After they'd finished eating and the fire had died down to a gentle glow, a quiet settled over the small group.
Hope pushed himself up with a grunt, wiping his hands on the rough fabric of his cloak. The firelight caught in his eyes, but something behind them had gone dim.
"I'll take the watch tonight," he said quietly.
His voice wasn't forceful, but there was something firm in it — a note of finality. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a decision. Nefer raised a brow but didn't question him. She simply nodded, laid her back against the cool stone, and closed her eyes. Massa followed, curling slightly into her cloak, already halfway asleep.
Hope didn't wait for the silence to deepen. He stepped out into the night, into the chill air that filled the mouth of the cave. His breath fogged lightly in the fractured moon. Above, the sky was cracked — not just clouded, but shattered — as if someone had taken a hammer to the heavens and left fragments of the moon suspended in orbit. Each broken piece glowed faintly, like ghost-lanterns. They scattered pale light across the jagged landscape, casting a confusing dance of multiple shadows in every direction.
Hope stepped further out, boots crunching softly over stone and dust.
But it wasn't the cold that made him volunteer for the watch. And it wasn't out of some noble duty, either.
Not again.
Not after the last dream — or vision — or whatever it had been. That thing, that monstrous version of himself... the way it had worn his skin like a mask, grinning at him with teeth too white, eyes too hollow.
He could still feel it. Like it had pressed its cold palm on his chest and left an imprint on his soul.
No. He shook his head. He couldn't let himself drift back into that space — into that silent abyss where his fears and doubts took form and clawed at the inside of his skull. Damn this flaw he muttered.
Instead, he would train.
Hope stepped out onto a clearer part of the rocky slope. The darkness around him growing deeper, darker .He took a breath — slow, steady — and then extended his hand.
A whisper of darkness answered him.
With a whoosh like folding cloth, his sword materialized into his grip — the same blade that Nefer had gifted to him, He turned it over in his hand, feeling the familiar weight — not too heavy, but solid. Comforting.
He rolled his shoulder, then swung the blade lightly. Once. Twice. Testing his arms. Warming the joints. Then came a more deliberate series — a smooth flow of cuts and arcs, slashes and thrusts, the blade glinting under moon shards like it was drinking in their light.
And then he moved.
Not just like someone practicing... but like someone becoming something else.
Hope's body flowed across the uneven terrain, feet gliding through the shadows like he belonged in them. His steps were exact — measured — not too loud, not too rigid
And tonight, he wore that title.
His sword rose and fell in elegant, purposeful motion. Each swing felt sharper, tighter — guided by instinct and refined by training. He felt Nefer's lessons embedded in his muscles, like her voice had etched itself into his body. Footwork, angles, balance, recovery. Each turn of the hip. Each weight shift.
He darted between scattered rocks on the ground, weaving as if dodging unseen foes. His blade hissed through the air — an extension of his will. And yet, after a short while...
He stopped.
Panting.
Sweat beaded along his brow. His shirt clung to his back. He hadn't expected to burn this much energy. The movements were clean, yes. Sharper than before. But they cost him more than he thought.
He dropped to a crouch, fingers touching the ground. Heart pounding.
Still... he smiled slightly. Progress is progress.
He couldn't deny it — he was advancing fast. Scarily fast. Nefer's lessons were sinking in like rainwater into dry earth. He picked them up with terrifying ease. Movements that should take weeks of drilling felt natural after hours. It surprised even him.
And yet...
He wouldn't show her. Not yet.
If she knew how fast he was learning, she might stop. She might think she was no longer needed. And Hope — the same boy who spent his life alone, who trusted no one — wasn't ready to let go of this strange thread of connection he'd found. Nefer might be blunt, sharp-tongued, and unreadable... but she was also the first person who taught him with real intent. Who invested in him, even if it was just through technique.
So, he'd pretend. Let her think he was still slow. Still needing correction. Just so she'd keep watching.
With that thought, he stood again.
And this time, he trained harder.
He launched himself forward, letting the blade carry him into stronger, heavier swings. The air sliced with every motion, each cut creating a sharp whissh like it was splitting silk. His muscles strained, pushing harder than before. His footfalls slammed into stone. Sparks flew once when his blade clipped a rock edge.
He ducked, spun, twisted mid-move — imagining an enemy closing in. A dozen of them. He fought them all in his mind. Each move had purpose now — not just practice, but survival. Fluid power met discipline. Control met desperation. He wasn't just training...
He was bleeding the fear out of his body.
Burning away the image of the monster in his dreams. Erasing the shadow of that grin.
Eventually, his arms felt like lead. His legs trembled faintly with fatigue. And still, he forced out a few more cuts — one, two, three.
Then he stopped.
Standing in the middle of a battlefield made only of dust and memory, surrounded by the glow of a broken sky.
He stood there, sword lowered, breath heavy... but eyes sharp.