The silver spires of Silverkeep shimmered against the morning sky as Elara walked its streets, cloak drawn close and thoughts louder than the city's hum. She wandered past familiar storefronts and cobbled alleys, past merchant stalls bursting with fruit and velvet and whispers.
But her eyes weren't on the wares.
They were on the guards.
In the courtyard near the barracks, soldiers trained in neat, disciplined rows—sparring, stretching, repeating forms in the soft rhythm of steel on steel. Some were older, hard-eyed veterans; others were green recruits, barely holding their balance as they lunged and parried.
Elara leaned against a sun-warmed pillar and watched them for what felt like hours.
Then, silently, she moved to a quieter corner of the courtyard's edge—just out of sight but not out of reach—and began to mimic them.
At first, it felt strange. Her body was stiff, unsure. But then… something shifted.
Her arms remembered the arc of a sword slash before her mind understood the movement. Her legs bent into the right stances with uncanny precision. Her balance adjusted without thought. It was like her muscles were whispering instructions her brain couldn't translate—like they knew.
She kept at it. Day after day.
While others laughed or rested, she trained—copying drills, mimicking footwork, striking at the air until her arms trembled and her sweat soaked her clothes.
Sometimes Fig watched, perched on a rooftop with a twig in his mouth. Other times he muttered "overachiever" and napped in a gutter.
A week passed this way. A week of aching limbs, bruised palms, stolen food, and sleepless nights spent repeating every movement over and over again beneath the moonlight.
And still… it wasn't enough.
As the second week approached its end, Elara found herself standing in an alley behind a smithy, hands on her knees, breath coming in ragged gasps. Her sword—a dulled practice blade she'd traded for bread—lay at her feet.
She wasn't ready.
No matter how well her body remembered, it wasn't hers yet. Instinct helped, but instinct didn't teach timing. It didn't prepare her for magic. Or cruelty. Or death.
She had the will. But not the edge.
Fig landed beside her and eyed her quietly for a moment. "You're burning the candle at both ends, starshine."
Elara straightened slowly, wiping sweat from her brow. "I have to."
"You will," he said. "But not like this. You're copying shadows."
She frowned. "Then what do I do?"
Fig tilted his head. "Find someone who remembers how to fight in the light."
Elara blinked. "A mentor?"
Fig shrugged. "Or an enemy with good manners. Either way, you need real resistance."
Elara's gaze turned northward, toward the towering cliffs beyond Silverkeep—where rumors said mercenaries trained, where blades met magic in real blood.
"I need more than a courtyard," she said.
"And fast," Fig muttered, flitting to her shoulder. "Your curse-wielding stalker isn't exactly on pause."
Elara looked down at the pendant around her neck. It pulsed once—soft, steady.
She nodded. "Then let's find someone who can break me down before he does."
The cliffs north of Silverkeep rose like jagged teeth against the sky, wind sweeping across their stony spines. The path was rough and mostly overgrown, used more by goats and wild spirits than travelers. Elara's boots were scuffed and her legs sore, but she pressed on—every step fueled by the fire coiled in her chest.
By nightfall, the wind had turned sharp and cold. Just as she was beginning to think she'd have to sleep beneath an overhang, she saw it—a faint wisp of smoke curling above a rocky outcrop.
She followed it and found a small hovel nestled against the cliffside, half-hidden by brambles and carved into the stone. The door was wooden and patched with metal plates, and beside it sat a small garden of herbs and—oddly—onions.
Before she could knock, the door creaked open.
"Well, you don't look like a goat," said an old man with a gray beard and a sharp gleam in his eyes. He wore a patched cloak and carried a stick that might have once been a spear. "You lost, girl?"
Elara straightened, breathless. "Not lost. Looking."
The man stepped aside and waved her in. "Then come in, and stop letting the cold in with you."
Inside, the hovel was warm and surprisingly neat. A small fire crackled in a stone hearth. Strange weapons hung on the walls—blades with odd curves, a bow taller than she was, a broken shield etched with runes.
The man handed her a cup of bitter-smelling tea and sat across from her.
"So," he said, "what is a tired-looking girl doing up in a place where nothing but wind and ghosts live?"
Elara met his gaze. "I want to train. I'm going to enter the Silverkeep Academy."
He raised a shaggy eyebrow. "You and every glory-hungry brat in the realm. Academy's a death pit with prettier floors."
"I have one week," Elara said calmly. "That's all the time I have."
The old man blinked.
Then he whistled.
"One week?" he repeated, chuckling. "Warriors train years to get through those gates. Lifetimes. You don't stroll in with a pretty face and a stick and hope for the best."
"I'm not hoping," Elara said. Her hand found the pendant at her throat. "I'm going to get in. I don't care what it costs."
The old man leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he studied her again—not like a lost girl, but something deeper. Something waiting to be broken or forged.
"You've got more fire than sense," he said at last.
"Then burn me into something stronger."
He grunted, almost a laugh. "You're serious."
"I'm already dead once," Elara said softly. "I'm not wasting what I have left."
The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Then the old man stood, surprisingly fast for his age.
"Fine. One week." He picked up a staff and tossed it to her. "If you're going to get torn apart at that academy, you'll do it swinging."
Elara caught the staff with both hands.
And smiled