"Then this bloody monkey smirks at me—like, genuinely smirks. I swear on the gods, it mocked me."
Tarrin leaned forward, animated. "So I did the only logical thing and tied it to a tree. With a chain. Like some wild bedtime story gone sideways."
He glanced at Celith, waiting for a reaction.
Blank stare.
But beneath the frost, something in her gaze had softened—just barely.
"Where exactly are we going?" he asked, eyebrows raised as his bravado gave way to genuine confusion.
"We're almost there," she replied, voice flat, offering exactly nothing.
Tarrin sighed. "When you say 'almost there,' do you mean Jayden-almost there, or actual almost?" He chuckled, a flicker of Spire-light reflecting in his eyes.
Celith didn't even blink. "We are here."
Tarrin slowed to a stop. Before them stood… a building. If it could still be called that.
Cracked walls, faded paint, and tech-vines choking the corners—it looked like it had been abandoned since before he was born.
He squinted. "So… am I supposed to be shocked by a structure that looks like it's one drone away from collapse?"
Celith gave him a side-eye sharp enough to slice skin. "It's an old training facility. Not many people use it. I got special clearance."
Tarrin raised an eyebrow. "Elite clan perks, I presume?"
She said nothing.
But the silence? That was answer enough.
They stepped inside moments later. The hall wasn't large—maybe mid-sized at best—but it had the feel of a place that had seen wars.
Worn dummies lined one side, the padding torn in spots.
Sword racks stood neatly arranged, though many of the blades bore the nicks of heavy use.
Tarrin took it all in, then grinned, swaggering over to one of the racks. He grabbed a training sword with a flourish.
"You ready to get beat?" he asked, flashing a smirk like it was a challenge and a promise rolled into one.
Celith said nothing, just plucked a sword from the rack with mechanical grace.
Her silence didn't faze him—in fact, it only made him smirk wider, like he'd already won a round without lifting a finger.
They squared off, eyes locked, stances low.
Tarrin tilted his head. "You know the Standard, right?"
Celith gave a single nod.
Tarrin's smirk turned into a full grin. He took a step closer, slipping into his signature business smile.
"And would you, perhaps, consider teaching me? I'll owe you—big time. Like, a favor so massive the gods will whisper about it. And on top of that…"
He leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming.
"I'll get you as many juices as your cold, elite heart desires. Mango. Grape. Whatever makes you smile on the inside."
A beat passed.
Celith stood motionless, unreadable as always. Then her gaze sharpened, and with all the gravity of a contract being signed in blood, she said, "Deal."
Tarrin's smirk became something smug.
'Knew the juices would do the trick.'
"Where do you want to start?" Celith asked, her eyes locking onto his with unnerving clarity.
Tarrin blinked. He had no idea. Sergeant Taylor had barely taught them the basics—just the Dawn Slash and not much else.
"Uh… whatever comes after the Dawn Slash, I guess?" he said, half-hoping it would at least have a cooler name.
"Eclipse Block," she replied, and there was something in her tone—just a flicker—that made his brow rise.
'Was that… excitement? Is she that eager to beat the crap out of me?'
"So, defense it is," he muttered, adjusting his grip on the training sword, watching her carefully.
Celith didn't waste words. She raised her blade slightly. "Come at me. Overhead strike."
Tarrin didn't need to be told twice. He rushed forward, raising the sword above his head, and swung down with all the force he could muster.
She moved like a snap of tension breaking. Her blade angled up, intercepting his strike with the flat of her sword.
Her off-hand slid to the base for support. The impact jarred through Tarrin's arms—he felt the tremor down to his ribs.
'Bloody hell. What do they feed this girl?'
"You see it?" she asked calmly, as if she hadn't just blocked a full-force swing like it was a light breeze.
Tarrin shook his head, still recovering. "Can you do it again? Just… without me trying to decapitate you? I was kinda busy swinging."
Celith nodded once. Then she moved into the stance again—precise, grounded.
Legs braced, blade ready, posture tight and deliberate. She looked like an immovable wall, carved from stone and instinct.
Tarrin tried to copy it. "Like this?"
She eyed him, then spoke. "Move your back leg farther. Bend your knees more."
He adjusted, but the moment he settled into the stance, Celith exploded forward.
No warning.
One breath she was still—next, her sword was a flash of steel arcing down from above.
Tarrin brought his blade up on reflex, but his arms buckled the instant they clashed. Her blade didn't stop.
It kept pressing down until it hovered inches from his shoulder.
"Dead," she said, flat as ice.
Tarrin shivered. The blade hovered a hair's breadth from his shoulder—too damn close for comfort.
"Did you eat a lot of beef as a kid?" he asked, voice strained, trying to mask the adrenaline with humor.
Celith blinked at him, confused.
"Come again," he said, shaking out his arms, confidence returning like an old friend. "This time I'll be ready."
She gave no reply, just nodded. That was warning enough.
Tarrin dropped into his stance again—feet grounded, arms steady, eyes locked on her.
She moved.
Steel shrieked as their blades met, and this time—this time—Tarrin held his ground. Her sword didn't push through. It trembled against his, halted inches above his head.
"Again," he said, breath short but steady.
She did.
Faster.
Harder.
Over and over.
Minutes turned to half an hour in the blur of motion and impact. Sweat dripped from his brow, muscles burned, but he didn't break. He adapted.
"Left," she warned, and her blade flashed toward his exposed side.
Tarrin twisted, stance shifting in a heartbeat. Legs braced, blade angled.
Clang.
The swords collided with a loud crack, but he only slid back an inch this time.
He grinned, eyes shining. "Told you—I'm getting better."
Celith stared at him for a beat. Then her expression cooled.
"Don't get cocky."
Before he could even react, her leg swept under his.
Tarrin's feet left the ground.
Tarrin slammed into the ground with a dull thud, breath rushing from his lungs. Stars blinked across his vision, but he rolled up like nothing happened, sword ready.
Celith raised a hand. "We're moving on."
Already her feet were shifting, blade angled—no room for discussion.
Still gasping, Tarrin straightened. "Alright. What's next, Madam?"
She gave him a look, as if debating whether to answer that with words or a sword. Then she spoke, voice as flat as ever. "Crescent Thrust."
Tarrin blinked. 'Seriously? Who names these things? Sounds like a bad cologne.'
"It's a forward stab," Celith said. "Low stance. Aim for the chest or throat. Watch closely."
She dropped into a crouch, weight coiled in her legs. Then—crack.
Her blade lunged forward like lightning, a blur of silver cutting the air. The tip buried into the dummy's neck with surgical precision.
'Fast... bloody fast.'
"Okay," Tarrin said, raising a brow. "Am I skewering the dummy, or are you volunteering?"
But mid-sentence, something shifted.
A cold ripple crawled over his skin. Not fear—instinct. Like something was watching from just beyond the edge of sight. His eyes scanned the empty room.
'...The wind?'
Celith's voice cut through his thoughts. "Practice on me. And pay attention to how I defend."
Tarrin nodded and stepped forward, boots pressing into the mat. He crouched, lowered his center, then shot forward in a clean thrust.
Her sword flicked—barely a motion—and his blade was knocked aside like a stick in a storm.
'Seriously unfair.'
Not missing a beat, he stepped back and launched a Dawn Slash. Blocked. Clean. Again.
Then, without warning, she lashed out. A stabbing strike aimed directly at his eye.
Panic hit like a wave. His head jerked sideways just in time, the tip of her blade slicing past his cheek.
But as the rush surged through him, he grinned.
He ducked low, springing forward with a tight crescent thrust aimed at her midsection.
Clang.
Parried. Again.
Celith countered with a horizontal sweep. Slower than before, clearly holding back.
Tarrin didn't care. He slipped beneath it, shoulder brushing the floor, and popped up in a flash. Another thrust, tighter, faster—straight for her chest.
She didn't block.
She sidestepped, smooth as flowing water, then brought her sword up in a rising arc.
The impact was brutal.
Steel met steel, and Tarrin's sword ripped from his hands, clattering across the floor with a shriek of metal.
He stared at his empty fingers.
"...Alright," he muttered. "That's just rude."
Across the city, in a dim and unremarkable bathroom, a young man scrubbed a toilet like it had insulted his bloodline.
Murder brewed in Felix Garner's eyes.
The son of Ferdinand Garner—executive director at Garment Tech and a man powerful enough to bend policy with a phone call—Felix was supposed to be the heir to a corporate empire.
Instead, here he was, elbow-deep in grime, a brush in one hand and rage in the other.
One thought looped in his mind like a curse.
'Why did she leave me for him?'
Every time her name surfaced, it dragged another one behind it.
Riko Darnell.
The bastard who stole her. The parasite who somehow outshone him.
'What does that bloody bastard have that I don't?'
He ground the bristles harder into the porcelain, lip curling.
Then—footsteps.
The door creaked open. Felix's head snapped up. Panic spiked. Without thinking, he slammed the stall shut, breath held.
'No one can see me like this.'
The footsteps slowed. Stopped. Right in front of his stall.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Then, a voice—deep, calm, and far too knowing.
"Felix Garner. Do you want revenge?"