The training grounds hum with the sound of steel striking steel, the air thick with the scent of sweat and dirt. Soldiers move in coordinated drills, their movements sharp and disciplined. Sunlight glints off the edges of their weapons as they clash, parry, and strike in perfect rhythm. It's a familiar sight, a ritual repeated every morning, one I've been part of for as long as I can remember.
I move among them, going through the motions of my own routine. My sword swings, my muscles remember the patterns, but my mind is elsewhere.
Killian.
Why didn't he kill me?
I exhale sharply, pivoting into a strike against my training dummy. The impact vibrates through my arms, but it does little to settle the storm raging inside my chest. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword. My body knows these movements instinctively, but my mind refuses to cooperate.
The mark on my wrist burns—not with pain, but with the weight of what it means. For years, I believed I was trapped in a cycle, that my only way out was through his death. And yet, when the moment came, I faltered. I let him go.
But Killian… he had the same choice. He had every reason to take my life. And he didn't.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air. I barely have time to react before a wooden staff swings toward me. I dodge just in time, rolling to the side as my sparring partner, Taren, smirks at me.
"You're slow today," he taunts, twirling the staff between his hands. "That's unlike you."
I grit my teeth and lunge, my sword clashing against his weapon. The force sends a shock through my arms, grounding me in the present. Good. I need to focus.
Taren presses forward, taking advantage of my distraction. I block his attacks, but my movements lack precision. He sees the opening and takes it—his staff slams against my ribs, knocking the wind from my lungs.
I stumble back, cursing under my breath. He steps away, brow raised. "Something's on your mind."
I shake my head, forcing my breathing to steady. "Nothing I can't handle."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he nods toward my sword. "Again?"
I nod. We resume the fight, but my thoughts remain divided.
How do we get the marks? Who decides them?Is it truly fate—or something else entirely?
The cycle has existed for centuries. Warriors bound by their final kill, their freedom dictated by blood. I've never questioned it before. I never had a reason to.
Until now.
Until Killian.
The thought lingers, poisoning my focus. Why did he hesitate? Why didn't he do what I couldn't? Was it mercy? Was it weakness? Or was it something else entirely?
Taren lunges again, and this time I react instinctively. I sidestep his attack and counter, swinging my sword in a controlled arc. He barely blocks in time, the force of my strike sending him staggering backward.
I press forward, refusing to let him recover. Blow after blow, I drive him back, forcing him onto the defensive. He grits his teeth, eyes narrowing in concentration, but I see the slight stumble in his stance. He's off balance.
I take the opening.
My final strike knocks the staff from his grip, the wooden weapon clattering against the stone floor. I step forward, my blade pressed lightly against his throat.
Taren exhales sharply, then chuckles. "There she is."
I lower my sword and step back. The momentary thrill of victory fades too quickly, leaving behind only the questions gnawing at the edges of my mind.
Taren rubs his shoulder where one of my earlier strikes landed. "Whatever's bothering you, figure it out before it gets you killed."
I offer him a small nod before turning away. The training yard continues to pulse with movement, but I barely notice. My focus sharpens, my next steps already clear in my mind.
I need to find Killian. I need answers.
But first, I need a plan.
I retreat to my chambers, stripping off my armor and replacing it with something more suited for travel. A dark cloak, sturdy boots. If I'm going to find Killian, I need to be ready for anything.
Rathos will ask questions. So will the others. They'll want to know why I'm leaving, where I'm going. I don't have the patience for their concerns. Not now.
I secure my dagger at my thigh, then pull my cloak over my shoulders. My heart beats steadily, but beneath it lies something deeper—anticipation, uncertainty, something I refuse to name.
I glance at my wrist one last time. The inked name doesn't fade, doesn't shift. It remains, a reminder of the path before me.
Killian.
I take a deep breath and step out into the night.
Because no matter what happens next—
I will find him.
And I will get my answers.