Luck has never been on my side.

  Not in the body I was given, nor the family I was born into. And certainly not in my so-called grace—if you can even call it that.

  I’ve always been the weak one. The one who had to fight twice as hard just to stand in the same space as the others. To them, I was just another body taking up space—someone who had no business trying to be among the strong. They never had to say it outright—people like them rarely do. But the looks, the whispers, the dismissive glances… they spoke louder than words.

  And sometimes, they didn't stop at just looks.

  "Why even bother?" a sneering voice had once cut through the training grounds. "You think you can make it past initiation with that grace? Do us a favor and quit already."

  Laughter had followed, a chorus of amused scoffs and murmurs, their gazes slicing into me like knives. My hands had curled into fists, nails digging into my palms as I forced myself to stand tall.

  I didn’t respond that day. I had learned early on that words wouldn’t change anything. But that didn’t stop their voices from echoing in my head, didn’t stop the bitter sting of truth in their mockery.

  Because what if they were right?

  What if all my efforts were meaningless?

  What if I really was wasting my time?

  Every day felt like dragging my body through mud while others sprinted ahead effortlessly. I trained until my muscles burned, until my vision blurred—but I never caught up. The gap between us never shrank. No matter how much I pushed myself, it was never enough.

  Was I fooling myself?

  Was there even a point in fighting anymore?

  A deep, suffocating exhaustion settled in my chest, heavier than the weight of any training session.

  Maybe... maybe giving up wouldn't be the worst thing.

  Maybe it would be easier to just—

  I cut off the thought before it could fully take shape.

  I may be weak, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stay this way.

  I clenched my fists. No. I refused to be crushed under the weight of their expectations. Even if I had to crawl my way forward, I would. Because the alternative—accepting that I was nothing—was something I couldn’t bear.

  Even if I doubted myself.

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  Even if I wasn’t sure I would ever be enough.

  I had to keep going.

  ---

  The metallic hum of the training room vibrated through my bones, each pulse of the energy barriers around the sparring area matching the rhythm of my heartbeat. Overhead, the flickering fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows, glinting off the polished floor. The scent of sweat and worn mats clung to the air—comforting in its familiarity, suffocating in its reminder.

  I forced my aching legs to hold steady. My breath came in ragged gasps, sweat dripping down my temples, soaking into my training suit like a second skin. Everything hurt, but I wasn’t done. Not yet.

  Across from me, Aiden Mishal stood relaxed, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t even winded. The only evidence he’d exerted himself at all was a single bead of sweat trailing down his temple. His red eyes gleamed with barely restrained amusement, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

  “Jeez,” Aiden sighed, shaking his head. “Aren’t you overdoing it? I get wanting to improve, but doesn’t this feel like a bit much?”

  I swiped my forearm across my face, not bothering to hide my scowl. “Unlike you, *Mr. Number One*, I don’t have talent or genes on my side.” My jaw tensed. “And my grace? Not exactly fight material. So yeah, if I want to keep up, I have to overdo it.”

  Aiden’s smirk faded slightly, his gaze sharpening. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  My grip tightened. “Oh, great. That’s *so* motivating.”

  Aiden rolled his shoulders, pacing around me like a predator sizing up wounded prey. “You think you’re weak because you don’t have some flashy grace?” His voice was lower now, sharper, cutting through my exhaustion. “You’re focused on the wrong thing. Power isn’t everything. You’re wasting your potential trying to play the game *they’re* setting instead of making your own rules.”

  I stiffened. “What, am I supposed to pretend talent doesn’t matter?”

  Aiden stopped just short of me. Silence settled between us, thick and heavy. My body, drained and frustrated, sagged under the weight of it.

  Then, without warning, he knocked a knuckle lightly against my temple.

  “If all you do is compare yourself to the ‘chosen ones,’ then yeah,” Aiden murmured. “You’re setting yourself up for failure.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Talent will only carry you so far. But stubbornness? That’ll outlast the rest. And your stubbornness? It’s the only thing that made me break a sweat in our last duel.”

  I let the quiet stretch between us, breathing through the weariness clinging to me.

  Maybe… he had a point.

  ---

  The match was brutal. I could barely stand, my body screaming at me to stop. My opponent—one of the same people who had mocked me for years—towered over me, confident in his victory.

  Not this time.

  I shifted my stance. My muscles burned, but I forced them to move. I ducked his strike at the last second, barely avoiding the blow. My body screamed, but I pushed forward, slipping past his guard.

  For a single moment, time stretched thin.

  Then, I struck.

  A solid hit—clean, precise, undeniable.

  He stumbled. His eyes widened in shock. Then—

  The buzzer rang. Match over.

  I won

  The rush hit me before the reality did. My chest heaved, adrenaline roaring in my veins. The world felt sharp, bright, alive. I could barely breathe—but I was smiling.

  I won

  The thrill coursed through me, drowning out every doubt, every whispered insult, every lingering ghost of failure.

  I won

  A hoarse laugh escaped me, the sheer exhilaration bubbling up before I could stop it. I threw my arms up, fists pumping the air. A rough cheer tore from my throat as I stumbled back, dizzy with triumph.

  For the first time in my life—I felt strong.

  And I wanted to do it again.

  [End of Chapter]