The reflection didn’t answer nor acknowledge Glenny in the slightest. It pulled back, lifting its iron sword and revealing that the shadowy figure down the street was still keenly watching. All around, a dull gray consumed and froze, trapping all in a perpetual shadow.

The iron sword fell, cutting down with the force of a prime rank two adventurer. Glenny buckled slightly under the strike, his crimson daggers finding purchase in an “X” formation. He pushed, sliding his weapons down the length of the sword like a crab’s pincer. He cut into the clone’s fingers, drawing only wispy black air from the wound before shoving off and retreating back to his petrified friends.

Still behind, the shadowy figure loomed, watching, waiting.

Glenny’s reflection, however, didn’t care to look at the cut along its knuckles. The wound wasn’t long for this battle, already healing over with a puff of blackness. The clone then postured, raising its sword in a stance forever ingrained in Glenny’s memory.

It was his father’s stance, one of the easier-to-learn sword dances.

The clone shot forward and Glenny met it in stride. He brought the force of the Sightless King with his daggers, allowing them to fluctuate in power until each was overcharged with crimson authority. It was a technique he’d been working on since Floe and Gelo’s dungeon, but only recently became proficient enough to use in combat.

The theory was simple. Glenny forged blades and constructs using the Sightless King’s stolen power. It was neither mana nor lifeforce, but a similar resource of hatred and malice. It whispered to him, pleas of murder and promises of power. It wished to be used, to set its chip into the game for a potential overthrow.

But Glenny had already adapted to it. He’d already taken the power for himself, allowing him to do more. The daggers glowed fiery red until he activated his chameleon invisibility. Instantly the crimson waned, falling into nothingness like the very air around him.

The clone followed through with its copied sword dance, perfectly performing each step and strike. Glenny blocked all of them in kind, moving his invisible feet to the sway of battle until an opening appeared.

He struck out, cutting into the clone’s gut before twisting his blades. The wound cauterized from the brimming power of the Sightless King but his Legacy ability ruptured organs and muscles, sending a spray of black blood and viscera out of the laceration like an active volcano.

The clone didn’t seem to mind, instead homing in on Glenny despite him being invisible. It lowered its sword, swapping into the second dance. It was a defensive formation, one meant to feint like it was on the back foot until it suddenly wasn’t. The dance ended with a deadly parry, one that clearly opened vitals points.

Glenny didn’t follow the dance.

After his mother died, his father’s training regimen for him tripled. Every fighting style, every sword dance, everything his father knew, everything he wished to know was pumped into Glenny until his fingers bled from holding his weapons. It was brutal and borderline abuse, but his father would have done anything to make sure he never lost in battle.

That he didn’t follow his mother too early.

The clone’s gut was healed at this point, even the armor it wore. It waited for Glenny to attack into its stance, but once it was apparent he wasn’t going to, it changed to the third stance of his father’s.

It now held an iron dagger inline with its sword. Parallel, each ready to lunge for ground. The third stance was a game of inches, of pushing for the smallest advantages while capitalizing on the deadly. It was difficult, one Glenny never fully mastered.

But defending against it? That was something he hardly practiced. There wasn’t an infinite amount of time his father could train him. There were jobs to do, people to protect. A life as a Royal Inquisitor was harsh and long, certain things had to be left to the sidelines.

Like seeing one’s children every day… or every year for that matter.

Glenny knew the general way to defeat the dance, however. He wove his overcharged daggers through and around the iron sword, focusing entirely on the iron dagger. It was the key, it was what gave the dance inches.

The sword whipped up from the ground cutting the duel in half like a crescent moon. The clone then thrust with the dagger, hoping to catch Glenny mid-dodge. It didn’t, instead Glenny leaned into the sword swipe, pushing forward instead of retreating back.

He parried the thrust easily, trusting his enhanced senses to catch deviations. This was single combat mind games as much as it was raw power. The only issue was that his target was a clone. A shoulder bash gave the option of a moment of reprieve, but both combatants chose to press forward.

They met again, dancer versus rogue. Father versus mother.

It had been some time since Glenny last thought of these dances. He was unpracticed and undisciplined, yet he was able to keep up with the clone. He’d become a practiced fighter over the last seven months, ever since he left home really. Icewillow, the basilisk, the Sightless King, dozens of quests, King Everald. All life and death, all propelling him to experiences yet unknown.

The same upward slash came from the clone’s iron sword and Glenny was ready for the next step. The dagger was thrust at him and again he leaned into it. He reached for the parry, finding the clone adapted from the last time. He missed, opening his hip to a deep stab.

Glenny twisted, reforging his crimson blade to meet his needs. It extended like a fang, dipping down until his dagger looked more like a spike than a knife. With a hard shove, he knocked the clone’s dagger away, flying forward with his own. The dance failed, and he pushed the deadly inch.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Overcharged dagger met the clone’s throat, malice taking form of hook-like barbs. The blade reacted to its creator’s call, bursting with his needs. He twisted, causing black blood to erupt out. His vision soon went dark, his invisible form covered in the reflection’s essence.

But he still pushed forward. The dagger reforged, growing in length like its twin but with a bit more flare. The final form was a shovel head, flat and sharp.

The clone’s head fell, black air spilling.

“Is that it?” Glenny then yelled at the shadowy figure waiting at the end of the street.

It didn’t respond. But the clone did.

Head reattached by threads of shadow, the clone stood. Gone was its iron dagger, yet the iron sword remained despite the changes. Darkness had crept into the blade, highlighting its edge with shadows and deceit. Trails of black followed in its wake as the clone swung it through the air, after images of deadly means.

The fourth and final of Glenny’s father’s basic dances. How it worked, Glenny wasn’t quite sure. He’d never progressed past the third stance, only ever watching his father do the dance twice.

The second, and more recent, viewing was just a passing example of how fighting styles progressed. It was during their training and was only supposed to float in his mind of what was possible. But Glenny’s first time viewing the dance was a much better example of the lesson.

He was only a kid at the time, maybe nine or ten. His mother and father had taken him to some event a town over, only for an Inquisitor order to appear via magical messaging paper. They had to take the job, to kill a nearby rogue mage that held empire secrets.

Suffice it to say, the mage didn’t go quietly, instead following the messaging paper in ambush. Glenny, being held tightly against his mother, remembered seeing his dad’s dance for the first time. He saw the afterimages, he saw the raw power and style brought into existence not by Legacy or Lord, but rather ingenuity, talent, and practice.

The mage died to the sword dance appropriately called the Echo Waltz.

Staring back at the clone, Glenny had no idea how to even try to defend against the dance. He was never taught what to look for or what to watch out for. All he knew was that the afterimages could still cut him.

He swallowed, stepping before his friends frozen in time. Both of his weapons reforged, setting on the appearance of a sword and shield. He breathed slowly, knowing the dance was above him, even with the experiences he’d gone through. He’d buy time, but eventually he’d run out of energy reserves even with the parasitic Cloak of Night’s Fortune resting on his shoulders.

Sure, there was always the hope that the clone made a mistake. That Glenny would be able to capitalize, and he’d be able to sunder the clone enough to force the cloaked figure watching to make a move of its own.

The issue was the clone had not made a mistake in the steps of the dances. It had moved with grace and poise, even adapting to what few limitations the dances held.

Even if he won, he knew the real battle was waiting down the street.

“Come on,” Glenny muttered, his heart beating not for himself but for his friends that were defenseless. He had to be their defender.

The clone’s first attack landed against Glenny’s crimson shield with a scream of air. The shadowy sword sliced through reality, forcing it to reshape in its wake. The block started as expected, a magically enhanced sword against a magically created shield. It was easy enough, if not a heavy blow.

Then came the afterimages.

Six in total, each half-a-breath later than the last. They slammed with resonating force, each battering the same point in space. The conjured Sightless King construct dented, forcing Glenny to scramble to reinforce it by reforge .

During this, the clone never stopped the dance. The next swing came mere moments after the last afterimage hit, resounding the stilled battlefield with six more images. The next swing came before the last image landed, however, broaching two separate avenues of attack at the same time.

The next swing came before the fifth image. The swing after that before the fourth image.

The dance pushed hard until the third, where it abruptly came to an end. Of course the dancer could continue into a more difficult step, it was designed to end before the second. It was a vortex of stamina and mental focus, masters of the dance would still be winded after the initial cycle. And only those with the skills necessary would be able to do more.

The clone never grew tired.

Even after an hour of Glenny relying on his cloak to maintain his stamina and countless reforged shields to block the attacks, the clone never waned. Echo Waltz after Echo Waltz, each step continued until its apex, stopping just before dipping into something more advanced.

It didn’t need to, Glenny couldn’t keep up.

An afterimage he lost track of cut past his shield and into his shoulder. Blood and clear-cut bone slicked the street behind him as he fell. He crashed with the presence of mind of a toddler, his whole body aching to stop. The cloak was fully expended, all of its reserves gone without the cover of night to refill it.

The clone stepped over Glenny, toward Leland and Jude.

“Wait no—” Glenny yelped, his legs failing him. He tried to get up, his shoulder spiking with pain.

“Don’t!” he screamed as the clone drew back its echoing blade.

A crimson construct grew from his good arm, extending into the ground like a shooting star. The force launched Glenny up enough to find balance on his feet. He made his exhausted body sprint faster than ever before. He arrived as the sword came down toward Leland, reaching for it with a naked hand.

The blade cleaved through his fingers while the afterimages chewed through his palm. Glenny pushed against the clone with his broken body, nudging it away from his friends. The clone stepped away, drifting into the gray shadows of the frozen world.

For a moment Glenny was confused, at least until the figure from down the street exploded. Shadows sprung for him like a metal flake to a magnet, consuming him until a new dark shadowy figure was born.

“Glenny? What’s—”

The shadows moved and twisted, running up and down his body until coming to a rugged rest upon his shoulders. The parasitic cloak no longer looked like black fabric with subtly glowing stars, but rather a living creation of darkness. Wisps of black air resonated off of it, each falling away toward the nearest shadow before returning with more.

Like ants bringing food to their queen.

Glenny fell to his knees, the sudden shock of exhaustion and pain solidifying. He moved his raspy muscles, finding his hand with five fingers and his shoulder whole.

“Glenny, I think your cloak just evolved,” Jude said.

It was then Glenny realized the frozen dull world had returned to motion and color.

He smiled the best he could.