The courtyard stretched wide beneath the pale afternoon sun — a sea of sand framed by dark stone porticos. Abel walked along the shaded corridor, every step echoing faintly against the walls. His body still ached from his previous fight, the dull pain pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
Stipo had left for duty.
The silence carried weight — a kind that pressed against his chest. Warriors passed him by in quiet groups, their eyes sharp, their blood humming faintly in the air. The Kyoshi compound never rested; someone was always fighting, training, bleeding.
Abel turned a corner — and stopped.
Ahead, a crowd was gathering around one of the smaller sand rings. The air there trembled with anticipation, the hum of energy like static before a storm. A duel was about to begin.
He stepped closer, curiosity overtaking pain.
Two figures stood at the center of the ring.
One he recognized instantly.
Sheshy Kyoshi.
Even from a distance, she didn't look like she belonged in a place built for war. Her white robes flowed like water, clean and delicate — an absurd contrast to the rough arena sand. The cloth hugged her shoulders and arms before spilling loosely around her legs, moving with every faint breeze. Her long black hair fell in a smooth cascade down her back, almost too perfect, too untouched by dust or sweat.
And yet, her presence silenced the crowd.
The blindfold — that same strip of pale tick fabric wrapped neatly across her eyes — seemed to absorb the light rather than hide it. Abel's throat tightened as he watched her stand perfectly still, head tilted slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear.
On the opposite side stood a young man — maybe a few years older than Abel. Kiros Kyoshi. Average height, lean muscle, eyes of darkened gold that glinted like coins under smoke. His hair was a deep violet-black, tied roughly at the back, the uneven strands brushing his jaw.
Two Franciscas hung at his sides — short-handled throwing axes, the metal heads marked with faint crimson runes that pulsed softly with his heartbeat.
Abel leaned on a pillar, eyes narrowing. "Thread energy," he murmured to himself. He could almost see the faint lines of it — thin threads of red trailing from Kiros's fingertips to the handles of his axes.
He'd seen something similar in the generals' fight earlier. But this… this was more visible. Weaker.
"Fight!"
The word cracked across the courtyard, and the air snapped into motion.
Kiros moved first — his arm whipping forward in a clean, practiced arc. The first axe spun through the air, the whistle of its flight slicing the silence in two.
Sheshy tilted her head. Then, with a single step, she moved — her motion too smooth, too measured. The blade cut through where she'd been an instant before, burying itself in the sand behind her.
Abel's pulse quickened.
"She didn't even see it," he whispered. "She felt it."
The threads shimmered.
Kiros pulled sharply on his fingers, and the axe jerked back through the air — a blur of silver. Sheshy's head turned at the faint sound, and she dropped low, the weapon passing just inches above her shoulder.
She didn't flinch. Not once.
Abel could feel his own muscles tense as he watched her. Every movement seemed impossibly calm, deliberate — a dancer guided by an unseen rhythm.
Affinity.
He remembered the term from one of Stipo's old explanations — the art of perceiving everything through blood. Not sight. Not sound. Something else.
Kiros grinned, his eyes sharp. "Not bad."
The second axe was already in motion, spinning low this time. Sheshy twisted, the hem of her white robe flaring like a ghost's wing. The blade missed — barely — but Kiros was already tugging on both threads, drawing the axes back in a crossing pattern.
Abel leaned forward. "He's trying to cage her…"
Sheshy landed softly, one knee bent, fingers brushing the sand. Her breath was slow, her blindfold untouched. For a moment, she stayed still — listening. Then her hand flicked, scattering a handful of small, dark objects across the ground.
They hit the sand with faint metallic clicks.
Caltrops.
The crowd murmured.
Kiros saw them too late. He stepped, and a thin point tore through the leather of his sandal. He hissed, stumbling back — only for another axe to drop toward his arm, still bound by its thread. He raised his forearm to block, deflecting the blow, but the caltrops cut deeper into his foot. Blood dripped, staining the sand red.
Sheshy didn't press the attack. She simply turned slightly, her posture elegant, head still tilted in that eerie, listening way.
Abel swallowed hard. "She's waiting… learning his pattern."
Kiros growled low. "So that's how you want to play it?"
He drew both axes again, gripping them tightly now instead of throwing. The threads still shimmered faintly from his wrists — living veins of light.
He lunged.
The first swing came from the right — Sheshy sidestepped, letting the blade graze the air near her shoulder. The second came from the left — faster, heavier. She ducked, and her fingers brushed against the thread that linked weapon to user.
Abel's breath caught.
For the briefest instant, he saw her hand glow faintly crimson — the blood within her answering the energy of Kiros's Thread. She twisted her wrist, redirecting the pull.
Kiros stumbled — his own weapon yanked off balance by its tether.
The crowd gasped.
Sheshy stepped in, swift and precise. Her palm struck his chest, the impact sending a visible ripple of force through his body. Kiros coughed, air leaving his lungs in a harsh gasp.
He swung blindly in retaliation — wild, desperate. Sheshy turned with the motion, her hand brushing his shoulder as if guiding him past her. The moment his stance opened, her knee drove upward, catching him square in the ribs.
Abel winced at the sound. "She's… brutal."
But even as he said it, there was admiration in his voice. It wasn't rage or malice that fueled her — it was something colder. Discipline wrapped in silk.
Kiros staggered back, gasping. He wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. The gold in his eyes darkened. "You're mocking me."
Sheshy didn't answer.
Instead, her fingers brushed her own arm. The blood there — faint from the shallow cuts caused by deflecting his attacks — shimmered in the air, forming small floating droplets.
She unnoticed throws Caltrops
The Caltrops glinted faintly before scattering like sparks. They sank into the sand around Kiros's feet.
He didn't notice. Not until it was too late.
When he charged again, his step landed between three metal points — and the sand shifted.
A flash of red — a burst of blood.
Kiros shouted in pain, staggering as the pain discharged upward through his leg. His knee buckled. Before he could recover, Sheshy was already moving.
One step.
Two.
Her body flowed like water. The white fabric of her robe caught the light as she slid behind him. The sickening sound of impact followed — her open palm driving into his sternum, fingers cutting a shallow arc through the air.
Kiros's eyes went wide. His axes fell from his hands, hitting the ground with a dull clang.
He stumbled back, clutching at his chest. A thin line of blood marked where her strike had landed — not deep, but dangerously close to the heart.
The referee's voice rang out, firm and clear. "Winner — Sheshy Kyoshi!"
The crowd erupted — not in cheers, but in quiet awe. The kind of silence that followed respect.
Abel exhaled only then, realizing he'd been holding his breath the whole time. His hands trembled slightly. He couldn't look away from her — from the faint rise and fall of her shoulders, the calm way she stood even after victory.
Kiros collapsed to one knee, still breathing hard. The healers rushed forward, carrying him off the field. Abel's gaze followed until they disappeared behind the infirmary doors.
Then, slowly, he turned back to Sheshy.
She reached up, fingers brushing the edge of her blindfold — not removing it, just adjusting it slightly. Her head turned toward the portico, directly toward him.
For a heartbeat, Abel froze.
She couldn't see him.
But somehow, she knew he was there.
She smiled
He looked away first.
As the crowd dispersed, he lingered at the edge of the ring, watching the faint marks left in the sand — the tiny Caltrops glinting under the fading sun. Each one still hummed faintly with blood.
"Affinity…" he whispered. "She makes it look effortless."
But it wasn't admiration alone that filled his chest. It was something heavier — something that burned.
Envy.
He clenched his fists, the dull ache in his side returning with every heartbeat. "One day…" he muttered, the words barely audible. "One day I'll stand there proudly too."
The sun dipped lower, painting the courtyard in gold and crimson.
The scent of blood lingered in the air, sharp and metallic.
And Abel — still watching from the shadows — realized that strength wasn't always loud. Sometimes, it was silent. Blind. And merciless.
To be continued…