Cira stood in the middle of the training arena, the rough stone floor cool beneath her feet. The Arcblade Held right in her hand, its polished handle a stark contrast to the worn and jagged edges of the surrounding space. Across from her, a towering figure loomed—a man whose presence demanded attention even before he spoke.

  General Orlan Drayce, once a celebrated Ascended tactician, now a seasoned Godhunter, regarded her with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and expectation. His silver hair was cropped short, and scars crisscrossed his weathered face, each one a story of betrayal and survival. Despite his age, his movements were sharp, calculated, and undeniably lethal.

  ?Again,? he barked, his gravelly voice echoing off the walls.

  Cira tightened her grip on the Arcblade, its faint hum vibrating through her hands as she activated it. She lunged forward, her blade slashing through the air toward Orlan. He moved effortlessly, sidestepping her attack and countering with a quick strike of his own training weapon—a blunt-edged blade designed to bruise, not cut.

  Orlan’s blade connected with her forearm, the impact sending a jolt of pain up to her shoulder. Cira hissed through gritted teeth, staggering back and gripping the Arcblade tightly to keep it from slipping from her hand.

  ?You’re predictable,? Orlan growled, lowering his weapon. ?Where’s the fire I heard about? The quick, unpredictable girl who went toe-to-toe with Cain himself? All I see now is someone slow and hesitant.?

  Cira’s chest heaved as she glared at him. ?I’m trying!?

  ?Trying isn’t good enough!? Orlan snapped, stepping closer. His presence was suffocating, like a storm bearing down on her. ?You think the Ascended will give you second chances because you’re trying? They’ll cut you down without a moment’s hesitation.?

  Cira gritted her teeth, her frustration bubbling to the surface. ?I’m not like them. I’m not a killer.?

  Orlan tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Not a killer? And yet you’re holding a blade. That weapon isn’t for show—it’s for ending lives. If you can’t accept that, you’re wasting everyone’s time, including mine.?

  She tightened her grip on the Arcblade, the weight of his words pressing down on her. ?I didn’t ask for this. Any of it.?

  Orlan scoffed. ?None of us did. But you’re here now, girl. You’ve got two choices: rise to the occasion, or let it destroy you.?

  He stepped back, gesturing for her to attack again. ?Now, stop thinking and fight. Show me the Cira who survived Cain.?

  Cira growled and Without another word, she lunged again, this time faster, more fluid. The Arcblade hummed to life in her hand as she slashed across the space between them, her strike aimed at Orlan’s side. He sidestepped again, but this time, Cira anticipated the move. As soon as her blade swished through empty air, her mind shifted gears, her instincts kicking in.

  The Arcblade responded instantly, its energy shifting as she focused. With a sharp twist of her wrist she Pointe the butt of her Sword towards Orlan. The blade transformed into a long polearm, its sleek form extending outward toward Orlan’s abdomen. The handle connected with a sickening thud, forcing him back a step.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  Orlan’s eyes flickered with surprise, but he quickly recovered, sweeping his blade toward her. Cira, however, was already moving.

  Orlan raised His Weapon for a Party. But His weapon Hit nothing, as Cira pulled the Arcblade back into its sword form with a fluid motion. She closed the distance before he could react, slashing upward toward his exposed flank.

  Orlan deflected it and slammed the pommel of his weapon into her chest, sending her staggering.

  ?Again!? he roared.

  Anger flared in Cira’s chest, mixing with the ache of exhaustion and the sting of failure. She launched herself at him, her movements wild and unfocused. Orlan sidestepped easily, his weapon sweeping out to catch her ankle. She hit the ground hard, her breath escaping in a sharp gasp.

  Lying there, her body protesting every movement, her mind flickered to her confrontation with Cain—the rush, the adrenaline, the desperation to survive; the willingness to kill. She closed her eyes, blocking out the pain, the frustration, the noise.

  Orlan’s voice broke through her haze. ?You’re still holding back,? he said, his tone calm but sharp enough to cut through her thoughts. ?You’re afraid of what happens if you let go. I get it. We all are at some point. But out there, fear will get you killed—or worse.?

  Cira pushed herself up onto one knee, her muscles protesting the effort. She looked up at Orlan, his scarred face unreadable but his eyes focused. ?I’m not afraid,? she said through gritted teeth. ?I just…?

  ?You just don’t want to lose yourself,? Orlan finished for her, stepping closer. ?Fair enough. But what’s left of you if you fail? If Cain or the Ascended find you again, they won’t hold back. Neither can you.?

  She rose shakily to her feet, the Arcblade steady in her hand. Orlan’s words were harsh, but they struck a chord deep within her. She didn’t want to become like them—like Cain. But wasn’t survival more important?

  Orlan moved into position again, his stance as solid and unyielding as stone. ?This time, stop thinking. Stop hesitating. Let the blade guide you.?

  Cira adjusted her grip on the Arcblade, her knuckles whitening as she steadied her breath. Orlan circled her slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes sharp and watchful like a predator sizing up prey.

  This time, she lunged without hesitation, her mind clear of doubt. The Arcblade’s energy flared in her hands, and its form shifted seamlessly into the curved blade of a scythe. She swept it in a wide arc, aiming for Orlan’s legs.

  Orlan jumped back, avoiding the strike by a hair. His weapon shot forward, the blunt edge slicing through the air toward her shoulder. Cira twisted her body and brought the scythe up to block, the clash of metal reverberating through the arena.

  ?Better,? Orlan said, his voice taut with approval. ?But don’t overcommit. Keep your movements fluid.?

  Cira responded by spinning the Arcblade around her body, the scythe’s reach forcing Orlan to retreat several steps. She pressed the attack, using the polearm’s length to keep him at bay, her strikes quick and relentless. For a moment, she felt the rush she’d had in the fight with Cain—an electric surge of confidence and clarity.

  But Orlan wasn’t Cain.

  With a calculated move, he ducked under her next swing, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. His weapon lashed out, slamming into her side with enough force to send her sprawling to the ground.

  The Arcblade clattered out of her hand as she hit the stone floor. Pain lanced through her ribs, and her vision blurred for a moment. She tried to scramble to her feet, but Orlan’s boot pinned her down.

  ?You’re still thinking too much,? he said, his tone hard but not unkind. ?Instinct is good, but it’s not enough. You need to learn control—precision.?

  He stepped back, letting her rise. She staggered but kept her head high, gripping the Arcblade as though it were her lifeline.

  ?You’ve got potential,? Orlan said, his gaze steady. ?More than most. But potential won’t save you out there. You’ve got to decide what you’re willing to do to survive. That blade of yours—it’s a tool, not a crutch. Learn to use it properly, or it’ll be your undoing.?

  Cira met his eyes, her jaw tight, determination burning behind her exhaustion. ?I will,? she said, her voice steady despite the ache in her body.

  Orlan nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his scarred mouth. ?Good. Because the next time we train, I won’t go so easy on you.?

  He turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the arena.

  Cira stood there for a moment, her heart still pounding, her body trembling with the aftermath of the fight. She looked down at the Arcblade in her hands, its sleek form a stark reminder of the path she’d chosen.

  ?I’ll do better,? she thought. I have to.