“This is going to feel weird.”

What an intriguing way to start a training session, I thought. Marisha and Mikel had led me to one of the bottom floors, which held a large circular chamber. Even the door was curved, and when it closed behind us, we were in a smooth stone dome. For a second it was pitch-black, but lights flared to life around me. Glancing down, I noticed that the light was coming from some strange runes etched into the ground.

“What are you going to do?” I asked Marisha warily, noting the humor in her eyes as she issued the warning.

“Just go with me on this,” she said.

She placed one hand on either of my shoulders, gripping firmly enough for it to be uncomfortable. Her eyes closed in concentration, and I found myself staring directly into her relaxed face. For a moment the shock, tension, and fear of the last few hours faded away, and I felt calm in her presence. Then, without warning, she drove her knee into my stomach.

I instinctively bent over, trying to lessen the impact, before I realized that it hadn’t really hurt. She had made solid contact, there was no doubt about that. But instead of pain and nausea, I felt light as a feather. Then what felt like a powerful wind rushed through me, and I staggered back, released by Marisha.

“Relax,” She said quickly. “Take notice of the feeling. Don’t fight it, go with it.”

I ignored her at first, trying to stay on my feet as the invisible wind swirl around inside me and tilted me to either side. It was like being stuck in the center of a whirlpool with no control over my body, slowly spiraling inwards to certain death. Then her words rang in my mind, and I relaxed my muscles, trying to ride the wind like a big wave.

Immediately, the sensation began to fade. It went from a roaring torrent to a gentle breeze, then nothing. All that was left was a warm feeling radiating from my stomach to the tips of my hands and feet. It was strange but decidedly pleasant. I brought my hands up in front of my face as if expecting to see fire dripping from them. There was no fire, but there was one obvious change that I’d failed to notice until then.

When the car had struck and killed me, I’d been wearing a white teeshirt and blue denim jeans. It was a basic outfit, but comfortable, and quite ordinary in the tumultuous world that was high school. The sleeves had been a little tight-fitting to show off my strong arms. The jeans had been a slim fit to show off my thighs, which I always viewed as my greatest asset in physical competitions.

What I was wearing now was a long-sleeved, very loose-fitting robe. It was black, of course, like the clothing worn by every other priest I’d seen. It felt like a cross between silk and soft wool, which was a new sensation for me. The torso of the robe fit perfectly, but the rest felt much too loose.

“What the hell is this?” I asked incredulously. “I look like a damn monk.”

Marisha was all too obviously hiding a grin. “You’re a descendant. Whenever a Reaper awakens, they take on the clothing of an ancestor.”

“I get that,” I said impatiently. “But did it have to be so… ancient?”

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“Well,” Mikel said, moving closer to inspect my robe. “With the great majority of Reapers existing in more modern times, it’s usually more modern attire that gets selected. But this can happen.”

I stared down at the robe again. There was an intricate symbol stitched into the shoulders that looked like a wolf’s head. It looked pretty cool, I had to admit. I just wished it was on more normal clothing.

“Can I change?” I asked.

“Unfortunately not,” Marisha said. “Your appearance will remain this way until you are strong enough to forge your own appearance.”

I felt my shoulders slump. I had expected the answer somehow, but it was still disheartening to hear. Still, at least I looked the part now, I supposed. Maybe my ‘descendant’ was strong, and I could learn something from them.

“Alright, time for the next step,” Marisha said, interrupting my thoughts. “Hold out your hand in the air, as if you’re reaching for a weapon.”

Confused, I complied. My right hand went out, closing into a fist in mid-air. Based on events so far, I expected a sword to materialize in my hand, but nothing whatsoever happened. I looked back at Marisha, my eyebrows raised.

“Try your other hand,” she said with a slight sigh. “It’s rare, but sometimes descendants are left-handed.”

So I lowered my right hand and copied the action with my left. I could tell that it worked before my arm was fully raised. That hot wind surged through my arm once more, and, in the blink of an eye, something began to form in my closed left hand. It was a gray wooden staff, nearly six feet in length. It was ruler-straight and strangely light given the length of the weapon.

“A staff,” Mikel commented, nodding slightly.

“Hold on,” I said. “It’s not done yet.”

I don’t know how I knew that, but I could sense that more was to come. The hot wind was still surging. It flowed, then faltered, as if it were blocked by something. Then, with a rush, it burst out all at once. Now the head of the weapon came into being, a long curved metal piece that was broad where it connected to the staff, then narrowed to a wickedly sharp point.

Mikel and Marisha were so silent, I looked at them in confusion. Shouldn’t they have some small comment or history lesson that regarded to the weapon I’d summoned? No, they were staring at the weapon with something that looked suspiciously like shock and confusion.

“That’s,” Marisha said slowly, “That’s a scythe.”

“I can tell that,” I snapped. “I’m not that stupid.”

“No,” Mikel said. He faltered, then pushed on. “She means, that’s a scythe. That’s not a weapon of the Reaper Clan.”

I looked from the dumbfounded looks on their faces to the weapon I was holding in my hand. Now that the blade had appeared, the weapon felt decidedly top-heavy. It was a little uncomfortable to hold it upright like this, so I let the head fall to the ground. It swung down, and the point bit into the stone as easily as if it had been a hot knife stabbing into butter. Marisha and Mikel jumped back a step as it fell.

“Hey, relax,” I said, holding up my hands to show I meant no harm. “I’m not trying anything.”

Mikel recovered first. “My apologies, Apprentice Silas. I was so thrown by the unexpected nature of your awakening, that I forgot myself.”

There was another stiff formal statement. I was starting to get annoyed with those. He should either be strict and stern, or warm and kind. Pick one, I thought, and stop trying to be so damn stiff.

“Well, who was the oldest Reaper you know of that used a scythe?” I asked. “Surely there must have been one, a long time ago.”

Mikel shook his head. “There has never been a Reaper with a scythe. It is frowned upon.”