Celestial Blade Of The Fallen Knight

They walked the rest of the morning in silence. Just after midday, the trail narrowed, forcing them single file. Soren took point, Mira bringing up the rear. The Lady followed in the middle, her stride never flagging.

At a bend in the path, Soren saw the flash of movement: three men, not in uniform, not from the city. He drew the sword, felt the fragment burn cold under the skin, and braced.

The men stepped out, blades ready, faces smudged with dirt and intent.

The leader grinned. "Traveling heavy, aren't we?"

Soren gripped the sword, tried to find the thread again, the line, the will, the absence of fear. He pictured the Aura, the way it had felt, and for a second, thought it might answer.

He said, "You can walk away."

The man laughed, then charged.

Soren let the motion happen. The sword drew itself, the line of force through the body perfect and cold and true. The Aura flared, brighter than before, a blade of light, blue as the city's dawn, wrapping the steel and cutting the air.

He caught the first man across the ribs. The sword bit clean, not through flesh, but through the will to stand. The man dropped, scrabbling at his side, eyes wide and full of disbelief.

The second man hesitated, then ran. The third, clearly the kind that only survived by waiting out the first exchange, dropped his weapon and melted into the underbrush.

Soren lowered the sword, let the Aura fade. The cold in his wrist was gone, replaced by a deep, ringing clarity.

Mira watched, expression unreadable. The Lady just nodded, as if this was what she had expected all along.

He felt tired, but good. Better than good, he felt, for the first time, that the line between himself and the blade was gone.

They left the men in the snow. The Lady never looked back.

He sheathed the sword, fingers still tingling.

Above them, the sky cleared, showing the city ahead: blue, bright, and entirely unconcerned with who remembered what had happened out here.

They reached the next waystation at dusk. Mira took the watch. The Lady slipped inside, humming a tune he didn't know.

Soren sat on the stone step, blade across his knees. No voice this time, no urge from the shard, just his own quiet, and the memory of the Aura, cold and bright and alive.

He closed his eyes, and for once, let himself rest.

Tomorrow he would be ready. For the city, for the Lady, for whatever waited in the world beyond.

By second morning, the world outside the carriage had gone brittle and strange—a blue so flat it wrung the color out of skin, sky, memory. Soren started the day with his hands, flexing each finger until the stiffness gave way to something more useful; then the drills, easier this time, because it was only cold and not pain that pressed through the bones.

Mira watched from the stoop, arms folded, coat unbuttoned despite the weather. Her eyes tracked the sword, but every so often they flicked up to Soren's face like she was looking for proof of a prior suspicion.

He pulled the blade through the final arc, breathing the way Valenna insisted—long exhale, let the motion finish before the thought. He tried for the line again. The Aura flickered, a pulse at the edge of sight, and then vanished. Not even a ghost, just a suggestion.

He let the sword drop, felt the heat in the palm where the fragment lived.

"Still not right," he said, to no one.

Mira: "Never is. You're not built for it."

He rolled his shoulder, not meeting her gaze. "Neither are you. You just pretend better."

She grinned, the kind of smile that never reached the eyes. "Usually enough. Not sure it will be this time."

He sheathed the blade, watching the way frost burned off the steel, leaving black streaks where his hand had gripped too hard.

"You weren't swinging steel out there," Mira said. "Yesterday, with the men on the trail. I saw it."

Soren shrugged. "Not sure what you think you saw."

She straightened, stepped down off the stoop. "I saw enough to know the Academy didn't teach you that. I don't care, Vale. But if you're going to be different, at least be reliable."

He said nothing. The air between them was cold but not unfriendly, just the leftover tension of two people who'd both survived being measured out by the same scale.

She left it at that, ducking inside.

He stayed with the cold, running the days in his head. Four left, if the city's schedule was to be trusted. He let the thought ride the back of his skull, then went to pack.

They made the next checkpoint by midday. The road widened, turned flat, then narrowed again as they neared the Split-Pass village, a scatter of stone and timber clinging to the cliff face, more a rumor of civilization than a guarantee. Soren recognized the flags from the old maps: black, with a single diagonal cut of white, the mark of a border town that wanted to be left alone.

The guards at the post wore military blue, but the color was old, faded. Their faces carried the look of men who'd survived a winter they weren't sure was over. Soren took the lead, Mira at his left, the Lady following with her face set in what passed for neutrality.

The guard captain, short, thick-necked, hands like shovels, glanced at their papers, then at the Lady, then at Soren again. "You're late," he said. "Most don't make it through the pass this time of year."

Soren handed over the writ, watched the man's eyes flick to the seal, linger, then return. "We lost horses at the river."

The captain nodded. "You'll want to restock here, then. If you're heading to the Tribunal."

Mira: "We are."

The captain squinted at her, then at the Lady, like he was looking for the end of a joke. "Three men came through yesterday. Didn't stay. Asked questions about an Academy escort."

Soren felt the chill, this time not from the cold. "What kind of questions?"

"Wanted to know if the Lady had left the city. If she'd be alone." He shrugged, but the motion was tight. "They wore the new black. Not from here."

Soren thanked him, took the writ back, and waited for the Lady to move.