Vela’s training was relentless, testing both my magic and my willpower. Each day, she pushed me further, stripping away the hesitations. It wasn’t enough to react; I had to anticipate, to counter, to dominate. The opponents in the arena had been desperate amateurs compared to the challenges Vela devised.
“Again,” she barked, her voice sharp as steel.
I was standing on a narrow stone platform suspended over a pit of swirling black mist. It wasn’t real—just another of her illusions—but the sensation of falling, of the mist swallowing me whole, felt terrifyingly genuine. Across from me, another illusionary figure—a faceless mage clad in black—hurled spell after spell, forcing me to dodge, counter, and attack without pause.
I barely had time to breathe. I gathered mana, summoning shards of ice to intercept the incoming barrage of fireballs. The explosion of heat and frost left my ears ringing, but I pressed on, weaving a quick binding spell to immobilize the mage. My magic surged, as I locked the illusion in place.
I aimed a finishing blow—a blast of concentrated wind magic—but the figure dissolved into smoke before my spell could land.
"Too slow," Vela said from behind me. “If that had been real, you’d be dead. You must think faster, act faster.”
I turned, panting, sweat dripping down my face. “I immobilized him,” I protested, struggling to keep the frustration from my voice. “I—”
“You hesitated,” she interrupted. “The time you spent confirming the binding spell’s success gave him enough time to feint. Even in a victory, hesitation can cost you your life.”
Her words stung, but I couldn’t argue. She was right.
“Good,” Vela said, her tone softening slightly as she noticed the change in my expression. “Remember this feeling. Let it fuel you. Regret is a luxury you can’t afford.”
She flicked her wrist, and the illusion of the pit vanished, replaced by the sterile white floor of the training room. I fell to my knees, drained both physically and emotionally. But Vela wasn’t done.
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“Stand up,” she commanded. “We’re moving to close combat.”
Magic was my strongest asset, but Vela insisted on drilling me in physical combat as well. “Magic is powerful,” she explained,“but it’s not infallible. One misstep, one loss of focus, and you’ll find yourself at the mercy of a blade - or worse.”
Her idea of “close combat” training was brutal. She handed me a wooden staff on the first day and showed no mercy, striking at me with precision and speed until my arms were bruised from blocking her blows. The following days, she swapped the staff for daggers, fists, and even improvised weapons like broken pieces of wood or chains.
At first, I was clumsy, overwhelmed by the pace of her attacks. But gradually, I learned. My reflexes sharpened, and I began to anticipate her moves. Magic became second nature in my defenses, small spells woven into my movements—an ice shard to parry, a burst of wind to knock her back, a flash of light to disorient.
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Every week’ Vela threw me into new scenarios designed to mimic real-world danger. Ambushes in dark alleys. Traps rigged with explosives runes. Battles against multiple illusionary foes at once. Each test was more challenging than the last.
One test left me stranded in a maze, hunted by shadowy creatures that seemed impervious to direct attacks. I had to use my surroundings—collapsing walls, creating diversions, funneling the creatures into chokepoints—to survive. When I finally stumbled out of the maze, battered but alive, Vela was waiting with a faint smile.
“You’re learning,” she said. “But don’t get comfortable. Your enemies won’t.”
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Despite the grueling training, there were moments of… something close to humanity. One evening, after a particularly harsh session, Vela sat beside me in the training room as I nursed a sprained wrist.
“You’re improving,” she said. Her tone was softer than usual.
I glanced at her warily. “You don’t normally hand out compliments.”
“It’s not a compliment,” she replied, smirking. “It’s an observation. You’ve got a fire in you. Most of the others break after their first few fights. You haven’t.”
I looked down at my hands, bruised and calloused. “I don’t feel strong,” I admitted. “Every time I win, it feels like I lose a piece of myself.”
Vela’s expression shifted, her eyes distant for a moment. “That’s how it starts,” she said quietly. “But if you survive long enough, you’ll learn to live with it. Or… you’ll find something worth fighting for that makes it bearable.”
Her words stayed with me. I didn’t know if I could ever “live with it,” but I clung to the idea of finding something worth fighting for. Something to hold onto in this nightmare.