The days passed in a blur of bruises, sweat, and exhaustion. Every morning, before the sun had even crested the horizon, Nyra found herself standing in the training grounds, the wooden sword heavy in her hands, waiting for Braxton. He never gave her the luxury of rest or praise. For every move she learned, every small success, he demanded more.
And Nyra gave it.
She rose before dawn each day, trained until her arms shook and her legs threatened to give out, and then slipped back into the life of a thief by nightfall. It was a delicate balance—one that left her with little time to think or breathe—but Nyra thrived on the intensity. The bruises and cuts she earned during training were nothing compared to the hunger gnawing at her insides. She had tasted a kind of power she had never known before, and she wanted more.
But even as she grew stronger, there were moments when the weight of it all threatened to overwhelm her.
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"You're still too slow," Braxton growled, his voice sharp in the predawn chill. His sword, a real one this time, flashed in the faint light as it clanged against Nyra's wooden practice blade. The impact rattled her bones, sending a jolt of pain through her arms, but she held her ground.
Sweat dripped from her brow, stinging her eyes. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts, the taste of iron in the back of her throat. But she didn't falter.
"Come on," Braxton barked. "You think you can be a warrior? You think you're ready for the sword? Then prove it."
Nyra swung at him, her movements sharp and precise—just as he had taught her. But Braxton parried easily, his face set in a hard line. He wasn't holding back anymore. Every strike he threw at her was meant to test, to challenge, and sometimes to hurt. He never drew blood, but the bruises along her arms and legs were dark, aching reminders that this was no game.
He lunged at her again, faster than she expected, and she barely managed to dodge. His sword sliced through the air, missing her by a hair's breadth. Nyra stumbled back, her heart pounding in her ears.
"Focus!" Braxton barked, his voice like a whip. "You're thinking too much. A real fight doesn't give you time to think. You move, or you die."
Nyra swallowed hard, gripping the practice sword tighter. She could feel the muscles in her arms trembling, the exhaustion weighing down her limbs. But she pushed it aside, steeling herself for the next assault.
Braxton came at her again, his strikes fast and unrelenting. For a moment, it was all she could do to keep up, her blade flashing as she blocked each blow by instinct. But just as she thought she might hold her own, Braxton switched his stance, his movements suddenly unpredictable. He struck low, his sword catching her in the ribs before she had a chance to react.
Nyra gasped as pain shot through her side, and her grip on the sword faltered. She staggered back, clutching her side, her breath coming in ragged bursts.
Braxton lowered his sword, his eyes narrowing as he watched her struggle to stay upright. "Get up," he said, his voice cold. "You can't stop every time you get hurt."
Nyra's chest heaved with the effort to breathe, but she didn't fall. She clenched her teeth and forced herself to straighten, ignoring the pain radiating from her side.
"I'm not stopping," she said, her voice tight with the effort to hold back a groan. "I'm ready."
Braxton's expression softened, but only for a moment. "Pain isn't something you fight through, Nyra. It's something you learn to live with. Because it's never going away. Not in battle. Not in life."
Nyra met his gaze, the weight of his words sinking in. She knew he was right. Pain wasn't a temporary obstacle—it was part of the path she had chosen.
And she wasn't going to let it stop her.
That evening, Nyra limped back to the cramped room she shared with Saris, her body aching with the day's bruises. Saris was already there, sitting by the window with a tattered blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her sharp eyes watching the city below with quiet intensity.
"You look worse than usual," Saris said dryly as Nyra collapsed onto the floor, letting out a long, exhausted breath. "The guards catch you this time?"
Nyra shook her head, her eyes closed as she stretched out on the rough floor, wincing as the pain in her side flared. "No guards. Just training."
Saris snorted, her lips curling into a smirk. "Training for what, exactly? You planning on joining the city watch? Or is this just some new way of getting yourself killed?"
Nyra didn't answer right away, too tired to argue. But when she finally opened her eyes, she met Saris's gaze with a quiet defiance. "I'm learning to fight," she said simply. "That's all."
Saris's smirk faded, her expression growing serious. "And what's that supposed to get you, eh? You think learning to swing a sword's going to change things? You'll still be a street rat, Nyra. Sword or no sword."
Nyra sat up, her eyes narrowing. "Maybe," she said, her voice low. "But I'm not going to die a street rat."
Saris stared at her for a long moment, her face unreadable. Then, with a heavy sigh, she turned back to the window. "Suit yourself," she muttered. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
Nyra lay back down, her heart heavy. She knew Saris didn't understand. How could she? The old thief had spent her whole life in the shadows, content to survive on scraps and stolen coin. She didn't see the possibilities that Nyra saw. She didn't understand the hunger for something more.
But Nyra did. And every day, as she trained with Braxton, that hunger only grew.
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A week later, Braxton changed the routine.
Instead of the usual morning drills, he led Nyra away from the training grounds and out of the city, taking her through the narrow streets, past the markets and taverns, until they reached the cliffs overlooking the ocean. The air was crisp and salty, the roar of the waves below filling the silence as they walked.
Nyra had never been to this part of Halthor. The cliffs were far from the crowded, dirty streets where she had grown up—far from the world she knew.
Braxton stopped at the edge of the cliffs, his back to the sea. He looked out at the horizon for a long time before speaking.
"Tell me," he said, his voice quiet. "Why do you really want to learn the sword?"
Nyra frowned, taken aback by the sudden question. "I've already told you," she said. "I want power. I want to be strong."
Braxton shook his head, his eyes still on the horizon. "Power is a means, not an end. And strength—real strength—doesn't come from a sword. It comes from knowing why you're fighting."
Nyra hesitated, unsure how to answer. She had always thought the answer was simple: she wanted to fight so she wouldn't be powerless. But as she stood there, listening to the waves crash against the cliffs, she realized that Braxton was asking for something deeper.
"I fight because I don't want to be controlled," she said finally, her voice quiet. "I've spent my whole life in the shadows, doing what I had to do to survive. But I'm tired of just surviving. I want more."
Braxton turned to look at her, his expression thoughtful. "More. That's what you want?"
Nyra met his gaze, her chin lifting slightly. "Yes. More than this."
Braxton studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "All right. Then I'll show you what 'more' looks like."
He gestured for her to follow, and Nyra did, her curiosity piqued. They walked along the cliffs, the wind tugging at their clothes, until they reached a small clearing hidden by a copse of trees. There, standing in the middle of the clearing, was a set of targets—simple wooden dummies, worn from years of use.
Braxton drew his sword and stepped forward, positioning himself in front of one of the dummies. "Watch," he said.
Nyra watched closely as Braxton moved. His sword flashed in the morning light, cutting through the air with precision and grace. Each strike was deliberate, controlled, and devastating. In seconds, the wooden dummy was reduced to splinters.
He turned to Nyra, his sword still in hand. "This is what real strength looks like. It's not about swinging wildly or throwing yourself into a fight without thinking. It's about control. Discipline. Every strike has a purpose. Every movement is calculated."
Nyra stared at the remains of the dummy, her heart racing. She had never seen anyone fight like that—not with such skill, such precision. Braxton's movements had been like a dance, each step measured, each strike intentional.
"Your training so far has been about endurance," Braxton said, sheathing his sword. "Now, it's time to learn control. Discipline. Because without it, you're just a wild animal swinging a stick."
Nyra nodded, her pulse quickening with anticipation. She knew this was the next step. The bruises, the pain—those were just the beginning. Now, it was time to learn the true art of the sword.
As the weeks passed, Nyra's training with Braxton became more focused, more intense. He taught her not just how to fight, but how to think, how to read her opponent's movements, how to anticipate their next strike. Every lesson was a test, pushing her to the limits of her strength and skill.
But even as her abilities grew, Nyra found herself drifting further away from the life she had known. The nightly jobs she had once taken with Saris felt distant now, almost irrelevant. The thrill of stealing, of slipping through the shadows undetected, had lost its allure. She no longer wanted to be a thief. She wanted to be something more.
One night, after a particularly grueling training session, Nyra sat in her small room, staring at the worn leather coin pouch in her hand. It was filled with the night's earnings, the result of a quick job she had pulled off with Saris. But as she looked at the coins, she felt... nothing.
It wasn't enough anymore.
She tossed the pouch aside, her mind already turning to the next morning's lesson with Braxton. She wasn't a thief. Not anymore. She was something else, something new.
And she was only just beginning to understand what that meant.