Sol stood alone under the radiant kaleidoscope of the seven suns, each casting a distinct hue across the open field. The air shimmered with color—violet from one sun, gold from another, and shades of green and red that filtered like a living mural across the swaying grasses.

  This was the rural edge of the village's territory, beyond the reach of homes and voices. It was quiet here, save for the soft murmur of the wind through the distant treeline and the rustle of pipla crawling along the earth, their crystalline shells catching glints of light. Butterflies fluttered across wildflowers blooming in strange geometric patterns, as if the land itself obeyed laws different from the center of civilization.

  But Sol did not come here for peace.

  She came to sharpen herself.

  Her fists, wrapped tightly in cream-colored bandages, clenched the darkwood pommel of her training sword. The weapon was nothing ornate—just solid oak carved and weighted to mimic a real blade. Enough to bruise. Enough to teach.

  She exhaled slowly, her chest rising and falling beneath the sleeveless black training tunic she wore, trimmed in the faded red given to the candidates who passed the first trial of arms. Her long, blonnde hair stuck slightly to her face from the midday warmth, and her dark eyes glinted faintly, focused. Serious.

  She breathed in and out as she focused her mind. And then it came.

  Before her, where there had been only open space, a figure shimmered into being. It had no eyes, no mouth, no real details—just the vague shape of a man wrought from her mind, flickering faintly in the prismatic sunlight. It stood twice her size and gripped a sword formed from condensed force. A construct of imagination and energy. It had no voice. It did not need one. Its presence challenged her.

  Sol stepped forward, tail twitching once behind her, the tip cwaving left and right in anticipation. Her foot slid back slightly into stance, legs bent, weight centered. Her left hand opened slightly to help her balance.

  And then she moved.

  She launched herself forward, her body thrumming with numen. The ground cracked faintly beneath her as she surged across it, feet skimming the grass with unnatural speed. The construct met her charge, swinging wide in a horizontal arc meant to cleave her in two.

  Her wooden blade rose in a swift reaction. She caught the edge of his strike against the flat of her sword—but she didn't meet it head-on. No, she rolled her wrist, deflecting rather than absorbing, letting the force glide over her weapon as she dropped low. Her knees bent, her spine curving fluidly as she ducked, and her body spun in a single graceful motion.

  Her counter came fast.

  The training sword whistled as it arced toward the construct's side, the edge aimed for center mass. But the figure responded with startling precision, leaping back at the last instant. Its blade caught her strike with its crossguard, using the force of her momentum to shove her back. Sol's boots dug small trenches into the earth as she stumbled, regaining balance only after two steps.

  No pause.

  The construct advanced.

  Its blade became a blur. One thrust. Then another. Then a third.

  The first came straight for her collarbone—Sol dropped low beneath it, eyes sharp. The second came in a twisting angle toward her ribs—she turned her body, pivoting on one foot to make the blade pass with a breath of space to spare.

  The third came without delay. Straight and fast.

  Sol was ready.

  Though the movement twisted her awkwardly, she adapted, shifting her weight and bringing her blade up, catching the incoming thrust at an angle. She didn't block with brute strength. Instead, she used the strong of her blade—the portion closest to the hilt—to redirect, twirling the opponent's blade off course with a twist of her wrist and a torque of her shoulder. Steel met wood with a sharp crack.

  As the opposing sword slid wide, she stepped in.

  Her own blade lashed forward. Not a deep cut. Not a crippling strike. But enough.

  The wooden tip grazed the construct's arm, nicking the faint aura that formed its body. A pulse of light flickered where she struck.

  She had scored the first point.

  And the fight was far from over.

  The man's footwork shifted subtly as he adjusted to her pace, sliding one foot back and pivoting with precision that would have unsettled a lesser fighter. But Sol did not relent. Her tail flicked behind her in rhythm with her breathing, and she surged forward, pressing her advantage.

  Her blade came at him again, swift and arcing, but he brought his sword up just in time. The wooden weapons met with a crack that echoed through the quiet glade.

  A bind.

  The two constructs—one real, one imagined—met in that intimate, tense moment of combat where neither could retreat without sacrifice. Their blades pushed against each other, hilt to hilt, the wooden edges grinding as each sought control. Sol twisted her shoulders, shifted her stance, attempting to leverage her smaller frame to maneuver inside his reach.

  But her opponent had the advantage of height and limb. His reach was longer. His leverage better. Slowly, inevitably, he began to press her back, his form gaining ground in subtle increments.

  Yet it was in that pressure that Sol found her opening.

  He overcommitted.

  A subtle mistake—one foot out too far, his weight shifted just a fraction past the balance point. Sol sensed it instantly.

  She exited the bind at the flaw.

  Her body dropped low, releasing her sword with one hand to slip beneath a punishing downward swing that cut the air with a scream, the edge of it whistling past her ear close enough to sting. She let gravity aid her momentum, dropping into a crouch, both hands clasping the pommel of her blade again.

  She exhaled.

  Then struck.

  Numen surged along her spine, rushing down her arms and condensing at the edge of her weapon. With a burst of focused strength, she swung upward in a diagonal arc, the blade trailing light as it cleaved through the illusion's guard.

  A clean cut.

  One of the figure's hands, still gripping half a sword, severed from its wrist and vanished into spiraling motes of light.

  The construct stumbled backward, its balance undone—but it was not finished.

  With its remaining arm, it snapped its sword up like a striking viper, lunging for her throat in a last-ditch effort to punish her proximity.

  But Sol was not afraid.

  She carried her momentum with grace, pivoting on the heel of her forward foot. The wind followed her as she turned, her blade carving a sharp arc through the air as she spun.

  Her counter met the incoming strike mid-motion, steel and wood ringing like a bell as her sword batted the construct's weapon away with violent finality.

  The force of her swing knocked the creature back further, its footing unstable, its balance wrecked by the loss of its arm and the counter's sheer precision.

  The tide had shifted.

  And yet Sol turned again, her body flowing like water shaped by force, carrying even that final thread of momentum from the rebound with an almost instinctual grace. She brought her blade down in a clean overhead strike, the force guided not just by muscle but by the faint crackle of numen that trailed her motion like smoke in sunlight.

  The training sword struck true.

  The shadow figure split from crown to waist, cleaved in two with surgical precision. It did not cry out. It did not fall. It simply burst into a storm of dark particles, scattering like dandelion fluff caught in a divine wind. The air shimmered in its wake, glittering with the remnants of her projection before the field fell silent once again.

  Sol exhaled—slowly, deliberately. A breath drawn through effort and let go through calm. Her sword lowered in her grip, and she gave it a final airy swing, more gesture than technique, letting the weight settle again.

  She stood alone now.

  The colorful field around her pulsed with quiet beauty—the kind that no longer drew her eye. Pipla still crawled beneath the mossy patches of grass, their dark crystalline shells reflecting the fractured sunlight of the seven suns. A pair of butterflies hovered nearby, seemingly unaffected by her practice or the waves of numen she'd stirred. The trees in the distance whispered to one another in the wind, their leaves flickering in hues not found on Earth. But she wasn't here for the landscape.

  She had been holding sessions like this for days—sometimes twice, sometimes more. Shadow duels. Combat with constructs formed from her imagination and powered by determination. It wasn't perfect. It didn't mimic true danger. But it allowed her to test her reflexes. It let her hone her flow, her rhythm, her timing.

  It was a mirror of her inner world. And that, according to Garran, was the only way forward.

  "Aside from actual life and death," he had told her once, standing beneath the three moons with his spear grounded beside him, "the truest way to grow as a warrior is reflection. You can cut down thousands, but if you never ask what your blade is doing, what it's meant to be... then you'll never reach the next threshold. Never find your intent."

  Sword intent.

  She wanted it. Craved it. Dreamed of it. But it still felt distant, like a star glimpsed across a mist-covered lake. She knew the legends—that a sword intent wasn't just technique, it was will given edge. A purpose that bled into form.

  And she was far from it.

  Even now, her movements were good. Refined. Crisp. Her numen flowed well enough. But something was missing. Her strikes were sharp, her footwork clean, but the essence—the bite behind the blade—wasn't there yet.

  Only two people she had ever known had reached that realm.

  The second was Garran.

  The first —her father.

  Both wielded spears.

  And both had carved spear intent into the world like a signature left in fire and earth. Her father's spear had held the line when beasts came. When men fell. Before her birth. And now all that was left behind was mist and smoke. Stories she'd never see.

  That man now slept beneath the soil.

  And Garran, well... he walked the path still. A warrior not easily impressed. A mentor who taught not through flattery, but pressure. Always pressure. Though he did try to be nice he was a bit strict.

  Maybe she had chosen the wrong path. Maybe the sword wasn't hers. Maybe the spear ran in her blood, not the blade. She had her father's black eyes, after all, and Garran's training ran deeper in her muscle memory than she'd like to admit.

  But still—

  She looked down at the wooden sword in her hand, fingers tightening slightly around the dark-stained grip.

  It felt right.

  Even without intent.

  Even without recognition.

  For now, that would have to be enough.

  Sol let out a sharp huff of breath, her chest rising and falling with tempered rhythm. The field was still around her, the sway of wild grasses subtly timed with her exhale. The pipla, disturbed by her earlier bout, had long since burrowed into the dirt, and even the butterflies now kept a cautious distance, flitting higher toward the trees that framed the edge of the rural expanse. The scent of sun-warmed bark and wind-swept petals hung faintly in the air. But she wasn't done yet.

  She turned, her footwork practiced, balanced. The dirt was slightly torn from the earlier clash with the shadowform, but she adjusted, planting herself with ease. Her tail swayed slightly, a counterweight. Then her movements began again—this time not in a clash, but a flow.

  One stance shifted into the next with graceful deliberation. She moved through the Charging Wolf—a powerful, aggressive forward stance with coiled strength in the legs and hips, meant for sudden bursts of speed and overwhelming strikes. Her feet glided low over the earth, then braced. Her arms extended smoothly into the Flowing Fang, the blade turned in her hand like an extension of her breath, ready to deflect, redirect, and bite back in the same movement. Then, with a sharp breath, she rolled her shoulders forward and fell into Thunderous Claws, knees bent, blade held high, a stance that emphasized chaining heavy blows together while pressuring the opponent's guard.

  These were forms she'd drilled hundreds of times. Passed down in the village's ancient sword-fighting manual, they were old, and yet—somehow—fluid. Natural. Not stiff with tradition, but breathing with intent.

  Sol had practiced them since she could walk, but only recently had she begun to see them for what they were: scaffolding. Foundations for something greater. Not an end, but a means.

  Today wasn't just about form, though.

  She paused at the apex of Thunderous Claws, her eyes narrowing. She rotated her wrists slightly, loosening her shoulders. This time, she wasn't aiming to end a form or test an enemy.

  This was for the move.

  She had done it once—during the attack of the meteor spirits, when instinct and desperation had pushed her to channel more numen than ever before. A single swing had produced an arc of air, a wave of condensed force so sharp it cleaved through a falling ember beast mid-dive. It had not been elegant. It had not been clean.

  But it had worked.

  And now she wanted it to be more. Not a mere airwave. A blade. Refined. Focused. Precise.

  She gritted her teeth, recalling how Tarak had done it so effortlessly. How his tail lashed during that same battle, carving the sky in a crescent of wind like it was nothing. He didn't even use a blade, yet his movements tore the air as if he were swinging godmetal.

  But she wasn't him. She didn't have his body or bloodline. What she did have was discipline.

  Sol closed her eyes, just for a moment. Then she inhaled through her nose and began.

  She swung once—just to feel the motion. Her muscles flexed naturally, the arc clean, the weight of the wooden blade moving like an extension of her limbs. Then again. And again. With each swing she channeled numen—this time not as brute reinforcement to her strength, but as a thread. A filament pulled from her core, down through the maze of her meridians, branching at her shoulders, then flowing through her forearms like molten silk.

  She focused it tightly.

  A filament of numen, wrapped around the very edge of her blade. She didn't want it to pulse outward like a roar. She wanted it compressed—structured into a line, sharp and thin, like the blade's spirit reaching outward just past the wooden tip.

  It couldn't project. She knew that. Not truly. Numen, in this world, couldn't escape the body as a force unto itself in the first layer. But it could influence. It could press. She could use the raw movement, the power of her swing, to force the sharpened air to carry the shape.

  She adjusted her grip. Her muscles tensed.

  Then she swung.

  The strike cleaved downward with purpose. Her arms followed through perfectly, posture tight, shoulders aligned. The numen surged to the edge of the blade—tight, taut, whisper-thin. For a moment, something clicked.

  The air howled.

  A rush of force exploded outward, tearing across the field. The grass flattened in its wake, rippling in all directions. Loose petals shot into the air. A few startled birds scattered from a nearby tree. The insects vanished.

  And there, for just an instant—

  A shape.

  A blade of air, half a meter long, flashed forward from the tip of her sword.

  It shimmered.

  And then it broke.

  The wave dissipated in the wind, scattering like mist in sunlight. Not even enough to slice a leaf clean through. Weaker than her old airwaves by far. She grimaced.

  Still, it had a shape.

  Sol slowly exhaled, her shoulders rising and falling in time with the now-gentler winds. The leaves whispered like an audience giving reserved applause. She could feel the lingering numen recoil slightly into her arms, her meridians settling like stretched rubber snapping back into place.

  It wasn't strong. She hadn't yet made it.

  "Uggh!" Sol moaned, the sound harsh and low, almost swallowed by the open wind. Her shoulders slumped just slightly, the wood of her blade rattling faintly in her calloused grip. The blade sagged for a heartbeat, dipping to her side. But only for a heartbeat.

  Because Sol seldom stopped because of failure.

  Her dark eyes narrowed with new determination, black irises like chips of obsidian catching the glint of the multicolored sunlight that filtered down through the shifting prism of the seven suns. Her arms ached. The bandages wound tight around her forearms and palms were damp with sweat, and every swing now felt like it came with an extra weight strapped to her joints.

  But she kept swinging.

  Swoosh.

  Swoosh.

  The sound echoed across the open field, a rhythm of exertion and will. Gusts burst outward with each failed strike—some barely more than a breeze, others powerful enough to ruffle the tall grass and stir the petals of the bright-blue starflowers dotting the hill.

  Still, no blade.

  Still, no real arc.

  But she didn't stop.

  Because in truth, this wasn't just about the technique anymore. Not just about numen flow, compression, and projection. Not just about controlling the width of the wave or refining the slicing edge.

  No, she was trying to take something back.

  Control.

  Since that game of Surya's—since the scene had played out before her like a theater of pain and memory—her mind had been knotted, thorned, twisted. That woman. Luna's mother. The one who had stolen her father's affection from her own mother. The one who had risked everything to protect her daughter. The one who was now… dying. Slow, inevitable, terminal. The one her father had died saving.

  It was too much.

  Too complicated.

  Too real.

  She hated that it had stuck in her brain. She hated that her feelings about it were even more tangled than she thought. She hated the tightness in her chest, the way she wanted to scream and weep and punch something all at once sometimes.

  Ever since the meteor storm. Since she'd screamed at her mother in the street, words thrown like knives in front of everyone—she had barely seen her. She hadn't gone home in days. Not really. Hiding like some dumb rat, shuffling from place to place. First Garran's. Then Reina's. Then Amoux's. Wandering, drifting. Crashing on bedrolls. Nodding off by campfires.

  She hadn't even brought it up to the others. Not even Tarak. Hadn't talked about it.

  Sometimes she snuck home when she was sure no one was there. Just to grab a change of clothes. Just to feel the silence.

  Once, her mom had actually been there. They passed like ghosts in the hallway. Not a word.

  Not a word.

  Sol had thought—she had really thought—that her mom would come after her. Not to scream or hit or scold. But something. Some sign that she cared.

  But no one came.

  Not even once.

  And now… she wasn't even grounded anymore. Not officially. No curfews. No lectures. No punishments.

  She was just…

  Free.

  Sol let out a dry chuckle, her breath jagged and bitter. It echoed faintly in the open field. The trees didn't laugh back. The wind didn't offer sympathy.

  Somehow, that didn't feel like freedom at all.

  Not speaking didn't feel good at all.

  "Sol!"

  The voice rang out like a soft bell against the distant rustle of trees and the golden hum of insects flitting between flowers. It was a voice she recognized in an instant—high, bright, and light-footed. A voice she hadn't heard in a little while.

  Sol's head turned.

  There, just past the low ridge where the wildflowers grew in reckless splashes of color, stood her sister. The vibrant field swayed with a lazy breeze, tall grasses bending around the younger girl's small figure like the world itself made room for her presence.

  Luna.

  Her form had changed—marked by the aftermath of things no one could fully undo. Her tail was longer now, thicker at the base and with subtle obsidian spikes that ran along it's length and caught the sunlight like burnished iron. There were faint lavender-tinted lines coiled across her arms and up her neck—soft, almost glowing, not unlike vines made of gentle moonlight. Her skin had that faint shimmer to it now, otherworldly. Her cheeks had changed too, her face framed by her silver hair—longer than it had been, more wild in the wind.

  And then there were the wings.

  Small, delicate things—balck and bat like and soft-edged—sprouted from her back like half-folded memories of flight. They fluttered once, as if reacting to her heartbeat. And still, despite it all… despite the oddity of it… it was Luna.

  The same Luna who once cried when she dropped her porridge bowl.

  The same Luna who told jokes that only she found funny.

  The same Luna who clung to her side during storms.

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  Nothing would change that.

  Not tail. Not skin. Not wings.

  And yet…

  Sol's grip tightened slightly around her wooden sword. Her chest felt just a little too tight in that moment. Not like panic. Not even like sadness. But something was there. Something gnawed at the corner of her mind, unseen and shapeless.

  Luna skipped through the field toward her, bare feet brushing petals, trailing pollen as if her joy was made manifest.

  "Hey, Luna. You're out?" Sol said coolly, letting the words roll out without letting them weigh too much. Her voice was even. Too even.

  Luna came to a stop beside her, panting slightly from the small run. "Mom is resting right now," she said quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she glanced up at her sister. "And I… I said I would take the world by storm, remember?"

  She tried for a proud little puff of her chest and a theatrical tilt of her chin, like a warrior declaring war. But the next sentence came softer.

  "I don't ever want to trap myself in one place again. Afraid to move. Afraid to leave. I don't want to get stuck in that place."

  She didn't say what place. She didn't have to.

  "It was the worst," Luna muttered. "But mom told me to go. She cares a lot."

  Her voice trailed off as her eyes scanned the field—the swaying wildflowers, the open horizon, the butterflies like sparks from a fire. Her smile returned a second later.

  It was a beautiful smile. The kind that glowed, even when it didn't reach all the way into her eyes. Sol stared for a second too long.

  She should be happy.

  She was happy.

  And yet something ugly stirred at the base of her throat. Not quite jealousy. Not quite bitterness. Just… ugly. A thick, unplaceable thing. The sort of feeling that made you want to scratch your own skin just to get it out.

  She didn't know where it came from.

  Maybe it was the wings.

  Maybe it was how Luna smiled so easily.

  Maybe it was how their mom had said "go" to her.

  Maybe it was how Luna said "she cares."

  Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was none.

  Sol turned her face slightly, her expression tightening for just a breath. She raised her sword again. Her shoulders squared. Her stance corrected. A little more stiff than before. A little more forced.

  "I see," she replied.

  That was all.

  No warmth.

  No echoing enthusiasm.

  No smile to match.

  Just a sideways glance. Just the blade rising again into practice form.

  She didn't want to make any mistakes. Didn't want to say something she'd regret. So she said nothing else. Let the silence stretch. Let the blade swing.

  And behind her, Luna's smile dimmed only slightly.

  But then Luna's cheeks puffed out in exaggerated protest, her silver brows rising as she began circling Sol like a curious predator in a storybook game of tag. Her small hands balled at her sides, wings twitching behind her with each exaggerated step.

  "What're you doing training all the way out here, huh?" Luna demanded, her tone bouncing between playful and theatrical mischief. "What grand skill is my sibling trying to master? Hmmm? The legendary Sun-Slashing Technique? The mighty Sky-Opening Style? Solomon's Reign, where you awaken sword intent so potent it slices the world like paper? Huh? Huh?!"

  She hopped to Sol's right, then darted to her left, her feet dancing through the grass, kicking up petals and pollen in her wake. Her voice rose with each ridiculous suggestion, a teasing lilt undercut with genuine curiosity and maybe—just maybe—a smidge of admiration.

  Sol didn't respond right away. Her black eyes half-lidded, the wooden blade in her hands drooping slightly as she let out a quiet, weary breath through her nose.

  "Just wind slashing," she said simply.

  Her voice was duller than usual. Not entirely cold, but wrapped in something tight and brittle. Normally, she might've chuckled. Might've thrown an elbow at Luna's side and played along. But right now?

  Right now it was just too much.

  The failed swing she released immediately after spoke volumes. The numen didn't channel correctly—it sputtered out halfway through. A crooked gust of air kicked up a patch of dirt and flopped harmlessly into the grass, rustling a few blades. That was it.

  Sol sighed again. The motion sagged her shoulders. A failed slash. Another scratch on her pride. Another jagged reminder of the bubbling, twisting sensation in her chest she still couldn't quite name.

  "Oooooh!" Luna leaned in, eyes sparkling. "Let me try! I wanna see what it feels like!"

  Her hand shot out without warning, grabbing for the sword.

  "Luna, stop—!"

  Sol jerked back in surprise, but she was too slow, and Luna was too fast. Much too fast. Despite her smaller frame, she yanked the training blade from Sol's grip with effortless ease, the motion clean and sharp like she'd been doing it her whole life.

  And then—

  Woomph!

  Luna swung the sword one-handed. The resulting air wave cracked outward like a whip of compressed force. It howled through the field, flattening flowers and sending a shockwave directly into Sol's chest.

  Sol staggered. Her feet left the ground.

  And then she slammed backward into the dirt, a dull thud echoing beneath her as she skidded through the grass. Her vision shook. Her tunic caught burrs and grime, and her palms scraped against loose gravel. A few flower petals landed on her face like nature's accidental insult.

  She blinked, stunned.

  "Oh! Oops!" Luna gasped, dropping the sword like it was suddenly molten-hot. "Sorry! I didn't think it'd hit that hard! I just sorta… felt it! Like a pulse! That was fun though, I think I could really get the hang of this!" she added, grinning wide and toothy, utterly unaware of the storm she'd just stirred.

  Sol didn't answer immediately.

  Her hands, scraped and stinging, flexed open and closed in the dirt. She sat up slowly. Her chest was tight—too tight—and the pounding behind her eyes wasn't just from the fall.

  It was everything.

  The dirty palms. The blow to her pride. The fact that she'd been trying—really trying—and Luna had, in a single accidental moment, done something she hadn't been able to do all afternoon. While she hadn't completed it that wave was far stronger and more condensed than her own. And the worst part? She didn't even seem to understand what that meant.

  She wiped her palms across her tunic, smearing grit and grime across the fabric.

  It was all too much.

  Before her thoughts could catch up to her body—before she could talk herself down—Sol lunged.

  A snap decision. A sudden motion, born from the storm in her gut.

  Her numen surged through her meridians like an uncoiled spring, electricity and heat driving her forward in one fluid motion. Her hand lashed out, fingers tightening around the hilt of the training sword with a crack of resistance.

  Luna's eyes widened.

  Sol yanked.

  The blade wrenched free from Luna's grasp, shocking her backward as she stumbled, her wings fluttering instinctively, tail lashing behind her for balance.

  It wasn't an elegant move. It wasn't calculated.

  It was raw.

  And it left the sisters staring at one another across a stretch of disturbed field and scattered wildflowers, the wooden sword now gripped tightly once more in Sol's scraped hands.

  Luna's lips parted to speak—but no words came yet.

  "You're being so freaking annoying right now. Just… leave me alone."

  The words were sharp. Raw. They leapt from Sol's mouth like a blade thrown too hard, with no thought for where it might land or what it might sever.

  And the moment they left her lips, she felt it—the pullback, like a wound opening too quickly.

  Luna reeled. Her mouth hung open for a second, just a second, her brows lifting in disbelief as though the words hadn't registered yet. Then her jaw clicked shut, and her expression hardened. It wasn't anger, not exactly—it was something quieter, darker. A stillness that chilled the already sun-warmed air around them. Her wings, which had been fluttering with that characteristic flick of energy and cheer, drooped behind her. Her silver hair settled across her shoulders like silk touched by shadow.

  A haze passed through her black eyes, dimming the light in them like clouds crossing the sun.

  "What," Luna said softly—too softly, the edge buried in the calm. "Are you afraid of me now?"

  Her words were slow, deliberate. Each one placed like a stone in a grave.

  "Gonna call me a monster?" she asked, her tone brittle, almost mocking. "Or… maybe it's not fear of me."

  Her gaze sharpened like flint struck against steel.

  "Maybe you're afraid of your own inadequacy compared to me."

  Sol's body froze as if someone had tied invisible threads around her limbs and pulled taut. The air between them felt thicker now, laden with something unspoken, something bitter. Even the wind seemed to pause, the grass going still as Luna's voice dropped lower, like she was speaking not just to Sol—but through her.

  "Luna, what are you—" Sol started, her voice cracking mid-syllable, but she didn't get to finish.

  "Whenever you showed up," Luna said, no hesitation in her tone now, "you'd always take the role of the big sister. The strict but caring older sibling. The protector. The guide. You liked that role."

  Luna stepped forward.

  "You chose that role."

  Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. Each word cut cleaner than the last. There was no shout. Just the weight of truth—dry and heavy and cruel.

  "But you didn't choose it for me. You chose it for you."

  Sol blinked. Her pulse surged. Her hands clenched tighter around the training sword, but she didn't lift it. Couldn't.

  "Because you never got care," Luna continued, her eyes unblinking. "Because your mother was too harsh, too cold. And so you decided you'd fix it—by being what she never was to me. Strict, but loving. Kind, but distant. Just enough to feel righteous."

  Sol felt the words go straight through her like hot iron plunged into flesh. They weren't accusations. They weren't shouts of rage or confusion.

  They were dissection.

  "Did it make you feel big?" Luna asked, stepping even closer, her voice barely above a whisper now. "Did it make you feel valuable? Like you had some kind of meaning because I depended on you?"

  Every single word cut.

  The kind of cut that didn't bleed right away, but you knew would.

  Her voice. Her voice wasn't Luna's. It was something sharper. Older. Colder. As if the pain she'd felt, the transformation she'd undergone, had allowed her to tap into something dormant and brutal. An insight so deep it bypassed civility and clawed straight into the core.

  Sol's knees felt weak. Her breath caught in her throat. It wasn't because the words were completely true. They weren't. Not all of it.

  She loved Luna.

  That much was unshakable. That much she would never deny.

  But Luna's words weren't lies. And that was what made them dangerous.

  Because they echoed with parts of the truth. Twisted fragments of feelings Sol had buried, boxed away, denied. Yes, she had loved playing the role of protector. Yes, there was satisfaction in it. Yes, she had felt more complete when Luna depended on her. When she was needed.

  And now?

  Now Luna didn't need her. Not really.

  Now Luna was stronger. Smarter. And maybe, Sol feared—deep in some murky part of herself—better. Just like her mother said. Maybe she was useless maybe that was why her father cheated and died. Maybe Luna was just well just the one.

  She wasn't sure if that fear made her a bad person.

  But she was sure that the sensation climbing up her spine now was something like anger. And it was hot. And ugly.

  But it was hers.

  "I have literally never done anything but care for you!" Sol's voice cracked, her snarl rising like a flame licked by sudden wind. "Despite everything, despite our past—despite you and your mom being the reason my dad is dead!"

  The words weren't calculated. They were yanked out of her chest like rusted nails, sharp with pain, jagged with betrayal. They burned as they left her, scorching her throat and mind with the weight she'd never dared say aloud until now.

  And they hit.

  Gods, they hit.

  Luna didn't flinch.

  "He was my dad too," she said, low and furious, her voice a dark hum like a pressure system about to break. "And look at you…"

  Her dark eyes locked onto Sol's, narrowing into slits. The silver of her hair, once soft under the light, now shimmered like the blade of a dagger under a stormcloud. Her little wings bristled, tail stiff and slightly curved, her entire body emanating pressure that no child her age should carry.

  "You sound just like what you told me about your mother."

  Sol's blood ran cold.

  "You don't care about me," Luna spat, her lips curling into something more venom than smile. "You just want to be needed. You're addicted to it. If no one needs you, what are you?"

  She took a step forward. Her voice lowered, slow and sharp, like a knife pressed to the skin before the cut.

  "I don't need you anymore, Sol."

  The wind on the field stilled.

  "No one needs you. Not really. Not me, in particular."

  Another step.

  "I don't need anyone. I alone am necessary."

  And then the world twisted.

  It happened subtly at first. The light of the seven suns dimmed—not fully, but warped, bent as if reality itself was flinching from her words. Colors bled into one another unnaturally. The grasses that moments ago danced in the breeze now bent inward, tilting subtly toward Luna. Butterflies scattered. The pipla on the earth curled up and burrowed into the soil.

  The entire world seemed to lean toward Luna's declaration of independence—as if the forest, the sky, and the land itself recognized it as truth.

  And then came her eyes.

  Her dark eyes, always intense, became more. Deeper. Sharper. The void behind them pulled, drew something out of the air, from the ground—from Sol. Something emotional. Something fundamental.

  Sol's foot slipped back instinctively. Not from fear. Not from weakness.

  But because she recognized it now.

  This was not a tantrum. This wasn't a fight between sisters anymore.

  This was the birth of something darker. Something more dangerous. Luna's presence was shifting—her soul brushing against something primal.

  "Luna, calm dow—"

  "You don't get to tell me that anymore!"

  Luna's voice cracked the silence like lightning splitting a mountain. Her feet left the ground, and her tail lashed behind her as if catching the wind itself to propel her forward.

  "Let's just fight it out!"

  And she rushed.

  Her body blurred with speed that hadn't been there before—not just physical speed, but a weight behind it, like her soul was rushing forward in tandem with her fist. Her hand cut through the air, aiming dead center at Sol's chest with precision that bordered on bestial instinct. She wasn't going for a slap. She wasn't going for a push.

  She was trying to hit her. A blow backed by emotion. A blow that carried resentment, confusion, pain, and power.

  Sol's heart pounded. Her instincts screamed.

  The dirt beneath Luna's feet exploded in a spray of dust as her momentum surged. She'd unconsciously used numen—channeling it not through skill, but sheer force of will. A power she barely understood but was now tapping into because of one thing:

  Pain.

  And Sol realized…

  This wasn't just a fight about who was stronger.

  This was a fight about who had the right to feel hurt.

  And now, Luna was going to prove it the only way she knew how.

  With her fists.

  "Stop."

  The voice wasn't loud.

  But it carried. Like the sound of stone scraping against steel. Dry. Flat. Absolute.

  The words echoed through the field, threading through the tension like a blade through silk.

  Sol's breath hitched, and Luna's forward momentum faltered just enough for the haze behind her eyes to flicker. Both turned toward the voice.

  And there he stood.

  Tarak.

  Backed by the seven suns as if nature itself had parted for him. Their multicolored light bled across the sky, washing over his figure in scattered bands of violet and rose and searing gold. But where the light touched him, it didn't scatter.

  It sharpened.

  His cinnamon-brown skin caught the light like burnished bronze, the warmth of the suns kissing the contours of his form. Every angle of him was defined. His boyish, near-doll-like face—a kind of inhuman beauty that felt just a bit too precise to be mortal—was set harder than usual. His eyes, blade-shaped and gleaming faintly, narrowed.

  Not in threat.

  But in judgment.

  Tarak's horns curved forward, catching gleams of refracted light like mirrored daggers. His silver-threaded abyssal hair shone with a pale luster, strands shimmering like woven moonlight. And across his shoulders hung a vest—simple, strange, stitched from tough fibers that clung to his frame. Without a word, he rolled it off his shoulders in one smooth motion.

  It fell to the ground with a thud.

  And in its absence, his musculature was exposed fully to the light. Compact, taut, deceptively dense. His figure was not overdeveloped, but efficient. The type of body that held violence in reserve. Black pants—worn, functional—hugged his frame, a tear carefully cut at the rear to allow his long, thickly scaled tail to sweep lazily behind him. It twitched once. Twice. Like a cat that had seen enough.

  He stepped forward.

  Slow. Steady.

  His gaze never left Luna.

  "I said," Tarak repeated, his voice calm, "move back."

  It wasn't a shout. It wasn't loud.

  But it was the kind of tone that implied no argument would be tolerated.

  The kind of voice that made grown beasts lie down.

  And though his face stayed passive, there was a tension now. In his posture. In the flex of his fingers. The air around him began to hum—not audibly, but spiritually. A vibration beneath the skin, the type you only feel when the room starts to close in, when the sky itself leans lower to listen.

  The ground beneath his feet cracked.

  Sol moved, instinct screaming at her to get between them. "Tarak—Luna, both of you, stop!"

  But they moved faster than her.

  Too fast.

  Twin bursts of wind exploded outward in opposite directions—one from each of them—as they dashed across the distance. The soil shattered beneath their steps. Wildflowers tore from the earth, caught in the vortex. Trees in the distance bent from the pressure, their branches groaning. The pipla had long since vanished underground. Even the insects fled.

  They met in the center of the clearing, eyes locked.

  Two children.

  And yet nothing about it felt childish.

  On one side, a girl born of mutation and moonlight, whose blood sang with demon heritage and celestial pressure. Her new form enhanced, her emotions unstable, her body not fully her own.

  On the other, a boy born of myth, of something ancient, endless, and powerful. A being from a place she did not know. An alien and yet so close to her heart. She could not guess at just how alien he truly was however.

  The pressure built—skyward. The light of the seven suns twisted at odd angles above them as if refracted by something just barely wrong. Leaves caught in the air were frozen mid-spin. Time itself seemed to take one cautious step back.

  Luna's tail lashed with an audible snap, her fangs barely visible behind her parted lips. Her claws trembled, but not with fear.

  With impulse.

  "And what if I don't?" Luna said quietly.

  Her voice no longer held emotion—it had dropped into something deeper. Something more primal. "What will you do about it?"

  She didn't flinch. Not in the face of his presence. Not in the face of his pressure.

  And Tarak…

  Tarak did not speak.

  He simply looked at her.

  And that silence? That refusal to answer? It was louder than any threat.

  Sol's heart pounded. She stood a few paces behind, her breath caught between protest and paralysis.

  This wasn't a sibling squabble anymore.

  A demon child and a Tyrannius were about to battle.

  And the world knew it.