Sweiza’s muscles burned with exhaustion, but Strife gave her no reprieve. The morning sun had barely crested the horizon before the training had begun—drills, stances, footwork, and weapon techniques drilled into her until her limbs felt heavier than the armor she wore.

Strife stood unwavering, observing without interference, only speaking when Sweiza made a mistake. And she made many.

“Your stance is weak.”

Sweiza clenched her teeth, adjusting her footing.

“Too slow. Again.”

Her hands tightened around the practice weapon—heavier than the lance she had imagined wielding as a child. Sweat trickled down her temple as she lunged forward.

Strife deflected the strike effortlessly. A sharp twist of her lance sent Sweiza stumbling. Before she could recover, the blunt end of the weapon hooked behind her ankle and sent her toppling onto her back.

The impact rattled her bones. She lay there for a moment, staring at the sky.

“This is pointless,” Sweiza groaned.

“Because you are failing?” Strife’s voice was infuriatingly neutral.

Sweiza sat up, brushing dirt from her gauntlets. “Because I’m not a warrior. I never asked for this.”

Strife studied her, unreadable as ever. “And yet you still wear the armor.”

Sweiza hesitated, looking down at the plates encasing her arms, the weight pressing against her shoulders. She wanted to tear it off, throw it into the dirt, walk away. And yet… she didn’t.

Instead, she let out a slow breath, pushing herself back onto her feet.

Strife nodded approvingly. “Again.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

----------------------------------------

By midday, Sweiza’s body screamed for rest, but the drills continued. It wasn’t until the sun was high that Strife finally gestured for her to stop.

“Enough for now.”

Sweiza dropped onto a fallen log, peeling her gauntlets off with stiff fingers. Her limbs ached, her head throbbed, and her patience was threadbare. But the worst of it was the silence.

Strife never praised her. Never reassured her. She simply watched. Judged. Expected more.

Sweiza scowled, turning her attention to the horizon. “When do I get real answers?”

Strife, sharpening the edge of her lance with methodical precision, didn’t look up. “Ask the right question.”

Sweiza rolled her eyes. “Fine. Why me? Why not someone else?”

“You were chosen.”

Sweiza’s fingers curled into fists. “That’s not an answer.”

Strife finally met her gaze. “It is the only answer that matters.”

Sweiza exhaled sharply through her nose. “I don’t care about fate or gods or any of that. I want to know why I have to do this. Why I can’t just go back to my village.”

Strife’s expression shifted—subtle, but there. Something edged with a quiet sadness. “Would you truly return? Knowing what you know now?”

Sweiza opened her mouth—then hesitated.

Could she?

Could she go back to her village, knowing what she had seen? Knowing what she had endured? Would they even see her the same way? Would she?

Her silence was answer enough.

Strife nodded. “Your training continues at dawn.”

Sweiza swallowed down the lump in her throat. She didn’t argue.

For now.

----------------------------------------

That night, sleep did not come easily. When it did, it was not kind.

She stood alone in an empty field. The sky above her was void of stars, an endless black abyss stretching in all directions. Her armor was gone. Her hands were bare.

A whisper curled through the darkness.

"You are nothing without the armor."

She turned sharply, but there was nothing. Only the voice.

"You are nothing without the name."

A figure stepped forward from the void—tall, clad in shifting shadows, its face obscured. It did not walk. It glided.

Sweiza backed away. “Who are you?”

"Who are you?" The voice echoed her words, twisting them, warping them.

“I am—” She stopped. The name she wanted to say didn’t come.

The figure moved closer.

"You are nothing."

Sweiza clenched her fists. “No.”

"You are only what they make you."

“No!”

The figure lunged.

She woke with a start, heart hammering, breath ragged. The fire had burned low. Strife remained seated across from her, eyes closed, but Sweiza knew she wasn’t asleep.

Sweiza ran a hand through her hair, trying to steady herself.

She wasn’t nothing.

She wasn’t a name she didn’t choose.

But she was still here.

And morning would come soon.