FATED TO REINCARNATE

The day passed in an unusual quiet.

No drills. No shouting. No falling from trees.

The old man disappeared for most of it, leaving Elara and Fig to their own silence. Elara didn't press for conversation—she welcomed the stillness. Instead, she found a sun-warmed rock overlooking the cliffs and sat there for hours, legs crossed, the wind tugging at her hair.

She watched the birds wheel above the valley. She listened to the hush of trees below.

And she breathed.

Letting her muscles settle. Letting her thoughts untangle.

Letting herself focus.

When dawn broke the next day, training resumed.

There were no gentle beginnings this time.

The old man struck fast and hard, his staff a blur. Elara was forced to dodge, roll, leap out of reach or be flattened. More than once, she barely escaped being knocked off the ledge.

"Faster!" he barked. "Your enemy won't wait for you to think!"

Elara grunted, ducking under a blow that would've cracked her ribs. "I'm trying!"

"Try harder."

Another swing. Elara twisted—and stumbled.

A sharp jab to her side sent her sprawling into the dirt.

She lay there gasping, vision swimming.

Fig hovered nearby, flinching with every blow. "I'd say 'this is fine,' but I'm developing a stress ulcer."

The old man stood over her, silent, impassive.

She wiped blood from her lip and sat up, teeth gritted. "This is impossible."

"No," he said. "This is real. Now pick it up."

This time, he didn't hand her a staff.

He pointed to the rack of weapons against the wall.

"Choose."

Elara's eyes moved along the worn handles and aged steel until her hand landed on a longsword—plain, functional, but beautifully balanced. The moment her fingers wrapped around the hilt, something inside her shifted.

A faint hum—so soft she almost thought she imagined it—ran up her arm and settled in her chest.

Her breath caught.

She took a step back, and the sword moved with her. Not like a tool—not like a thing she held—but like a part of her. Like an extension of her body and her thoughts.

She exhaled—and moved.

When the old man came at her... this time- she met him.

Steel rang out, clean and bright.

Her grip was strong and her stance grounded. She deflected a blow without thinking, turned, and struck back. It wasn't perfect—not yet—but it was strong. She could feel the blade in her blood, as if her magic had been waiting for metal all along.

The old man raised an eyebrow as their weapons clashed again. "Hm."

"What?" she asked, breathless.

"Not terrible."

Elara grinned.

They sparred again, faster, harder—her movements becoming sharper, smarter, alive. She didn't win, not yet, but for the first time, she didn't lose completely, either.

She didn't feel like she was faking it anymore.

She felt like a warrior.

When the training finally ended, Elara dropped to the grass, chest heaving, arms buzzing with energy. She ran her hand over the blade's flat edge, marveling at the strange hum still vibrating under her skin.

"Fig," she whispered, "I felt it. Like it was part of me. Like it recognized me."

Fig flopped beside her, wings splayed. "I don't know if I'm more impressed or terrified."

The old man didn't say anything, but his expression lingered a bit too long on Elara as he walked past. There was something thoughtful in his gaze. Troubled, even.

But Elara didn't notice.

Because she was fascinated by the feeling in her blood from holding the weapon.

She is definitly bringing war to Silverkeep.

---

The days blurred together in a rhythm of breath, sweat, and steel.

Elara rose before dawn, sword in hand before the sun touched the cliffs. Every movement came faster now, smoother, more precise. She no longer had to think about her footwork—it was there, beneath her, steady. The blade was no longer a tool; it was a partner. A part of her.

She danced with it in the wind like she'd been born to it.

The old man offered fewer corrections with each passing day. Instead, he sparred in silence, pushing her harder. And when she held her own, his grunts of approval came just slightly more frequently than his bruising strikes.

By the end of the week, Elara felt like fire wrapped in muscle.

On the final night, they sat around the hearth as the wind howled outside the hovel. The flames crackled low, casting long shadows along the stone walls.

Elara's sword lay beside her, gleaming softly in the firelight.

Fig was already half-asleep on a folded cloak, wings twitching with dreams of snacks or sarcasm. The old man stared into the flames, silent for longer than usual.

Elara watched him for a moment, then finally asked, "Something's bothering you."

He didn't look at her and his voice was low when he answered. "You've bonded with the blade..."

She nodded, proud. "I can feel it. It listens. It moves with me."

His jaw tightened. "I know."

There was a pause. Then he turned to face her, the fire reflecting in his eyes like ancient sparks.

"Elara, bonding with metal like that… it isn't just rare. It's dangerous."

She blinked, frowning. "Dangerous how?"

He looked down at the sword beside her. "Steel is not a passive magic. Not like light, or healing, or spirit work. When metal bonds with a soul, it doesn't just respond—it echoes."

Elara leaned in, uncertain. "What does that mean?"

"It means that the stronger the bond becomes, the more the blade takes from you. Rage, fear, pain—those emotions fuel it. Feed it." His voice lowered. "If you're not careful, it starts leading the dance."

She swallowed hard, a tinge of worry clouding her mind before she brushes it off. "But I control it."

"Now," he said. "But I've seen warriors lose themselves in the rhythm. Kill faster than they mean to. Strike harder than they should. Steel doesn't ask if the fight is over—it only knows there's blood on the wind."

Elara stared at the sword. It's not like she went to a magic shop and picked this power, it was given to her without her even knowing.

The sword glinted, innocent and perfect, beside her.

"I didn't choose this," she said quietly.

"No," he agreed. "The sword did."

The fire popped, sending sparks into the night.

Elara curled her hand around the hilt, grounding herself in its weight—not just the physical weight, but the responsibility it carried.

"I'll be careful," she said.

The old man gave her a long, tired look. "No, girl. You'll be strong and survive."