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“Pick it up, abomination.”
Jill numbly looked down at the half-rusted sword lying by her feet. The blade looked large and unwieldy, not exactly a blade befitting someone of her size. In a kingdom full of beasts and brutes, this must have been the best they could scrounge up for their frail little weapon.
A moment of stillness passed, a quiet moment of refusal. It didn’t last long, as a sharp blow from behind sent her sprawling on the stone floor, coughing as she nearly sliced her palms open on the rusted blade.
“Pick it up.”
Wheezing, her fingers found the hilt and closed around it, the ridges rough against her skin. She staggered to her feet, her legs trembling with the effort.
She cast a withering glare over her shoulder at the Ironblood who’d kicked her. He must have noticed, even in the dim light, because he sneered and wickedly laughed with his friends.
The sword weighed like an anchor in her hand, the tip of the blade dragging against the ground. It looked and felt nothing like the training ones she’d used in Rosaria, or the ones that the Shields carried around the castle.
Her chest ached at the memory, like a set of talons around her heart. Those memories were full of warmth and light, but revisiting them felt like torture. Each memory was wrapped around her insides like spider silk, and each one that surfaced felt like a fresh wound.
There was no warmth or light here. There was only gloom, flame, and frost.
Jill looked back up at the Ironblood warrior in front of her, his face twisted in a scowl. As if it demeaned him to even stand before her.
She returned the look reproachfully, resisting the urge to turn up her nose at him. It would only result in another beating.
“Your powers are weak,” the man said, unsheathing his own blade. It was rusted as well, but fit better in his large, calloused hands. “If you fail to prime on the battlefield, you cannot fall. The only way you will fall will be by the righteous hand of the Patriarch.”
Foul-breathed cur, she wanted to spit at him. Instead, she nodded stiffly, her grip around the hilt tightening.
The man snorted, hefting his own sword with apparent ease. “We figured your feeble body couldn’t handle a club or an axe, so we dug these from the scrapyard.” He pointed the tip of his blade at her, as if challenging her to do the same. “Though, it seems even this, you cannot handle.”
She felt her face contort with fury at his mocking words. Mustering every bit of strength she had, Jill lifted her sword slowly and painstakingly, managing to tap the point of her blade against his with a loud scrape.
He barked out a laugh, which was echoed by the men standing behind her. She didn’t spare them a glance, not wanting to give them any more satisfaction. They already had all the entertainment they needed, watching their Dominant dance around for them.
If only she were stronger, or if she was at fuller strength… she would cut through every last one of them and freeze this desolate hell ten times over.
Unfortunately, the last mission they had dragged her on had left her weakened, lacking in both physical and Eikonic power. Any attempt to fight back would have been futile at best and disastrous at worst. Perhaps then they would decide she was more trouble than she was worth, and finally slit her throat.
Or perhaps they wouldn’t… and that thought was somehow even worse.
The Ironblood smacked her sword to the side, throwing her off balance. With a small yelp, she stumbled, the sword’s weight still too bulky in her slight hand. She caught herself, grasping the handle with both hands. Her arms were starting to shake from the strain.
“Perhaps we will have to find another blade… one more befitting of your stature, Dominant.” He leered at her thin, malnourished frame. His tone was beyond contemptuous, dripping with naught but pure hatred. “Perhaps when you next go into battle, you can find a blade of your own. Pick it out among the trail of bodies you leave, abomination.”
He was trying to goad her into striking. Trying to provoke a fit of rage, and laugh when she inevitably humiliated herself. It’s nearly working, Jill thought, gritting her teeth with effort to even hold her sword up.
“Come now, wretched thing,” he scoffed, spinning his sword almost effortlessly, the weight nothing in his rugged hand. “Were you not raised among the Rosarian duchy? How come you cannot even hold a sword?”
A funny feeling rose in her at his words.
“You don’t know how to hold a sword?”
Jill cast him a dry, unamused look, gripping the wooden sword awkwardly in her hand. “No, I do not. I didn’t know there was a specific way to.”
Clive laughed, which was a rare sight. Despite her embarrassment, she couldn’t help but smile. He had always been kind to her, soft in his words and movements. However, he always carried a quiet heaviness in his demeanor, a sadness that clearly weighed on his heart. Moments like this, free of duty or responsibility, were few and far between.
“It’s alright. Let me show you.”
She could sense him hovering over her shoulder, though he was careful not to brush against her. One of his gloved hands grasped the “blade” of the sword, holding it steady. The other gently moved her pliable fingers, adjusting their position on the hilt.
The Ironblood man suddenly whipped his sword at her, his strike fast and unexpected. She barely had time to blink, her nostalgic stupor vanishing instantly. A bolt of shock coursed through her blood and she swung her sword up, clumsily deflecting his blow away.
Jill stumbled backwards, the weight throwing her off balance again. She could hear the Ironblood behind her, cheering mockingly as she struggled to support the sword’s weight.
I could die right here, and feel naught but relief, she thought bitterly, letting the end of her sword clatter to the ground.
“Don’t tell me you’re giving up, abomination!” The man stalked towards her, the tone of his voice derisive. “They will give you no quarter on the battlefield. If you give up, you die.”
Her mind did not think that was so bad. On instinct, though, she skirted to the side as he lunged forward, the tip of her blade screeching against the stone.
Luckily, like the rest of the Ironblood, this man was used to wielding slower weapons like an axe, and even she could tell that his movements were somewhat amateurish. Each one was slow and predictable, luckily, and she was able to dodge them with some ease. He certainly wasn’t holding back, though, as each of his swings had power behind them.
Clive had more skill with a blade than this man, she thought. If Clive was in his place, fighting me now, I would likely be long dead.
Clive had always sparred like a wild, fiery thing, like a coeurl dancing around its prey. Each blow was swift and strong, subduing any opponent he faced in a manner of minutes.
Yet in all other aspects, he was gentle and restrained. Outside of the training grounds, she had never seen an ounce of aggression come to the surface. He was always soft, always tender.
“This feels ridiculous,” Jill mumbled as Clive guided her hand through the air with sharp, quick movements.
He snorted quietly, clearly enjoying himself. “You’ll get used to them. It takes practice, that's all.”
“As if I’ll have the opportunity to make use of this,” she said, though she tried to commit each movement to memory. “Perhaps if my handmaidens try to strangle me in my sleep, I can pull a sword on them.”
Clive didn’t laugh at that, letting go of her hand. Jill looked over her shoulder at him, still pointing her sword in the position she’d left it in.
His expression was suddenly serious, that quiet sadness returning to his eyes.
“What is it?” She tilted her head. “I was just joking, you know.”
“I know,” Clive’s gaze lingered on hers for a moment, before flitting around the empty grounds. “But… it would bring me comfort if you knew how to defend yourself. If you ever got hurt, I…”
His head turned away, as though it pained him to look at her. She saw his throat bob as he swallowed. “I could not bear it.”
A sharp blow connected with her head, pain bursting across her face as though her skull had split open. A cry tore from her throat and she staggered backwards, a hand flying to the side of her face instantly. Tears pooled in her eyes, but they weren’t just from the pain. She blinked them away wildly, trying to clear her vision.
The taste of metal coated her tongue and she spat out a mass of blood, lifting her sword back up as the Ironblood prepared another strike.
His strike knocked her blade to the side, forcing her to stumble and frantically regain her balance as his next blow swung for her neck.
Panicking, Jill dropped to the ground like a sack of flour, scrambling backwards and dragging her sword with her. She could hear the Ironblood jeering at her. She didn’t care.
“Fight back!” The man roared, looming over her as he slowly approached. “Won’t you rage, abomination? Won’t you show us your true nature?”
Jill whimpered, her breath hitching in her throat as fear overtook her. Her feet scrabbled against the paved stone, but she couldn’t find the strength to stand. Every drop of blood in her body was telling her to run. To give up on fighting, on defending herself.
“You think you can defend yourself?” His voice was teasing, and he pointed the tip of his training sword at her, level with her sternum.
Jill pointed hers back with a disbelieving scoff. “No, I can’t. This ordeal was your idea, remember?”
Clive grinned, his eyes gleaming with an excitement she’d rarely ever seen in him. He whacked her blade playfully, nearly bouncing on his toes.
She whacked his back, giggling. He had taught her some of the basics of swordplay in the fleeting moments they’d stolen together, more to humor him than anything else. To her surprise, she had picked it up rather easily, and found some degree of fun in it.
He’d never directly asked her to spar, though, for obvious reasons. As a prospective Shield, his mastery of the blade was leagues beyond hers, both in technique and instinct. He fought as though his sword was an extension of himself, as though he was born with a sword in his hand.
“You can practice by yourself all you like,” Clive paced towards her slowly but eagerly, forcing her backwards. “But the best practice will come with a partner.”
His energy was infectious, and she herself felt light on her feet. Her wooden sword felt weightless in her fingers, ready to respond to each move.
Clive struck first, the motion quick, but not as fast as he was capable of. She met it with a strike of her own, and then with another, and another. He was quizzing her on the basics, each hit of their swords a passing mark.
“You’re doing well,” he praised her, sidestepping as she attempted to lunge forward. “You’ve been paying attention.”
She grinned. “I’ve been trying. You make it look too easy.”
Clive laughed as he attacked again, his strikes carrying a little more weight now. She blocked most of them, skirting out of the way of others.
“Easy,” she protested, weaving and ducking through some of his attacks. “I’m not a Shield, you know. Can’t you go easy on me?”
He smiled. “I am going easy, my lady.”
Jill rolled her eyes, which he must have noticed, as he took the opportunity to dart forward and aim a blow at her side. Barely having time to respond, she jumped out of the way, the tip of his sword missing her dress by a hair’s breadth. His momentum carried him forward, to the point where Jill was now behind him. His back was exposed.
Seeing an opportunity, she thrust her sword forward and tapped him on the back.
“Ha!” Jill exclaimed, throwing her fists in the air. “And the match goes to me!”
Clive caught himself and regained his balance. When he turned to her, his smile was now sheepish. “Beginner’s luck,” he said, though his gaze reflected nothing but pride. “I did say I was going easy.”
“Oh, I know,” she skipped forward and nudged his shoulder with her own. “I watch your sparring sessions. You fight like no other, Clive.”
His gaze fell to the side, probably out of self-consciousness. “I fight like any other.”
She shook her head, laying a hand on his forearm. He flinched ever so slightly, but did not pull away.
“You fight like a true Shield of Rosaria,” Jill said, her heart pounding in her chest. “Joshua will be truly lucky to have you as his protector.”
A prickle ran across her skin as Clive met her eyes again, his expression soft and his voice low. “He’s not the only one I want to protect.”
Jill felt sobs rack her body. Tears flowed freely down her face, spilling uncontrollably as the Ironblood approached. Her sword felt even heavier than before, her fingers numb and unresponsive.
Clive wasn’t here to protect her. Clive was dead, and she couldn’t even protect herself.
She was doomed to either die here, in the dark clutches of a people who reviled her, or on the battlefield, where a stranger would take her head as a trophy. Either way, she would die alone, haunted by the memories of the people she had loved.
“Is this the Dominant?” The Ironblood called out, turning to his comrades behind him. “Is this the abomination we are supposed to fear?”
Jill whimpered, swallowing a mouthful of blood. Her hand scrabbled for the hilt of her sword, almost acting on its own accord. What was the point of even fighting back? What was the point of living, if she was to die soon after regardless?
When the man turned back to her, she still didn’t have an answer.
“This is your last chance,” he said as he hefted his sword. “Fight back.”
He lifted his blade over his head, seeming to relish his killing blow as he brought his sword down.
And yet, once again, Jill acted on instinct.
She felt the tear tracts on her cheeks become cold, then freezing, then frozen in the matter of an instant. A chill swept through her body like a northern wind, sucking the breath from her chest. With a cry wrenched from the depths of her gut, she gripped her sword with both hands and swung it upward with all of her might. Ice spread, crackling, from her hands and shot down the length of her blade as she swung.
It met the Ironblood’s blade with an impact that shot pain through her arms, and instead of deflecting his sword, it shattered it into tiny pieces.
Jill squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away as metal rained down on her, landing harmlessly against her hair and clothes. Her arms gave out, and the flat end of the sword collapsed against her midsection.
A moment of silence passed, and the only sound was her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. She looked back up warily, almost expecting a blow to come anyway.
The Ironblood were silent, looking on with quiet disappointment. The man whose sword she’d shattered merely placed his boot on her hip and pushed her over, metal shards and iced-over sword clinking to the ground.
“Very well, abomination,” he sneered. “Well fought. Return to your quarters.”
With that, he stormed off, leaving her in the company of his compatriots.
Jill lay on her side, the chill slowly fading from within. Her shoulders trembled, her face stuck in a wide-eyed daze.
Slowly, her mind caught up to the moment. She was alive. Shiva had saved her, and she was alive.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t do this.”
The sound of heavy footsteps drew nearer, and soon enough, she was lifted off the ground by her arms. Her feet dragged across the ground for a few moments, unable to find their feeling yet.
“Walk,” one of the men said. Another blow connected to her back, drawing a pained gasp from her. Her shoes found the ground and she managed to find her footing.
Clive… she thought, her lips parting numbly. Would you still be proud of me now?
A small glimmer of hope dared to light in her. He was a skilled swordsman, blessed by the Phoenix. Maybe, just maybe, he had survived the massacre at Phoenix Gate. Maybe he had made it out safely, thanks to the prayer she’d made to Metia.
And yet, when Jill looked to the heavens for her red star, the only thing that met her eyes was stone and smoke. The hope that had just ignited in her heart was immediately stomped out and suffocated.
She couldn’t help but let out a laugh. The heavens had never given her an answer so plain.
Clive had not made it out safely. Clive was dead, everyone was dead, and she was all alone.
Her head hung limply from her shoulders, tears pooling in her eyes again. So much for her prayers. So much for anything at all.
The only thing awaiting her now was death.
She smiled wanly, barely a twitch on her icy face. Then death, she would find.