The hot water enveloped me as I sank deeper into the wooden tub, letting its warmth soothe my aching muscles. The water was nearly hot enough to scald, just the way I liked it, providing a stark contrast to the perpetual ice that now flowed through my veins. Steam rose in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of the healing herbs I’d added to the bath.
It had been four months since my arrival. The passage of time felt strange here in the stronghold—days blurred together in an endless cycle of combat drills, shadow manipulation practice, and studies in dark lore. The crimson sky’s eternal twilight made it difficult to track normal days and nights, but my body had adapted to the stronghold’s own rhythms.
I laid my head back against the edge of the tub, closed my eyes, and sighed. The light lunch of cheese and fruit I’d had earlier had soothed my appetite just enough to keep me content. The meals here remained a stark reminder of the mortality we all still clung to, despite our transformation into beings of shadow and steel. Though, the dining hall’s offerings were nothing short of extravagant—fresh breads still warm from the ovens, meats prepared to perfection, exotic wines, fruits, and cheeses from Aetherian regions I couldn’t pronounce.
Gone was the desperate hunger that had driven me to gorge myself during those first few weeks at the stronghold. Regular access to abundant food had tempered my appetite, though I never quite lost the habit of eating as if each meal might be my last. It was a survival instinct ingrained from my scrappy years in the city, where tomorrow’s meal was never guaranteed. A meager portion here would have been an unimaginable feast in my previous life. Even now, surrounded by luxury and power, I couldn’t shake the nagging voice in the back of my mind that whispered warnings about finer things never lasting.
The Talons of Twilight rested on the nearby weapon rack, their gems pulsing softly in sync with my heartbeat. They were more than just weapons now; they had become conduits for the darkness that flowed through my transformed body. The Darkweaver’s Embrace hung on its stand like a sleeping sentinel, its runes occasionally flickering with residual power from that morning’s training.
I took another relaxed breath and let my mind wander. So much had changed since that first sparring lesson with Malachai. Amongst the countless souls who had flocked to this stronghold seeking power or knowledge, I was one of the few he’d taken under his wing.
It was a responsibility I didn’t take lightly. Every grueling training session, every late night spent poring over ancient texts, every whispered incantation under the crimson sky was a testament to my dedication. I wanted to earn his respect, not just as a student, but as a worthy successor. To stand beside him, not as a shadow, but as an equal.
Other initiates had come and gone, some driven away by the intensity of the training, others succumbing to the darkness that permeated the stronghold. I had seen their faces, etched with fear and desperation as they struggled to control the power that coursed through them. I had seen their bodies, twisted and broken by the unforgiving embrace of shadow magic.
But I wouldn’t falter. I wouldn’t let the darkness consume me. I would master it, bend it to my will, and use it to carve my own path in this world.
A muscle in my shoulder twinged, reminding me of that morning’s particularly brutal training session. I winced. The memory triggered thoughts of how far I’d come, how much my fighting style had evolved under Malachai’s merciless tutelage...
***
Malachai was a harsh instructor, his gaze always piercing, his words sharp as daggers. Unlike when I’d first met him, he rarely praised or offered encouragement, and mostly gave critiques, brutal and precise, aimed at exposing every weakness and flaw in my technique.
“Your shadow powers mean nothing if you can’t back them up with steel,” Malachai had declared during our first real training regimen. “A true blackguard doesn’t just command darkness, they also master every aspect of combat.”
The first month was a brutal transformation of both body and mind. It was as if our first encounter never happened. Or perhaps it was his way of gaining enough of my trust in order to break me down. Each dawn brought new challenges. Malachai had me practicing sword forms while standing in pools of liquid shadow, the cold substance trying to pull me under with every movement. He made me run the ramparts in full plate armor. Even meal times became exercises in endurance, as he would randomly attack while I ate, forcing me to defend myself with whatever was at hand.
“Your footwork is sloppy,” he’d growl. “You move like a drunken ox, not a predator.”
His words were like ice. But they also fueled my determination. I vowed to not be dismissed as a lowly street commoner. I would become a weapon worthy of his respect.
“Your bladework is quick, but ineffective against an alert opponent,” he’d sneer, deflecting my attack with effortless ease.
He pushed me beyond my limits, forcing me to confront my fears and weaknesses. He drilled me in the basic fundamentals of swordsmanship that I had once taken for granted. He taught me the art of footwork, the subtle shifts and movements that could turn the tide of battle. He showed me how to wield a sword with precision and grace, as well as brute force. He taught me to anticipate my opponent’s moves, and to strike with purpose.
Each day was an agonizing test of my endurance, my strength, and my will. I sparred against other initiates, some skilled, some clumsy, some driven by ambition, others consumed by fear. I learned to adapt to different fighting styles, to exploit their weaknesses, to turn their strengths against them.
“Your old skills aren’t useless,” Malachai explained during one particularly demanding lesson. “But they must be transformed, just as you are transforming.” He demonstrated how to combine a rogue’s grace with a warrior’s power, turning defensive rolls into devastating counter-attacks, using the momentum of a dodge to power through an enemy’s guard.
Those early days had been pure hell. While other initiates trained with normal weapons, Malachai had me practicing sword forms in bulky armor, its heavy weight constantly shifting and trying to drag me down. The Talons of Twilight had remained locked away, replaced by traditional weapons that I hadn’t touched in so long, they felt clumsy and foreign in my hands.
“…But the blades chose me,” I had protested during one meeting, watching the gems in the kukris pulse mockingly from their rack across the training yard. “They responded to my touch! Why am I forbidden to use them now?”
Malachai’s response had been swift and brutal—a practice sword strike that left me sprawled on the ground. “They chose your potential, not your current ability,” he corrected, standing over me with cold authority. “You must earn the right to wield such power.”
Every morning, I was forced to leave my quarters where the Darkweaver’s Embrace hung like a silent promise, its runes flickering with power I wasn’t allowed to touch. The armor seemed to call to me, its dark energy reaching out only to be held back by Malachai’s wards.
“Patience, Caelum. The path to true power is not paved with instant gratification.”
His words were a balm to my raw frustration, yet they did little to soothe the burning ache in my chest. He’d shown me the pinnacle of my potential, the sleek obsidian armor and wickedly curved blades that whispered promises of effortless lethality. I’d felt the surge of power, the way the weapons seemed to extend my own will, making my movements a symphony of deadly grace. And then, just like that, he took it all away. It was a constant reminder of what I couldn’t yet possess. It was like being chained to a mountain of gold, able to see it, smell it, but never allowed to touch it.
“This is torture,” I had muttered one day, after another agonizing session of training in heavy plate mail.
“Is it?” Malachai regarded me with sinister amusement. “Or is it motivation? Look at how the darkness responds to your frustration.”
Of course, he was right. Shadows around the training yard had begun to writhe in response to my emotions, despite the crude iron armor I wore that weighed me down like an oversized anchor. My anger, my determination, my burning desire to prove myself worthy—all of it fed the dark power that coursed through my veins.
“They are not toys, Caelum,” Malechai had explained, his voice a low growl. “They are extensions of your will, forged in the fires of sacrifice and honed by months of discipline and rigorous training. You have glimpsed their potential, but you are not yet ready to wield them.”
“But what about my trial? I was able to use them just fine,” I argued.
“Because they allowed it. You did not control them—they controlled you.”
I swallowed. I was merely a puppet?
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“The Talons of Twilight are conduits for power that could tear you apart if you’re not properly prepared. The Darkweaver’s Embrace is not just a piece of armor. It’s a second skin that requires complete mastery of both martial skill and shadow manipulation. Would you rather I let you destroy yourself with power you’re not ready to control?”
His words stung, but I couldn’t deny their truth. I was still raw, my skills honed but untested. My body, though strong, was still learning the intricate dance of a blackguard. But the knowledge that I was so close, yet so far, gnawed at me. I had seen what happened to those who tried to take shortcuts to power. Their twisted remains served as warnings in the stronghold’s deeper chambers.
With that in mind, I stepped up my training even more. Every day, I pushed my limits, striving to master the techniques Malechai taught me. Each strike, each parry, each step was infused with the burning desire to prove myself worthy of those forbidden weapons.
But the frustration was a constant companion. I could feel the power within me, waiting to be unleashed, but it was like trying to hold back a raging torrent. The more I trained, the more acutely I felt the limitations of my current equipment. My battered leather armor felt heavy and cumbersome compared to the sleek obsidian of the Darkweaver’s Embrace. My simple steel blade seemed dull and lifeless compared to the wickedly curved edges of the Talons of Twilight.
It was a deliberate and calculated form of psychological warfare. Malechai knew exactly how to trigger me, how to exploit my weaknesses and turn them into fuel for my ambition. He wanted me to embrace the darkness in not just my actions, but my very soul.
Day after day, the training continued. Sword forms until my muscles screamed. Combat drills with traditional weapons until my hands bled. Hours spent practicing footwork in treacherous terrains. My reflexes, honed for years to anticipate an enemy’s move before they even made it, felt sluggish in the heavy, cumbersome equipment. The quick, precise strikes that had become second nature now felt clumsy and ponderous. I was a wolf forced to fight like a bear—powerful, yes, but lacking the agility and cunning that had always been my strength.
“Stop thinking like a rogue,” Malachai had barked, his practice blade leaving another bruise on my ribs. “Stealth and quick strikes have their place, but a blackguard must also know how to dominate through pure martial skill.”
I growled in frustration. The command to abandon my ingrained instincts felt like a betrayal of everything I’d learned to survive. Now Malachai wanted me to unlearn it all, to stand my ground when every fiber of my being screamed to dodge and weave.
During another practice session, Malachai circled me as I struggled to catch my breath, my arms trembling from hours of sword drills. “Your body remembers the streets,” he observed. “It wants to slip away, to find the perfect angle for a killing stroke. But a blackguard must know when to be the unmovable object, when to meet force with greater force.”
He seemed to know me more than I knew myself. Change was always hard, but what he was asking felt physically impossible. “None of this feels right,” I had argued one night. “I am not built for this.”
“Your skills in stealth and subterfuge are valuable,” Malachai had explained. “In fact, they are essential. But they must evolve. A snake that never sheds its skin will die in its own constraints.”
The metaphor wasn’t lost on me. I felt like I was trying to shed years of carefully honed instincts, struggling to emerge as something new. Each sparring lesson was a battle against Malachai’s blade, as well as my own deeply embedded habits.
Yet slowly, painfully, I began to understand what Malachai was trying to teach me. This wasn’t about abandoning my past skills, but evolving them into something more complete. The precision of a rogue could be combined with the power of a warrior. The instinct to find weak points could serve just as well in direct combat as it did in stealth.
But the process was agonizing. Every muscle memory had to be rewritten, every reflex reconditioned. I lost count of how many times I ended up face-down in the training yard, my body having betrayed me by falling back on old habits at crucial moments.
One night, as I soaked in my bath, I stared at my reflection in the water. The face that stared back at me was gaunt and weary, etched with the strain of the training. My eyes, usually bright and alert, were dull with frustration.
What am I becoming? What is my true potential?
Then Malachai’s voice came to me whenever I felt at my weakest point. “The path of a blackguard requires mastery of both shadow and steel, finesse and raw power.”
“You have many more days ahead before you’re ready,” Malachai said one day, watching as I moved through a complex series of combat forms that combined both stealth and martial prowess. “But I see the potential taking shape. The shadows respond to your growing strength as much as your cunning.”
The endless hours of monotonous training slowly reshaped my body as much as my mind. Muscles grew denser, stronger, adapted to bearing the weight of heavier armor and wielding weapons that required more than just precision. My natural build, honed solely for speed and stealth, began to slowly transform into something more balanced.
During the second month, Malachai showed me how to use the shadows to manipulate the battlefield, to create illusions, to confuse and disorient my enemies. He’d even begun to introduce me to the darker aspects of blackguard lore, tales of ancient rituals, forbidden magic, and the seductive whispers of power.
As I absorbed this knowledge, I began to understand and feel the difference in how the shadows reacted to me. They were equally drawn to my stealthy tactics as well as my martial prowess.
“Your body is becoming a proper vessel for greater power,” he observed, circling me as I practiced. “But remember, this is merely the beginning. Your path requires mastery of multiple disciplines. The Talons of Twilight and Shadow Dancer’s Embrace will demand nothing less.”
Those words became my mantra through countless hours of training. Each sword drill, every weight-bearing exercise, all the endless repetitions of combat forms—they were steps toward a greater purpose. I wasn’t just learning to fight differently, I was rebuilding myself from the ground up.
By the third month, my lean physique was replaced with something more substantial—not the bulk of a common warrior, but a perfect balance of strength and agility. I could move in full plate almost as quietly as I once did in leather, and my sword strikes carried the precision knife work with thrice the power.
Malachai thought it appropriate to increase the weapons training challenge to a level unlike anything I’d known before. He had me practice sword forms in chambers of pure darkness, where only my growing shadow senses could guide my blade. He made me split blocks of shadow-infused wood with axes that grew heavier with each swing, spend hours drawing and sheathing my sword until the motion became pure instinct.
Malachai saved the most important lesson for the fourth month. He demonstrated the philosophy of choosing between stealth and strength in our sparring sessions, seamlessly switching between styles. One moment he would vanish into darkness, striking from unexpected angles, the next he would materialize in full force, his blade crashing against my guard with devastating power.
“A true blackguard must be as comfortable crushing their enemies openly as they are striking from darkness,” he explained, his shadow-forged blade leaving another mark on my armor.
The training reshaped more than just my fighting style, it changed my entire approach to combat. Where once I would have relied solely on stealth and quick strikes, now I understood the value of direct confrontation. The shadows were still my allies, but they had become tools of domination rather than just concealment.
When Malachai finally declared my basic martial training complete, I was no longer the same person who had first entered the stronghold. The rogue’s instincts remained, but they were now wedded to a warrior’s strength and conviction. The dark power enhanced my every movement, making me a predator both in the shadows and in the light.
My physique had completely changed. Gone was the lean, wiry frame of a seasoned rogue. In its place was a body that showed powerful definition honed by relentless training, slender, athletic, and powerfully muscled. The muscles were more pronounced and somehow darker, as if the shadows had seeped into tissue that had been torn down and rebuilt countless times. I could feel the strength coursing through me, a tangible power that resonated in every strike, every parry.
The training had not only made me physically stronger; it had sharpened my senses. My mental awareness was now a weapon in itself. I could feel the subtle shifts in the air, the faintest tremor in the ground, the whispered rustle of movement in the shadows. This heightened ability, coupled with my improved reflexes, made me a worthy opponent.
I was no longer simply a rogue who could fight; I was a warrior who could also vanish into the shadows.
***
My thoughts returned to the present, to the changes that four months of training had wrought. The dark veins that traced patterns beneath my skin pulsed with residual power.
Looking at my reflection in the rippling water, I barely recognized myself. My face was harder, more refined. My eyes held permanent purple fire now, matching the gems in the Twins of Twilight, and shadows seemed to cling to me even in the well-lit bath chamber.
Yet despite how far I’d come, I knew this was still just the beginning. Malachai’s power dwarfed my own—I had seen him tear reality itself apart with casual gestures, command armies of shadow-constructs with a thought, and transform the very essence of his opponents with a touch. My recent achievements, impressive as they might seem to an initiate, were merely small steps on a much longer path.
Still, I couldn’t deny the satisfaction I felt in this new existence. The constant training, the growing mastery over both martial skills and shadow powers, the sense of belonging among others who understood the true nature of power—it all felt right in a way my previous life never had.
The stronghold had become more than just a training ground, it was home now. I understood its rhythms, the way shadow and power flowed through its dark corridors. The other blackguards were no longer intimidating figures but brothers and sisters in darkness, each walking their own path to power. Even Corvus’s cryptic remarks and unsettling presence had become almost comforting in their familiarity.
I rose from the now-cooled bath and stepped from the tub, water running in rivulets down my body. The towels, like everything else in my quarters, were black as night and seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it. As I dried myself, I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror—a being of shadow and steel, marked by transformation yet still recognizably human. For now, at least. My reflection showed someone who straddled the line between mortal and shadow—between rogue and warrior. I was no longer the desperate man who had died at the gallows, but not yet the warrior of shadow I was destined to become.
My physique was testament to Malachai’s merciless regimen. The dark veins that marked my transformation created patterns across my chest and abdomen, following the same paths as the bruises and strains from those early days of combat training. Each mark told a story of my journey—where once there had been a rogue’s subtle strength, now there was the powerful core of a warrior, seeming to shift between solid and shadow when I moved.
Even my scars told the story of this evolution. The old marks from my former self now pulsed with dark energy, as if the shadow power had claimed them as conduits. New scars from training, earned under Malachai’s tutelage, had become lines of pure darkness etched into my flesh. They didn’t hurt anymore. In fact, they felt more like channels for power than injuries, each one a testament to the fusion of physical combat skills and shadow magic.
The mortal man who had once served in the city watch was gone, replaced by something darker, more powerful.
And it felt right.