The study chamber smelled faintly of parchment and candle wax. Charts of muscle groups, sinew, and bone covered the table. Dax loomed over my shoulder, tapping a finger against the parchment where the outline of a human body sprawled in precise strokes.
"You can perceive a fight in clarity because you understand what the human body can do, at least partially, and that's because you have one." he said, his voice rough with authority. "But nightmare creatures rarely take the form of humans. And if they do—" his eyes flicked to me, sharp as steel, "—they are usually more dangerous than those that don't. Especially if they talk."
I studied the lines of the anatomy, my eyes catching every detail, every junction of muscle and tendon. Light flared in my vision, my aspect weaving truths into form. Dax's words were more than instruction—they were rules etched into the marrow of survival.
"So you will memorize the anatomy of every creature in the human world. While nightmares may twist and distort, they cannot break the fundamental laws of movement. There is a limit to how much they can differ and still function." He set the chart down with a thud. "And beyond that limit… demons and those of higher rank will use aspect abilities, strategy, minions and area of affect powers to make sure your six feet under."
A quiet glint flashed in my eyes—acknowledgment, as I engraved every word.
***
Breaks were rare, precious things. I often spent them with Nephis and Grandmother. The three of us gathered in the garden court, where sunlight filtered through pale curtains and the air smelled of herbs and blooming orchids. Grandmother told stories of the old days, her hands moving like the sweep of calligraphy, while Nephis asked endless questions—sharp, mischievous, alive. For a few breaths of the day, training and death faded away, replaced by laughter, by belonging. By family.
Those were the moments I lived for.
***
One evening, walking past Nephis' chamber—a noble's room draped in silk curtains and polished wood, faint incense lingering in the air—I heard laughter. A warm, soft sound. And yet, something in it jarred against instinct. My eyes burned, and I willed them open. Truth peeled back the veil. For the briefest instant horror swept across my face as I saw what lay beneath that laughter, something twisted and wrong. Dax, striding a few paces behind me, caught the change in my expression. His figure moved to my right, silent and sharp, following my perception without a word.
I rushed pushing the door wide with a slam.
Inside, Nephis thrashed on the floor, a pair of hands crushing her throat. The nanny's face twisted with malice, her soft laughter echoing thorough the chamber, her intent naked to my sight.
I didn't think. My blade was already in hand, flying forward. At the same heartbeat, steel flashed past my shoulder. Two swords struck as one—mine plunging into her throat, Dax's piercing her back.
The woman gasped then crumpled, lifeless.
Nephis coughed violently, air rushing back into her lungs. I dropped to my knees beside her and pulled her into a desperate, crushing embrace, trembling as rage and fear laced every breath. Behind us, the nanny's body spasmed on the floor, blood pooling dark and hot beneath her. No one—no one—would take my family from me. Not while I drew breath.
Dax stood behind us in silence, his eyes lingering on me. In them I caught approval—and something heavier still. Perhaps it was shame, the bitter weight of having failed to notice the hidden traitors within our clan.
***
From that day, I threw myself into training with renewed fury. Daggers, shorts-words, tantos—every weapon Dax placed in my hands, I learned. The clan's Adaptive Battle Art became my foundation. It was more than movements—it was survival incarnate, shifting and flowing to meet the rhythm of any opponent.
Dax spoke often during those sessions, words etched as deep as scars.
"There are countless battle styles," he said, pacing the ring while I caught my breath. "Some chase power, some speed. Some wait in stillness for the perfect counter. Some are taught to armies, some born of one fighter's quirks. Strong styles are forged from insight. Weak ones come from ignorance. A style isn't just movement—it's philosophy. At its peak, it unites body and mind."
His gaze sharpened. "And beyond that peak, a third layer opens. Soul. Few ever touch it, your father was one who did. I'm sure he left notes in his study chambers for you and Nephis."
He let me sit with that weight of his words, before continuing.
"The technique and knowledge of using essence to reinforce your body are meaningless for now, since you are merely a Sleeper. But once you Awaken, you will be able to build upon your battle art—enhancing every motion, making it yours alone. To craft such a technique requires knowing your body, your inner truth, and the laws that govern combat. That is what separates Masters from Saints. Masters use soul essence to sharpen themselves. Saints transcend it."
His words sank deep, twining with the fire already burning in me. Each day I trained, each strike I learned, the image of Nephis gasping for breath seared itself into memory.
I would not fail. My eyes saw truths—but it was my will, sharpened through steel and fire, that would make those truths mine.