The Gifted Divide

"War always reaches the depths of horror because of idiots who perpetuate terror from generation to generation under the pretext of vengeance." - Guy Sajer (The Forgotten Soldier)

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The familiar purr of a motorbike echoed into the quiet evening, its engine coming to a low, throaty stop just outside Cross Café. Inside, Timo Berger looked up from the dish he was drying behind the polished wooden counter, his ears tuning to the sound like a seasoned listener to an old, often-repeated melody.

He met the eyes of his only customer, seated alone in the dim corner booth, half-shadowed by the golden lamplight, and offered a nod. The man returned it silently.

"She's here," Timo murmured.

Moments later, the bell above the café door gave a soft chime as it swung open. Two figures stepped inside, framed briefly by the fading light of dusk. Both pairs of eyes in the room shifted toward the doorway.

Timo's gaze flickered to the young woman with the raven-black hair tied low, a streak of dried wind and road still clinging to her boots. Her mismatched eyes scanned the café with practiced caution. The taller figure beside her, leaner, with sharp focus behind cool eyes, matched her stride with the ease of someone who had followed her into fire before.

Zest. Of course.

Timo didn't feign surprise. He merely set the plate aside, wiped his hands on his apron, and moved toward the door. "I'll close up," he muttered, flipping the sign from Open to Closed without waiting for a reply.

At this hour, there wouldn't be anyone else coming, anyway. And if they did, they'd know better than to knock.

In the far booth, Karl Myrick stood up slowly. His silver hair caught the overhead light like strands of steel. For a moment, his expression, usually unreadable, carved by years of war and wandering, cracked into something softer. The relief that swept over his features was almost too raw to be contained.

"I was hoping…" he said, his voice low with emotion. "I didn't want to get my hopes up, but… Goddess, you're both still alive."

His eyes didn't move from Sera as the two sat across from him. He looked at her like a man seeing his daughter return from the dead.

"It's been a long time," he added. "Too long."

"Five years, I think," Sera replied evenly, though the warmth in her voice betrayed a familiar affection. Her lips curled into the faintest of smirks. "You look well, you old pervert."

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Karl let out a laugh, rough but genuine.

Zest remained silent, glancing between them.

All of Blade knew Karl Myrick. They had all met him at least once—this man who had raised Sera Kroix when no one else had stepped up, this ghost of the old world who trained orphans like soldiers and turned survivors into warriors.

Even when his work dragged him across the expanse of Eldario, Karl had always returned. He had taught Sera how to survive in a world that wanted her dead, and eventually, how to become the blade that could cut through it.

"You're not just rumours anymore," Karl said suddenly, his tone shifting. "There's word spreading through the underground. Even the hunters are murmuring." His honey-brown eyes locked onto Sera's. "The Butcher. Was that your doing?"

Sera leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, her expression cool and unreadable. "And if it was?" she asked. "Are you going to stop me?"

Karl looked as if he might try, just for a moment, the old reflex of a protector surfacing. His mouth opened, then closed. He deflated, exhaling slowly as he dropped back into his seat. The lines on his face deepened; for a brief instant, he looked older than his years.

"No," he said at last. "I don't have any right to." He looked down at his hands, rough and calloused, clenched into slow fists on the table between them. "I knew what I was turning you into when I taught you to fight… And to kill. I just prayed it wouldn't come to this." Karl looked up again, meeting her eyes. "If you're going after the hunters, then you understand what that means. What you're dragging the others into."

"I do," Sera said, her voice unwavering.

Karl hesitated, the conflict plain on his face. He squeezed his fists tighter. "Tiara would never forgive me if anything happened to you," he murmured, the name slipping out like a confession. "And neither would your father. He'll be waiting on the edge of hell to throttle me when I get there if I let you walk this path."

Sera's eyes narrowed, but her voice held no anger, only pain. "They don't get to decide how I live my life, Karl. You know that." She half-rose from her seat, the words coming too fast, too sharp, then halted as she caught the hurt flickering in his eyes. Her expression softened, and she sat back down, her voice quieter now. "That didn't come out right."

A pause.

"I made my choices a long time ago. So did the rest of us. We knew what we were walking into. We still do."

Karl watched her for a long, silent moment, as if memorising her face. As if he expected this would be the last time they spoke.

"The situation in Eldario can't be ignored anymore," Zest said, speaking for the first time. His voice was firm and steady. "And you know it, Karl."

Karl nodded slowly. "I do. The hunters' movements are erratic. Desperate. It's why I came back. Even I'm having trouble reaching Tiara." His brows furrowed. "You're going to ignore me anyway, aren't you? If I tell you to leave this be?"

"Yes," Both Sera and Zest answered in unison.

Karl blinked, then let out a bark of laughter. "You two haven't changed."

Sera's expression sobered again. "We don't have the luxury of ignoring it this time. Something's different. They're not just hunting anymore. They're cornered. And cornered beasts are the most dangerous."

Karl exhaled and leaned back against the booth seat, rubbing a hand over his face. Every fibre of him wanted to stop her. To put his foot down and tell her she didn't have to carry this alone.

But that would make him a hypocrite. He had raised her to see the world for what it was, and to never flinch from it. And now she was walking the path he'd taught her to walk, the one she had chosen with eyes wide open.

And despite the ache in his chest, he was proud.

Proud of the girl who had survived everything, who had grown into the kind of woman that even the hunters whispered about in fear.

And this time, she wasn't walking into the fire alone.

"Even if I beg you not to go, you'll go anyway," Karl said. It was no longer a question.

Sera didn't respond immediately. Instead, she turned her wrist and ran her thumb over the small black tattoo etched into her skin—the delicate blade inked just beneath the surface. A mark of what she was. A reminder of what she'd become.

"Why ask," she said softly, "if you already know the answer?"

Her voice was quieter now, but no less certain. "I've never done the easy things in life, Karl. And you didn't raise me to take the easy road. If you wanted me to be someone different, you would have taught me different lessons." She met his gaze without flinching. "I won't turn away anymore. Not from what they've done. Not from who I am."

Karl sat there for a long time, silent, listening to the heartbeat of the quiet café.

And in that silence, he accepted it.

The girl he had raised—the daughter of Helen and Eugene Kroix, the blade forged in the ashes of Blade, was already too far down her path to stop now.

And maybe, just maybe… She was exactly who the world needed her to be.