The clearing had grown still again, bathed in silver moonlight and cloaked in summer's warm night air. Nero stood in the center, his breathing finally steady, the sword still resting comfortably against his shoulder. He could have ended his training here, satisfied with the rhythm he had found in pure swordsmanship. But as he looked up at the moon hanging heavy in the heavens, something stirred in him.
A hunger.
His Law.
It was foolish to deny it. The Law of Fire was etched into his very being, a flame that had chosen him—or perhaps a flame he had seized with his own will. No matter the truth, it was part of him now. And though he had sworn not to depend entirely upon it, to forsake it in training would be a denial of his own growth.
Slowly, Nero raised his sword again, pointing its steel edge toward the open sky.
"Let's see how you dance together," he murmured, his eyes glowing unusually tonight.
