Charon stood tall at the edge of the mat, his presence heavy even before he spoke.
"Today," he said, his voice carrying without effort, "is sparring."
He gestured to the rack of weapons beside him. "To my right is a selection of training weapons. Choose one. Spar with your partner."
Trace and I stepped forward together. She didn't hesitate—her hand closed around a wooden longsword, the motion confident and practiced.
Typical.
Strong. Direct.
I lingered in front of the rack, eyes moving slowly from weapon to weapon. Nothing reached out to me. Nothing clicked.
Then I saw them.
Shuriken.
Small. Light. Honest.
"These will do," I said, picking them up.
Trace looked at me sideways. "That's not enough."
"I know," I said, irritation creeping into my voice as I scanned the rack again. "But nothing else is calling to me."
I forced myself to choose something else and settled on a spear.
Trace blinked. "A spear and shuriken don't really make sense together."
"Let's just start," I said quickly, already turning away. I didn't want to think about it. Thinking made the uncertainty louder.
We stepped onto the mat.
"You told me you don't know combat techniques," Trace said, her tone shifting—less sparring partner, more instructor. "So listen carefully. With a spear, range is your greatest advantage. Keep a strong base. Power comes from your legs. Let it flow."
I nodded, absorbing every word, and lowered myself into position.
Trace took her stance—right foot forward, wooden blade upright in her right hand, left hand open near her hip. Relaxed. Balanced. Ready.
I mirrored her footing but tightened my grip on the spear, both hands locked around the shaft.
She lunged.
Too fast.
Too clean.
The world tilted as the wooden blade swept my legs out from under me. I hit the mat hard, breath leaving my chest in a sharp grunt.
"Damn it," I muttered, frustration burning hot as I stared up at the ceiling.
This wasn't it.
The spear felt wrong—too long, too slow, too demanding of space I didn't trust myself to control.
"I figured," Trace said, offering me her hand.
"How did you—"
"You were drawn to the shuriken," she cut in gently. "They don't pair well with a two-handed weapon."
She gestured back toward the rack. "Try something one-handed."
I returned to the weapons, irritation mixing with doubt.
Charon's voice stopped me mid-step.
"Didn't like your weapon?"
"It's bulky," I said, setting the spear down harder than necessary. "Slow."
"I'll try the longsword," I added.
"No."
I looked up, confused. "What?"
"Nothing," Charon said flatly. "Go train."
No explanation. No guidance.
I returned to the mat with a wooden longsword anyway, unease settling into my chest.
"Ready?" Trace asked. She was already in stance again.
I charged her, opening with a wide strike from the right—too much force, too much intent.
She deflected it upward effortlessly and spun, her blade sweeping for my legs again.
This time, I reacted.
I released a shuriken mid-motion, the metal biting into her leg just enough to force her back.
She retreated, eyes sharp as she reassessed me.
"Good recovery," she said, genuinely surprised. "But you're still not using the shuriken to their full potential."
She gestured toward my grip. "You've got one hand free, but you're slow for a longsword."
She was right.
I could feel it now—my movements weren't wrong, but they weren't natural either. I was fighting the weapon as much as I was fighting her.
My shadow lingered at the edge of my vision, heavy and unmoving.
The weight of it pressed into my chest.
I don't like this weapon, I admitted to myself. But I can still use it.
"Don't let your guard down," Trace warned.
Too late.
She dashed forward and drove the wooden blade into my chest. Pain bloomed as I hit the mat again, breath knocked from my lungs.
That doesn't count.
The shadow didn't loosen.
Trace stood over me for a moment, then offered her hand.
"Go find another weapon," she said softly. "This time—take your time."
I returned the longsword to the rack and let my hand linger there for a moment.
This isn't it.
I stepped away from the weapons entirely.
Bare hands.
Engulf me.
The shadow answered instantly.
Darkness bled across my skin, threading through muscle and bone like ink soaking into cloth. Every fiber of my body tightened, sharpened. Strength surged—not wild, but controlled. Speed followed. Agility. Even my thoughts quickened, the world slowing just enough for me to see the spaces between movement.
I walked back onto the mat for the third time.
Trace blinked. "Where's your weapon?"
I met her gaze, calm settling over me like a second skin.
"I don't need one," I said.
Hold back.
I settled into a stance—bare hands raised, knees bent, weight centered.
Only after I'd done it did I realize something was off.
It looked… familiar.
"I thought I told you not to let your guard down," Trace said.
Her right hook came fast.
Instinct took over.
I dropped low and rolled, flipping backward as the strike passed through where my head had been.
I came up on one knee, heart pounding.
I did that?
"Impressive," Trace said—and this time, she meant it.
I dashed forward, feinted left, sidestepped right, and drove my left leg into her stomach.
She staggered—but didn't fall.
The shadow tightened. Not in alarm. In recognition.
She answered instantly—downward slash, spin, roundhouse.
I caught her leg and threw her hard.
She rolled through it and rose.
The crowd had gathered now. Enough that even Charon was watching.
Trace charged.
Three shuriken flew.
She deflected them all.
But it was enough.
I dropped low and kicked—
She drove her wooden blade into the mat, redirected the force, and launched herself forward.
The next thing I knew, she was on top of me.
The wooden blade hovered at my throat.
Still.
Final.
I exhaled.
I'd lost.
"If you'd had a weapon," Trace said between breaths, "that would've been different."
"I agree."
Charon's voice.
Calm. Absolute.
He leaned close. "Looks can be deceiving."
Then he gestured toward the rack.
"Choose again," he said quietly. "Slowly. As if the weapon were already part of you."
Something nostalgic colored his tone.
I walked to the rack.
This time, I closed my eyes.
Trust it.
My hand moved.
When my fingers closed around the grip, I felt it immediately.
Not weight.
Not balance.
Rightness.
A wooden katana.
"It's light," Trace said. "Precise. It suits you."
I didn't answer.
The blade followed my movement without resistance.
It didn't feel like a weapon.
It felt honest.
I could breathe with this.
I tightened my grip.
For the first time in my life, my hands didn't feel empty.
I felt blessed.
The shadow stayed still.