Days became weeks. Weeks blurred into months. By the time a year passed in Adrasteia's warped time, we hardly noticed. The forest's hum had become part of our bones—its magic a weight I carried without thinking.
Scars healed crooked. Muscles ached into sleep. Laughter started sounding like armor—something you wore, not something you meant.
By then, Alythiel wielded two new ebony daggers, their edges gleaming like midnight—she'd turned into a terror with them, swift and lethal. Laboritus stocked his quiver with an arsenal of arrows, each fletched for a purpose: barbed, blunt, piercing. He told me once, he liked to be prepared for any situation—classic Laboritus pragmatism. Torglel and I earned more than a few nasty scars from our magic backfiring—jagged lines across my arms, his chest. Some still ache when the weather turns—a dull, familiar throb, like memory made muscle.
Seluvia said Velythric was the best way to channel my magic, tied to my demonic blood—a truth I wasn't ready to embrace, not then. But it echoed in my mind during every incantation, every spark that danced too easily at my fingertips. A whisper I refused to speak aloud.
Alythiel and I started the morning the way we usually did—with fists flying, the air sharp with sweat and steel.
As I blocked, dodged, and countered her strikes, I realized her precision and speed had nearly doubled since we'd first sparred. Her battle sense was razor-sharp—easily rivaling Laboritus now, every move deliberate, honed. I found fewer openings to exploit, her attacks tighter, smarter. More often than not, she kept me on the defensive, her fists a blur I could barely track.
I smiled despite myself, a flicker of pride cutting through the strain—impressed by how far she'd come, how she'd carved strength from grace.
Then I saw my chance.
She threw a punch, quick and sure, and I ducked low, sweeping in with a kick meant to knock her off balance, the strike snapping through the air.
But to my surprise, she caught my leg mid-motion, her grip iron-tight, and drove me onto my back with one smooth twist. I hit the ground hard, breath jolting out, pinned under her weight.
I let out a short, surprised laugh, dust stinging my eyes. "You feinted that opening. You wanted me to go for the low kick."
The realization settled fast—she'd been in control the whole damn time, playing me like a lute.
"Looks like Laboritus isn't the only calculated mind around here," I said as she helped me to my feet, her hand firm in mine.
She smiled warmly. And for just a second... her smile lingered, as did her hand—just a second longer than needed. Or maybe that was just me. A fleeting warmth, soft against the calluses—a moment I couldn't pin down.
Before I could dwell, she gave me a playful nudge, her elbow light against my ribs. "Well, I had a pretty good teacher."
I unsheathed my swords, their weight familiar, black and white steel catching the morning light. "Well, let's see if the student can keep up with the teacher."
"Oh, absolutely," Alythiel said, drawing her ebony daggers with a fluid ease, a spark flaring in her eyes. "I'm going for back-to-back victories here."
The moment her blades cleared their sheaths, I launched forward, the forest floor yielding beneath my boots.
Her movements were precise, fluid—like a deadly ballet. Each impact sent jolts up my arms. Each inhale tight, like she was breathing through steel. We weren't sparring—we were testing the limits of each other's will.
Our blades flashed and clashed, the ring of metal sharp and clear, echoing through the clearing. She parried one of my slashes, her blade a whisper of shadow, and countered—her dagger narrowly missing my ribs, the air hissing where it passed.
I tried to knock her off balance with a high kick, aiming for her chest, but she blocked it with her forearm and countered with a strike of her own, Moving before thought could catch up. I moved to block—but I was a second too slow, reaction dulled by the morning's grind.
Her blade glanced off mine and cut into my arm, a hot sting blooming under my skin.
Her eyes widened in shock, breath catching. "I'm sorr—"
I didn't let her finish. In one swift motion, I flipped her onto her back, pinning her to the dirt with a thud, her gasp sharp against the silence. She hit the ground hard but didn't lose her grip on her blades, her knuckles whitening around the hilts.
"That wasn't fair," she breathed, chest rising beneath me.
"Training isn't fair," I said, keeping her pinned a moment longer, voice steady despite the burn in my arm. "It's to prepare us for enemies who won't fight fair, either. It's kill or be killed." I held out my hand.
She sighed, relenting, and took my hand, her grip strong as I pulled her up. "You're right," she said, dusting herself off, "but you're cut pretty deep."
Her brow furrowed—not in fear, but care. She knew what it meant to bleed for strength, but she hated seeing it from me.
She raised her hands, and that familiar green glow radiated from her palms, warm and steady as she pressed them gently into my arm. The wound closed under her magic, the sting fading to a dull ache, leaving another scar—a jagged line I'd wear like a badge.
A small price for getting stronger. It became one of my fondest memories of a scar earned—her touch tying it to something more than pain.
As she worked, I caught the faintest mutter under her breath, barely audible over the forest's hum. "And I thought Torglel was the reckless one between you two."
I should've told her I learned it from him, that reckless streak we shared, but I pretended not to hear, letting the moment slip by.
I didn't say thank you. Not out loud. But something inside me quieted.
Torglel strolled over, eyeing us with a smirk, his boots scuffing the dirt. "Aye, girl, don't worry yourself too much over a little nick," he said, waving it off like it was nothing, his tone light. "Those are common in training."
He clapped me on the back so hard I saw stars. His grin could've carved mountains. "It's when you hit a vital area you gotta worry. Solari nearly took my family jewels clean off once during a match."
I shook my head, a chuckle escaping despite myself, the memory flashing sharp. "Wasn't my fault you forgot to block."
Torglel barked a laugh, loud and rolling. "Good thing I jumped back quick enough. Fastest I ever moved to this day."
The only time he moved faster was when he bolted to relieve himself after too much ale—a tale he'd never live down.
He paused, thoughtful. "That story's going in the songs, you know. The Ballad of the Dwarf Who Dodged Doom."
He always made a joke after someone bled. It was his way of chasing the silence away before it got too loud to ignore.
I turned my gaze toward the clearing where Petrus and Laboritus sparred, their figures a strange dance against the trees. If anyone wandered by and saw a raccoon fighting a giant, they'd think they were hallucinating—Petrus's staff twirling, Laboritus's fists a blur.
But Laboritus wasn't the same fighter he'd been a year ago. He moved with confidence now, blocking and countering Petrus's strikes with a steady ease, his massive frame lighter on his feet. Torglel's lessons had clearly sunk in, sharpening him beyond brute strength.
Petrus went for a flashy uppercut, his staff arcing high, but Laboritus leaned back just enough, the blow whistling past. As Petrus came down, Laboritus stepped in, driving a solid punch into his chest—a deep thud echoing. The raccoon flew through the air, and hit the ground hard.
He popped right back up, brushing himself off, dirt clinging to his fur. He gave Laboritus an approving nod, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, rare and earned.
He approached, tone steady as stone. "Very well done. You pass."
He said nothing. Pride simmered under the silence.
Then Petrus turned, nodding toward me, his gaze sharp. "From this moment on, you'll spend every morning training hand-to-hand with Solari."
I gave Laboritus a nod, respect in the gesture, and he returned it—calm, but a flicker of pride glinted behind his eyes, a quiet fire rekindled.
Petrus turned, his voice slicing clean through the forest's hush. "Listen up, everyone."
The space quieted, even Torglel's chuckle fading under his breath, the air stilling with his words.
"It's been a good first year," Petrus continued, "but we have six more to go. From this point forward, training will intensify as we prepare for the final test—fighting as a unit." He let that hang, heavy and deliberate, before going on. "You'll need to use your individual strengths and abilities to work as one."
I looked at each of them—Torglel's fire, Alythiel's precision, Laboritus's grit—and felt the weight settle in. We weren't learning anymore. We were being refined.
Petrus scanned the group, eyes locking on each of us in turn.
"No one can ever be truly ready for anything," he said. "But trust in each other, and you can be prepared for whatever may come."
He paused. Then, quieter—just loud enough to chill the air—
"Tomorrow," he added, eyes glinting, "we find out who bleeds first."