Ella was on her fifth round sparring against Gerald. Sweat drenched her neckline. Bruises were forming on her forearms where wooden blades had struck too fast to dodge.
Still, she didn't step back.
Each time she lunged, her strikes grew cleaner, more fluid—no longer just passion, but control.
"You're improving," Gerald muttered between blows.
Gerald: "But remember—speed is a double-edged sword."
Ella: "So's life."
Gerald: "Now you're learning."
—
Melinda practiced throwing needles into soft cloth dummies shaped like men. Her accuracy was terrifying. But Evelyn had told her not to just hit—to influence.
So Melinda dipped the tips of her needles into different vials—paralyzing powders, mild hallucinations, muscle relaxants.
She calculated everything: wind, trajectory, toxin impact time.
When her needle hit, the effect would follow.
"Nice aim," Lora commented, passing with her training sword.
Lora: "Remind me never to eat your cooking."
Melinda smiled sweetly. "Oh no, I only poison friends with dessert."
Lora laughed. The tension between them was slowly melting.
—
Claire was learning footwork—her limbs still unsure, her posture still unstable—but she didn't falter. Her determination had become a quiet rhythm. One-two. Step. Pivot. Fall. Get up.
Repeat.
Again.
She didn't complain.
She didn't give up.
Even Gerald, who had once seen her as the weakest among them, couldn't help but pause and nod in quiet respect at her relentless persistence.
Despite being the youngest among them—her determination was impressive. It was clear she wasn't one to give up easily, and that stubborn resolve set her apart from many others.
In that moment, Gerald recognized that strength wasn't just about raw power, but about the unyielding spirit beneath it.
—
"Switch stations!" Evelyn's voice rang out, crisp and commanding despite her age.
She circled the training grounds like a commander, eyes sharp and heart steel.
She was testing not just skill, but endurance.
Trust.
Unity.
And they were rising to meet it.
No longer six girls from scattered paths.
Now they moved with purpose, a single pulse, bound together.
When Lora stumbled, Ella's steady hand caught her arm.
When Lily's fire magic flared beyond control, they retreated as one—protecting, supporting, unwavering.
When Claire hesitated, Melinda encouraged her.
They were becoming shadows—not just of Evelyn, but of each other.
—
By sunset, the girls lay sprawled on the grass, bodies heavy with exhaustion, muscles aching and crying out for relief.
Evelyn stood before them, arms crossed, a quiet strength in her stance.
"You've improved," she said softly.
A few weary chuckles rippled through the group, mingled with breaths still ragged from effort.
She began to pace slowly among them.
Evelyn: "Today, you tasted what it means to fall—and to rise again. But know this: it is far from over. Each day ahead will challenge you more. Every skill you master is another brick laid in the fortress you're building. A fortress not just to shield me—but to protect one another."
She turned sharply, her gaze cutting through the fading light like a sharpened blade.
Evelyn: "You are no longer mere servants. You are becoming weapons."
The silence that followed was no longer heavy with doubt.
It brimmed with conviction.
They believed her.
And, more importantly—they believed in themselves.
After Evelyn Left...
The six girls finally sank onto the earth around the worn training hearth, the small fire flickering softly between them. Their bodies were spent—muscles trembling, breaths shallow and ragged. Sweat clung to their skin, and their faces glowed with the warm flush of exhaustion.
But amidst the fatigue, laughter spilled quietly, fragile as a tentative dawn—proof that even in hardship, there was still joy.
Cassy slumped back against the rough stone, letting out a long, weary sigh.
Cassy: "If I have to draw one more rune tomorrow, I swear I'll throw myself into the river."
Lora, her lips tugged into a reluctant smile, shook her head with a smirk.
Lora: "Still better than eating Melinda's biscuits."
Melinda's eyes twinkled with amused defiance.
Melinda: "Hey, you loved that last batch."
Lora: "Well, at least it was a normal one."
Ella flicked a pebble toward the group.
Ella: "Shut up and drink your water."
Nearby, Claire curled up close beside Lily, her voice barely a whisper but heavy with disbelief.
Claire: "I never thought I could do this… any of this."
Lily's fingers found Claire's hand and squeezed gently, warmth spreading between them.
Lily: "You are. We all are."
For a moment, the six sat in quiet companionship—unspoken bonds weaving tight between them, stronger than any sword or spell. The fire's glow danced across their faces, illuminating determination beneath the exhaustion.
Above them, Evelyn watched from the palace balcony—arms folded, expression unreadable. Her eyes, sharp and steady, missed nothing. The fading light brushed against her, but it was not the dusk that stirred around her.
It was something deeper. Stronger.
Below, six girls rested, breathless and bruised—yet brighter than when the day began. Gerald was standing quietly aside.
Her shadows were forming. Not from the sun, but from sweat, fire, and unyielding spirit.
And soon, the time would come—when those shadows would rise to defend more than just her.
——————
Far beyond the thorn-wrapped gates of the Black Rose Palace, where whispers of magic and strength coiled in shadowed corners, a secret meeting of nobles convened.
Held within one of the towering houses of Laencris, the Capital of the Cristiane Empire, the chamber was a place of velvet masks and poisoned words. Beneath its glimmering chandeliers, noble blood bled dry from the tongue before the sword.
Today, they had gathered for a singular reason.
The Prophecy.
And the unsettling rumors pouring like floodwater from the west.
The Duke of Aurenhall, a graying man with hawk-like eyes, slammed a parchment onto the polished obsidian table.
Duke Aurenhall: "What? A person who possesses the power to protect and destroy at the same time? Just how powerful is this being supposed to be? How are we meant to understand anything from this scrap of prophecy?"
Murmurs rippled across the silver-gilded table like insects across water. The Marchioness of Eltridge, veiled in lavender, sipped her wine with a languid grace, her eyes unreadable.
Marchioness Eltridge: "Who's to say whether this being will become our destiny… or our demise."
The Duke of Varentine, pale and sharp, laced his fingers, voice smooth as cold steel.
Duke Varentine: "The High Priest called her 'the one who casts two shadows.' What does that mean? Is she of dual origin? Dual allegiance? Or something else entirely?"
A heavy silence followed.