Clang!
Steel met steel, sparks flashing in the early morning light.
I twisted my wrist, forcing Rikard's blade wide, stepped in, and drove my elbow into his chest. The impact sent him staggering back, his phantom form flickering slightly before regaining its shape.
Good.
Again.
I lunged. My sword cut through the air, sharp, fast, relentless. Rikard barely had time to parry—our blades crashed together once more, but this time, his grip faltered.
He was slower than me now.
Not by much. Not by a mile.
But by enough.
A month ago, when Orlan had just killed Nyxar. This fight would have been even. Hell, maybe he would've still had the edge—his best self, bound to me, unyielding, untiring.
But now—I was better.
Stronger.
My muscles burned, but it wasn't exhaustion. It was power. A constant, growing power that coiled in my limbs, that urged me forward, faster, stronger, more.
Another swing.
Rikard barely raised his sword in time—too late.
I hooked my foot behind his ankle, sweeping his legs out from under him. He fell, landing hard on the dirt, but before he could recover—my blade was already at his throat.
I exhaled.
I had won.
For the first time since binding him to me, I had beaten Rikard at his best.
Good.
Sparring with Rikard was one thing.
Sparring with Sieg was another.
When I sparred with Sieg—it could barely be called as sparring.
Because I had never touched him. Not once. Not even close.
The gap between us was insurmountable.
No matter how much power I gained, no matter how many echoes I absorbed, no matter how much I sharpened myself—Sieg was always beyond me.
His sword moved like it didn't obey the same laws of motion as mine. Every attack I threw, he countered before I even finished the thought. Every step I took, he had already taken three.
He had let me train with him, but I knew what it really was.
A reminder.
A reminder that I was still weak.
That I still had so much further to climb.
That thought didn't discourage me.
It fueled me.
I still needed to get stronger.
Sieg wasn't here today.
Something about a meeting with the King.
I hadn't asked. I didn't care.
He had hidden my identity. Told the King that I had died, along with Astrid.
And the King—had barely cared.
Of course.
That was the nature of men like him. They only remembered those who were useful.
One day, I'd make sure he never forgot my name.
Naestra had been hopping in and out of the camp, like always.
But lately—I had barely seen her.
She told me she was going to search for the Twins, and she meant it.
She wasn't taking shortcuts.
She was going to look through every inch of every place she had ever visited.
If there was one person who could find them, it was her.
Which left me here.
Training.
Observing.
Being observed.
Orlan had taken an interest in Rikard.
Or rather—in how I conjured him.
I caught him watching sometimes, analyzing every flicker of movement, every shift in energy. He had already started muttering things about the nature of bound souls, about echoes, about what they truly were.
I didn't know what he was looking for.
But I knew this—
He wanted to replicate it.
He wanted to learn how to do it himself.
Clang!
Rikard lunged—faster this time, more aggressive.
His blade came for my ribs, a calculated feint, meant to bait me into stepping left—where he'd already prepared a follow-up strike.
But I had already seen it.
Before his feet touched the ground from his last step, I was behind him.
My sword swung.
Rikard barely twisted in time—but it didn't matter.
My blade sank deep into his side.
For a second, his body flickered, his form distorting, trying to hold itself together—
I didn't let it.
I ripped the sword free and drove it into his chest.
Rikard let out a choked sound—silent, empty. His hands twitched, his fingers struggling to grip his weapon.
Then—
He stilled.
His form wavered, the echo unraveling, breaking apart at the seams.
And then he was gone.
I exhaled, flicking the phantom blood from my blade.
He'd come back. He always did.
And next time—
He'd be stronger.
Good.
Because so would I.
As the last wisps of Rikard's form vanished into nothing, I felt Orlan's presence behind me.
He had been watching.
Not a surprise.
"Where doth he go, I wonder?" Orlan mused, stepping closer. His skeletal fingers clasped behind his back, his hollow sockets fixed on the empty space where Rikard had once stood. "To a land between realms? A purgatory of memory? Or is it simply... oblivion?"
I tilted my head slightly, considering. Then, matching his tone, I spoke.
"Perhaps he goeth nowhere at all," I murmured. "Perhaps he never truly left—merely waiting in the folds of existence, until I call him forth once more. A blade, ever lingering in the sheath of the unseen."
Orlan let out a thoughtful hum. "A most poetic sentiment."
I huffed a quiet laugh. "Thou doth flatter me, Lord Greaves."
Orlan actually chuckled at that.
I understood Orlan now.
At least, I understood his words.
A month ago, every sentence he spoke felt like it had been pulled from some forgotten tome of philosophy, wrapped in riddles and layered meanings. But now?
Now, I could follow him without effort.
Sometimes, like just now, I even caught myself speaking the same way.
Strange.
Orlan was... different.
For a man—no, for a being—who had lived beyond mortal lifetimes, who had single-handedly slain a god, he was humble.
He never bragged.
Never reminded us of his power, never flaunted it, never spoke of his victories unless asked.
If he wasn't observing me, or studying the nature of arcane echoes, he was always learning.
Reading. Training. Refining.
Eternal life had not dulled him—it had only made him hungrier for knowledge.
And I wondered—
If I was that powerful, would I be the same?
Would I still push myself? Still train with the same fire? Or would I let it dull me?
Right now, I was nowhere near Sieg or Orlan.
They were on another level.
But that didn't mean I would stop.
No.
I would reach them.
No—I would surpass them.
My thoughts stopped.
Because Naestra was back.
And something was wrong.
Her usual light steps were heavy, uneven. One hand clutched her stomach, fingers pressing against a growing stain of red. Her face twisted in pain, her breaths shallow, strained.
She was bleeding.
I moved before I even thought.
Rushing to her.
Orlan stay in his place.
He raised a hand, his skeletal fingers weaving through the air in swift, precise patterns. Arcane symbols flickered into existence, shifting too fast for me to even comprehend. He was already chanting.
"What happened?" My voice came fast, sharp, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Are you okay? What should I do?"
Naestra let out a breathless, shaky laugh.
"You worry too much."
Then she coughed, her knees nearly buckling. I caught her, holding her up as she winced, sucking in air like it hurt.
Her lips parted.
And then—
She managed to say it.
"They found me." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Her fingers gripped my sleeve, tight, as if forcing the words out.
"They are here."
The air around us felt colder.
The hairs on my neck stood on end.
And then, with a final breath—
"The Twins are here."