The large door of the country flung open as Maya walked in with Sophia following behind her,
Sophia seemed really happy.
She wore a white tunic shirt paired with long, fitted pants, and a pair of black boots on her tiny legs. Her hair was braided into two, so as to prevent it from falling into her face. She smiled widely; this was the first day of her training, and she seemed really excited.
" Come on, Sophieee", Maya called out
Maya walked into the courtyard, which was now empty. She had on a matching brown tunic shirt and trousers, and boot. Her belt was fastened tightly to her waist, and on it hung her dagger sheath.
Sophie walked closely behind her, turning to look around the courtyard. There wasn't any one in the court, unlike the last time; it was just her and Maya. The arrangement looked different.
They walked towards a section of the courtyard in which there was a row of wooden implements.
As they got closer, Sophia stared at the row of wooden implements, the sharp scent of cedar and oiled oak rising from the table.
The morning mist still clung to the edges of the courtyard, dampening the stone flags beneath their feet.
"Whoa, what's all of that?" Sophia asked
" Well, one of them is going to be your proposed weapon"
" Which one?" Sophia asked; she had a really confused look on her face.
" Well, that's left for you to decide ", Maya replied.
"The mind wants to choose the largest, or the quickest," Maya continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper as she watched Sophie's hand hover over the weapons.
"But the body already knows its own rhythm. Listen to how you breathe when you look at them."
Sophie's fingers finally brushed against the smooth grain of the Boomerangs, their curved weight substantial and reassuring.
Yet, her gaze drifted immediately toward the long Staff, noting how its six-foot length seemed to command the entire space of the courtyard.
Then her hand gently brushed the sheathed, medium-length sword with a black hilt; her hand lingered on it a little while longer.
"Ah ", Sophie murmured, a rare, faint smile creasing the corners of her eyes.
"The conflict between precision and reach. You want the sharp focus of the blade, but your instinct fears letting the enemy get too close."
She picked up the staff and tossed it lightly from hand to hand, the wood making a clean, rushing sound through the damp air.
"If you take the blade, you commit to a line. You cut, or you are cut. If you take the long staff, you commit to a circle. You keep the world spinning around you, maintaining your boundaries."
She whirled the staff around and then.
CLICK
A blade had emerged from the edge of the staff.
Sophia Flinched.
"Do not let fear choose the staff just to keep danger away. And do not let pride choose the blade just to prove your bravery."
" I really don't know what to choose, Maya", Sophie said. Her face creased in confusion.
" Don't worry, you will get the hang of it"
" Let's train now, okay... with time you will get to choose the weapon that suits you best"
" Okay "
Sophia nodded.
"Catch." Maya threw a wooden sword over to Sophia.
Sophia caught it midair. She looked surprised.
" Great reflex," Maya called out.
" Now let's see how good your sparring is ", she continued as she ran towards Sophia, raising her wooden sword high.
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The afternoon sun baked the clearing, filtering through the olive branches in shafts of dusty gold. In the centre of the dirt ring, the only sound was the sharp, rhythmic clack-clack of wood striking against wood.
Maya stood with her feet planted firmly in the dust, her posture reflecting the hard-won discipline of a seasoned warrior. Though her tunic was frayed, she held her practice sword with absolute steadiness. Across from her, Sophia was a blur of motion. Her cheeks were flushed, her braided hair flying as she lunged forward, pouring all her strength into a heavy downward strike.
With a practised twist of her wrist, Maya deflected the blow, guiding Sophia's wooden blade harmlessly into the dirt.
"You fight with anger, Sophie," Maya said softly, her breath steady.
"Anger makes you heavy. In a real shield wall, a heavy sword is a slow death."
Sophia stumbled forward from the force of her missed strike, using her momentum to spin back into a defensive guard. She was breathing heavily, sweat stinging her eyes.
Maya stepped forward, deliberately leaving her left side exposed. Recognizing the opening, Sophia lunged, thrusting her wooden blade toward Maya's ribs.
But it was a trap.
Maya stepped lightly to the side, pivoted on her heel, and brought the flat of her wooden sword down in a swift, controlled tap against Sophia knuckles.
Sophia cried out, nearly dropping her weapon, and instinctively scrambled backwards.
"Your eyes followed my blade, so you missed my feet," Maya instructed, lowering her sword to point at the dust.
"Watch the shoulders. They will tell you where the strike is coming from long before the hand moves. Again."
Sophia swallowed her frustration, rubbing her smarting knuckles against her tunic. She took a deep breath, mimicking Maya's rooted stance, and raised her wooden sword. This time, the restlessness in her eyes was gone, replaced by a quiet, calculating focus.
The sting of the wood against her knuckles seemed to cool Sophia's blood, turning her frantic energy into a sharp, narrow focus. She shifted her weight, resetting her stance in the dirt just as Maya had taught her.
Maya nodded in approval and closed the distance, her wooden sword weaving a slow, hypnotic pattern in the air. She lunged—a straight, piercing thrust meant to test the girl's resolve.
Sophia didn't panic. Instead of watching the wooden blade, her eyes locked onto Eirene's right shoulder. She saw the muscle bunch, anticipated the trajectory, and sidestepped just in time.
With a sharp crack, Sophia brought her own wooden sword down, sweeping Maya's blade off course.
The opening was wide, perfect, and raw. Carried away by the thrill of her successful parry, Sophia smiled and surged forward to deliver the finishing blow.
But in her excitement, she committed the ultimate error: she leaned too far forward, overextending her stride and leaving her balance entirely behind her.
Maya's eyes flared with sudden intensity.
"Too eager," she muttered.
With the fluid grace of a striking viper, Maya used Sophia's own forward momentum against her. She stepped inside the arc of Sophia swing, the girl's wooden blade passing harmlessly over her shoulder. Before Sophia could recover her footing, Maya hooked her ankle behind Sophia's heel and drove the flat of her wooden sword hard into the girl's midsection.
The breath left Sophia in a sharp gasp as she hit the hard-baked earth, the dust billowing up around her.
Maya didn't give her a moment to recover. Moving with relentless, combat-honed speed, she pressed the advantage. Sophia scrambled backwards on her elbows, desperately trying to raise her weapon, but Maya's wooden sword rained down in a flurry of disciplined, stinging strikes.
THWACK.
A blow to Sophia's raised forearm.
THWACK
A sharp tap to her shoulder.
Finally, with a decisive sweep, Maya knocked the wooden sword from Sophia's grip.
The weapon clattered away onto the courtyard floor.
Sophia lay flat on her back, panting, her skin stinging and covered in grey dust. Maya stood over her, the tip of her wooden sword resting gently against the hollow of Sophia's throat, her breath barely hurried.
"You tasted victory for a single heartbeat, and you forgot the ground beneath your feet."
Maya said, her voice firm but entirely devoid of malice. She lowered the blade and offered a hand to the fallen girl.
"A dead enemy can still kill you if you walk into their dagger while celebrating."
Sophia lay tiredly on the floor as she looked up at Maya, who was towering above her, her hands stretched out in an attempt to help her up.
Sophia rolled her eyes as she stood up with Maya's help.
She really enjoyed sparring with Maya, but she hadn't seen Maya that intense before; this was the first time she had felt the intensity of a fight.
*************************************************************
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MEANWHILE FAR AWAY AN INTENSE MEETING WAS BEING HELD
The council chamber was cold, smelling of old parchment, stale tallow, and the sharp, metallic tang of dried blood brought in on the boots of the scouts. Five elders sat around the heavy slate table, the flickering torchlight carving deep shadows into the lines of their faces. Outside, the night was unsettlingly quiet, the usual chorus of cicadas entirely absent since the sky had torn open three days ago.
"It was not a simple raid," Elder Vane said, his voice breaking the heavy silence as he slammed a piece of blackened, twisted scale onto the stone.
"Humans do not leave tracks that melt the grass, and wolves do not hunt in perfect, silent formation. What came out of the valley was something entirely different."
Elder Miram, her hands trembling slightly as she poured a cup of bitter herbal tea, leaned forward.
"The scouts from the eastern watch-post are gone, Vane. Not dead—just gone. The wood of the watchtower wasn't chopped down; it was splintered from the inside out, as if whatever climbed it ignored the laws of weight and gravity."
"We are focusing on the wrong details," interrupted Elder Oakhaven, the oldest among them, his blind eyes milk-white in the dim light but fixed unerringly toward the centre of the table.
"You speak of claws and scales. I ask you about the air. Did you feel the pressure drop? Did you taste the copper on your tongues hours before the first scream?"
The room went still. They all had.
"The barrier is thinning," Elder Oakhaven continued, his hand resting heavily on his staff. "The training we have been giving the youths—the wooden staves, the forms, the rhythmic katas—it is no longer a preparation for a distant future. It is a rehearsal for a play that has already begun. We must accelerate the trials."
"They are children," Miram whispered, a fierce protective edge cutting through her fear. "If we throw them against things that bleed black ash, we are simply sending them to the slaughter."
"Then we teach them how to die with a weapon in their hands, or we watch them die cowering in their beds," Vane snapped, his face hardened by decades of border wars.
"There is no third path. The monsters from the recent anomaly were just the scouts. The horde follows the scent of fear."
The heaviest door at the back of the chamber creaked open, a young messenger standing out of breath in the threshold, his face pale as milk.
The elders turned as one.