The sun bled slowly across the sky, staining the misty woods in bruised gold and gray.
I twisted my body midair, twin swords flashing, barely missing Sylas' smug face as he ducked. He laughed, that irritating, musical laugh that made me want to throw him across the training yard.
"Careful, princess," Sylas teased, flicking his fairy-forged blade against mine with a sharp clang. "I'd hate to explain to your future husband that you lost a hand before he even met you."
I scowled, lunging harder. "I'd hate to explain to your future corpse that sarcasm doesn't protect you from me."
Sylas grinned wider, as if my threats were a song he loved to hear. He moved like smoke — fast, clever, always just out of reach. I'd spent the last three years training under him, bleeding, cursing, breaking bone and pride, and still he acted like I was the one who needed protecting.
My swords crossed his with a furious clash, locking us together. For a breath, we stood still, blades grinding against each other, our faces inches apart.
"Good," Sylas murmured, voice low. "You're angry. Use it."
I shoved him back hard enough to send him staggering, and spun into a ready stance, breathing hard.
For a second, just a second, the sunlight caught on the twin blades in my hands and flashed bright — so bright it burned an image into my mind. A memory.
Blood. Screams. A dagger made by gods, dripping.
My mother's body crumpled at the throne's foot. My father's roar shaking the mountains. Betrayal, blood, death — all because they dared to love across bloodlines.
"Aurora," Sylas said softly, pulling me out of the storm in my head. "They're gone. They're gone, but you're not. Remember why you're here."
I blinked the vision away and reset my grip on the swords. My muscles screamed at me, but I forced myself to stand taller. Stronger. Unbreakable.
I was not born a monster. But the world had carved me into one anyway.
And sometimes, deep in the quiet between sword strikes and dreams, I hated it. Hated the hunger inside me. Hated the way my blood thrilled at the thought of vengeance.
But hate never stopped the blade from rising. It never softened the instincts bred into my bones.
"Again," I said through gritted teeth.
Sylas just smiled like the infuriating bastard he was and raised his sword.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought about him. The one I hadn't met yet. The one whose existence shaped every blade I learned to wield, every scar etched into my body.
Darian.
A name. A shadow. A fate I hadn't chosen.
And gods help anyone who tried to stand between me and the destiny my parents bled for.
"You're getting faster," Sylas said between strikes, his blade knocking mine aside with practiced ease. "Still reckless as hell, but faster."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I muttered, ducking under his next swing.
"You shouldn't," he said with a grin. "It just means you'll die quicker if you keep leading with your emotions."
"I'll keep that in mind while you're bleeding out," I shot back, managing to clip his side with the flat of my blade.
He hissed and stepped back, mock-offended. "Violence against your elders? Shameful."
"You're barely older than me."
"And yet infinitely wiser." Sylas winked. "Someone has to keep you from getting yourself killed before the big day."
I froze for half a second. The big day. The day everything I'd been molded for would begin. My twenty-first birthday. The day fate would finally crack open and spill whatever horrors it had been hiding.
Sylas noticed my hesitation and sighed, lowering his sword.
"It's close now," he said quietly, almost gently. "Are you ready?"
I swallowed hard. My hands tightened around my swords. Ready? I'd spent my entire life training, bleeding, surviving. I was as ready as I would ever be.
"I'm ready," I said, the words tasting like steel on my tongue.
Sylas gave me a look that was half pride, half sorrow.
"Good," he said. "Because once you step through that door, there's no coming back."
The wind picked up around us, carrying the scent of ash and old magic.
Somewhere beyond the trees, beyond the world I knew, destiny was stirring.
And it would not ask for mercy.