“Gods are everlasting beacons of hope. Stalwart defenders or wicked tormentors destined to be worshipped or scorned. Beings so glorious that entire nations crumble or rise based on their whims. But what happens when the gods themselves fall? Not one errant god usurped by mortals or torn down by his divine brethren—but all of them, even the Creator? What manner of power would claw its way out of the ruins of former divinity to wrest control of an empty pantheon? These are questions none of us dared ask while the ever-loving grace of the gods swaddled us and kept us from harm, but now, in the vast drifting void of godlessness, we find our existence meaningless, and our hope turned to despair as we look into a future bereft of divinity.”

  - Hana Thural, High Priest of the Church of Creation, 416 of the second Epoch, Age of the Fall

  The tip of her sword was shaking. She tried to muffle her gasping breaths with every ounce of willpower she had left, but her hand just wouldn’t keep her sword steady. She braced herself for the inevitable outcome.

  “Keep your arm steady, Reyleigh!”

  Sharp pain blossomed in her armoured side from a blunted sword-swing. The blow shoved her off balance, breaking her stance. She used the last of her strength to stabilise, which left her totally unprepared for the sudden elbow that smashed into her breastplate and lifted her off of the ground. The sand of the sparring ring rushed up to meet her. Trying and failing to turn in the air, she only managed an undignified flop, landing face first in the dirt.

  “Rule number one Reyleigh; keep your sword steady!” The man standing over her leaned in, his voice lowering but not softening. “You’re better than this… Now, get up!”

  He held his hand out toward her. Gripping it, she hoisted herself to her feet.

  Alistair—the man currently training her—had been her mentor for as long as she could remember. Some would describe him as rugged or handsome, others as dangerous or scary. Most would avoid him and scurry out of the way if they met him in a dark alley. His sunken eyes and angular features, combined with a penchant for blinking a little too infrequently, gave him an intense air. Reyleigh had seen him angry and knew that the intensity alone could force grown men to shiver and make the air grow thick. He wore his charcoal hair tied back into a ponytail and wore high-quality leather armour in shades of green.

  “Again!” Alistair said, while whipping both his short swords around in his hands.

  Reyleigh exhaled and gripped her greatsword. Circling each other, Reyleigh couldn’t see a single opening. His form was impeccable. Still, she only hesitated for a single second before she charged at him, her massive greatsword held high, readied for a downward strike. She was using the forms drilled into her by countless hours of gruelling training supplied by the instructors of The Watch, and even Alistair himself. Her skill was honed to the point of muscle memory and her substantial strength forced her blade downward with a whistle to deliver a devastating blow to Alistair’s head. The man in question, however, stood impossibly still until her blade was inches away from his face, and at the last possible moment, he angled his body with a single effortless movement to dodge her strike. In the same breath, he whipped his left sword up to catch her much larger blade, eliciting a mighty clang and deflecting it to the ground. While Reyleigh struggled to keep her balance, his other shortsword moved with blinding speed into a sideways swing—a move she now knew was designed to knock her completely out of her form. It was the same move that had led to her sprawled in the dirt with a face full of dust a minute earlier, but this time she knew what was coming and had prepared accordingly. She shifted her stance. Forced the momentum of her errant blade to slow and strained her muscles. With a mighty heave she reversed the sword’s trajectory into an arc, which she used to tilt herself away from the incoming edge of the incoming blade and continue the motion into a spin. A small, tight-lipped smile tugged at her mouth as she evaded the thrust. Her wild spin was almost complete. The rotation designed to push her sword’s momentum to its limits. But just as her blow was about to land, she saw an armoured foot rushing towards her face.

  Fuck! She thought, just as Alistair’s foot crashed into her face and whipped her head back with crushing force.

  Reyleigh somehow remained standing. Her head spinning and her vision blurry. She spit out a mouthful of blood and tried to focus, but Alistair showed no mercy. Another kick followed the first. He spun in the air, and his other foot came for her chest. Raising her sword haphazardly, she reacted on pure instinct, pivoting her sword from one side to the other. Her sword moved blindingly fast. With lightning speed, it arrived at her desired location and the flat of the blade deflected the foot coming for her torso. For a glorious moment, her face threated to split into a full-on grin, but her elation was short-lived. Alistair seemed to flicker, and before she could blink, both the pommels of his swords crashed into her helmet.

  Once again, she found herself on the ground.

  “Better. You’re improving…” He looked at her critically. “We’ll continue this… later.”

  More than a little dizzy, Reyleigh got to her feet. Her head was spinning, but her feelings surged at the high praise. Alistair was a quiet man, and any words spoken were meaningful. Being told that anything at all was improving was a rare treat.

  Ducking her head in a slow bow that hid her tight-lipped grin, she walked drunkenly off of the field. Casting Alistair a last hidden glance, she could have sworn she saw a smile tug at his lips before he turned around to the next waiting recruit, which in turn made her grin even harder through the fading pain in her head.

  Her thoughts lowly clearing, she moved quickly, her armoured form cutting a path through the nineteen other recruits on the field. Alistair had hit her hard, but she was used to it, and even though it hurt, it never left lasting damage. Her short stature helped her navigate between the fighters and her battle honed grace saw her swiftly to the other side. She savoured the victory as she jogged past the last pair. That was the first time she had dodged that particular set of moves, and the progress was tangible, her movements smother and faster.

  Finally, clear of the training field, she unclasped her steel helmet and hoisted it onto her shoulder by the strap. The warm breeze felt wonderful and cleared the last vestiges of fuzziness from her bruised head. Her lip had split from the first kick, and she touched it gingerly before ignoring it.

  It would heal, like all the other scrapes and bruises.

  Messy blond hair the colour of straw spilled out from her helmet, revealing her slightly pointed elf ears for a second before they were hidden by the locks settling down her back. Most other women in the Watch cut their hair short, but she had refused, opting for bundling it within her helmet instead.

  Thankfully, the rules permitted her indulgence.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Reyleigh transitioned from her jog into a purposeful walk through the streets within the Watches’ quarter. Soon she came upon the barracks. The familiar building, with its straw roof and stone walls, brought back a slew of memories. She had been a member of the Watch for several years. Even though the training was gruelling, and the food even more so, she couldn’t help feeling like it had become a home of sorts.

  Entering an open door into a small hallway, she took the next door on the right into the recruit’s quarters. Automatically closing the door behind her, she passed a couple dozen beds before she found her own austere top bunk against the back wall. Taking off her gloves, she threw them in a sack hanging from the bedpost before jumping up and untying her heavy leather boots and throwing them to the floor. Lying back, the familiar smell of her dry hay mattress filled her nose, and she breathed deeply.

  A couple of moments passed in complete silence. All the others were still on the field. Almost dozing off, she shook herself.

  Not the time for a nap… She reminded herself.

  Eying her pack hanging beside her armour sack, she made up her mind and started rummaging through it until she found her most cherished possession: a small pendant. It was slightly bigger than her thumb, undecorated and unremarkable aside from its clear golden shine. Such luxuries as a well-crafted pendant were scarce after The Fall, and something ordinarily only possessed by those of considerable means. Inside was a small mirror. A perfect reflective surface of a kind she had seen nowhere else. You could use water or other similar surfaces for the same effect, but the pendant delivered a totally perfect reflection, which was far superior and almost magical. The incredible craftmanship and the fantastical mirror made her locket truly one of a kind.

  Slowly opening the small lock on the edge, she separated the pendant and revealed the mirror inside. The surface twinkled in the afternoon sunlight shining in through the open windows of the barracks.

  Her reflection looked back at her.

  The smile from before hadn’t really faded from her mouth, her lips still slightly upturned, giving her a cheerful look. A small cut on her lip glistened in the light with a drop of blood threatening to spill from it.

  Looking closer, she could see her straw-blond hair, slanted blue-grey eyes, thin-lipped mouth hiding her sharp teeth, and her bushy platinum eyebrows only visible against her pearly unmarred skin because of the remaining dust from the training yard. Her face was steeply angled with a sleek jawline culminating in a sharp chin. All the outlandish features gave her a distinct exotic look in contrast to the stocky, sunburned locals. She loved her face. Not because of the obvious beauty that even she couldn’t deny, but because of the process that began within her mind’s eye when she scrutinised her face like this. Letting her mind drift away, she felt a familiar set of fragmented memories surface, making her eyes lose focus.

  The changes started slowly.

  Her hair turned from straw-blond into something lighter, almost platinum, but with an azure glow to it. The transformation moved on to her eyes, which lost their grey tinge and became clear blue pools, ready to suck her in. Her smile blossomed fully, showing teeth as sharp as blades with little space between them, resembling a row of thin spears. Pearly skin changed from white to translucent, almost ethereal, with a rosy sheen to the cheeks. What a moment earlier had been her own young half elfin face was now a mature and aloof rendition of the perfect elf. A queen among queens and the most beautiful creature Reyleigh could imagine. She lost herself to the mirage. Her eyes unblinkingly staring.

  The sound of the wooden door to the barracks being slammed against the wall made her start, shattering the illusion. A set of well-known voices filled her sharp ears; “I told you Owen! Practice your faints! I could spot them from two miles away while fucking your sister.”

  Two burly humans jostled through the door with their usual banter going. A large yellow beard framed the face of the one speaking. His bushy eyebrows over small brown eyes framed his large boisterous smile. A massive door-sized tower shield made of wood planks swayed on his back and a short sword was strapped to his thigh. He slapped the other, smaller man on the back, his long hair jostling with the motion.

  “You know you wouldn’t be able to catch my sister if she had both arms tied behind her back and one leg lopped off! And with your tiny eyes, I’m surprised you could see me at all. Have you unlocked some sort of squinting skill Harald?” Owen replied, while standing on his toes and searching the taller man’s eyes.

  Owen was training to be a scout, and his lithe muscles matched his profession. Two long daggers sat comfortably attached to each of his hips, with plenty of smaller ones hidden among the straps and belts on his leather armour. Brown half-length hair tied in a short ponytail with strands hanging down the side of his face framed his clean-shaven jaw and expressive green eyes, which were crinkled in mirth as he teased his best friend.

  Reyleigh liked the two men, mostly because they were the only ones who didn’t wince when they saw her pointed ears – aside from Alistair, of course, but she didn’t really think Alistair could wince even if he tried to. He had probably lost the ability in some god-forsaken dungeon somewhere.

  “Ooh! Our resident beauty admiring her reflection again, I see!” Owen spotted the locket before Reyleigh could stash it back into her pack, and being Owen, he commented as loudly as possible.

  “Nah, I was just looking into my all-seeing mirror to spot your cock but seeing as it’s the smallest thing in the world, even my mystical artifact couldn’t find it.” Reyleigh smiled her tight-lipped smile and deflected the barb from Owen.

  A stricken look crossed Owen’s face and he theatrically clung to Harald mimicking taking an arrow to the heart.

  “A frightful blow, fair maiden. I might be dead ere the coming moon from such devastating power!”

  Hanging from Harald, Owen coughed and slowly fell to the floor, hacking and sputtering before lying there like a corpse.

  “Oy! Move your carcass, Owen!”

  “Yea, stop playing around! It’s hot out here!”

  The other recruits started complaining behind him, so Harald picked the smaller man up by the strap of his armour and sent him flying onto the nearest bunkbed.

  “Thanks Harald, who knew muscled hulks were good for something other than meat shields.”

  The recruits filed past Harald, giving him slaps on the back and laughing at Owens’ crumpled form, still playing dead on the bunk.

  Reyleigh almost cracked a full smile at their antics, but years of practice held her lips together while she finished stashing away her locket and started removing her armour. She was grateful for the duo and their camaraderie. They were always there to defuse the tension after a harsh reprimand or training session.

  Her fingers moved with practiced ease to loosen the straps and buckles on her arms and sides. The standard issue leather armour she wore was old and worn, the straps loosened and tightened a thousand times. She eyed the chest piece as she slipped it over her head and could still see the marks where she had expanded the straps when she grew. The fit of her armour hadn’t needed adjustment for a few years now, since she stopped growing when at fifteen. Now, at twenty, her body was muscled and toned to a point where it stayed mostly the same size. She was thankful for that fact as she had had the mortifying experience of taking out the bust straps two times since she got it. Her hurried attempts to hide it had been sussed out by Owen on both occasions, which led to him promptly announcing the event to the entire company.

  He had received his due diligence in the form of a stray elbow to his groin in training.

  Harald moved between the bunks and found his way to the one below hers. He put a hand on her shoulder while slinging his helmet on the bedding.

  “I’m sorry about Alistair. He’s such a hardass, and I know you say you don’t mind, but we all notice that he’s harder on you than anybody else.”

  “What do you mean? That’s the highest praise I’ve gotten from him for three months!” Reyleigh replied with a frown.

  Harald started removing his armour and gave her a slanted gaze.

  “If you say so, Rey. Almost knocking you out two times doesn’t seem like praise to me. None of us are eating dirt at every spar either. The man seems like he has the emotional range of a block of iron, but if you say he’s praising you, then I guess he is…”

  “I appreciate the concern Harald, but it’s not needed. He’s only concerned about me, that’s all.”

  Harald looked into her eyes for a moment before letting out a grunt and a nod.

  Grunting back—to Harald’s amusement—Reyleigh took off the last pieces of her armour and put them in the worn cloth sack with her gloves. Putting on her off-duty shoes and clothes, she slung the sack over her shoulder before walking toward the exit.