Steel rang once.

  Sharp. Violent. Immediate.

  Lyra’s claws met the commander’s blade mid-strike, sparks scattering into the night like burning insects. The force of the impact shoved her backward across the clearing, boots carving lines into the dirt before she twisted, landed low, and launched forward again.

  No hesitation.

  No fear.

  Only purpose.

  The commander adjusted his stance, weight balanced, blade angled to intercept rather than overpower. He studied her with the cold patience of a man who had fought too many battles to underestimate anger.

  “You’ve trained,” he said.

  Lyra struck again.

  Fast.

  Low.

  A feint to the ribs followed by a vertical slash aimed for his throat.

  He blocked both.

  “Hatred sharpens,” he continued, voice even. “But it burns fast.”

  Lyra didn’t respond.

  Her claws scraped against his armor, searching for a weakness, for an opening, for any gap that could let her carve through the man who had turned her childhood into ash.

  She moved like a storm.

  He moved like a wall.

  The clash echoed through the forest.

  Steel.

  Claws.

  Breath.

  Impact.

  The commander countered, blade sweeping toward her side. Lyra ducked, rolled, and came up behind him, striking for the spine. He pivoted with practiced ease, elbow slamming into her ribs and sending her stumbling.

  Pain flared.

  She welcomed it.

  Pain kept her sharp.

  Pain reminded her why she was here.

  “You fight alone,” he observed, circling. “Revenge, then.”

  Lyra’s eyes narrowed.

  “Not revenge,” she said quietly.

  Her stance shifted.

  Her claws angled.

  Her tail steadied behind her like a counterweight.

  “Justice.”

  She attacked again.

  This time faster.

  More controlled.

  Years of Academy training layered over instinct. Precision over rage. Movement over force.

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  Her claws struck armor joints.

  Her kicks aimed for balance.

  Her strikes began to land.

  The commander’s breathing deepened slightly.

  Not tired.

  Interested.

  Far from the clearing…

  Inside the Academy dormitory…

  Nexil stopped mid-step.

  He didn’t know why.

  He had been heading toward the mess hall, half-awake, half-hungry, still replaying the training from earlier in his mind.

  Then—

  Something twisted in his chest.

  A sudden, sharp pressure.

  Not pain.

  A pull.

  He frowned, glancing around as if expecting to see someone.

  “…Lyra?”

  No answer.

  But the feeling didn’t fade.

  It grew.

  Back in the forest—

  Lyra leapt, claws glowing faintly as she pushed past her limits. She slashed across the commander’s shoulder, finally breaking through armor. Blood spilled.

  Dark.

  Thick.

  Real.

  He stepped back, expression unchanged, but his stance shifted.

  Now he fought seriously.

  His blade moved faster.

  Sharper.

  Strikes aimed not to block—but to kill.

  Lyra barely dodged the first.

  The second sliced across her arm.

  The third slammed into her side, throwing her into a tree hard enough to crack bark.

  She gasped, air leaving her lungs.

  The commander approached slowly.

  “You’ve grown,” he admitted. “But not enough.”

  Lyra forced herself up, blood dripping from her fingers.

  “…Not enough to beat you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said calmly.

  “Not enough to survive this.”

  He moved.

  Lyra reacted.

  Claws collided with steel again, sparks lighting the clearing. She twisted, ducked, countered—but this time he anticipated everything. Every feint. Every shift. Every pattern.

  Because he had seen fighters like her before.

  Grief-driven.

  Focused.

  Predictable.

  His blade slipped past her guard.

  Cut across her shoulder.

  Then her thigh.

  Then her side.

  Lyra staggered.

  Her breathing broke.

  Still—

  She stepped forward.

  Again.

  And again.

  Miles away—

  Elyon stood at the edge of the training grounds, eyes narrowed.

  He felt it too.

  Not clearly.

  Not directly.

  But something was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  “…Where is she?” he muttered.

  Amber approached from behind, arms crossed.

  “Who?”

  “Lyra.”

  Amber frowned.

  “She was in the dormitory earlier.”

  Elyon shook his head.

  “No.”

  He didn’t explain further.

  Didn’t need to.

  The tension in his posture said enough.

  Amber’s expression hardened.

  “…Find Nexil,” she said.

  The forest shook with another impact.

  Lyra drove forward with everything she had left, claws blazing, strikes faster than before—not clean anymore, not measured, just relentless.

  The commander blocked.

  Stepped back.

  Blocked again.

  But now—

  Now his breathing changed.

  Because this wasn’t strategy.

  This wasn’t technique.

  This was refusal.

  Lyra would not fall.

  Even as her body broke.

  Even as blood soaked her clothes.

  Even as her vision blurred.

  She kept moving.

  “Why?” the commander asked suddenly.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Your parents died years ago,” he continued. “You built a life. You trained. You survived.”

  His blade slammed against her claws again.

  “Why throw it away now?”

  Lyra’s eyes burned.

  “…Because you kept breathing,” she said.

  And for the first time—

  The commander hesitated.

  Just for a second.

  But that was enough.

  Lyra lunged.

  Her claws tore across his chest, slicing through armor, drawing a deep line of blood.

  He stepped back sharply.

  And then—

  His blade moved.

  Faster than before.

  Cleaner.

  Deadlier.

  It pierced through her defense.

  Through her side.

  Through muscle.

  Through bone.

  Lyra froze.

  The world stopped.

  Her claws dropped slowly.

  The commander pulled his blade free.

  Lyra fell to her knees.

  Breathing shallow.

  Vision dimming.

  The forest blurred around her.

  “…So this… is it,” she whispered.

  Not fear.

  Not regret.

  Just quiet acceptance.

  She had reached him.

  She had fought him.

  She had not run.

  The commander watched her carefully.

  Waiting.

  Expecting another strike.

  Another desperate move.

  But Lyra didn’t attack again.

  She simply looked up at him.

  “…You remember them?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “…My parents,” she said.

  “…The village you burned.”

  Silence.

  Then—

  “…Yes,” he said.

  Not proudly.

  Not cruelly.

  Just fact.

  Lyra nodded slowly.

  “…Good.”

  Her body swayed.

  “…Then you know… why I came.”

  The commander’s grip tightened slightly on his blade.

  Lyra’s strength faded.

  Her claws retracted.

  Her shoulders sagged.

  “…Guess… I’ll have to leave the rest… to them,” she murmured.

  Her vision flickered.

  Faces surfaced in her mind.

  Amber.

  Seraphine.

  Elyon.

  Nexil—

  She smiled.

  Small.

  Tired.

  Real.

  “…Don’t be late,” she whispered into the empty air.

  Then—

  Her body collapsed forward.

  Still.

  Silent.

  Gone.

  The forest fell quiet.

  The commander stood over her, breathing steady, eyes unreadable.

  For a long moment, he didn’t move.

  Then—

  He turned.

  And walked away.

  Unaware…

  That far behind him…

  The ground had already begun to tremble.

  And something—someone—was coming.