoming something.

And something is watching.

I didn't scream when I woke.

Didn't jolt. Didn't cry. Didn't even gasp.

I just lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the pressure in my chest like someone had parked a stone slab on my ribs.

The Void was still there.

Not the place—just the feeling of it. Like the dream hadn't ended so much as thinned.

The shadows in my room looked thicker. The wind outside sounded like a whisper I wasn't meant to hear.

But I was still here.

Sweating. Shaking. Alive.

My hand found Nareva's notebook beside me. Still open. The last page smudged by my grip.

I traced a line across the margin with my thumb.

The ink was real. The leather binding was real.

I'm real.

The Void didn't take me back.

Not yet.

I sat up slowly, blanket falling away. My joints popped. My arms were sore. My legs ached. Calden's training had a way of making me feel like I'd wrestled a bear made of bricks.

And yet—

I felt stronger.

Not in the flashy, magical, "lightning bolt from the hands" kind of way. But in the quiet way. The deep-breath, sit-still, hold-it-together kind of way.

That dream should've broken me.

But it didn't.

Not this time.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Cold wood kissed the soles of my feet. The sky outside my window was barely touched by sunrise—just the faintest hint of pink trying to stretch past the treetops.

It would be morning soon.

Another day of sword drills and mana flow exercises and probably one of Calden's patented death glares if my footwork slipped again.

And maybe… just maybe… a new spell.

I reached for the spellbook hidden beneath the mattress. Not Nareva's one—the one. The old, tattered thing that still hummed faintly when I touched it, like it knew me better than I knew myself.

I flipped to a page I hadn't dared open before.

The ink was jagged.

The incantation long.

But there was something about it.

Like it was waiting.

I didn't read it aloud.

Not yet.

But I whispered something else.

Something quieter.

Something just for me.

"Not yet."

And the page didn't burn. The book didn't hum.

It just waited.

For me.

It had been months since that whispering silence crept back into my dreams. But now it felt closer. Like something was shifting beneath the floorboards of my life, and the Void was just politely knocking first.

So when Calden summoned me to the training yard before sunrise?

I didn't even flinch.

Because after a night like that?

Swords felt safer.

The yard was cold. Grass damp from dew. A light fog hovered over the stone path, low and curling like smoke.

Calden stood in the center of the yard, back to me, arms folded behind his cloak. He didn't say anything when I approached. Just waited until I was close enough to feel the weight of his silence.

Then: "You're late."

I wasn't.

But I didn't argue.

He turned, eyes already scanning me—not my face, not my expression, but my posture. My stance. My readiness.

Or lack of it.

"You look like you lost a fight before you even stepped in," he said.

"Didn't sleep well," I muttered.

He nodded, once. "Then maybe the sword will wake you up."

We started with Dragon Style.

Form one. Then form two. Then three. Slow. Measured. Every movement exactly where it should be.

Or at least, where it should've been.

Because I was off today. Not just tired. Wrong.

I moved like my limbs belonged to someone else. Like I was swinging underwater, every strike half a breath behind where it should've landed.

Calden didn't comment at first. Just watched.

"Again," he said. And again. And again.

By the sixth repetition, I could feel his gaze sharpening. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just... focused. Like he was trying to trace the outline of whatever storm I wasn't talking about.

"Your footwork is off."

I adjusted.

"Your strikes are uneven."

I tried to fix them.

"Your eyes are elsewhere."

That one I didn't have an answer for.

I dropped into stance again, tried to swing, but my hand slipped. The blade twisted wrong in my grip and clattered against the stone.

I froze.

Staring at it like it had betrayed me.

"Pick it up," Calden said, voice low.

I didn't move.

He stepped forward slowly, stopping just short of me. His shadow stretched over the blade between us.

"What's in your head, Kaelen?"

I didn't look up. Just mumbled, "Nothing."

"Try again."

I grit my teeth.

"I said nothing."

"Lying is a poor habit in a swordsman."

I wanted to scream. To shout that it wasn't just dreams or stress or a sleepless night—that something was wrong inside me. That I saw the Void again. That it didn't speak but it didn't need to. That the silence said everything I wasn't ready to hear.

But instead I bent down, grabbed the blade, and stood.

Because that's what a good student does.

Even when he's unraveling.

Calden turned and walked to the rack, pulled a second wooden blade free, and tossed it toward me.

"Enough forms," he said. "You need something to strike at."

A duel.

I wasn't ready. I knew it. But I didn't argue.

We stepped into the sparring circle. No ceremony. No warmup. Just motion.

The first clash of our blades sent a jolt through my arms. Calden didn't hold back. He never did. But today, his strikes felt sharper. Tighter.

He was testing me.

And I was failing.

I blocked too early. Slipped too late. My counter was a fraction too slow and he knocked the breath out of me with a blow to the ribs.

"Again," he barked.

I rose. Swung. Missed.

Again. And again. And again.

Until I was sweating through my shirt and my grip was slipping and my legs were screaming for rest.

He didn't stop.

"Focus, Kaelen," he snapped. "You're not here. Where are you?"

I wanted to answer. I did.

But all I could see were those eyes. The ones from the Void. Watching. Waiting. Knowing.

I slipped again.

And this time, Calden's blade slammed against my shoulder, hard enough to stagger me sideways.

I dropped to one knee.

"Get up."

I didn't.

"Kaelen."

Still nothing.

He stepped closer. Lowered his blade.

"You don't get to give up," he said, quieter now. "Not here. Not like this."

I looked up at him. Eyes burning. Not from pain. From pressure.

"I keep seeing it," I said, voice shaking. "The Void. The eyes. Like I'm being watched."

Calden didn't move. Didn't scoff. Just… paused. Like he was parsing the words, weighing the silence between them.

"I know how that sounds," I muttered quickly. "Like I've lost it."

Still nothing from him.

So I looked up—and found him watching me. His expression unreadable. Not pity. Not doubt. Just that same damn stillness. Like a blade resting in a sheath, waiting to be drawn.

"Describe it," he said at last.

I blinked. "What?"

"The Void. The eyes. Describe them."

I hesitated.

How do you describe something that feels more than it exists? Something that doesn't speak but knows you? That watches not with malice, but with... mourning?

"I don't know," I whispered. "It's black. Not like night—like nothing. Like silence stretched into shape. And the eyes…" I stopped, biting the inside of my cheek.

He waited.

"They don't blink. They don't do anything. They just see me."

Calden looked away, jaw tight. Not like he understood. But like he knew he couldn't.

"You're not crazy," he said finally. "But whatever you're carrying… it's not something I can train out of you."

That hurt.

But it was honest.

He stepped back, sheathing the practice blade without another word.

"You still need to stand up," he said. "Even if what you're facing isn't something I can see."

I stared at the dirt for a long moment. Then forced myself to rise. My legs were unsteady. My grip worse. But I stood.

Because I had to.

Because the Void was watching.

And right now, so was Calden.

He gave me a nod—sharp, not soft.

"Form one again," he said. "Slower. With breath."

No more questions. No more prodding.

Just the rhythm of motion and the weight of silence.

But this time, it wasn't just discipline holding me up.

It was defiance.

Because if the Void was going to watch me fall, it was damn well going to watch me get back up too.

I didn't eat dinner.

Just dragged myself back to my room, arms sore, face blank, heart somewhere behind me on the training grounds. The corridor stretched longer than usual. The silence felt heavier.

Everything felt... off.

I peeled off my sweat-soaked training tunic and let it crumple to the floor. Sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, the candlelight flickering like it wanted to apologize for being so small.

I hated feeling like this.

Like I'd failed without ever being told what the test was.

Like I was unraveling in pieces no one else could see.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Not loud. Not urgent.

Just… there.

I didn't answer.

The door opened anyway, slow and gentle.

Nareva stepped in.

She didn't say anything at first. Didn't scold. Didn't ask questions. Just closed the door quietly behind her and stepped into the edge of the candlelight.

I didn't look up.

Not right away.

Not until she crossed the room and crouched beside me, one hand resting lightly on the blanket near my knee.

"You don't have to say anything," she whispered.

My throat burned.

"But I will," I croaked. "I wasn't strong enough today."

"You were," she said simply. "More than you think."

I shook my head. "I froze. I hesitated. I couldn't even hear Calden anymore."

"Because you were listening to yourself."

I blinked, finally looking at her.

Her silver hair caught the candlelight like threads of moonlight. Her storm-gray eyes weren't cold—not tonight. They looked soft. Sad. Like she knew exactly how heavy the silence could get.

"I'm trying so hard," I whispered. "But I don't know what I'm supposed to be."

She smiled, small and tired, and brushed a bit of dirt from my sleeve.

"You don't need to know yet. That's not your burden."

"But it feels like it is."

"I know," she said.

The quiet that followed wasn't the suffocating kind. It was warm. Soft. Like being wrapped in a blanket that still smelled like the sun.

Then she stood, pulling the covers back without a word, and gently guided me to lie down.

I didn't resist.

I didn't want to.

She tucked the blanket up to my chin. Pressed a hand to my forehead—not checking for fever. Just... being there.

"You don't have to be perfect, Kaelen," she said softly. "Just awake. Just breathing. Just here."

My eyes burned again, but this time, I didn't try to stop it.

"Okay," I whispered.

She turned toward the door.

Paused.

Then looked back one last time.

"I'll be in the greenhouse tomorrow night. If you want to train."

I nodded.

She didn't smile. Didn't bow. Just gave me that same quiet look that said: I see you. I don't turn away.

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut behind her.

I let out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

Not all wounds bleed. Some just... wait.

But tonight?

Tonight, someone had noticed.

And that was enough to let me sleep.