That evening, Nyra made her way through the winding streets of Halthor, her steps light and quick. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the city was beginning to stir with the night's illicit activity. She was supposed to be meeting a contact for a job—something simple, a bit of coin to keep them afloat. But her feet carried her elsewhere.
Her path led her to the city's training grounds, where the guard's courtyard stretched wide and open, a stark contrast to the cramped, dirty streets surrounding it. Nyra crouched low behind a stack of crates, her eyes fixed on the figures within.
The guards were finishing their drills, their swords flashing under the torchlight. Sweat gleamed on their brows, their breaths coming heavy, but their movements were precise, fluid. Nyra watched, her heart thudding with a mix of envy and awe. They were powerful, disciplined—everything she wasn't, everything she wanted to be.
But tonight, something was different. There, at the edge of the training ground, stood a man she had never seen before. He was older, his hair streaked with gray, his face lined with age and experience. He wasn't dressed like a guard, but there was something about the way he stood, the way he watched the men with a critical eye, that marked him as a warrior.
Nyra felt a pull, an inexplicable urge to get closer, to see what this man was about. As the guards dispersed, she crept along the shadows, moving with the grace of a cat until she was just a few feet away.
The man—Braxton—sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Sloppy," he muttered, his voice carrying in the still air. "No discipline, no fire."
Nyra's curiosity got the better of her. "What's wrong with them?"
Braxton's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he searched the shadows. Nyra felt a thrill of fear and excitement. She hadn't meant to speak out loud, but it was too late now.
"Who's there?" Braxton demanded, his hand dropping to the hilt of the sword at his side.
Nyra stepped forward, her heart pounding. "Just a thief," she said, trying to sound casual. "Don't mind me."
Braxton's eyes fixed on her, and she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. He looked her up and down, taking in her ragged clothes, her thin frame, the defiant tilt of her chin. After a long moment, he snorted and shook his head.
"You've got guts, I'll give you that," he said. "Most people wouldn't approach a stranger with a sword, especially not in this part of the city."
Nyra shrugged, trying to ignore the way her palms were sweating. "I've seen worse."
"I'm sure you have," Braxton replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But tell me, thief, why are you here? What do you want?"
Nyra hesitated. What did she want? To learn? To fight? To be something more than what she was? The words tangled in her throat, and for once, she couldn't find the right ones to say.
Instead, she just looked at the sword hanging at his side. "I want to learn that," she said finally, her voice quiet but steady. "I want to know how to fight."
Braxton's eyes flicked to his sword, then back to her. He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "You think it's that simple? This isn't a game, girl. A sword's not something you just pick up because you're curious. It's blood and pain and death."
"I know," Nyra said, lifting her chin. "But I'm not afraid."
Braxton stared at her for a long time, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "You're persistent, I'll give you that. But I'm not in the business of teaching little girls how to get themselves killed."
"I'm not a little girl," Nyra shot back, her voice sharp. "And I'm not asking for charity. I'm offering to pay."