Raizen's boots scuffed the drill hall floor, dust swirling faint as he swung the stick.
Sharp, controlled strikes sliced the air, each thud against an unseen foe sinking into his bones.
Sweat streaked his neck, cooling slowly from earlier sparring, Marvin's laugh a fading echo in the dimness.
His patched shirt clung damp, seams frayed, patches scraping his skin. Two years of grinding had honed him, legs longer now, frame wiry but tough.
"Compatible with the shards," a splinter lodged deep, itching under his skull. He swung harder, stick whistling, breath huffing loud in the quiet.
"What's that mean?" Raizen muttered, voice rough, striking again. Wood cracked against a beam, vibrations jarring his palms.
Kezess's presence prickled, red eyes glinting faint in the shadows, a cold hum slithering through his head.
"You said it, shards. Explain it." Another swing, sharp and low, kicked up dust, stinging his eyes.
He kept at it, stick cutting air, boots scuffing stone. 'He's dodging me again,' Raizen thought.
'Always does. Just spit it out already.' Kezess's hum deepened, reluctant, then broke. "Fine, kid. With each reincarnation, pieces of your original soul scatter, dispersed through the world as essences. That's the shards."
Raizen froze mid-swing, stick trembling in his grip, breath catching hard.
"Reincarnation?" he rasped, confusion knotting his gut.
'He's talking about lives and souls splitting apart. It sounds like a fever dream.'
He pivoted, striking again, wood thudding dully. "More lives? Me?" Kezess's voice slid back, smoother now, edged with something old.
"You've been around before, many times. You'll remember with time." Raizen's jaw tightened, another swing landing harder.
"There's nothing to remember. Just this place, this dust, nothing else feels like mine." He snapped, "Talk straight!" Stick slashed air, sweat dripping onto stone.
Kezess's red eyes flared, then dimmed fast. "Time will show you. Can't rush it."
Raizen scowled. "He's giving me half a tale, like always, cryptic and useless."
He shifted, striking low. "Fine, different question. These essences, shards, do they make me stronger or something?" His voice edged sharp, stick thudding against a post, splinters flecking off to dust his boots.
Kezess hummed, slow and mean. "Your experiences guide you. Gather them, and your self becomes complete."
Raizen's swing faltered, stick dipping. "Huh?" he muttered. "Complete? Does that mean stronger fists or a tougher spine? I need something clear."
He pressed, "What's that even mean?" Wood groaned under the next hit.
"Means what it means," Kezess slithered, red eyes fading further. "You'll feel it when it fits."
Raizen's fists clenched around the stick. 'He's talking in circles again, leaving me with nothing I can hold onto.'
He swung once more, a final sharp cut, then dropped it, clatter ringing loud. Chest heaving, he slumped against the wall, dust sticking to damp skin.
"Shards, essences, whatever," he muttered. 'It sounds big and heavy, but I still don't understand what he's getting at.'
Ricardo's shout broke through from the courtyard. "Rai! Out here, now!" Raizen straightened, wiping sweat with a sleeve, and trudged out, questions still churning.
In the courtyard, Ricardo stood by the gates, graying hair catching torchlight, wiry frame taut as he swung a dulled blade.
"Spar with this," he said, tossing it over. Raizen caught it, grip firm. 'He's giving me real steel because he trusts me to handle it.'
They clashed, metal ringing sharp, Ricardo's strikes fast and precise. Raizen dodged, boots crunching gravel, lungs burning.
"Quicker now, good," Ricardo grunted, parrying a wild lunge. Raizen pressed forward, blade scraping Ricardo's guard.
"He's teaching me what matters, pushing me harder than anyone in that rotting hall ever would."
After, Ricardo clapped his shoulder. "You've got grit. Keep it."
Raizen nodded, chest warming. 'That's not enough. He sees something in me worth building, that i dont even know myself.'
Ricardo waved him off. "Lira's got supper. Don't dawdle."
Raizen passed servants in the corridor, hauling sacks, their whispers low and tense.
"Grain's barely enough. Stew's just water now," one muttered, face pinched, apron patched worse than Raizen's shirt.
Another tripped, sack splitting, spilling meager grain. "She'll dock us for that," he grumbled, scrambling to scoop it up as a third hissed,
"Quiet, Teriel's ears are everywhere." Raizen stepped around them. 'They're worn thin, scurrying like rats in a sinking ship, afraid of her lash.'
The manor's strain hung heavy, air thick with dust and quiet panic.
The kitchen annex glowed warm ahead, Lira kneading dough, brown hair streaked gray, flour dusting her steady hands.
Marvin sat there, grinning through a mouthful of bread. "Boots off," Lira called without looking up.
Raizen kicked them aside, stepping in. "Eat," she said, sliding a fresh loaf across the table.
He tore into it, crust crisp and warm. "This is better than anything that hall churns out. Keeps me from feeling the rot."
She muttered, "You're too thin," shoving a bowl of stew his way, her rough laugh cutting through.
"She cares more than she lets on, feeding me like it's her job to keep me standing." Ricardo leaned in.
"Soldier's bones coming through." Raizen ducked his head. "Thanks." Lira tossed him a rag. "Wipe that sweat, you're a mess."
He scrubbed his face, her nod quick and firm. 'They're steady, a lifeline in this crumbling heap.'
Back in the drill hall, stick in hand, Raizen resumed swinging, Kezess's voice creeping back.
"Shards, stronger?" he asked. Kezess hummed. "Experiences guide you, self becomes complete." Raizen faltered.
"Huh, complete?" he muttered. "What does that even look like for me?" Wood groaned against a beam.
"Explain it!" Kezess faded. "Feel it later." Raizen dropped the stick, clatter sharp. "Still nothing concrete, just more riddles."
He trudged out, corridor stretching long, shadows clawing at the walls, when a soft wail cut through, high and thin.
Peering around a corner, he saw Teriel near the stairwell, cradling an infant—white hair stark against her dark cloak, golden eyes glinting bright.
Sylvia, his newborn sister, squirmed in her stiff grip. 'I am... Feeling bitter for some reason,' Raizen muttered. 'Not her, just this place, another root sinking into it.'
'It's not Sylvia I resent,' he thought, watching her tiny fists wave.
'She's just a kid, but she's another tie to this manor, another reason it keeps dragging us down.'
Teriel's jaw set hard, muttering low to Sylvia, a sound more edge than comfort. Her gaze flicked up, catching his, lips thinning with bitterness.
She turned, heels clicking away. "She hates me more every day, like I'm the flaw in her perfect little world."
Raizen headed to the dining hall, stomach growling despite the weight in his chest.
The table loomed long, scarred wood under dim sconces, air thick with the smell of bread and thin stew. Raizen slid into a chair, frame hunched, solemn look settling over him.
Teriel sat across, Sylvia now quiet in a cradle beside her, her glare cutting sharp and bitter.
"She thinks I ruin everything just by sitting here." Viridian slumped at the head, gaunt and sallow, eyes hollow, glancing at Raizen once before looking away, ignoring him as always.
'Why's he like this?' Raizen thought. 'He's fading away, a shell scribbling nonsense while this place falls apart around us.'
Viridian's quill lay idle, hands trembling faintly, his cough rasping low, wet and weak in the silence.
Ryan fidgeted beside him, scarf tangled, freckles stark, an agitated look pinching his face.
'Some family dinner this is,' he thought. 'Her glaring, him checked out, Rai brooding, better off eating alone.'
Raizen spooned stew, broth watery, meat scarce, chewing slowly. "Lira's food puts this to shame. The manor's starving itself dry."
Teriel's spoon clinked, deliberate, eyes flicking between Sylvia and Raizen. 'She thinks I'd bother her kid, not a chance.'
Sylvia cooed faintly, golden eyes peering over the cradle's edge. 'She's bright, too bright for this hole, but stuck here same as us.'
Ryan muttered, 'Pass the bread.' Raizen slid it over, their hands brushing. 'He's the only one still kicking in this mess.' Teriel huffed, lifting Sylvia.
"Keep your mess away from her." Raizen rasped, "Didn't touch nothing." Her glare sharpened.
"You breathe mess." He stood, chair scraping loud. "Stew's cold anyway," he muttered, trudging out, boots echoing, bitterness clinging—not for Sylvia, but the manor's grip.