Chapter 17 : A warrior's resolve

The throne room was bathed in dim, cold light—an eerie glow that barely pierced the endless shroud of darkness. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching long and jagged, as if they had minds of their own. The only sound was the faint crackle of distant torches, their flickering flames unable to dispel the heavy, oppressive air.

Kurogami sat at the heart of it all—an unmoving figure draped in black. His crimson eyes gleamed beneath the shadow of his hood, cold and calculating, reflecting nothing but the void within. Around him, the air felt heavier, as if his very presence bent the world to his will.

The doors creaked open.

A lone soldier entered, his steps hesitant and measured. Fear clung to him, stiffening every movement. Even the sound of his boots against the marble floor seemed too loud—a dangerous intrusion into the lord’s silence. When he reached the edge of the dais, he knelt low, not daring to meet Kurogami’s gaze.

A pause stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

"My lord," the soldier began, his voice trembling slightly despite his effort to control it. "The assassins… they’re dead."

The words hung in the air like a blade, waiting to fall.

Kurogami did not react—not at first. He remained motionless, his fingers resting lightly on the hilt of the long, curved sword at his side. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

The soldier swallowed hard, the silence pressing against his lungs like a weight. Everyone knew the consequences of failure—or even of delivering bad news. He braced himself, half-expecting the sharp bite of a blade.

But instead of anger… there was something else.

A soft sound broke the silence.

A chuckle.

Low, quiet, and impossibly cold.

The soldier’s breath caught in his throat. He risked a glance upward, confusion flickering in his eyes.

Kurogami’s lips curled into a slow, twisted smile.

"Dead?" His voice was smooth, like silk over steel—too calm, too controlled. "So… she survived."

There was no trace of disappointment. If anything, his amusement grew. He leaned forward slightly, the shadows shifting around him like living things. "Interesting."

Renzo, lounging casually against a stone pillar to the side of the throne, raised an eyebrow. His arms were crossed over his chest, and despite his apparent ease, his golden eyes sharpened with curiosity.

"You’re… not angry?" Renzo’s tone was casual, but there was an edge beneath it.

Kurogami let out a soft breath that might have been a sigh—or something darker. "Why would I be angry," he murmured, almost to himself, "when I’ve just found someone worth playing with?"

He rose from his throne in a fluid, graceful motion. The long coat he wore swept across the marble, the sound echoing softly through the room. He moved like a shadow brought to life—silent, inescapable.

His gaze fixed on the soldier, who still knelt frozen in place.

"This girl…" Kurogami’s voice dropped to a near whisper, sending a chill crawling down the soldier’s spine. "She’s stronger than the others. More… resilient." A glint of hunger sparked in his crimson eyes. "I want to see how much further she can go before she breaks."

Renzo tilted his head, his lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "You always did enjoy playing with fragile things," he said dryly. "But what happens when she’s no longer fun?"

Kurogami’s smile widened—cold and merciless.

"Then," he said softly, "I’ll break her completely."

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On the other hand.......

The training field stretched beneath the pale afternoon sun, though little warmth reached the ground. The air was sharp, edged with the crisp bite of autumn. Dust rose beneath swift, relentless movements—blades cutting through the air with fierce precision.

Mikuya stood at the center of it all.

Her breath came fast and shallow, chest heaving as she pushed her body past its limits. Sweat clung to her skin, dampening the loose strands of hair that fell across her face. But she didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

Her sword flashed in the sunlight as she struck again, harder—faster. Every swing was fueled by something deeper than mere discipline. Something heavier. She had to get stronger. She had to keep moving forward.

Failure wasn’t an option.

A few feet away, Sora leaned against a boulder, watching her with quiet intensity. He twirled a small stone between his fingers, flicking it into the air and catching it again. His expression was light—almost bored—but his eyes tracked her every movement.

She was pushing too hard. He could see it in the tremble of her arms, the way her breath hitched with each strike. And yet, she refused to stop.

"You know," he called out, his voice casual, "you’re gonna collapse if you keep that up."

Mikuya didn’t answer. Her grip on the sword tightened as she forced herself through another set of motions. The ache in her muscles burned, her vision blurred at the edges—but still, she pushed forward.

Sora sighed, shaking his head. "Stubborn idiot," he muttered under his breath.

For a moment, he considered leaving her to it. If she wanted to wreck herself, that was her choice. But something about the way she moved—the fierce desperation in every strike—made it impossible for him to walk away.

"Hey," he said, louder this time. "I’m serious. If you don’t—"

The words barely left his mouth before it happened.

Her body gave out.

Her knee buckled, and the sword slipped from her grasp. She crumpled to the ground, her breath shuddering—but before she could fall completely, Sora was there.

He caught her easily, his arms steady as he lowered her to the ground.

"I told you," he murmured, his voice softer now. "You’re pushing too hard."

For a moment, she didn’t resist. Her body felt heavy, her exhaustion too deep to fight. And then—without thinking—he did it.

He placed a hand gently on her head.

The gesture was light, almost comforting. A simple motion.

But it shattered something inside her.

(Flashback) 

Warm sunlight bathed the school rooftop. The wind tugged playfully at Mikuya’s hair as she leaned against the railing, laughing at something dumb Saito had said.

Her brother collapsed beside her, stretching his arms behind his head with a contented sigh. "You worry too much, Miku."

She pouted. "It’s a big exam, Saito!"

He only laughed, reaching out to ruffle her hair. "Relax. You’re fine just the way you are, you know?"

His smile back then—it had always felt like safety. Like no matter what happened, he would be there.

And then, one day, he wasn’t.

The memory burned through her chest like a knife.

Without thinking, she slapped Sora’s hand away. The warmth of his palm lingered on her forehead, but her heart pounded harder—too hard. "I told you not to do that!"

Her voice came out sharper than she intended. The words hung in the air, brittle and raw.

Sora blinked, pulling his hand back slowly, his face unreadable. "Right… guess I forgot."

There was no sarcasm in his voice—no teasing edge. It was strange. For someone who always had a snarky comeback ready, his quietness unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. He wasn’t just brushing it off. This time, it felt different.

He leaned back, resting his elbows on the ground behind him, and tilted his head toward the sky. His expression softened, the distant look in his eyes as if he were staring at something only he could see. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "I used to do that… to my little sister."

Mikuya froze. For a second, her breath hitched in her throat. She turned her gaze away, trying to pretend his words didn’t affect her—but they did. Sora never talked about himself. Not really.

But now… now he was letting something slip through the cracks.

"She died," he added, and though his tone remained steady, there was a roughness beneath it. "Before I met Renzo."

Mikuya’s chest tightened. She knew loss—knew how it felt when someone you loved was ripped away. Still, hearing him say it so plainly, without any hint of the usual bravado, made her stomach twist in ways she wasn’t prepared for.

Her voice, when it finally came, was quieter. "How?"

Sora didn’t look at her. "Illness," he said simply, as if the word itself was a locked door he refused to open any further. "Guess… I still have the habit."

His words hung there, heavy and unfinished, like he wanted to say more but couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind stirred through the field, carrying the distant rustle of leaves. Mikuya dug her fingers into the dirt beneath her knees, grounding herself in the rough texture as if it could stop the memories creeping in.

But the memory came anyway—unbidden and sharp.

Saito. The gentle pressure of his hand on her head when she was upset. His lopsided grin, warm and teasing. The way he used to ruffle her hair, telling her not to cry—even when the world felt like it was crumbling around them.

Before she realized it, the words slipped out.

"Saito did that too."

Sora’s head turned, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Your brother?"

She nodded stiffly, her jaw tightening. She didn’t want to talk about Saito. Didn’t want to dig up things she had worked so hard to bury. But somehow, Sora’s quietness—his honesty—had cracked something inside her.

"You never talk about him," Sora said after a pause. There was no pressure in his voice, no demanding tone. Just quiet curiosity. "What was he like?"

Her heart thudded painfully. Stop asking.

Her fingers curled into fists. "That’s none of your business," she snapped, the sharpness in her tone masking the ache beneath it.

Sora didn’t flinch. If her anger bothered him, he didn’t show it. Instead, he exhaled softly, a faint, humorless smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Touchy," he murmured. "But… he must’ve been a good guy."

The words cut deeper than he probably realized.

He was. Saito had been everything. The only person who made her feel safe. The one person who believed in her—until the day he was gone.

Mikuya swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat. She couldn’t let herself go there. Couldn’t let herself feel that pain again.

"You’re an idiot," she muttered instead, hoping the insult would put some distance between them—between her and the ache crawling up her chest.

A faint smirk returned to Sora’s lips, though his usual arrogance was missing. "Takes one to know one," he said, but the teasing lacked its usual bite.

The wind shifted again, carrying the faint scent of rain on the horizon. For a moment, it felt like the whole world had slowed down, leaving only the two of them there—alone with their ghosts.

Sora stood, brushing the dust from his hands. He didn’t offer any more words of comfort, didn’t try to dig deeper. That wasn’t his way. But when he turned back toward her, he extended his hand.

"So?" he asked quietly. "You done moping, or what?"

Mikuya’s breath caught in her throat.

The hand he held out to her—it wasn’t pity. It wasn’t even kindness. It was just… steady. The same kind of steadiness Saito had given her. For a moment, she wanted to refuse—wanted to stay on the ground and let the weight of everything drag her down.

But she didn’t.

Slowly, she reached up and took his hand.

His grip was warm—solid. For a fleeting second, she could almost pretend it was her brother pulling her to her feet. But when she looked up, it was Sora’s face staring back at her. His expression was still calm, still guarded—but there was something softer in his eyes. Something she didn’t want to think too hard about.

"Try to keep up," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Sora’s smirk widened, that glimmer of sharpness returning to his expression. "No promises," he shot back.

And just like that, the moment passed. The past remained where it was—still heavy, still painful—but for now, it didn’t swallow them whole.

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, they returned to their training—pushing forward, even as the shadows of their pasts stretched long and dark behind them.

And for the first time in a long while, Mikuya felt like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t completely alone.

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