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SERA

T he mountains stretch vast and untamed, a world away from the suffocating walls of House Drazharel. The sky is a bruised canvas, streaked with deep violets and the dying embers of the sun. The wind is not gentle here—it cuts, sharp and cold, whispering of things lost in the silence.

Veylan moves ahead of me, every step measured, every movement precise. He does not look back.

I should be grateful. We survived. Again. But gratitude is a lie that tastes like iron on my tongue.

It’s even more unbelievable that he took me away to protect me.

Yet the truth is cruel, unrelenting.

We are not safe.

We may have escaped Hazeran’s fortress, but the hunt has only just begun.

“We’re close,” he tells me as we delve deeper into the woods. “I’ve discovered this place when I was a young elf. We can stay there.”

I nod, not replying as I concentrate on just walking.

I force my aching body to move, each step a reminder of what I endured, of what I had to become just to still be breathing. I have spent my life waiting. Waiting to be saved. Waiting to be spared.

I am done waiting.

Something inside me has cracked open, something dark and unyielding, something that will not be buried again.

I am done running.

The realization is heavy, pressing into me with every inhale. This will not end—not until someone dies.

And I will not let it be me.

I stop.

Veylan does not.

"Veylan."

He slows, but he does not turn.

"I will not be weak anymore."

The words taste unfamiliar, strange against my tongue. But the moment I speak them, I believe them.

He exhales. A slow, deliberate breath. "That’s a dangerous thing to say, little siren."

I step forward, defying the raw ache in my muscles, the exhaustion weighing down my limbs. "Train me."

This time, he turns.

His silver eyes gleam in the dim light, unreadable, sharper than the blades he wields so effortlessly.

"You think you can survive my training?"

I lift my chin. "I have to."

Something flickers across his face, gone too fast to name. He studies me the way a predator studies prey—not with hunger, but with calculation.

"You should fear me," he murmurs.

"I don’t," I say.

His jaw tightens. “You should.”

His hand moves fast.

The dagger is against my throat before I can breathe.

I do not flinch.

His lips part, but he does not speak. This time, I move first.

I grab the hilt. Twist. Disarm him.

But it doesn’t work because he lets me.

The realization burns through me like ice. I stare at the blade in my hands, its weight foreign, its purpose undeniable.

He steps into my space and into the blade now pointed at his own chest.

A test.

A challenge.

He dares me.

The moment stretches, unbearable, until he finally smirks.

"You will start at dawn."

I lower the blade. My grip is firm. Unshaking. "I’ll be ready."

His smirk widens. "No, you won’t."

Once again, silence ensues between us. Twenty minutes later, after passing a rocky area, we arrived in front of a ruined fortress.

“This place will do,” he tells me. “Follow me.”

Dawn arrives too soon.

The training ground is nothing more than a stretch of uneven stone, the air thin and sharp, the wind howling like a wounded beast. The world is painted in hues of silver and frost, the early light casting shadows that stretch long and unforgiving.

Veylan stands before me, his stance relaxed in the way only a true predator can be. And he was right. I am not ready.

"You will fight," he says simply.

I nod.

"You will bleed."

I swallow hard.

"You will lose."

He says it like a promise. Like a certainty.

I lift the dagger he gave me the night before, its weight heavier now. He does not give me time to hesitate.

He moves.

I react too slowly.

The next thing I know, the ground is rushing up to meet me. Pain explodes through my back as I slam into the cold stone, my breath ripped from my lungs.

He strikes again before I can even recover.

I block. Deflect. Try to mimic the way I have seen him move. I fail.

A twist. A sharp pull. My weapon is gone.

His boot presses against my chest, pinning me down. "Dead," he murmurs.

I grit my teeth.

He steps back, tossing my dagger toward me. "Again."

I pick it up.

And again, I fight then I fall.

The cycle repeats. Over and over. My body screams in protest, every muscle aching, every joint bruised. My hands tremble, raw and blistered.

But I do not stop.

I do not yield.

Hours pass. Maybe more. The sun climbs higher, beating down against us. Sweat drips down my spine, mixing with the dirt and blood smeared across my skin.

I last longer than three strikes.

I block.

I dodge.

I counter.

His eyes narrow. "Better."

The smallest sliver of pride flares in me.

But then he moves again—faster.

I do not see the strike coming until it is too late. The flat of his blade presses against my throat, a cruel reminder of just how easily he could end me.

"Still dead."

I exhale, shaking, exhausted. "Then teach me better."

His expression flickers, something dark and unreadable flashing across his face. He steps back. Watching. Measuring. Calculating.

"Again," he says.

By the time the sun sets, my body is a tapestry of bruises, my hands aching from gripping the dagger for so long.

I should be broken.

I should be done.

But I am not.

Something has fundamentally change in me. I can feel it in his stares.

It’s something else.

Something becoming.