The door to the rooftop creaked open, and Saris stepped out, her expression unreadable. She crossed the distance between them and leaned against the low stone wall, her sharp eyes scanning the streets below. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Finally, Saris broke the silence. "You've been up here for hours."
Nyra didn't respond. She didn't trust her voice, didn't trust the flood of emotions threatening to choke her.
Saris glanced at her, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "I know what's going through your head right now. You think you've done something terrible, don't you? Something unforgivable."
Nyra clenched her fists. "I killed him," she said, her voice hollow. "I didn't have to, but I—"
"Of course, you had to," Saris interrupted, her voice sharp. "Don't fool yourself into thinking you're better than the rest of us. That man would've killed you if you'd hesitated for even a second longer. The world doesn't care about your guilt, Nyra. It cares about survival."
Nyra's stomach twisted. "But he was... done. He wasn't a threat anymore."
Saris's eyes narrowed, her voice growing hard. "And what if he'd gotten back up? What if he'd come after us, tracked us down? You think men like that forget a face? You did what had to be done. Don't waste your energy feeling guilty about it."
Nyra said nothing, her mind racing. She wanted to believe Saris, wanted to accept that it had been a necessary act, but something inside her rebelled against it. The man had been wounded, disarmed. She could've left him alive. But she hadn't. She had chosen to end his life.
Saris watched her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighed and pushed away from the wall, walking toward the door.
"You'll get over it," she said quietly, her voice losing its usual sharpness. "We all do. One kill, ten kills, a hundred—they all blur together in the end. The world keeps spinning, whether you like it or not."
With that, Saris disappeared into the darkness, leaving Nyra alone once more.
The next morning, Nyra arrived at the training grounds as usual, but the weight in her chest hadn't lifted. She had barely slept, her mind too full of guilt and confusion, and her body felt sluggish and heavy. The warehouse felt like it was still clinging to her skin, a dark stain she couldn't wash away.
Braxton was already there, his sword flashing in the early light as he practiced his drills. Nyra watched him for a moment, mesmerized by the precision of his movements, the way his body moved in perfect harmony with the blade. He seemed so calm, so controlled—everything she wasn't.
When Braxton noticed her standing at the edge of the training grounds, he lowered his sword, frowning. "You're late."
Nyra nodded, but said nothing.
Braxton's sharp eyes took in her pale face, the exhaustion in her eyes, and he sighed, sheathing his sword. "What's going on?"
Nyra hesitated, unsure of how to explain the knot of emotions tangled inside her. Finally, she spoke, her voice low. "I killed someone last night."
Braxton's eyes flickered with surprise, but he said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
"I was on a job with Saris. There were guards, and one of them... I killed him." Nyra's voice shook slightly as she spoke, the memory of the man's face flashing in her mind. "I didn't want to, but I—he was going to kill me."
Braxton studied her in silence, his face unreadable.
"I thought I was ready," Nyra continued, her voice trembling. "You warned me that this would happen eventually, that the sword would mean death. But I didn't understand. I didn't realize how..."
"How heavy it would be?" Braxton finished for her.
Nyra nodded, her chest tightening. "It feels like there's something stuck inside me. Like I can't breathe. I keep seeing his face."
Braxton's expression softened, his usual sternness giving way to something more thoughtful. "It's never easy, Nyra," he said quietly. "No matter how many times you do it, no matter how much you tell yourself it was necessary, it never stops being heavy."
Nyra looked up at him, surprised. "You've killed before?"
Braxton nodded slowly, his gaze distant. "More times than I care to remember. On the battlefield, in alleyways, in taverns... it doesn't matter where it happens. Every time you take a life, it leaves a mark. Sometimes the mark fades. Sometimes it doesn't."
Nyra swallowed hard, her heart pounding. "How do you live with it?"
Braxton sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You learn to carry the weight. Some people bury it deep, try to forget. Others use it to drive themselves forward, to make sure the next kill isn't pointless. But it never goes away, Nyra. That's something you have to understand."
Nyra's chest tightened, the guilt pressing down on her. "I don't know if I can do it again."
Braxton studied her for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. "The question isn't whether you can do it again. The question is why you're doing it in the first place. If you kill without purpose, without understanding what you're fighting for, then it'll break you. But if you know what you're fighting for—if you believe in it—then you can carry the weight."
Nyra's breath caught in her throat. What was she fighting for? Up until now, it had all been about survival, about learning to be strong so she wouldn't be powerless. But now, after the kill, it felt like that wasn't enough. It felt hollow.
"I don't know why I'm fighting," Nyra admitted quietly. "I thought I did, but now I'm not sure."
Braxton nodded slowly. "That's something you'll have to figure out. The sword is a tool, Nyra. It's not a purpose in itself. If you don't know why you're holding it, it will destroy you."
Nyra swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking into her chest. She had wanted the sword for so long, had trained and fought for the power it gave her. But now, she wasn't sure if power was enough. She needed something more.
"Go home," Braxton said quietly, his voice gentle. "You're not ready to train today. Take some time to think."
Nyra nodded, too exhausted to argue. She turned and walked away, the weight in her chest pressing down harder with every step.
The walk back to the small room she shared with Saris felt longer than usual. The streets of Halthor, once familiar and comforting in their chaos, now seemed foreign and hostile. Every shadow felt like a threat, every passerby a potential danger.
By the time Nyra reached the door, her body was trembling with exhaustion. She pushed it open and stepped inside, the familiar musty smell of the room filling her lungs. Saris was there, sitting by the window with a cup of ale in her hand, her expression distant.
"You look like hell," Saris muttered, glancing at her over the rim of the cup.
Nyra didn't respond. She moved to the corner of the room and sat down on the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. Her mind was a storm of conflicting emotions—guilt, anger, confusion. The kill had shaken something loose inside her, something that wouldn't settle.
Saris watched her for a long moment, then sighed. "You're still hung up on last night, aren't you?"
Nyra nodded, her throat tight.
Saris shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You're too soft for this life, girl. You always have been."
Nyra's chest tightened at the words. Soft. Saris had always called her that, always needled her for being too gentle, too hesitant. And for a long time, Nyra had believed it—that she wasn't cut out for the hard, brutal life of a thief.
But now, as she sat there with the weight of her first kill pressing down on her, Nyra realized something.
She didn't want to be cut out for this life.
"I'm done," Nyra said quietly, her voice trembling.
Saris raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"I'm done," Nyra repeated, her voice stronger this time. "No more jobs. No more stealing. I'm finished."
Saris's eyes narrowed, her voice turning cold. "You think you can just walk away? You think you can run off and play swordswoman and leave everything behind?"
Nyra stood, her body shaking with the force of her emotions. "I'm not running. I'm moving on. I don't want to live in the shadows anymore."
Saris stood as well, her expression hardening. "You're a fool if you think you can escape this life, Nyra. You'll come crawling back. They always do."
Nyra clenched her fists, her voice trembling with anger. "Maybe I am a fool. But I'd rather be a fool than stay trapped here."
Saris's eyes blazed with anger, but she said nothing, her jaw clenched tightly.
Nyra turned and walked toward the door, her heart pounding. As she stepped out into the night, she didn't look back.
She knew there was no going back.
_____________________________________________
As Nyra made her way through the streets, her mind still swirling with emotions, she overheard snippets of conversation from the passersby.
"...did you hear about the crackdown?"
"...more guards posted near the merchant quarter."
"...Captain Idris, they say he's ruthless..."
Nyra's heart skipped a beat. Captain Idris. Saris had mentioned his name once and she had heard the name whispered in the streets aswell, but she hadn't paid much attention. But now, as she walked, she began to notice more and more people speaking of him—of the Empire tightening its grip on the city, of the brutal tactics the captain employed to root out dissent.
The Empire was watching. The Empire was growing more paranoid, more violent.
Nyra's chest tightened. She had always seen herself as separate from the larger political landscape of Halthor—just a thief, just a girl trying to survive. But now, as she heard the whispers of rebellion, of unrest, she realized that the world around her was shifting. And she was no longer content to stay in the shadows.
She had killed once. She didn't want to kill again. But if the Empire was truly as brutal as they said, then maybe her sword had a larger purpose. Maybe she could be more than just a thief, more than just a killer.
Maybe she could fight for something greater.