Belial woke to the faint clatter of metal against stone, his eyes snapping open in the dim light of their camp. The chittering of the things below the bridge outside was getting more annoying. He sat up, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. The bullet casing Rose had given him was still in his hand, its warmth long faded. He tucked it into his pocket, the motion automatic, almost reverent.
Rose was already awake, crouched near the fire, prodding at a skewer of meat with a stick. The flames cast flickering light across her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones. Her gun leaned against a nearby rock, within arm's reach, as always. She didn't look up as Belial approached, but her lips quirked slightly, like she knew he was watching.
"Morning," she said, her voice light. "You look like death warmed over."
He ignored the jab, grabbing a piece of the meat. It was overcooked, as usual, but he tore into it anyway, too hungry to care. "You're up early," he muttered. "What's the occasion?"
She shrugged, tossing the stick into the fire. "Figured you'd want to get back to the General. You've got that stubborn look again."
Belial grunted, not denying it. Her words from yesterday, about redirecting instead of evading, had burrowed into his mind, nagging at him through the night. The idea was reckless, but it had a strange pull, like a puzzle he couldn't stop turning over. He'd spent hours before sleep visualizing it: phasing through the General's blade not to escape, but to reposition, to turn its momentum against it. It was madness. And yet, it might work.
The training room felt colder today, the air heavier with the weight of anticipation. The General stood motionless in the center of the chamber, its stone form looming like a silent judge. Its braided mane, still missing the hairpin Rose had shot loose, hung slightly askew, giving it an oddly disheveled look. Belial's gaze lingered on the empty slot where the pin had been. He still didn't understand why that shot had stopped the statue, forcing it back to its idle stance, but he wasn't about to question the one advantage they had.
Rose took her usual perch on the stairwell, Gun across her lap, chewing on something new—dried fruit, maybe. She didn't offer him any, and he didn't ask. Instead, he stretched, testing his sore muscles, and drew his blade. The familiar weight of it steadied him, grounding his nerves.
"Ready to try my idea?" Rose called, her tone teasing.
"Ready to shut up and watch?" he shot back, but there was no real venom in it.
He was too focused, his mind already tracing the steps of Bloodless Passage. Evade. Phase. Redirect. He could almost see it: the General's blade swinging, his body slipping through it like smoke, then reforming at a new angle to strike.
The General stirred, its white eyes flaring to life. Belial's heart kicked into a faster rhythm. The statue lunged, faster than he'd expected, its blade arcing toward his chest. He triggered Bloodless Passage instinctively, his body dissolving into a blur of shadow. The blade passed through him, the cold rush of its passage tingling against his incorporeal form. He reappeared a step to the left, exactly as he'd always done.
The General didn't hesitate, pivoting with mechanical precision to deliver a backhand strike. Belial cursed under his breath, phasing again, but this time he tried something new. Instead of stepping back, he willed himself forward, toward the statue's left flank. The world blurred as he passed through the blade's arc, reappearing closer than he'd intended—too close. The General's stone fist grazed his shoulder, sending him stumbling.
"Too eager!" Rose called, her voice sharp but not alarmed. "Angle, not distance!"
Belial gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain radiating from his shoulder. She was right, damn her. He'd moved too far, too fast, and nearly gotten himself crushed. The General pressed its attack, its blade sweeping low, aiming for his legs. This time, Belial focused, picturing Rose's words: change your angle mid-motion. He triggered Bloodless Passage, letting the blade pass through him, but instead of retreating, he shifted his momentum sideways, reappearing at a sharp angle to the statue's right.
For a split second, it worked. The General's blade missed, its momentum carrying it slightly off-balance. Belial saw the opening—a brief, glorious moment where the statue's flank was exposed. He lunged, driving his dagger toward the joint of its arm, hoping to find a weak point. The blade sparked against the stone, leaving only a shallow scratch. The General recovered, its free hand swinging in a brutal arc that caught Belial across the chest.
He hit the ground hard, air rushing from his lungs. His vision swam, the pain in his ribs flaring white-hot. Above him, the General raised its blade, its white eyes glowing with unyielding intent. This was it—the killing blow. Belial tried to move, to phase, but his body was too slow, too battered. He braced himself, knowing he wouldn't make it.
Crack.
The sound split the air, sharp and deafening. The General froze mid-swing, its blade hovering inches from Belial's throat. Its eyes dimmed, and with a grinding groan, it straightened, stepping back to its idle position at the center of the room. Belial's gaze snapped to the stairwell. Rose was standing now, gun still raised, her expression unreadable. A faint wisp of smoke curled from the barrel.
She'd done it again. Shot the pin, stopped the General, saved his life.
Belial pushed himself up, wincing, his breath ragged. "You're welcome," Rose said, her voice light, but there was an edge to it this time, something he couldn't quite place. She slung the Gun over her shoulder and started down the stairs, her movements casual, as if she hadn't just pulled off another impossible shot.
He wanted to snap at her, to demand answers—how she kept making that shot, why she only fired when he was seconds from death—but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he staggered to his feet, clutching his side. "You could've shot sooner," he muttered.
"And miss the show?" She smirked, but her eyes flicked to his injuries, lingering a moment longer than usual. "You're getting better. That redirect almost worked."
"Almost," he echoed bitterly, limping toward the bench. He collapsed onto it, his body screaming in protest. The General stood silent now, its blade lowered, but Belial could still feel the weight of its gaze, even dormant. He hated this place, hated the statue, hated how close he'd come to dying again. And yet, a small part of him burned with something else—excitement. The redirect had worked, if only for a moment. He'd thrown the General off, created an opening. It wasn't enough, not yet, but it was progress.
Rose sat beside him, closer than she usually did. She pulled another bullet casing from her pocket, rolling it between her fingers. "You're still trying to fight it head-on," she said quietly. "The General's not flesh and blood. It's a machine, Belial. It doesn't tire, doesn't doubt. You can't outlast it. You have to outsmart it."
He stared at her, searching for the lie, the game, the hidden motive. But her face was open, almost earnest, and it unnerved him more than her usual smirks. "Why do you care?" he asked, his voice low. "You could've left me to die back there. Would've been easier."
She laughed, a soft, genuine sound that caught him off guard. "Easier, sure. But then who'd hunt my dinner?" She leaned back, resting her head against the wall. "Besides, you're not half bad when you're not sulking."
He didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. Instead, he looked down at the bullet casing she'd placed in his hand. It was warm, like the last one, and heavier than it should've been. He turned it over, studying the faint scratches on its surface, identical to the ones on the first. "You're not farsighted," he said, more to himself than to her.
Rose just smiled, that same enigmatic curve of her lips. "Maybe I'm just lucky," she said, standing and stretching. "Get some rest, shadow boyo. Tomorrow, we try again."
As she walked away, humming that same tuneless melody, Belial's fingers tightened around the casing. He didn't trust her, not yet, but he was starting to think he didn't need to. Not when she kept saving his life. Not when her advice was the only thing keeping him one step ahead of the General's blade.
He leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling, the runes pulsing faintly in the gloom. Tomorrow, he'd try again. He'd redirect, outsmart, survive. And maybe, just maybe, he'd start to understand the woman who kept pulling him back from the edge.