“Blade techniques… it all comes down to your own battle style doesn’t it?” Nico answered.

“How about a War Art?” Osias asked.

“Do you take me for a green fool?” Nico harshly cut back.

It was the next day, and on the brink of dawn, Osias was trying to understand the words and practices of those outside the Red Sky — something he’d change. It also fits well with his guise as a… brigand from a reclusive mountain clan.

Nico shook his head and added between dodging Osias’s great sword, “A War Art is everything. Your battle style, essence control, Ordeal Abilities — or even those rare Innate Abilities, equipment, everything.”

‘The same as my own definition I guess—’

“Osias! Nico!” Mance's voice rippled through the air.

Nico stopped a wild swing that was headed for his leg midway and they approached Mance.

“Does he know all our names?” Osias asked in a hushed voice.

“He can hear you, and yes,” Nico replied.

They came before Mance — Osias once again was bare-chested, wearing his loose grey trousers held by a thin sash, but today he was given a pair of wrist wraps.

“Go, today you both will take turns sparring the others. Nico, you know this, but Osias don’t hold back. Make them hate you.”

Osias frowned and was about to ask if it was necessary before Nico simply nodded and walked off.

He followed the brisk Nico and asked:

“Hey, are we sparring them on the open field?”

“Mm. Some Ordeal Abilities need this space. Do you want to go first?” He huffed out, checking his armor and axe.

“...I’m good.” Osias didn’t want to interfere with the dark glint in Nico’s eyes. He’ll settle for watching atop some discarded dummies off to the side, or by the healers.

He brought himself over to a great spot to watch the open field, and suddenly he heard Nico call for the poor fellow that met his gaze first.

‘At least he isn’t going to bring an Ordinary half to death…’ Osias noticed from afar.

Nico picked out a First Ordeal that donned thin leather armor in a deep green color. But trailing the armor… Osias found out it was a woman. She was thin and lean, but beneath the leather and through the gaps, her muscles were toned. Her short curly black hair was tied tightly behind and her confident face was displayed in front. She also seemed older than Nico and himself, but no more than her thirtieth moon.

Though it was a woman, it wasn’t so surprising. They were Blood Warriors under the Red Sky who were women as well.

“Little Nico… had fun with the brigand yesterday?” The woman asked, pulling a great bow from off her back.

Nico didn’t say anything in response, already poising himself. Steady, he waited for the women to make the first move.

“You’re no fun today.” She said, pulling and nocking a large arrow fletched in white feathers from her back.

“You’re talking a lot today, Vanessa.” Nico huffed out, his grey serpentine tail already extended in its entirety as though he was welcoming the attack.

“Suit yourself, little boy.”

Suddenly, Vanessa's eyes turned pure white, her pupils vanishing as she drew back the bowstring with an effortless grace. The atmosphere around her seemed to shift, an unsettling calm descending over the area.

With a sudden release, the arrow shot forth, a blur of white feathers slicing through the air. Nico's reaction was instantaneous, his tail whipping around to deflect, but Vanessa had already seen it coming. Her arrow found its mark with unerring accuracy as it sank deeply into his thigh.

A flurry of arrows raced to Nico, and Osias was impressed.

Despite Nico’s tail and axe, he could only deflect and block a few as his armor turned into a punctured mess.

‘He’s not moving forward. Did they have an agreement of sorts?’

It was true, Nico showed no signs of engaging, only braving the onslaught of arrows as he protected his most important vitals or parts that being injured wouldn’t hinder his assault too much.

‘What do her eyes do?’ Osias wondered as he stared into those pure white pearls.

Vanessa’s quiver rapidly diminished and just before she nocked the last arrow, she lowered her bow.

“Thank you, little Nico.” She said as she turned away and headed towards the clan’s armory.

Osias raised an eyebrow at the odd… spectacle. He waited until Vanessa was away before calling to Nico:

“What was that about?”

“I like testing how many of her arrows can hit true from a distance.” Nico dismissed as he pulled the arrows out with a grimace.

Nico returned to a healer's side — one Osias didn’t know of.

“It’s a good test to see how far I’ve come with using my tail, not just for attacking.”

“...I see,” Osias said, uneager to pry any further.

‘Why does he think how I fight is odd when he seems to do this regularly?’ He wondered inwardly.

Osias grabbed the great single-edged sword that was leaning against a broken palisade and got ready for the next battle.

Bringing himself to the open field, he scanned the crowd of clansmen all busy with their own sparring and training until suddenly his eyes found Mance directing a group of Ordinaries in Clan Grimm’s grounded and defensive battle style.

Noticing his glance, Mance stopped his teachings and though Osias couldn’t hear the words Mance spoke through the cacophony of steel, roars, and chatter, he knew.

Mance was bringing him an Ordinary to… discipline or preferably train along with.

Osias watched as a tall pale-faced man with sunken features approached the open field. His facial bones were pronounced and an aged scar stretched from the side of his lip down to his chin.

“I’m called Raynor.” The pale man said plainly.

Osias nodded, unwilling to share words. From the tone of Mance’s words… it sounded as though he’ll continue running through the clansmen a lot more today.

‘Wait… they don’t know of my abundance in essence. Do they think I have absolute and intricate essence control?’

The main aspect of essence control is to use it efficiently. It was finite in battle and was to be used preciously. Kiran once mentioned that the reservoirs amongst all others were roughly the same, so to train their control so precisely was vital for endurance. To only use the essence to strengthen only what was needed for each movement instead of crudely flooding yourself.

So if Osias continued to fight and display not only his passive strength but to continue using his enhanced strength from his essence over many battles… Mance, no, anyone would assume his essence control was abnormal.

However, before he could plan further, Raynor lunged and raised his curved sword.

Osias parried the attack and countered deeply at the leather cuirass that covered Raynor’s torso, leaving a bloody gash.

‘He’s inexperienced. He tried adjusting the grounded, firm and defensive style as he pushed for a rash attack.’

Raynor grimaced heavily and brought a hand to his chest, feeling the warm blood trickle onto his free hand.

…And then he yielded without another attempt.

Osias narrowed his eyes at the Ordinary moving towards the few healers.

‘What’s with these clansmen leaving abruptly? Is this what Nico had to deal with for months? No wonder he’s foul-mouthed and grouchy’

He peered over his shoulder to find Nico, only to find an indifferent face that proved how normal this was. Bewildered, Osias simply waited for Mance to throw as many as he and Nico could handle in turns.

—

“Osias… are you ready for the next?” Nico heaved out as he sprawled atop the ground.

“Y-you can go again, you’re young, aren’t you? Hey! Where are you crawling to?” Osias stammered out as he too was sprawled atop the ground.

Nico was already crawling towards the barracks with his tail. He looked like an odd insect as his tail inched him forward and his face dragged against the mud.

“Nico! Bastard, you’re a First Ordeal aren’t you?” Osias cried out.

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Dusk was about to befall onto the outward fortress of the Grimm Clan. Today… he wasn’t in the mood to eat. Or do anything at all, really.

Together, Osias and Nico mauled through dozens of the clansmen. The first batch was easy. Ordinaries who felt sheltered and only been training half-heartedly. But even then, the sheer numbers alone were enough to tire Osias’s mind, especially the First Ordeals. The endless possibilities for their Ordeal Abilities that he had to be wary of took a heavy toll.

They didn’t feel as though they were part of a clan of warriors.

Their weapon techniques… or battle style as Nico said was sloppy. Even though the Grimm Clan’s style was closely connected to the foundational movements of swords and blades… they still didn’t possess what Osias sensed or felt that day when Mance was demonstrating to the lot of them.

Flawless defense, to the point where armor against a single enemy seemed excessive. Firm and grounded.To exude immense pressure as you marched down your foes, forcing them to make a mistake to take advantage of.

Fast, thoughtful, and precise with their parries, leaving the opponent open to counters if they were not careful.

However, if there was something Osias noticed amongst these inexperienced fighters, many possessed the mentality to fit for this battle style despite their differing personalities. They all dreaded pain.

Of course, it was something natural… even Osias felt it, though not so much anymore. Sometimes Osias wondered when pain became something he could push aside.

But that only made Clan Grimm’s style not fit for him, something Mance noticed almost immediately that first day.

Speaking of Mance… a quiet dark figure loomed behind him as he saw a faint shadow that blended with the coming darkness of night.

“I must give my thanks for today, Osias. Nico as well, but he’s already gone.” Mance said, looking at the inching figure in the distance.

“It—it's fine, Mance.” He stammered out.

Mance continued to stare holes into him as he struggled to sit up.

“In the past, we used to be more hard of heart. Many more of the young died, but more emerged strong. That was our generation. Alas, the change of leadership came with a change of belief. More survive, more needn’t fight, but our quality of warriors has suffered. They’ve grown weak.” Mance recounted.

“Do you welcome the change?” Osias asked in turn.

“Aye. But it is a shame that true strength arises from true risk.”

Osias nodded, not prying any further than needed. But there was still something he needed to ask.

“Mance… when will you teach me of the Ordeals?”

“Ah—sorry, boy. I wanted you to exchange with the clansmen first, after all, I don’t know how long you’ll take…” Mance trailed off quietly before adding, “Do you feel ready? The Ordeals are no trifling thing, despite the First Ordeals you’ve seen.”

Osias nodded earnestly. How many times did Kiran say the same? It was time. Dealing with dozens of the clansmen was enough to prove he wasn’t out of practice to himself.

“Tomorrow then. Say your farewells, either tonight or tomorrow morning to those you wish. Myra would be disheartened if you didn’t.” Mance said as he turned away.

He didn’t know if he caught a glimpse of a jeering smile, but Osias turned away and slapped his face twice.

‘Cheeky bastard.’

Osias pulled himself up from the courtyard and headed for quarters made for the wounded — towards the baths. Eventually, he passed by his room to grab a clean pair of trousers to change into.

As he made it to the baths, he came upon a well-lit open chamber specifically made for bathing. He heard that the fortress had been built over a natural hot well head, and the scalding waters rushed through its walls and chambers like hot blood through a warrior’s body, driving the chill from its stone walls, keeping the Ordinaries safe from the cold of winter.

There, he met with many familiar faces he found over two days — the First Ordeals and Ordinaries in training. However, tonight he wasn’t in the mood to conversate with them… he needed to prepare himself for an Ordeal. And bid a brief farewell.

Other than a few exchanges of pleasantries and offputting looks, he left after washing himself.

Dressing himself in the new change of trousers he dragged his feet to his room.

‘Nico alone will have to deal with them again starting tomorrow.’ He thought with a small grin.

He was sure that many didn’t appreciate washing along with someone who battered them bloody with fists. Osias sure didn’t when Kiran beat him. Though some did appreciate him for providing a challenge…

But the most dreadful part of the day has yet to come, something already seated atop the edge of his bed, helping herself to an extravagant platter of food, and Osias even found a rare tray of fruits he has yet to see elsewhere in the fortress.

“Where did you get the fruits from?” He asked as he wandered in.

She wiped her mouth after darting her head up.

“You didn’t know? The merchant company that the clan escorts came to yesterday in the mornin— Ah, you were busy.”

Osias reached over for a lone fruit that he was unfamiliar with, before asking:

“What is this one?”

“Your family didn’t raid enough merchants then if you haven’t seen an appa before.” She teased him.

His face twitched, but he wasn’t in the mood to entertain her tonight. Collecting himself, he asked:

“How do you eat this?”

Bringing himself beside her, he shared a seat and let Myra grab round and reddish yellow fruit from him and pulled a clean kitchen knife she likely set aside for him.

“If we were inland, than you’d find some people who like to peel the skin before eating because they’re more in abundance and if they’re wealthy… But I always like eating them whole.” She said as she split it down the middle before adding:

“Appas like other fruits are rare in the winter, but the Euna Merchant Troupe likes to give gifts like these to the clansmen. The head of the merchant troupe gives many gifts like these twice a year at the end of their travels from East to West.”

He raised an eyebrow and asked:

“Did you steal this?”

“No!” She exclaimed. “I was helping the kitchen today, and they let me have this when they saw me grabbing our share of food.”

Osias smiled, grabbing his half of the appa. He followed Myra, bringing it to his mouth, and taking a bite with a loud wet crunch.

“It's sweet.” He uttered between chews.

“Right?” She laughed.

Their chatters filled his room, spilling out the hall as usual. It was… comforting. Eating with Myra like this. It was their own dwelling in another light. Very rarely has anyone even crossed his room, much less at this hour.

Even though he has noticed how little he feels from the elements with his body, it was warm. As if both talk and food warmed something he didn’t know was cold.

…Slowly as the grand platter of food was robbed of its last cut of meat and crumb of baked bread, he decided to steel himself.

“Myra,”

“Hm?” She hummed at the sudden change in tone.

He paused for a while, letting the dampened howls of the wind outside rattle and sing before he finally continued after a few failed attempts to stammer what he wanted to say out.

‘Just, say it, you coward.’

“I’ll undergo my First Ordeal tomorrow. Mance himself will teach me how.” He said quietly. The words trailed off before he added, “I don’t know when the next I’ll see you be.”

‘Did you have to say that last part? She hails from a warrior clan! She should already know what undergoing an Ordeal should entail, you dejected fool!’ His inward voice screamed.

Despite the conflict of voices in his head, his face remained awkwardly still, though Myra couldn’t see it.

The seconds passed impossibly slow… though not as slow as he recalled from his tortured dream.

He was waiting for something — anything.

Until Myra let out a small laugh, standing up to set the empty platter on the table.

Osias only watched her. It was a familiar motion, something he’d seen from her over many mornings and nights.

“Then I have to bid you good luck.” She said… but her pleasant words betrayed her long face.

“I’ll be back.” She said, avidly running outside his room, leaving him both alone and bewildered.

‘Back for what?’ He wondered.

His mind raced back and forth as he sat still.

‘Did I say something wrong?

He tapped his foot anxiously against his weathered floorboards. Unease, he considered if he should follow.

‘How long is she going to be gone?’ He wondered.

But just as he did, quick steps echoed through the desolate halls. Forcing himself to appear confident, he stopped his tapping and sat there staring at the entrance.

And as Myra appeared before him again, he felt nothing was astray until his eyes traced what she held in her hands — a familiar pair of worn-down spring scissors, the same that she used to cut his hair.

“You ran out for… scissors?”

“Of course I did, how else am I going to—”

Suddenly Myra’s face turned flush, something Osias had yet to see oddly enough. Reddish pink, piercing through the darkly lit room with his humble and lone lantern.

“Osias!” She yelped out sheepishly. Her hands were trembling for a reason he didn’t know.

He held out both his hands in, trying to scare off the approaching girl.

“Hey—hey, Myra? What are you going to do with those scissors?” He tried to dissuade her.

But his words only seemed to anger and humiliate her more.

‘What’s with her!’

She was practically glowing in fury!

However, in the next moment, when he thought she was about to attack him or the like…

Myra brought her free hand to pinch a small section of her hair taut while the other hand cut them long.

“How much of a brigand are you!” She frustratedly cried out. “You tell a girl, alone, that you’ll undergo an Ordeal?”

“A-and?” He shyly asked.

“It’s a story, one centuries old. All children were told it!”

Then, she held out her hand expectantly, and he obliged, slowly extending his left hand to her open palm.

Nabbing it roughly, she stretched out his fourth finger and began to… wrap the small section of her hair that was cut around it gently. He shyly watched and felt her delicate and warm hands work, and when she was done tying the small bundle into a thicker ring around his finger, he heard a sharp exhale.

“A lowly and humble porter employed by a merchant troupe was trailing at the rear of a line of carriages and men. He was weak, skinny, and frail, and when soldiers of another realm attacked the troupe, chaos followed. The small and modest carriage he was behind toppled because of this, and he heard a small cry. There, to his surprise, he found the gorgeous daughter of the lord from the land he hailed from. Gallantly, he covered her in his cloak and took her by the hand, running away from the battle.”

Osias unwittingly swallowed a heavy stone in his throat, and he felt beads of sweat beginning to wetten his back at Myra’s soft voice.

“They took refuge in a cave within a forest, but they were deep within the territory of their enemies. But he refused to give up, both for himself and the frightened woman he saved. So he decided — he was to succeed in his First Ordeal and gain the strength to escape. He wiped the cheeks of the teary-eyed woman, assuring her he would be fine, saving her upon his ascent.”

He watched the meek flickering light of the lantern dance on Myra’s face and saw tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

But then he felt as though his heart fell sharply… as he noticed dark tired rings around her eyes. He didn’t realize how exhausted she looked in the dimly lit room.

‘From… yesterday?’ He sadly wondered.

“But in turn, she took the dull knife from his side and bundled a small pinch of hair and cut it. Through her tears, she wove the bundle into a golden weave — a ring around the fourth finger of her gallant savior.”

In the next moment, Osias saw her move dangerously close to him. She was slow, impossibly so, but his mind was as well.

Myra wrapped her slightly shaky arms around his head and pulled him gently as he welcomed it. He closed his eyes and he felt her lips brush against his.

Osias… didn’t know how long it took before Myra’s lips left his own. Eventually, her hands traced down to his left arm — tightly clasping the hand that the ring made from her lustrous brown hair wrapped around.

“Please don’t die, Osias.” She said in a hushed whisper.

‘Ah… what are you doing, Osias?’

He let out a slow breath, gently pulling his free arm around her, and brought her close. He embraced her tightly.

‘Did she lie, about not seeing in the courtyard yesterday? She must hate how I fight… so much so she lost sleep.’

He swallowed a welling feeling of… guilt. But there were so many other feelings that guilt alone couldn’t describe as he felt her shaky breath against his skin. Even the worried beating of her heart was felt. Was it because of his connection with blood, or was it because of how tight he held her?

‘She feels so small… fragile, even. She worries easily. Who are you to make her worry so?’

So he chose to say something he so direly wished would come true.

“I’ll come back.” He promised her.

And as he did so, he almost immediately felt her breaths slowly turn steady, and her tight clasps around his chest loosen.

‘She… asleep.’

He stayed like this for a few minutes, before gently laying her atop his bed. He pulled the sheets over her small exhausted body before it turned cold from the winter night.

‘You’re a fool. She… feels this way, yet you’ve started with lies.’

Pulling the polished pale wood chair, he took a seat as he watched the bed sheets slowly rise and fall with her quiet breaths.

‘Dodging it all this time. You acknowledged it… but pushed it aside, saving yourself.’

He sighed deeply, but his gaze never left the delicate sleeping figure.

‘But, you shouldn’t have her cry anymore.’

That night, Osias didn’t sleep.

As the first sliver of dawn broke past the ashen clouded sky, he approached Mance with a heavy heart and resolved mind.

He made sure to leave before Myra awakened…. because he had a feeling that if he saw her soft groggy eyes open the next morning, never in a lifetime would he undergo an Ordeal.