The sun had barely risen, casting a faint golden hue over the city of Halthor, when Nyra arrived at the training grounds. Her steps were heavier than usual, her mind still clouded with thoughts of the previous night. She had left Saris, left behind the only life she had known. The decision felt final—like cutting a thread that could never be rewoven.
But the weight in her chest wasn't just from leaving Saris. It was the kill. The man's face still haunted her, his blood still seemed to cling to her hands, no matter how many times she washed them. She had told Braxton about it, seeking some sort of release, but all she had found was the simple, hard truth: the sword meant death, and death meant weight. There was no escaping that.
Nyra gripped the practice sword tighter, her body aching from the emotional toll, but she forced herself to focus as Braxton moved in slow, deliberate motions, demonstrating the drill they had been working on for weeks.
"You're thinking too much again," Braxton said without looking up from his stance, his voice calm but firm. "Your mind is clouded. In battle, a clouded mind is a dead mind."
Nyra exhaled sharply, forcing herself to mimic his stance. "It's hard not to think," she muttered. "Especially after…"
Braxton glanced at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. "After the kill."
Nyra nodded, her throat tight.
Braxton sighed and lowered his sword. "I told you this wasn't easy, Nyra. The weight of it never goes away. But you need to stop letting it control you. That's the difference between a skilled fighter and a survivor. You either carry the weight, or it crushes you."
Nyra's jaw tightened. She understood the lesson, but it didn't make it easier to bear. "And what if it keeps coming back?"
Braxton met her gaze, his eyes hard. "Then you find out why you're fighting. Because if you don't know that, every death will haunt you."
For a while, they trained in silence. The rhythmic clash of wooden swords filled the air as Nyra tried to keep up with Braxton's fluid movements. She could feel the physical exhaustion setting in, her arms aching, her legs burning with every step. But the real weight was in her mind—the question Braxton had posed days ago still lingered.
Why was she fighting?
At first, it had been about survival. Then, it became about power—about no longer being powerless. But now, after her first kill, those reasons felt hollow. She needed something more, something greater to give her actions meaning. The sword was a tool, but what was she wielding it for?
Nyra broke the silence. "Braxton," she began, her voice low, "why do you fight?"
Braxton paused, his sword lowering slightly. He didn't answer right away, his gaze drifting toward the horizon as if searching for the answer there. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than usual. "I used to fight because it was the only thing I knew. It gave me purpose in a world where nothing made sense. But now…"
He trailed off, and Nyra frowned, sensing something deeper behind his words. "Now?"
Braxton glanced at her, his eyes shadowed with something she hadn't seen before. "Now, I fight because it's all I have left. But that's not a reason I want for you."
Nyra's breath caught. She could hear the pain in his voice, the regret buried beneath the years of experience. It made her wonder—who had Braxton been before this? What had he fought for in his past?
Before she could ask, Braxton's expression shifted back to its usual calm. "Come on. We're done with the drills for today."
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After training, Nyra and Braxton walked through the streets of Halthor. The city was waking up, the market stalls setting up for the day's trade, the sounds of horses and carts clattering along the cobblestone streets. Nyra kept her eyes on the people, the way they moved, the way they spoke in hushed tones.
There was something different in the air. Something tense.
Braxton noticed it too. His eyes narrowed as they passed a group of workers huddled together in an alleyway, their conversation urgent but low. "Things are shifting," he muttered, almost to himself.
Nyra glanced at him. "Shifting?"
Braxton didn't answer right away. His steps slowed, and he gestured for her to follow him down a quieter side street, away from the market. As they walked, he spoke, his voice low. "There's more going on in this city than just trade and thievery. People are unhappy—angry, even. They're tired of the Empire's rule. Tired of being stepped on."
Nyra frowned. She had always known the Empire was corrupt, but it had never been her problem. She was a thief, living in the cracks of the city, scraping by in the shadows. The Empire's grip was something she had learned to live with, not fight against. But now…
"They're talking about rebellion, aren't they?" Nyra asked.
Braxton nodded. "It's more than talk. It's starting to happen, in small ways. But it's disorganized, fractured. Without leadership, it'll be crushed before it begins."
Nyra's heart raced. Rebellion. The word sent a thrill through her—part excitement, part fear. She had never thought of herself as part of something larger, but now, with the sword in her hand and the memory of her kill still fresh, she wondered if this was the purpose she had been searching for.
"Have you… been involved in it?" she asked cautiously.
Braxton shook his head. "I've seen enough failed rebellions to know when one's about to collapse. And this one? It's not ready. They're too scattered, too divided."
"But what if they had someone to unite them?" Nyra's words came out before she could stop herself.
Braxton stopped walking and turned to face her, his eyes sharp. "And who would that be? You?"
Nyra's throat tightened. "No. I mean… not me. But someone."
Braxton studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Rebellions aren't just about fighting, Nyra. They're about strategy, leadership, and sacrifice. And right now, this city is full of people who want to fight but don't know how to lead."
Nyra said nothing, her mind racing. The idea of rebellion both thrilled and terrified her. She wasn't ready to lead anything, but she could see the cracks in the city, the way people looked over their shoulders, the way they whispered in the shadows. There was potential for something greater. Something bigger than herself.
Braxton sighed and shook his head. "Come on. There's something I want you to see."