The dawn air carried a chill that clung to Amara's skin as she stepped into the courtyard. She had not slept. The revelations in the archives had left her wide-eyed through the night, heart racing with truths too sharp to hold.
What is severed is not undone.
The words still throbbed in her mind. Even now, her bare wrist tingled as though the ribbon pulsed invisibly beneath her skin. She pressed her hand against it, hoping to still the phantom burn.
The training grounds stretched before her, empty except for one figure moving like a shadow against the lightening sky. Nysa.
The warrior's blade sang as it cut the air, her body a rhythm of discipline and power. Each strike flowed into the next, her movements sharp, precise, yet strangely graceful. The red glow of dawn painted her scarred cheek, and for a moment, Amara forgot how to breathe.
It had only been a day since the Severing, yet here was Nysa — unchanged, unbroken. Or perhaps hiding her wounds behind the edge of her blade.
Amara lingered at the edge of the courtyard, torn between retreating and stepping closer. But Nysa noticed her before she could decide.
"You're awake early." Her voice cut through the stillness, cool and measured, though her eyes flicked once to Amara's bare wrist before sliding away.
Amara swallowed, suddenly conscious of how small she felt against the warrior's presence. "I couldn't sleep."
Nysa wiped the blade against her arm, sheathing it with a sharp motion. "Then fight."
Amara blinked. "What?"
"If your mind won't rest, let your body work." Nysa gestured to the rack of training weapons lined along the stone wall. "Pick one."
Amara's heart jolted. The last time she wielded a blade, she had been terrible — nearly cutting herself in the attempt. Yet something in Nysa's tone — not request but challenge — kept her feet rooted. Slowly, she crossed to the rack, fingers trembling as they hovered over the wooden practice swords.
The hilt felt foreign in her grip, heavy and awkward. She turned, clutching it clumsily, to find Nysa watching her with unreadable eyes.
"Good," Nysa said at last. "Now face me."
---
The first strike nearly knocked the weapon from Amara's hands.
Nysa moved with merciless speed, her blade a blur that Amara barely caught in time. The clash rang through the courtyard, vibrating up her arms. She stumbled back, breath catching.
"You're slow," Nysa said flatly. "Again."
Heat rose to Amara's cheeks. She adjusted her stance, gripping tighter. This time, when Nysa lunged, Amara braced and swung with more strength. Their weapons met, wood against wood, the impact stinging her bones.
For a heartbeat, Nysa's lips twitched — not quite a smile, but something close. "Better."
They moved again. Strike, block, stumble, recover. At first, Amara fumbled, tripping over her own feet, barely parrying Nysa's attacks. But as the minutes stretched, something shifted. Her fear turned to stubbornness. The phantom burn on her wrist seemed to guide her, each clash pulling her forward, pushing her harder.
Nysa's strikes grew sharper in response, as if testing her limits. Their blades cracked against each other, sweat slicking Amara's palms. Her breath came ragged, her arms trembling, but she refused to drop her weapon.
At last, Amara surprised her. Nysa swung high, and Amara ducked, shoving forward with all her weight. Their bodies collided, chest to chest, the swords locked between them.
The sound of their ragged breaths filled the silence. Amara's pulse hammered, not from fear, but from the heat radiating off the warrior pressed against her.
Nysa's eyes, storm-dark, locked on hers. Close. Too close.
For a suspended moment, the fight was forgotten.
Amara felt it — the pull, the same tether that no ritual could cut. Her wrist burned, her body trembling not with exhaustion but with something rawer, sharper.
Nysa's breath brushed her cheek. The world narrowed to that single point of closeness, their hearts hammering in sync.
Then Amara broke.
She shoved back suddenly, tearing herself free. The blade slipped from her grip, clattering to the stones. Her chest heaved, shame burning hotter than the sun rising over the courtyard.
Nysa did not chase her. She stood still, sword in hand, her expression unreadable save for the flicker of something softer — something she quickly shuttered away.
"You lasted longer than I thought," Nysa said quietly, voice almost gentler than before. "But you run too easily."
The words struck deeper than any blade. Amara bit her lip, fighting the sting in her chest. She wanted to speak, to deny, to explain the chaos inside her, but no words came.
Instead, she turned and fled the courtyard, the phantom ribbon searing her wrist with every step.
---
By the time she reached the solitude of her chamber, her legs shook. She sank onto her mat, pressing her hands over her face.
She could still feel Nysa's body against hers, the heat of her gaze, the weight of what almost happened.
It terrified her more than any Elder's decree, more than exile, more than God's silence.
Because in that clash of blades, she had not only fought Nysa
— she had wanted her.
And no ritual, no prayer, no denial could sever that truth.