The island did not welcome the sun.
It tolerated it.
Morning light slid across pale stone and cold water, never lingering, never warming. The cliffs rose sharp and white from the sea, carved by hands that believed beauty was excess and excess was weakness. There were no birds. No laughter. Even the waves broke quietly, as if they had learned respect.
Pyresi Tolruh stood barefoot in the training circle, her feet numb against the stone.
She had been standing there since before dawn.
Around her, the other initiates held the same posture—spines straight, arms at their sides, faces empty. No one shifted their weight. No one blinked too often. Stillness was the first lesson taught on the island, long before blades.
Emotion invites error.
Error invites imbalance.
Imbalance invites ruin.
The words were carved into the stone beneath their feet, etched so deeply they could never be erased.
A bell rang once.
Pyresi inhaled.
Another rang.
She exhaled.
On the third bell, steel sang.
The initiates moved as one, blades appearing in their hands as if summoned by thought alone. Pyresi's dagger slid into her palm, familiar as bone. She stepped forward, body aligning into the first form without conscious command.
Strike. Turn. Guard. Silence.
Her movements were flawless. They always were.
The instructors circled them like carrion birds, eyes sharp beneath bone-white masks. They watched for hesitation, for tension in the jaw, for breath taken at the wrong moment. Punishment was immediate. Correction was brutal.
Pyresi did not notice them.
She never did.
Her focus was internal—on the weight of the blade, the angle of her wrist, the precise distance between her heartbeats. She did not feel exertion. She did not feel pride. She did not feel fear.
Feeling was unnecessary.
When the bell rang again, signaling the end, Pyresi returned her blade to its sheath and resumed stillness. Sweat cooled against her skin, but she did not wipe it away.
"Tolruh."
Her name carried across the circle, sharp and deliberate.
She stepped forward and knelt.
An instructor stood before her, mask carved with the symbol of balance. He tilted his head, studying her as if she were an object rather than a being.
"You were faster today," he said.
"Yes."
"You adjusted your strike mid-form."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Pyresi did not hesitate. "Efficiency."
A pause.
"Acceptable."
She remained kneeling until dismissed.
As she rose, she felt it again—that faint pressure behind her eyes. A sensation like something watching from inside her skull. It had been there for as long as she could remember, surfacing most often when her name was spoken aloud.
Pyresi.
Names mattered on the island. They were not given lightly. They were earned.
Hers had been earned early.
She did not remember her childhood.
No one on the island did.
Memory was considered a liability—something that tethered the mind to weakness. The Pure did not dwell on before. There was only discipline, and the present moment sharpened to perfection.
Still, sometimes, in the space between waking and consciousness, Pyresi dreamed.
Fire.
Not the wild kind. Controlled fire. Ritual fire.
She dreamed of voices chanting in a language she did not know, and hands holding her still while something burned away. She never screamed in the dream. She only watched.
When she woke, her heart never raced.
That, the instructors said, was progress.
The Sanctum stood at the center of the island, its spires piercing the sky like accusation. Pyresi walked its corridors alone, summoned by the bells that rang only for those who had proven themselves useful.
Torches lined the walls, their flames pale and steady. No shadows danced here.
She entered the inner chamber and knelt without being told.
The Circle awaited her.
Seven elders. Seven masks. No faces.
"Rise, Assassin of the Pure," the central voice said.
She stood.
"You have completed one hundred and forty-seven missions," another voice intoned. "Without deviation."
"Yes."
"You have never failed."
"Yes."
"You have never questioned."
"Yes."
The words echoed, ritualistic, hollow.
"You are an instrument of balance," the central elder continued. "A blade against corruption."
Pyresi listened, unmoved.
"There are whispers beyond the island," another elder said. "Of unrest. Of realms slipping from harmony."
Pyresi's gaze remained forward.
"You will be deployed more frequently."
"Yes."
A pause followed. Not part of the ritual.
"You do not ask why," the elder observed.
"Why is irrelevant."
Silence stretched.
"Your name," the elder said at last. "Do you understand its weight?"
Pyresi's jaw tightened—imperceptibly.
"My name reflects my service."
"It reflects more than that."
The torches flickered.
For a moment—just a moment—something surged in her chest. Not fear. Not anger.
Pressure.
"I serve," she said firmly.
The elder inclined his head. "So you do."
She was dismissed.
As Pyresi turned to leave, she felt the eyes of the Circle linger on her back longer than usual. She did not turn around.
She never looked back.
Night on the island was absolute.
No stars. No moon. Only darkness and the distant sound of the sea.
Pyresi sat alone on the outer steps of the dormitory, sharpening her blade with methodical care. Each stroke precise. Each movement practiced a thousand times before.
Across the courtyard, other assassins moved like ghosts, silent and indistinct. None approached her.
They rarely did.
Her eyes—purple, deep and unnatural—had always set her apart. The instructors claimed it was coincidence. A mutation. An echo of old magic diluted beyond meaning.
Still, they watched her more closely than the others.
Pyresi slid the blade back into its sheath and stared out at the water.
She tried, sometimes, to imagine a world beyond the island. Cities. Courts. Kings.
They felt unreal.
What was real was the weight of her body. The discipline carved into her bones. The certainty of purpose.
And yet—
Her hand drifted to her chest, fingers pressing lightly over her sternum.
There was something there.
Not pain. Not emotion.
A sealed door.
She did not know when it had been locked. Or why. Only that sometimes, when her name was spoken in certain tones, the door trembled.
Pyresi frowned faintly.
Frowning was discouraged.
She lowered her hand.
Tomorrow, she would train again. Tomorrow, she would kill again, if ordered. The world would remain balanced. Clean. Pure.
That was her purpose.
Still, as she rose and turned back toward the dormitory, a single thought surfaced unbidden—quiet, dangerous, unfinished.
If I was made to protect the world…
why does it feel like something was taken from me first?
The island remained silent.
It did not answer.