Chapter Text
The training grounds lay quiet, wrapped in the gentle hush of early morning. Mist clung to the edges of the clearing, softening the jagged lines of broken stone and the gnarled roots that pushed through the earth. Even the birds were cautious, their songs tentative and thin. Illuga liked it this way. A place untouched by crowds, a space that belonged to him alone.
The spear in his hands was heavy, though it felt lighter than it should have. Years of repetition had made the weapon almost a part of his body, an extension of muscle and will. He raised it, and the familiar weight grounded him, steadied him. Step forward, pivot, thrust, withdraw. Step forward, pivot, thrust, withdraw. Again, again, again. Each movement precise, disciplined, practiced until the rhythm became instinct, until the motion seemed to flow without thought.
He paused for barely a second, adjusting his grip, the leather creaking softly under calloused palms. The first sensation came like a whisper, barely noticeable: a faint tingling in his fingertips, as if static electricity had gathered under his skin. Illuga ignored it. His shoulders were tight, locked in an unnatural rigidity that burned with tension, but he focused on control. On perfection. On not failing in the small, private ways that no one would ever see.
He ran the spear through the familiar sequence again, slower this time, searching for an imperfection he could not name. The tingling persisted. Cold followed, a creeping, unnatural chill that seemed to seep into his bones, stealing warmth from his hands. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel it. Only a moment. The thought flickered at the back of his mind: perhaps this is not fatigue. Perhaps this is something more.
He pushed the thought away. Control. Discipline. Strength. These were what mattered. It was what kept people safe. The spear responded to his mind, to his intent, to the way he had spent years learning to bend the world around him. His hands could never fail him they are his only tool.
And yet, when his hand trembled for the first time, he could not ignore it. A simple motion, a thrust meant to be automatic, flawless, and the tip wavered in the air. Just a fraction. Just a bit but enough. Enough for the world to feel unsteady, enough to break the illusion he had built around himself. Enough to be the death of his team if they ever were in danger.
He froze, muscles rigid, heart quickening. The clearing seemed to pause with him, holding its breath, waiting for the moment to pass. His eyes traveled down his arms to his hands. They looked normal. Strong. Familiar. But they shook. They had betrayed him.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered, low and flat. Only he was there to hear, and yet the words sounded hollow to him, like they belonged to someone else. He flexed his fingers, felt the tingling flare, sharper this time. Pain answered when he clenched his fists, a bright, sharp flare that seared through his nerves. He welcomed it, almost, because at least pain made sense. Weakness did not.
Memories flickered across the back of his mind, his training to become a lightkeeper, with Flins and the old men, shoulder pressed into shoulder, spear tips colliding in precise arcs, corrections delivered in short, clipped sentences. “Relax the wrist,” Flins had said once, voice calm but unwavering. “Let the spear move through you, not against you.” Nikita had added. The memory stung now, sharp as the ache in his hands. How could he fight if his weapons wavered.
He shifted his stance, rebalanced, corrected posture. Step forward, pivot, thrust, withdraw. Each repetition carried more weight now, both in the movement and in the thought behind it. Doubt whispered at the edges of his mind. Could he still do this? Could he still control the weapon that had become part of him? He refused to answer. He forced the doubt into the background, buried it under focus and discipline. It was nothing, it is nothing.
By the time the second tremor arrived, it was undeniable. His hand shook mid-motion, not violently, but enough to unbalance the spear. The tip veered from its intended path, slicing through empty air where a perfect arc should have landed. Illuga froze, gripping the shaft with a white-knuckled intensity, staring at his hands as if he could will them back into steadiness.
“Just overworked,” he whispered, words swallowed by the morning air. But the lie felt fragile on his tongue. He flexed, clenched, forced the tremors away, ignoring the sharp ache that answered. His body was telling him something. His mind refused to listen.
Hours passed in repetition. The clearing, once familiar and grounding, began to feel like a mirror, reflecting every imperfection back at him. Sweat beaded along his hairline, dripped down the sides of his face. Muscles ached in places that had once been effortless. Still, he continued, step forward, pivot, thrust, withdraw. Again, again, again. Each motion slower, heavier, more deliberate, as if the repetition itself could erase the failure.
Then a messenger arrived, breathless from the climb. Words of a mission, routine, necessary. The kind of assignment Illuga had completed countless times. Routine. Necessary. Real. Out there, he told himself, he would not feel these tremors. Out there, adrenaline would mask weakness. Out there, the body would respond, the mind would adapt, and the weapon would obey.
He gathered his belongings with silent efficiency. Gloves, bandages, small tools neatly tucked into his bag. He paused over them, a fleeting hesitation, a ghost of memory whispering caution. Rest. Heal. Listen. He remembered Nikita’s words from long ago, clipped and patient: “A weapon is only as good as the hands that hold it.” He swallowed the memory, shoved the hesitation aside.
The spear settled in his hands again. Familiar weight, comforting, grounding. He adjusted his stance one last time, feeling the tremor under his skin, the ache in his muscles. He chose to ignore it. He would deal with it later, somewhere it could not follow him, somewhere the mission could not see weakness.
Illuga exhaled, long and steady, and stepped out of the clearing. The world was waiting, indifferent to his discomfort, indifferent to the subtle betrayals of his body. And he walked forward, spear in hand, as if nothing had changed.
Not yet.