The sun hung low over the Stronghold's southern yard, casting long shadows across the training ground.
Lucas stood shirtless in the center of a chalked circle, chest rising and falling, sweat already trailing down his back. His muscles ached from the last round, his arms bruised and his legs slower than usual.
Lyss circled him like a predator. Calm. Focused.
"Your stance is still shit," she said flatly.
Lucas exhaled through his nose. "Appreciate the encouragement."
She didn't smile. "You lean forward when you swing. It throws off your balance. That's why you're always off-center when you miss."
"I don't miss."
"You do," she snapped, "a lot."
He grimaced, adjusting his footing.
Lyss raised her sword again—just a practice blade this time, though her movements were as precise as ever.
"Ready?"
Lucas rolled his shoulders, summoned his scythe, and let it settle into his grip with a familiar hum.
"Let's go."
She moved first.
Always.
He blocked the first strike, then stumbled when she stepped past him and swept low. He barely dodged the follow-up slash.
"Too slow," she muttered.
They clashed again—metal ringing, boots scraping against stone. Lucas tried to counter with a broad sweep, but Lyss ducked under the arc and drove her shoulder into his chest, knocking him flat.
He hit the ground with a dull thud.
Again.
Lyss stood over him, hands on her hips.
"You've got raw strength, no question. And that weapon gives you reach. But if you don't fix how you move, you'll die to someone half your level."
Lucas groaned and sat up. "You have such a way with words."
"I'm not here to coddle you, Lucas. I'm here to make sure you don't get torn apart the moment you're out of my sight."
She extended a hand.
He stared at it for a second—then took it.
She pulled him to his feet with surprising ease.
They sat on the edge of the training yard, both catching their breath. The sun had begun its slow descent behind the Stronghold's towers, casting a warm orange hue over the blackstone walls.
Lyss drank from a canteen and handed it to Lucas without a word.
He took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Alright," he said, breaking the silence. "What's the real plan?"
Lyss arched a brow. "The plan?"
"Yeah," Lucas said, leaning back on his elbows. "The cohort, the training, dragging me along after nearly throwing me in a stable. What is this actually about?"
Lyss was quiet for a moment. She watched the shadows stretching across the ground, the shapes of guards and servants moving in and out of sight. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, even.
"Why does there have to be more?"
"Because you're too sharp to waste your time on someone like me without a reason," he replied. "And I'm not buying the whole 'potential' speech either."
She didn't respond right away.
Lucas studied her from the corner of his eye.
She was guarded—always. Every movement calculated, every word measured.
But something flickered behind her eyes.
"I need people I can trust," she said eventually. "People who don't owe anyone anything. Who don't have a banner or a name to protect."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "That still doesn't explain why me."
She stood up, brushing dust from her pants.
"It will."
Then she walked off, leaving Lucas alone in the dying light.
He exhaled slowly and leaned his head back against the wall behind him.
'Right. Because cryptic answers make so much sense.'
But even as he grumbled internally, a strange feeling settled in his chest.
Curiosity.
And something close to unease.
Lucas had finished washing in the lower wing's communal bathrooms when he heard purposeful footsteps behind him.
He didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
Lyss stopped beside him, the sound of her cloak rustling signaling her arrival.
"Get your things," she said bluntly. "We leave tomorrow at first light."
Lucas raised an eyebrow, still drying his face with a rough towel.
"Leave where?"
She met his eyes. "Somewhere outside the map. Just you and me."
He blinked.
"...Sounds cozy."
Lyss didn't react.
"It's a place I've only been to once. No one else here knows it exists."
That got his attention.
Lucas dropped the towel on the bench and crossed his arms.
"And you're taking me because...?"
"You've been improving," he said, his tone unchanged. "And because this place doesn't open for just anyone. It requires... conditions."
Lucas frowned. "Conditions?"
Lyss simply turned around and started to leave.
"Bring your gear. No food, no distractions. Just weapons, and willpower."
She paused at the doorway, glancing back just enough to let her voice carry.
"Oh, and rest well tonight."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, almost a smirk at the edge of her lips.
"You'll need it."
The Stronghold was quiet that night.
Lucas sat on the ledge outside the servant wing, a dark cloak draped over his shoulders to block the chill. The sky above was clear, the stars burning faint behind the purple-tinted veil that always hung over this side of the Crucible.
From where he sat, he could see a small balcony across the courtyard—part of the private upper quarters. A soft light flickered behind one of the open windows.
And there she was.
Lyss.
She stood beside a table, her hair half undone, her coat folded neatly on the side. She moved like she always did—controlled, precise—but there was something different about her now. Less guarded. Less armored.
She packed a leather satchel with methodical care.
A single blade rested beside her hand—one Lucas hadn't seen before. It looked old. Personal.
He watched as she placed it carefully inside, then closed the bag.
For a brief moment, she leaned against the table, head down, fingers resting lightly on its surface.
Not tired.
Not broken.
Just still.
Lucas didn't move. Didn't speak.
He simply watched, silent and unreadable.
'Where the hell are we going?'
His grip tightened on the edge of the ledge.
'And why do I get the feeling… this has nothing to do with training anymore?'
The lantern in her room dimmed a little.
She disappeared from view.
Lucas stayed there a moment longer, the wind brushing past him like a whisper.
Then, quietly, he stood up and returned to his room—eyes sharp, heart beating slower than it should.