The next few mornings all began the same way – a pre-dawn jog that stretched through the hidden paths of the forest cloaking our base. It was a brutal wake-up call, lungs burning and legs screaming their usual protest. But with each sunrise, the path seemed a little shorter, the air a little easier to breathe. Today, however, held the promise of something different, a change that thrummed with anticipation beneath my ribs.

  Seven days we'd spent with Caleb. Seven days filled with the rhythmic whoosh of inhaled and exhaled air, of holding poses that pushed the limits of my flexibility until my muscles screamed, of finding stillness within the storm of anxieties that clawed at me. It had been frustrating, this focus on the seemingly mundane. Yet, as we stretched under the pre-dawn light, a silent respect bloomed inside of me. This wasn't just about physical prowess; it was about control, about harnessing our bodies and minds into a single, focused instrument.

  Our jog ended in a sweat-slicked heap near the outdoor training area. Caleb was already there, leaning against the weathered wall. Today, his gaze held a different glint – the glint of a challenge about to be laid bare.

  Across the yard, Caleb barked out instructions. Gone was the gentle persona from the other night. Here, amidst his trainees, stood the hardened soldier, a mask of stoicism etched on his face.

  A secret smile tugged at my lips. I couldn't blame him. He had to maintain his authority, appear the unyielding warrior. But the memory of his comforting hand, the vulnerability in his eyes when we spoke of my family, still lingered.

  "Alright, soldiers," he rasped, his voice rough from sleep but his posture radiating an undeniable authority. "We've built the foundation. Now, let's learn how to fight on it."

  The training field was quiet except for the hum of the forest around us. Caleb stood at the table in the center, his hands resting lightly on the edge, waiting for us to approach.

  I glanced at Kass, and she gave me a shrug before heading toward him. I followed, my curiosity outweighing my aching legs. Caleb’s gaze flicked up as we stopped in front of the table, his sharp eyes assessing us the way a smith might judge raw steel. It was unsettling, like he could see straight through me to all the doubts and questions I tried to keep hidden.

  "Today," he said, his voice steady, "we’re going to talk about weapons. Not just how to use them, but how to choose the right one for you. A sword isn’t just a tool. It’s an extension of your body. If you pick the wrong one, it’ll weigh you down, maybe even get you killed."

  I swallowed hard, my eyes shifting to the weapons laid out on the table. There were swords of every kind—slender blades, broad ones, some curved, others straight. Each one gleamed in the sunlight, a silent promise of power.

  Caleb picked up a narrow, double-edged blade first. "This is an arming sword," he said, holding it up so we could see. "Light, versatile, and quick. It’s made for someone who values speed and precision over brute strength."

  His dark eyes landed on me, and I stiffened. "That’s you, Kira."

  "Me?" I said, trying not to sound defensive. "Why?"

  "Because you’re fast, and you’re smart," Caleb replied simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You’re not going to win a fight by overpowering your opponent. You need a weapon that lets you outmaneuver them."

  He handed me the sword, and I hesitated before taking it. The hilt felt strange in my hand at first, lighter than I’d expected. I gave it a tentative swing, and the balance surprised me—it was almost effortless.

  "It’s lighter than I thought," I admitted.

  "That’s the point," Caleb said. "You don’t need weight. You need speed. Precision. With this sword, you can strike quickly and keep moving. But you have to learn to trust it. Strength doesn’t always win the fight. Control does."

  I nodded, testing the blade again. It felt… right, in a way that caught me off guard.

  Caleb’s attention shifted to Kass. He reached for a larger blade—a broad, heavy weapon with a long grip. "For you, Kass, the bastard sword is a better fit."

  Kass took the sword with a grin, hefting it easily in one hand like it weighed nothing. "I like it already."

  "You should," Caleb said, his tone matter-of-fact. "With your height and strength, this blade gives you reach, power, and flexibility. You can fight one-handed or two-handed, depending on the situation. It’s a weapon of balance."

  Kass swung the sword in a slow, testing arc, her grin widening. "Yeah, this feels perfect."

  "It should," Caleb said, a faint flicker of approval in his voice. "But don’t just rely on strength. A sword like this demands precision. Use your power wisely."

  I watched as Kass practiced with the blade, her movements confident and fluid. She looked like she was born to wield it, and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy at how easily she took to it.

  Then Caleb reached for something smaller. A dagger. Its blade was curved slightly, wickedly sharp. He held it up, the sunlight glinting off its edge. "Now, let’s talk about daggers."

  Kass and I exchanged a glance. Caleb didn’t wait for us to ask. "A dagger isn’t just a backup weapon. In close combat, it’s often your best chance of survival."

  He turned the blade in his hand, the motion so smooth it was almost hypnotic. "Daggers are fast, precise, and lethal when used right. They’re designed to exploit weaknesses—soft spots, gaps in armor, places your opponent doesn’t think to guard."

  He handed the dagger to me, handle-first. "For someone like you, Kira, a dagger isn’t just a secondary weapon. It’s an equalizer. If someone gets too close, you don’t have to overpower them. You just have to strike where it matters."

  I wrapped my fingers around the hilt, testing its weight. It was lighter than the sword, but there was something sharp and purposeful about it, like it was waiting to be used. Caleb stepped closer, showing me how to hold it properly, how to angle my wrist for a quick, precise strike.

  "Go for the soft targets," he said, his voice low and even. "The neck, the ribs, the back of the knee. You don’t need strength—just precision."

  I nodded, my grip tightening. It felt… possible, somehow. Like even I could hold my own in a fight if I had this in my hand.

  Caleb turned to Kass, handing her a straighter, heavier dagger. "For you, the dagger’s not just a weapon. It’s a tool. You can block with it, cut ropes, even pierce leather armor. It complements your sword, gives you options."

  He demonstrated a quick move, using the dagger to parry an imagined strike before delivering a killing blow with the sword. Kass watched closely, then mimicked the move with surprising accuracy.

  "That’s it," Caleb said, his tone approving. "The dagger is about versatility. It won’t win a fight on its own, but it’ll save your life when things get messy."

  Finally, he reached for his own sword. "This," he said, his voice softer now, "is Oathbreaker."

  We leaned in as Caleb unsheathed the sword fully, and it sang as it left the scabbard, the sound clear and resonant. He held it up, letting the light play along its surface.

  The blade was unlike any of the others—a sleek, dark gray with faint striations running its length, as if the metal itself were alive. Its edge shimmered with a faint silver gleam, and the hilt bore intricate carvings that seemed to ripple in the light.

  "Oathbreaker is forged from Dusksteel," he continued, his tone reverent. "A rare alloy found only in the heart of Zilara’s Shadowpeaks. It’s stronger than steel, lighter than iron, and has a natural affinity for absorbing and holding enchantments. Few smiths can work with it, and fewer still can afford it."

  Kass’s eyes widened, her breath catching. "Dusksteel," she murmured. "I’ve heard stories about it, but I’ve never seen it in person."

  Caleb glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "It’s as temperamental as it is rare. A blade like this isn’t forged—it’s coaxed into existence. You can’t rush the process. Impatience will ruin it." He flipped the sword, offering the hilt for her to examine. "Go ahead. Feel it."

  Kass hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward, reverently taking the sword into her hands. The weight seemed to surprise her—light and perfectly balanced, like an extension of her arm. "It’s incredible," she said, her voice low, almost awed.

  Caleb nodded. "Dusksteel isn’t just rare—it’s nearly impossible to find in quantities large enough to forge weapons. Most blades made from it are ceremonial or ornamental. But this one…" He gestured toward the sword in her hands. "It was forged for war."

  I couldn’t stop myself from asking. "Is it enchanted?"

  Caleb’s eyes flicked to me, a faint glint of amusement lighting them. He didn’t answer right away, instead taking the weapon back and running his thumb along the flat of the blade as if considering the question.

  Finally, he looked up, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "A warrior would never expose his secrets like that."

  I frowned, not entirely satisfied with his evasiveness. "If it is," I pressed, tilting my head, "I’d like to know what I’m up against."

  His smile widened, maddeningly calm. "If you’re ever up against me, Kira," he said, sheathing the sword with a deliberate, resonant click, "you’ll have bigger problems than this blade."

  I bristled at his confidence, even as a flicker of unease wormed its way into my chest. He was avoiding the question, that much was clear. And the way he handled the sword—the reverence in his movements—only made me more certain there was more to it than just the steel.

  But Caleb wasn’t going to tell me. Not yet, anyway.

  "A sword is only as good as its wielder, but a great sword… It becomes part of you. Oathbreaker isn’t just a weapon—it’s a promise. A reminder of the oaths I’ve broken to fight for this rebellion. Now, let’s see how you two handle your weapons."

  He gestured toward a rack of wooden practice swords resting near the edge of the training area. Kass and I exchanged a glance before setting down our blades and walking over to grab one each. The wooden swords were sturdy but light, their edges dulled for safety. I tested mine with a swing, the weight nothing compared to the steel blade I’d held earlier.

  "We’re starting with these," Caleb said, his arms crossed as he watched us. "I don’t need either of you cutting off a hand or splitting each other’s heads open while you’re still learning."

  Kass rolled her eyes but grabbed a wooden bastard sword from the rack, testing its balance with an easy swing. "Fair enough, but you’re ruining my fun."

  "I’m saving your life," Caleb shot back, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You’ll thank me later."

  I picked a wooden arming sword, gripping it tightly. It didn’t have the same elegance as the steel version, but it felt safe—manageable.

  The rest of the morning blurred by in a whirlwind of practice swings and precise strikes. By the time the sun was high, I was drenched in sweat, my muscles aching. But as I gripped the hilt of my sword, I couldn’t help but feel stronger—more sure of myself. For the first time, it felt like I had a chance to fight back.

  The next hour was a blur of basic stances. The wide, stable guard for defense, the lunging advance for offense. The ground echoed with the rhythmic thud of our practice weapons as we fumbled through footwork, pivots, and blocks.

  Frustration gnawed at me. My movements felt clumsy, my attacks easily parried by Caleb's experienced maneuvers. But with each failed attempt, a flicker of determination ignited within me. I wouldn't let him down, wouldn't let myself down. Every grunt of exertion, every stumble and recovery, felt like a piece of the puzzle falling into place.

  We clashed, wood on wood, the clang echoing through the training yard. Sweat trickled down my temples, blurring my vision as I lunged at Kass. But just as I felt the momentum building for a powerful strike, Caleb's voice boomed across the yard.

  "Hold!" he roared, his voice sharp like a whip.

  Both Kass and I stumbled back, panting for breath.

  Caleb strode towards us, his face grim. He stopped in front of me, his gaze fixed on my sword hand. "Kira," he said, his voice low, "what are you doing?"

  Shame burned in my cheeks. "Trying to attack," I mumbled, feeling foolish.

  He snorted. "And how successful are you being?"

  I gritted my teeth. Not very, considering Kass had easily parried every attempt with minimal effort.

  Caleb gestured to my sword hand. "Leading with your hand is a recipe for disaster. An opponent worth their salt will disarm you faster than you can blink."

  He pointed towards Kass. "See that smug look on her face? That's because your hand is a giant target begging to be smacked."

  A wave of frustration washed over me. I was trying my best, and it still wasn't good enough.

  Caleb, sensing my dejection, softened his tone. "Look," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder, "your instincts are good. You're aggressive, which is important. But aggression needs to be coupled with tactics." He adjusted my grip on the sword, emphasizing how the weapon itself, not my hand, should initiate the attack. "Lead with the point," he instructed, guiding my sword in a series of controlled thrusts. "Let the blade do the talking, not your hand."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The difference was immediate. My attacks became more precise, more controlled. Kass, no longer anticipating a reckless swing, found herself struggling to defend. A spark of satisfaction ignited within me.

  "See that?" Caleb said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "The sword is an extension of yourself. Use it, don't let it be used against you."

  Shame burned in my cheeks as Caleb kept patiently redirecting Kass' misplaced strikes but physically guided me into the correct defensive stances. Every time he brushed past me, a whiff of woodsmoke and something faintly citrusy filled my senses, sending a jolt through me. I hated needing his help so much, especially when it felt so... intimate.

  "Relax your shoulders," Caleb said, his voice low and warm as he adjusted my arm position. The scent of him intensified, making me acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body and the calloused fingers brushing against my skin. "Think fluid, not forceful."

  Flustered, I mumbled an apology and tried again. This time, my block managed to deflect Kass' attack, but only barely. The frustration was starting to mingle with a sliver of self-doubt.

  "Good try, Sparkle," Caleb offered, his voice devoid of judgment but enough to pull me back from the brink of despair. "We all start somewhere."

  Sparkle.

  The word echoed in my mind, not for the first time that day. Every time Caleb addressed me during training, the nickname sent a jolt through me. Initially, it had been pure annoyance – a glittery reminder of our disastrous first encounter with Finn's "revolutionary" weapon.

  But as the afternoon wore on, the sting of humiliation began to dull, replaced by something else entirely. There was a teasing edge to Caleb's voice, a hint of amusement that sent a playful prickle down my spine.

  The nickname, though annoying, held a surprising intimacy. It was a marker of sorts, a sign that we weren't just strangers thrown together by rebellion. We shared a moment of absurdity, a moment that, despite its disastrous outcome, felt strangely… humanizing.

  As the training progressed, and I started hitting my targets with increasing accuracy, a different interpretation of the nickname began to take root. Maybe it wasn't just a jab. Maybe, in his own gruff way, Caleb was acknowledging my growing skill. Maybe "Sparkle" was a nod to the fire in my eyes, a hidden spark that wouldn't be extinguished.

  The thought sent a heat radiating through me that had nothing to do with exertion. Every time he addressed me, it felt like a challenge – prove that you're not all glitter and rebellion, Kira. Prove that you have the steel to stand alongside me, to fight for what you believe in.

  Every time Caleb brushed past me, offering a quick correction or a word of advice, the air crackled with something more than just the exertion of training. Perhaps it was just my imagination, fueled by the lingering frustration and the undeniable physical closeness. Or perhaps, there was a flicker of something else in Caleb's gaze, a hint of amusement that sent a shiver down my spine.

  During one particularly challenging maneuver, I stumbled, losing my balance. A strong hand gripped my arm, yanking me upright before I could hit the ground. Caleb stood impossibly close, his chest brushing against mine as he steadied me. His gaze held mine for a beat longer than necessary, a spark of something unreadable in his eyes. My breath hitched in my throat, and for a moment, the rhythmic clang of practice weapons faded away. All that remained was the warmth of his hand on my arm and the intensity of his gaze, a silent question hanging heavy in the air.

  Then, just as abruptly as it began, the moment shattered. Caleb released his grip, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Careful there. We don't want any unnecessary injuries before we even get to the good stuff, do we?"

  Heat flooded my cheeks as he winked, the amusement in his eyes both infuriating and strangely... magnetic. Flustered, I mumbled something about needing more practice and lunged at Kass, channeling my frustration and confusion into a flurry of (admittedly sloppy) attacks.

  Every successful block, every deflected strike, felt like a victory, not just over Kass, but over the flustered mess Caleb's nearness seemed to turn me into. Yet, with each brush of his hand on mine during corrections, with each murmured word of encouragement delivered a breath away from my ear, the question lingered – was he deliberately blurring the lines, or was I simply imagining things in the throes of exhaustion and newfound physical exertion?

  Sweat beaded on my forehead, dripping down my temple and stinging my eye. My muscles screamed in protest as I parried another strike from Caleb’s wooden sword, the clatter echoing in the courtyard.

  Suddenly, he materialized right beside me, a blur of movement. Before I could react, his wooden blade was inches from my throat. My breath hitched, and a shiver ran down my spine, not entirely from the near miss.

  "Silence is your weapon, shadow your shield," he whispered in my ear, his voice a low rumble that sent a delicious tremor through me. He was close, impossibly close. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, smell the faint, earthy scent of his sweat.

  The sudden awareness of him, the intimacy of the moment, made my concentration falter.

  "Strike like a viper, disappear like smoke," he finished, his voice softer still, a touch playful.

  I mumbled a curse under my breath and lunged, fueled by a mix of adrenaline and flustered embarrassment. The wooden blades clashed, the rhythmic thwack echoing once more.

  This was supposed to be simple training, honing my reflexes and sharpening my senses. But with Caleb this close, whispering secrets of combat in my ear, it felt like something entirely different.

  At the end of the session, I was a tangled mess of sweat, newfound confidence, and a simmering confusion that left a knot of tension in my stomach.

  As I cleaned my sweat-slicked practice sword, I stole a glance at Caleb, who was now deep in conversation with Marcus. His usual stoicism seemed a facade, replaced by a hint of amusement that mirrored the one he'd thrown my way earlier.

  Absentmindedly, he began twirling a dagger between his fingers, his movements a blur as he executed intricate spins and flourishes. I watched, mesmerized, as the weapon danced a deadly tango in his capable hands.

  My gaze drifted from the glinting metal to Caleb himself. Sweat traced a path down his temple, his dark hair plastered against his forehead. My traitorous body focused on the way his muscles rippled beneath his tunic, on the way his hand would look, not twirling a dagger, but tracing heated patterns on my bare skin.

  A choked sound escaped my lips, and I quickly looked away, feeling a flush creep up my cheeks. Caleb stopped his display, his gaze sharpening as he caught me staring.

  "Lost in thought, are we, Kira?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

  The way he said my name, the way he looked at me... I shook my head, trying to clear the confusing thoughts. "Just making sure you weren't a one-trick pony. All flash and no fight," I said, forcing a smile.

  A slow smile spread across Caleb's face. "There's plenty more where that came from," he teased, winking at me.

  The unexpected gesture sent a shiver down my spine.

  "You're dismissed. Get some rest."

  Was he… flirting with me?

  Was I being ridiculous? Surely, a hardened leader like Caleb wouldn't be interested in a greenhorn like me, especially not with a rebellion brewing on the horizon. Yet, the way his gaze lingered on me a beat too long, the way his touch seemed to linger just a fraction of a second more than necessary – it all fueled a spark of something unexpected within me.

  Maybe there was something more to Caleb than just gruff leadership and a hidden past. Maybe, amidst the rebellion and the training, a different kind of battle was brewing – a battle for hearts, a battle that left me both terrified and strangely exhilarated.

  And for the first time, the nickname didn't sting. It felt like a badge of honor, a silent recognition of the fire that burned within me. A fire that, maybe, just maybe, Caleb had helped to ignite.

  The next day, Caleb announced a shift in training. No more clanging metal or the weight of armor. Instead, we were to dress light and agile. A prickle of curiosity ran down my spine. What did he have in mind?

  The answer came in the form of worn practice mats and quick hand movements. Today's lesson: pressure points. Caleb began demonstrating on a makeshift dummy. He spoke of arteries, of meridians, of how a single well-placed strike could fell the strongest opponent.

  He turned towards us, a steely glint in his eyes. "Alright," he said, his voice a low rumble, "who wants to volunteer?"

  A tense silence stretched between Kass and me. Caleb's lips curved into a faint smile. He gestured for me to step forward.

  He placed a hand on my shoulder, anchoring me as he began to point out the pressure points on my body – the base of my skull, the hollow of my throat. Each touch sent a jolt through me, the brush of his fingers across my bare arm igniting a blush that crept up my neck. Was it the cool morning air, or the intensity of his gaze that seemed to linger a beat too long?

  He moved on, demonstrating the lethal strike points, his voice a low murmur as he brushed the side of my neck, his hand trailing down my arm to grip the wrist with surprising gentleness. The demonstration felt strangely intimate, the lesson blurring with a confusing mix of pain and pleasure at the contact.

  By the time he finished, I was a flustered mess. My cheeks burned, and I was certain he could hear the frantic hammering of my heart.

  "Alright, Kira," he said, his voice tinged with amusement, "think you can handle it?"

  I swallowed, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I think so," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

  Caleb's lips quirked into a smirk. "Alright then. Let's see what you learned. Your turn to demonstrate."

  My confidence, shaky at best, took a nosedive. But with Caleb's eyes on me, I straightened my spine and turned towards Kass. She, ever the braggart, puffed out her chest and adopted a cocky stance. "Hit me," she challenged.

  Taking a deep breath, I mirrored Caleb's movements from earlier, my fingers brushing along the pressure point at the base of her neck. A flicker of surprise crossed Kass's face, then her eyes widened. Before she could even react, I pressed down with a firm jab.

  A strangled yelp escaped her lips as her knees buckled. She crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath.

  "Okay, okay, I get it! You don’t have to murder me!" she wheezed, tapping out in defeat.

  I stared at her, surprised by how effective it was. Disarming someone seemed almost too easy with this knowledge.

  A satisfied smile bloomed on Caleb's face. "See, Kira," he said, his voice low and purposeful. "Knowledge is sometimes a far greater weapon than brute force."

  His words echoed in my head, a powerful truth settling in my gut. Maybe there was more to combat than just swinging a sword around like a maniac. Maybe these lessons would actually keep me alive someday.

  The next day’s lesson? Zilara's pride and joy, apparently: a brutal-looking combat technique that involved a lot of twisting your opponent's arm at unnatural angles.

  "Alright, one more time!" Caleb boomed, his voice surprisingly light despite the intensity of the training. He gestured between Kass and me. "You two fight, winner gets a break. Loser gets to explain the finer points of Zilaran hospitality to my boots."

  Kass grinned, a glint of challenge in her eyes. Zilaran hospitality, or lack thereof, seemed to be a running joke between them. I, on the other hand, wasn't so keen on the prospect of boot-related explanations. Stepping forward, I squared my shoulders, trying to project an air of confidence despite the knot of apprehension in my stomach.

  Caleb launched into a quick refresher on the moves, his hands gesturing sharply as he spoke.

  Zilara, his home country, was a place shrouded in mystery for most of us. All I knew was what Caleb occasionally let slip: a land of harsh beauty and even harsher people, especially the men. The fighting style we were learning reflected that image perfectly – efficient, ruthless, and unforgiving.

  The next few days were a whirlwind of lunges, blocks, and the ever-present threat of a disarmed arm hanging uselessly at your side. We trained until our muscles screamed and our limbs felt like lead.

  But the real shift came in the strategy room. Caleb, usually jovial during training, became serious, his face etched with a grim concentration as he began explaining interrogation techniques. His voice took on a low, chilling tone as he detailed methods of extracting information, some so brutal they sent shivers down my spine.

  Torture.

  "These are the tools they use," he said, his gaze lingering on each of us. "The Khae’lons, those Zilaran border-sniffers." He spat the name, a flicker of anger crossing his features. "They're damn good at it, wouldn't be surprised if they invented half of this stuff." He gestured to a jagged scar that ran along the side of his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt collar. "Souvenir from my last encounter with them."

  The casual way he mentioned it sent a jolt through me. Suddenly, the Zilaran fighting style didn't just seem brutal – it felt necessary. If that's what awaited us if we were captured, learning to defend ourselves wasn't just about winning a fight – it was about survival.

  Thankfully, the mood shifted again as Caleb launched into a different aspect of warfare – strategy. Relief washed over me, even as he started sketching complex formations on parchment with a flourish. Gone was the grim intensity, replaced by his usual animated energy.

  "Zilarans fight like a pack of wolves," he explained, tracing a circular formation with his finger. "Every soldier watches each other's backs, anticipates each other's moves. You're a unit, a single organism on the battlefield."

  He spent hours drilling different formations into us, barking commands and correcting our missteps. We practiced responding to mock charges, flanking maneuvers, and simulated breaches in our defenses. Slowly, the chaos of individual techniques began to coalesce into a cohesive strategy, a dance of offense and defense where every soldier played a crucial role.

  "Caleb," I interjected, "those formations you showed us… some of them seem familiar. I read about them in a book, something about the royal sympathizers in Zilara?"

  Caleb paused, his movements slowing. A flicker of surprise crossed his features, then a wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

  "Sharp memory, I see," he said, setting down his sword. "You're right. Those tactics were once quite popular among… those who weren't exactly fans of the current regime."

  He gestured for us to sit. "Alaric, he… let's just say his rise to power wasn't exactly peaceful. Zilara was once an independent kingdom, fiercely proud. Then the king's forces swept in, and…" he trailed off, a muscle in his jaw clenching for a brief moment.

  "That's why you left, isn't it?" I asked softly, piecing things together.

  Caleb sighed, a deep rumble in his chest. "Among other things," he said, his gaze fixed on a distant point.

  "The king's brutality… it wasn't something I could stomach. So I left, taking my skills elsewhere."

  "How old were you when you left?" I blurted out suddenly, the question tumbling out before I could stop it.

  Caleb paused, seemingly surprised by the question. He looked at me for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought. "I had just turned eighteen," he said finally, his voice a low murmur.

  Eighteen. A lifetime ago, and yet... Seven years. Seven years without a home, without his family. Seven years bearing the burden of a rebellion on his young shoulders. My heart ached for him.

  A heavy silence descended between us. The weight of Caleb's past, the buried pain and anger, hung in the air. The Zilara he spoke of, the one that valued loyalty and independence, felt a world away from the harsh reality he'd described.

  The silence stretched, growing heavy with unspoken emotions. Stealing a glance at Kass, I saw a similar realization dawning on her face.

  "Alright," Caleb finally said, his voice gruff, "that's enough for today. Get some rest, you'll need it." He gave us a curt nod, his gaze distant once more.

  Knowing it was best to leave him to his thoughts, Kass and I rose in unison. "Thanks, Caleb," I mumbled, the weight of the conversation settling on my shoulders.

  He offered a ghost of a smile, not quite reaching his eyes. "Don't mention it," he muttered, his attention already drifting back to some unseen point in the distance.

  With a final hesitant glance, Kass and I slipped out of the strategy room, leaving Caleb alone with his ghosts. The heavy oak door shut behind us with a soft thud, muffling the sounds from within.

  A sliver of rose gold light cracked through the grime-caked window the next morning, slicing a thin line across the dusty floorboards. The exhaustion of yesterday's training clung to me like a second skin, pulling me down into the comfort of my mattress. I cracked open an eye, squinting at the unfamiliar surroundings. It took a moment to register the rhythmic whoosh of movement across the room.

  Kass.

  My gaze flicked over to her form, a silhouette bathed in the growing pre-dawn light. To my surprise, she wasn't slumped over in exhaustion like myself. Instead, she moved with a surprising grace, her body a blur as she repeated the footwork Caleb had drilled into us the day before. Each step landed with a soft thud, each pivot executed with a certain sharpness.

  A grudging respect bloomed in my chest. Kass, all blunt practicality and calloused hands, had a natural talent I couldn't deny. There was a raw strength simmering beneath the surface, a warrior's instinct honed by years of physical labor. I watched, a touch of envy prickling my scholarly pride. Maybe I had the knowledge, but Kass possessed a raw power I could only dream of.

  As I continued to observe, Kass finished the sequence with a flourish, a single, fierce punch aimed at an invisible enemy. She spun on her heel, catching the sliver of light slicing through the window. A ghost of a smile played on her lips as she turned towards me.

  "Well, sleepyhead," she said, her voice husky with sleep but laced with amusement. "You better get up. It's time for training."

  I stretched dramatically, letting out a groan that was half playful, half genuine. "Some of us need our beauty sleep, you know."

  Kass snorted. "Sure, because all that dirt and sweat yesterday screamed 'sleeping beauty.'"

  I grinned, the familiar banter a welcome normalcy after the heavy emotions of the day before. Sitting up, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the ache in my muscles a dull throb.

  "Alright, alright," I conceded. "Let's see what today brings. Maybe he'll finally teach us something useful, like how to wield a sword that doesn't feel like it weighs a ton."

  Kass chuckled. "Maybe. Or maybe he'll make us run laps until our lungs explode. Who knows?"

  Breakfast was a quiet affair, punctuated only by the rhythmic scrape of utensils against bowls. We'd already inquired about the day's training schedule, and Marcus' response had been curt. "There's no training today. Caleb left before dawn on some urgent business. Said he wouldn't be back for a few days."

  (Kira, in the back, muttering: Absolutely not!)