đź“–
The training ground wasn't what Elara expected.
It wasn't a castle courtyard or a wide marble hall—it was a forest. But not like the one from her world. This one had twisted trees with blood-red leaves, skies streaked in violet, and shadows that moved even when nothing else did.
Lucien stood in the center of the glade, waiting.
"You brought me to a forest?" Elara asked, looking around.
"This is the Shadowgrove," he replied. "Here, illusions become real. Pain becomes power. And fear... becomes a weapon."
She narrowed her eyes. "Sounds poetic. Still feels like you dropped me into a horror novel."
Lucien didn't smile.
"Draw your weapon," he said.
"I don't have one."
He tilted his head. "Yes, you do."
She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, the ground trembled—and the trees around them hissed.
Then, from the shadows, a creature stepped out.
It was shaped like a man, but had no face. Its skin was smoke. Its fingers were long and bladed. It made no sound—just stared with the absence of eyes.
"What is that?" she whispered.
"A fear wraith," Lucien said simply. "Born of your mind. Formed by the ink."
She backed up. "You want me to fight that?"
"I want you to learn who you really are when you stop pretending to be human."
The wraith lunged.
Elara screamed and rolled to the side just in time to avoid the blade.
She stumbled to her feet, heart pounding, blood rushing in her ears.
"Fight back!" Lucien barked.
"With what?" she cried.
And then it happened.
Her hand burned.
The mark on her chest flared, and dark crimson energy spiraled down her arm. From her palm, something ripped itself free—a blade, black and jagged, humming like it was alive.
The moment it touched her skin, her fear shifted.
Not gone—but channeled.
The wraith lunged again, and this time she slashed back.
The blade cut clean through smoke—but not like a sword. More like it consumed the creature's form. Where the blade touched, the wraith screamed and crumbled.
It reformed, slower this time.
Lucien watched, arms crossed.
"Don't just swing," he said. "Command it."
Elara gritted her teeth, lunged forward, and shouted—
"Obey me."
The blade erupted with red energy, and this time when she struck the wraith, it didn't scream—it shattered.
Silence returned to the grove.
The blade in her hand faded into smoke.
Her breathing slowed.
Lucien finally walked toward her.
"Good," he said. "The weapon is part of you. It was sealed within your ink."
She looked at her hands. "So... it's not just a sword."
"No," he said. "It's your emotion. Your defiance. The contract feeds on it. In time, it will evolve."
Elara looked up at him.
"What was that thing?"
"A piece of your past," Lucien said. "The wraiths that live here feed on pain. I gave it form. It fed on your guilt."
Her breath hitched.
"My guilt?"
He didn't elaborate.
Instead, he waved a hand and the shadows peeled open to reveal another path—this one lit with red lanterns and lined with statues of women.
"You'll face another tomorrow," he said. "Stronger than the last. Each one closer to your core. If you survive ten, you'll be ready for your first real task."
Elara followed him quietly, but her mind was spinning.
How had the sword known what she felt?
Why had the wraith shown her that moment in its smoke—the memory of her mother crying the night she disappeared?
And why, deep down... did it feel like this power fit her too well?
Lucien stopped before a tall statue of a woman with horns and wings.
"Who is she?" Elara asked.
"She was the last to pass the trials," he said. "And the last to fail the final rule."
Elara turned to him. "She fell in love with you."
Lucien didn't answer.
But his eyes—darker than ever—told her enough.
As they walked on, the air around them whispered.
The ink was watching. Listening. Waiting.
And Elara knew this was only the beginning.