Path to identity

I woke to the distant hum of the village, already moving, without me. Voices, the metronomic clink of hammers on iron, the whisper of merchants laying out their stalls — it all blended into a dull backdrop as I lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Every part of me ached. My ribs ached from yesterday's exertions, my arms were stiff from clutching a sword too tightly and my legs were lead. Breathing itself felt heavier, as if my body were trying to tell me just how much further I had left to go.

I made myself sit up, tossing back the flimsy blanket. The house was quiet, except for the occasional creak of wood adjusting to the morning sunshine. My mother was already gone. My father was… either asleep somewhere or still drinking from the night before.

I threw on my training clothes as soon as I could, winding the old, cracked belt around my waist. My leather bracers felt heavier on my wrists than they had yesterday, but the sensation was just more exhaustion mockery.

I needed to move. Lying still only increased the pain.

When I arrived, the training grounds were already buzzing. Trainees sparred in groups in the open field, instructors barking orders, the air thick with the sounds of wood hitting wood. An entire battlefield in its own right — a place where, could you hesitate, failure was guaranteed.

I lingered at the edge for a moment, stretching, watching. Trying to see where I was in the group.

Then, among the flowing movements of the field, my eyes landed—as they tend to do—on something…someone.

A woman.

She moved unlike anyone else.

Her skin had the warmth of sun-kissed bronze, a fazed, melting hue that made her seem like the very heart of battle itself. Her dark locks fell long, trailed flowing, shifting like silk with every flick and swirl. But it was her eyes — dark, deep, inscrutable — that really distinguished her. There was a quiet intensity in it, something unyielding, something pointed.

And the way she fought…

She wasn't swinging mindlessly like the others, wasn't playing to pound, or aggression. She didn't have to.

Each motion was fluid, each stride precise. A boy leapt at her, his wooden sword slicing through the air — but she wasn't there when it hit. She slipped past his reach, body flowing like water, unscathed. By the time he could react, she had already responded—as her dagger halted at a finger's breadth from his throat.

The battle was over before it even started.

An opponent sprang forward hoping to surprise her. He met the same fate.

She was untouchable.

Not because of sheer overpowering strength, but because she wouldn't let herself get caught.

She made the others seem slow, clumsy, it almost seemed unnatural. Like she was born into this world knowing precisely how to move, how to know just where to be.

The observers muttered to each other, some with admiration, some with exasperation. She barely acknowledged them.

And then, for the briefest of moments, her eyes turned to me.

A single glance.

Not long enough for any of this to matter. Not long enough for me to read whatever lived behind those dark eyes.

And she was gone, already headed toward her next fight.

I exhaled, my shoulders tense.

Today's training was going to be a long one.

I willed myself to look away, reminding myself that staring would not change anything. But watching would not make me any tougher.

But there was something in her presence that stayed with me, as I shifted my attention back to the task at hand.

The instructor announced pairings, his voice rising above the din on the field. My limbs still hurt, my ribs still throbbed, but none of that mattered. It was what I had come here to experience.

I put my teeth together and moved forward.

The first fight of the day was a boy named Coren — older than me, heavier, stronger. The type of opponent who I had battled yesterday.

The wooden sword was rigid in my grip as we faced off.

Coren grinned, changing his position. "See if you can last longer than the last time, will you?"

I didn't answer. There was no point.

The hand of the instructor shot up, then settled. "Begin."

Coren leaped straight in, without a second thought, without dipping a toe. He wanted this over and done with, fast.

His sword barely met mine in time to block, the force of his strike rattling my arms. He would not be stopped, relentless. I backpedaled, looking for space, but he provided none.

Another swing. I dodged, just, his wooden blade grazing my ribs. My body protested, but I didn't listen.

I needed to think.

Coren struggled with raw power, but he was predictable — his motions wide, forceful, dependent on overwhelming strength.

I had to be faster.

He took a swing at my shoulder. This time, I didn't block. So I stepped in instead, ducking under his arm, pivoting around his side—

And struck.

My sword tip stopped an inch from his ribs.

For an instant, neither of us did move.

Then the instructor clapped one time. "Point. Alarion."

A breath I hadn't known I was holding escaped my chest.

Coren stared down at my sword, shocked, and back up at me.

I steeled myself for rage, for anger, for frustration. But instead, he grinned. "Didn't see that coming."

He took a step back and shook his arms. "Let's go again."

I nodded, raising my sword.

This time, I was ready.

By the time the sun had risen higher in the sky, I'd fought five matches. Won three, lost two.

I could still feel every blow that I had failed to evade.

I was sweating as I sat at the foot of the training grounds, my aching limbs stretched out. My knuckles throbbed from gripping my sword too tightly, my ribs ached where a blow had landed too hard, but below it, there was something else —

Satisfaction.

I wasn't the strongest here. I wasn't the fastest.

But I was learning.

And that meant something.

I moved to my water skin and uncorked it when a voice behind me spoke.

"That last move wasn't bad."

I turned my head.

It was her.

She was only a few steps away, arms crossed, face inscrutable. Close up she was even more beautiful — black hair framing a strong jaw and catching the light, dark eyes sharp but peaceful.

For a second I thought she was talking to someone else.

Then she gave her head a slight tilt. "The way you walked into his strike. It was a risk, but it paid off."

I gulped, not knowing how to respond.

"Thanks," I said, my throat scratchy with fatigue.

She assessed me for one heartbeat longer before nodding. "Don't let it go to your head. You're still slow."

And with that she strode off.

I blinked at her retreating figure, unable to tell if I had just been complimented or insulted.

Probably both.

.....

By the end of training, my body felt as if it had been wrenched apart and reassembled incorrectly.

I was trudging home over the bumpy dirt roads when the sun began to dip. The village remained vibrant with the evening activity — blacksmiths completing their last orders, merchants closing up their stalls, the smell of roasted meat wafting from the tavern.

I tuned out all of that, too occupied with the throb of muscle.

By the time I got home, the sky had changed to dark blue, with only the last remnants of light seeing it through.

I opened the door and crossed the threshold.

The air inside was still.

Then I heard movement.

My mother was in the kitchen, her back to me, her hands moving over a small wooden table. For a moment, I thought she hadn't seen me.

She spoke then without turning.

"You're late."

Her voice was unreadable. Not angry. Not soft. Just… there.

I paused, not really knowing what to say. "Training ran long."

Silence.

Then, she turned.

Her gaze skimmed me, lingering at the way I clutched my ribs, at the bruises already blooming on my arms. Her expression didn't move, but something in her look did.

A flicker of something. Something other than anger.

She clicked her tongue and turned back to the table. "Sit."

I hesitated, but eventually did as I was told and lowered myself into one of the chairs. My limbs protested the movement that I made.

She placed a small bowl of stew in front of me; the smell of herbs and meat wafted up with the steam.

I stared at it.

She was sitting across from me, arms crossed. "Eat."

I picked up the spoon, my hand tense. The first taste dulled my tongue, but the heat sank into my chest.

She didn't say anything else.

Didn't ask about training. Didn't ask about the bruises.

But she stayed.

And for now, that was enough

The warmth of the stew penetrated my chest and rushed through my painful limbs. It was not the best meal — too much salt and the broth thinner than normal — but I ate without complaint.

My mother sat silently across from me, arms crossed as she rested on the table. The light of the candles trembled, drawing grotesque lines in the shadow of her face. Her expression, as usual, unreadable.

I didn't expect conversation. That was not how things went for us.

But a question about how she had noticed — about how she had stayed — unsettled uncomfortably in my mind.

I swallowed the last mouthful, put the spoon down quietly.

"…Thanks."

The word had a foreignness to it, a strangeness in my mouth.

She didn't react at first. Just sat there, her beady eyes spanning my face like she was looking for something.

Then finally, she scoffed, shaking her head. "Don't get used to it."

She rose and collected my empty bowl before I had time to push it away. Her back was to me again, the moment had passed.

But it had been something.

I pulled away from the table, muscles complaining as I rose. "I'm going to bed."

She didn't reply.

That was fine.

I climbed the narrow staircase with a leaden step. My room did not have much space; the walls were bare, the bed hardly more than a straw mattress. But as soon as I fell onto it, fatigue circled me like a vice.

Tomorrow, training would recommence.

Tomorrow, I'd have to prove myself anew.

But for now — if just for a moment — I let myself close my eyes.

...

I woke before the sun.

Not by choice.

A jolt of pain shot through my ribs as I moved, the bruises from yesterday's sparring lighting up. I bit my tongue, sitting up slowly.

The house was quiet except for the creaking of settling wood. My mother's door remained closed."

I exhaled slowly, rumpling my hair with one hand and then making myself get up. Every movement ached in my limbs, but I resisted.

Training couldn't afford to wait until I healed.

I dressed in haste, hastily donning my tattered tunic and binding a piece of cloth tightly around my ribs. It would help—somewhat.

Then, with one last look at the quiet house, I walked outside.

The air was crisp in the early morning; the streets of the village were mercifully empty save for a few merchants opening their stalls. Smoke curled lazily in the air as the smell of fresh baked bread and damp earth filled the air.

I adjusted the sword at my hip and walked to the training grounds.

When I showed up, a couple of folks were already there.

A few were stretching, shaking the sleep from their limbs. Others were sparring, the dull thwack of wooden swords resounding in the cool morning light across the field.

I shrugged my shoulders and let out a long breath.

Then, I saw her.

She was already training — alone.

She moved with a precision I had never seen before. Every strike of her dagger was measured, each footstep deliberate. Her movements were so fluid and effortless that she wove herself through an imaginary fight.

Like a dance.

Like breathing.

I watched, transfixed, as she moved forward into a strike — then contorted at the last moment, altering her balance, recalibrating.

Every motion was purposeful.

Every motion was perfect.

I'd seen good fighters in the past. I had seen knights and mercenaries practice.

But she was something else.

She wasn't just strong.

She was untouchable.

I had to force myself to close my eyes, to concentrate on my own training.

Sparring followed shortly, and I was matched with a boy I fought the previous day.

We circled one another, hesitant, both recalling yesterday's bruises.

I moved first.

A feint, then a genuine blow — too slowly. He covered, countering with a stiff jab to my ribs. I just got out of the way in time, stepping back.

We battled in silence, wooden swords clashing, feet shuffling over packed earth. With every exchange, my breathing came heavier, muscles screaming in protest.

But I pushed forward.

I lost.

Not badly, but I lost.

The referee called the match, giving a nod to either of us before moving along.

I gasped, wiping sweat from my forehead.

I needed to be better.

I needed to be stronger.

But when I looked up, there she was, watching me.

Not with amusement. Not with indifference.

Just… watching.

Then without a word, she was gone, back to training.

Hours passed.

On the whole my body was aching by the time we were done training, and felt like it had been thrown through a mincer.

The teacher released us, and the group trickled away, some sticking around to practice, others going home.

I pitched about for a second, rubbings my sore shoulders, prepared to turn away.

That's when I heard it.

A sharp, clipped voice. "You hesitate too much."

I stopped.

Turned.

She was standing a few steps away with arms crossed. Her black eyes were inscrutable, her demeanor relaxed but self-assured.

"…What?" "What?" I said, thrown by her abrupt words.

She cocked her head a little, looking me over. "In your fights. You hesitate. You think too much."

I frowned. "Thinking is how you win."

A scoff. "Not if it slows you down."

I stared at her.

She held my gaze without flinching.

Then, surprising me completely, she stepped forward and flung a wooden dagger at my feet.

"Pick it up," she said bluntly.

I hesitated — then complied. The wood was lighter than my sword, though the grip was different, to be sure, but solid.

She shrugged her shoulders and shifted her feet.

"Come at me."

I blinked. "What?"

She sighed, as if the answer were obvious to her. "You want to improve, right?"

I clenched my jaw. "Yeah."

"Then quit being hesitant and battle."

And there goes she moved.

Fast.

I just managed to raise my dagger in time when she closed the distance, her jab angling in a direction I hadn't planned for. I twisted, trying to counter, but she was already ahead.

I swung. She ducked.

I lunged. She sidestepped.

Every blow that I threw, she was gone before the hit came.

And then—

Pain.

Her wooden dagger was an inch from my throat.

I froze.

She didn't smirk. Didn't gloat.

Simply took a step back, lowered her weapon.

"You overthink," she said it again.

I swallowed hard.

She started to walk away — then she stopped.

"For what it's worth," she said, looking over her shoulder at me, "you're not bad."

Then she was gone.

And I was standing there, gasping, heart pounding in my rib cage.

I had battled tougher foes than this.

But never someone like her.

She was on a different level.

And I still had a long, long way to go