Estelle couldn’t shake the unease that had settled in her chest after yesterday’s mission. The stark differences between the city she once knew and the one she now navigated haunted her thoughts. Seeking a distraction, she found herself wandering the dimly lit corridors of the shelter until she arrived at the training room—a larger chamber that served as a makeshift dojo for the resistance members.
The room was dimly lit by overhead bulbs, casting long shadows across the rough stone walls. The floor was marked with the scuffs of countless battles, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat and metal. Estelle’s movements were fluid, practiced—she had spent years honing her skills, and muscle memory served her well.
As she began sparring with some of the more seasoned resistance members, Estelle quickly fell into a familiar rhythm. Her body moved with a precision that caught the attention of those around her. The resistance members, hardened by years of battle, watched with a mix of admiration and curiosity. Though she wore the mask to hide her face, her skill with the sword spoke volumes about her experience. Each strike, each parry, was executed with a confidence that belied the uncertainty she felt in this new world.
After a few rounds, Dante, who had been observing her with a keen eye, stepped forward and offered her a nod of respect. “You’re good, Lily. How about a round with me?”
Estelle turned to face him, her heart rate still elevated from the previous sparring matches. She had sparred with many skilled fighters before, but there was something different about facing Dante—something that made her both eager and apprehensive.
“Sure,” she replied, tightening her grip on the hilt of her sword. “Just don’t go easy on me.”
Dante chuckled, a flame flickering to life in his hand as he prepared to spar. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They squared off, the other resistance members forming a loose circle around them to watch. Mira, who had entered the room quietly and was now seated on a bench, watched with wide eyes, her usual apprehension softened by the comfort she found in Estelle’s presence.
Dante made the first move, a quick thrust of his hand sending a small burst of flame toward Estelle. She sidestepped easily, her sword moving in a smooth arc as she deflected the heat away from her. But Dante wasn’t finished. He advanced with a series of controlled strikes, each one accompanied by a flare of fire that forced Estelle to stay on her toes.
Estelle countered with swift, precise movements, her sword a blur as it parried Dante’s attacks. She could feel the heat of his flames as they danced around her, but she remained calm and focused, allowing her instincts to guide her.
Dante increased the intensity of his attacks, the flames growing hotter and more concentrated. He wasn’t trying to overpower her but rather to test her limits, to see how she handled the pressure. Estelle responded in kind, her sword flashing in the dim light as she deflected the flames with practiced ease. She moved with a fluidity that was almost mesmerizing, her movements a dance of steel and grace.
As the sparring match continued, the room grew warmer, the heat from Dante’s flames adding to the already thick air. The two fighters were evenly matched, each one pushing the other to their limits without crossing the line into danger. Dante’s flames were powerful, but Estelle’s precision and agility allowed her to keep up, even as the intensity of the fight escalated.
Mira watched from the sidelines, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and concern. She had always known Dante was strong, but seeing him spar with Estelle—seeing the way they moved, as if in perfect sync—was something else entirely. This was not the Estelle she remembered, her sister who had always been gentle and cautious. The sight of her now, moving with such power and precision, was both surprising and mesmerizing. And Mira couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride for the woman she had come to trust so deeply. Even as the contrast with her memories left her quietly stunned.
Just as the sparring seemed to reach its peak, something unexpected happened. Dante, in a moment of overexertion, lost control of a particularly powerful flame strike. Estelle, momentarily distracted by the sight of her brother’s familiar face as he caught up in the enjoyment of the sparring session, was a fraction too slow to react. The fireball, larger and hotter than intended, shot toward her. She managed to dodge most of it, but the edge of the flame grazed her arm, burning through the fabric and searing her skin.
The sudden pain made her gasp, and she stumbled back, clutching her arm. The room fell silent, the tension snapping into concern. Dante’s eyes widened in horror, and he immediately extinguished the remaining flames, rushing over to her.
“Lily! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—” Dante’s voice was filled with guilt as he reached out to check the burn.
Mira hurried over, her concern for Estelle overwhelming her. She had always remembered Estelle as someone fragile and kind. To see her sister now, injured in a sparring match, was almost too much to bear. The shock of it all left her frozen for a moment, her mind struggling to reconcile the two versions of Estelle she knew.
Estelle waved off their concern, though her voice was strained. “I’m fine. It’s just a small burn.” But the pain was evident in her expression, and despite her bravado, she couldn’t hide the injury.
Dante, still filled with guilt, shook his head. “No, we need to get you to the infirmary. Mira, can you help?”
Mira, snapping out of her shock, nodded quickly, her voice a little shaky. “I—I can use water to help cool it down.”
With a determined look, Mira extended her hands, her small fingers trembling slightly. A gentle stream of water materialized from the air, coalescing into a small, shimmering orb that hovered above her palms. The water glowed faintly with Essence, cool and pure, as she carefully directed it toward Estelle's burned arm. The coolness of the water immediately soothed the pain, wrapping around the injury like a comforting balm.
Estelle watched in quiet amazement as Mira, despite her young age, controlled the water with surprising skill. The stream flowed with precision, cooling the burn without causing any additional discomfort. Mira’s brow furrowed in concentration, her usually timid demeanor replaced by a focused determination.
Dante turned to the others, signaling the end of the sparring session. The resistance members began to disperse, though a few lingered, still impressed by the display they had just witnessed.
With a lingering look of guilt, Dante helped Estelle to the infirmary. The makeshift medical area was a small, sterile room filled with cots and shelves lined with bandages, salves, and other essential supplies. A few resistance members were already there, receiving treatment for various injuries.
As they entered, a medic approached, her expression shifting from calm to concern as she noticed the burn on Estelle’s arm. Mira stayed close by, her worry plain on her face.
“What happened?” the medic asked, glancing between Estelle and Dante.
“Sparring accident,” Estelle replied, keeping her tone light despite the throbbing pain in her arm. “Got a little too close to the fire.”
Dante, still hovering nearby, his usual confidence visibly shaken, spoke up, his voice filled with regret. “I’m so sorry, Lily. I didn’t mean to lose control like that.”
Estelle managed a small, reassuring smile, trying to ease the tension. “It’s alright, Dante. We were sparring—it happens. I just wasn’t quick enough this time.”
The medic barely glanced at Dante as she began examining Estelle’s burn. “Honestly, Dante, do you know how much work I already have?” she muttered, her voice dripping with exasperation. “The last thing I need is for you to create more for me. I’m overworked as it is.”
Dante rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “I’m sorry, Lydia,” he said, his voice filled with genuine regret. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”
Estelle couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the sight. Dante, who had been so serious and commanding just moments before, now looked like an apologetic puppy under Lydia’s stern gaze. It was a surprising contrast, one that made Estelle momentarily forget about the pain in her arm. But as Lydia continued to bicker with Dante, a sense of familiarity washed over Estelle. She frowned, trying to place where she had seen this woman before.
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And then it hit her. Lydia Caden. The name brought back memories from her own world—of rushed conversations in hallways, of shared frustrations about their workloads. Lydia had been a coworker in another department, someone Estelle had interacted with a handful of times. She remembered Lydia’s constant complaints about being overworked, a sentiment that resonated with Estelle all too well. Here, in this world, Lydia seemed exactly the same—only now, her frustrations were aimed at Dante.
“Stop wasting resources,” Lydia was saying, her tone sharp as she rummaged through a nearby cabinet for supplies. “You know how tight things are. We can’t afford to be reckless with what little we have.”
Dante nodded quickly, clearly eager to appease her. “I know, I know. It was an accident, I swear.”
Estelle was still smiling at their exchange when she felt a presence beside her. Startled, she turned to find Alaric standing there, his expression unreadable. He had approached so quietly that she hadn’t noticed him at all. The suddenness of his appearance made her heart skip a beat.
“You handled your sword well earlier,” Alaric said, his voice low and measured. His eyes held a glint of something—perhaps curiosity, perhaps something more. “I watched your fight. You’ve got skill.”
Estelle blinked, caught off guard by his words. She hadn’t realized he had been watching her, and the fact that she hadn’t noticed his presence during the sparring session unnerved her. She quickly schooled her expression, forcing herself to stay composed.
“Thank you,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Alaric’s gaze shifted to the sword at her side. "That sword," he said, his tone measured, "it looks familiar. Where did you get it?"
Estelle tensed, gripping the hilt of the sword a little tighter. She had taken this sword during the chaos when she led the children away from the orphanage, guided by an instinct that had saved their lives. But that wasn’t something she could share—not now. "I found it during a raid," she replied carefully, keeping her tone neutral. "It was abandoned, and I took it. It's been with me ever since."
Alaric studied the weapon for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if recognizing something about it, but he didn’t press further. "It's a powerful weapon," he finally said. "Make sure you know how to use it wisely."
"I will," Estelle answered, feeling the weight of the sword in her hands as if for the first time. There was more to the story, but now wasn’t the time to delve into it—especially not with Alaric watching her so closely.
Alaric’s gaze remained fixed on her, as if he were trying to read something beneath the surface. “Also remember, skill isn’t everything. You’ll need to stay sharp in more ways than one if you want to survive here.”
Before Estelle could respond, Lydia’s voice cut through the moment. “Alaric, if you’re done lurking, you can help me by not letting this happen again,” she said pointedly, her hands begin wrapping Estelle’s arm with practiced efficiency. “We don’t have the luxury of wasting medical supplies on preventable injuries.”
Alaric didn’t respond directly to Lydia’s complaint, but his eyes flicked back to Estelle, a hint of something—perhaps amusement?—in his gaze. “Take care of yourself, Lily,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “We need everyone at their best.”
With that, he turned and walked away. As he did, Estelle couldn’t help but feel a pang of curiosity. There was something in the way he looked at the sword, a flicker of recognition that made her uneasy. She wondered what Alaric really knew and if he was holding back information just as she was. The sword, which had been a symbol of survival in her world, now felt like a burden, carrying secrets she wasn’t ready to share.
As Alaric's footsteps faded, Dante remained close by, his usual confident demeanor replaced with a look of concern. Though he stayed silent, it was clear he was still worried about her, his eyes lingering on the bandaged wound. The tension from the earlier conversation hung in the air, but Dante’s presence was a steady, if quiet, comfort.
Lydia, oblivious to the brief exchange between Estelle and Alaric, continued her work. However she did throw a pointed look in Dante’s direction as if to say, You’d better not make this a habit. Mira, who had run to grab more bandages at Lydia’s request, returned just in time to overhear part of the conversation. She handed the supplies to Lydia, her wide eyes reflecting her concern for Estelle.
Once Alaric was out of earshot, Estelle let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She looked down at her arm, now carefully bandaged, and then at Lydia, who was still muttering about reckless behavior.
“Thanks, Lydia,” Estelle said, her voice tinged with gratitude.
Lydia glanced up, her stern expression softening just a little. “Just don’t make a habit of this, alright?” she replied. “I’ve got enough on my plate without having to patch up every hothead who thinks they can take on Dante’s flames.”
Dante winced slightly at Lydia’s words, but didn’t argue, simply nodding in agreement.
As Lydia finished wrapping the bandage, she paused, her gaze lingering on Estelle’s face. “While I’m at it, I could check on that burn on your face too,” Lydia suggested.
The comment startled both Dante and Estelle. Dante’s eyes widened slightly, and Estelle felt her heart skip a beat. “It’s fine now,” Estelle quickly replied, her voice steady. “I don’t really want anyone seeing my scar.”
Lydia studied her for a moment, her professional instincts clearly tempted her to insist. But she eventually nodded, respecting Estelle’s boundaries. “Alright,” she said, her tone a bit softer. “But if it ever gets worse, you come to me immediately, understood?”
Estelle nodded, appreciating Lydia’s concern even as she felt a wave of relief that the subject had been dropped. “Understood.”
Lydia gave a small nod and returned to her work. Dante remained close by, his concern for Estelle apparent in the way he hovered protectively, though he refrained from saying anything more.
As Estelle walked back to her quarters, the sword’s weight felt heavier than usual, not just from the physical strain but from the emotional burden it carried. She hadn’t wanted to bother anyone over such a small injury, preferring to downplay it, but they had all insisted—especially Mira.
The young girl now clung quietly to her side, her small hand gripping Estelle’s arm for support, determined to help her sister back to her quarters before returning to assist others in the shelter. Dante had wanted to help as well, but Lydia had quickly intervened. She nagged him about tasks that needed his immediate attention, leaving Estelle to navigate the shelter with Mira’s quiet support.
The shelter was alive with activity—people preparing meals, mending clothes, and tending to the wounded. As they walked, Estelle noticed the way some resistance members offered her nods of acknowledgment, while others watched her with wary eyes.
Passing through one of the main corridors, Estelle overheard a conversation between two resistance members speaking in hushed tones, their voices barely audible over the din of the shelter.
“I heard there’s talk of a new weapon the regime’s been working on,” one of them said, his voice low and filled with unease. “Something that could wipe out entire cells in one strike.”
The other resistance member, a woman with a scar running down her cheek, nodded grimly. “And there’s rumors of a mole within the ranks. If that’s true, we’re all in danger.”
Estelle paused, her heart skipping a beat. A mole? A new weapon? The implications were terrifying. She knew she needed to stay vigilant, but the thought of another attack—especially one from within—made her blood run cold.
Mira, noticing her sister’s sudden stillness, looked up at her with concern. “Are you okay, Lily?”
Estelle forced a reassuring smile, though her mind raced with the troubling information she had just overheard. “I’m fine, Mira,” she said softly, gently squeezing her sister’s hand. “Let’s get back to the quarters.”
They continued walking, but the weight on Estelle’s mind was even heavier than the sword she carried. The conversation she had overheard only added to her growing unease. As they reached her quarters, Mira reluctantly let go of Estelle’s arm.
“I’ll come check on you later,” Mira promised, her voice filled with the innocence of someone too young to fully grasp the danger they were in. She gave Estelle one last worried look before heading back to help the others.
As she gathered her thoughts, Estelle reflected on the significance of the sword she carried. In her world, it had been a tool for survival, a means of protecting herself and her siblings. But here, it might represent something more—a connection to her past that she didn’t fully understand yet. The memory of the orphanage, the moment she had taken the sword, guided by an instinct she barely understood, played over and over in her mind.
She could still see the chaos, the fear in the children’s eyes as they realized something was terribly wrong. The walls of the orphanage might not have physically crumbled, but in that moment, the life they had known was shattered. It wasn’t just the destruction that haunted her—it was the knowledge of what had led her to act. The sword hadn’t just been a weapon; it had been a lifeline, something she clung to as she led the children to safety. She had known, somehow, that the orphanage wasn’t what it seemed.
The medicines she had been given—the 'medicines' she now recognized as something far more sinister—had taken their toll, leaving scars that ran deeper than she cared to admit. As the oldest, she had endured the longest. And with each passing year, her distrust of the orphanage grew.
The decision to flee with the sword hadn’t been just a desperate act of self-preservation; it had been a culmination of years of suspicion and fear. The other children had been “adopted” one by one, leaving her behind each time. She had watched them gone, wondering why she was always left behind, why the orphanage seemed to have a different plan for her. But when the attack began, everything clicked into place. She realized that she was never meant to leave, that they had been preparing her for something far worse.
The sword had been her only defense, a symbol of her resolve to defy the fate the orphanage had intended for her. She had wielded it with the determination of someone who had finally seen the truth and refused to be a victim any longer. But now, the sword’s origins were shrouded in even more mystery, much like the secrets she kept from her siblings. The sword was a constant reminder of those secrets and the weight of what she had endured alone.
That night, as she lay in her makeshift bed, the memories of the other Estelle played at the edges of her consciousness. Her hand brushed the hilt of the sword, now resting beside her. It wasn’t just the past that haunted her—it was the uncertainty of the future.