A faint trickle of light spilled through the widening crack as the door creaked open, and a lean figure slipped into the room, her breath ragged, chest rising and falling in strained rhythm. The common room lay before her, cloaked in a scant layer of dust, untouched by time yet abandoned by life. How long had it been since she’d last stood here?

The sight tugged at her heart, sharper than she anticipated. Memories rose unbidden, and for a moment, time slipped away. Her gaze settled on the worn, scarred table at the center of the room, the one Raid had bargained for with all the persistence of a starving dog. He’d been broke then, his charm not enough to bridge the gap between need and coin. Yet somehow, he’d walked away with that table. Surrounding it, the ornate chairs stood like relics from another world, far too fine for a place like this. Lady Kina Kadalis had insisted on giving them as a gift, even after Raid’s stubborn refusals. He hated owing anyone, especially her.

Her eyes drifted to a blue unkempt rug with streaks of soft green and red, a splash of color she had brought into the room to stave off the drabness. She’d thought it a fair price at the time, only to find later that the merchant had fleeced her of three silver. Would he have dared, she wondered now, if she’d revealed her noble heritage then? A wry smile tugged at her lips. Likely not.

She ran her fingers along the surface of the table, the dust gathering like a fragile veil on her fingertips. The wood felt solid beneath the grime, grounding her in a way the grand dining tables of the Kadalis estates never could. This table, this space, meant something.

For a moment, she considered sitting down, letting the weight of the past wash over her. But time, as always, pressed against her. That familiar voice in the back of her mind pushed her to move on, to move quickly. She had no time to linger, no time to relive her memories.

With a lingering glance, she turned and hurried toward her room, her breath still labored, her mind already racing ahead.

She had been running nonstop for an hour, having departed soon after Mueller’s meeting. Given the time constraints, she had chosen to forgo the horse and rely on her aura to accelerate her pace, despite the resulting exhaustion. This house was quite a considerable distance from the Kes-Northern, and if she hoped to return before the hunt began, she had to hurry.

This house was situated on the outskirts of Astra, a modest dwelling with three bedrooms that stood far from the city's dense urbanscape. It was a place untouched by the conveniences of urban life, a landscape devoid of markets or rows of tightly packed houses. Four years prior, Raid had acquired this one and a half hectare plot, which included a rundown house, with a modest loan from the Kadalis. Over the next three years, the house was gradually repaired to its current, humble condition, funded by Raid's military salary and sporadic support from Nova.

She had been informed that the property had once belonged to an elderly couple, who decided to return to their birth village after their children and grandchildren stopped visiting. The fertile land had been sufficient to sustain them and even provide a tiny income in favorable years with forgiving winters. However, as they aged, tilling the soil and harvesting in the chill autumns became increasingly difficult. Nova remembered with a smile how Raid had once jokingly mused about taking up farming if he ever reached retirement.

The door to her room loudly creaked open, its hinges protesting use, revealing the room's stark, unadorned interior. Only the most basic furniture graced this space, with no decorations to soften its simplicity. Another wave of nostalgia washed over her. How she missed this place.

Despite Raid's ownership of this land, they shared this house, him and her. Although he didn’t fully grasp her situation due to his lack of understanding and attunement to nobility, he understood enough to know that she felt displaced within the Kadalis. So he wished for this meager house to be considered hers as well.

Unlike Raid, she seldom had the luxury of staying here for long. Her elevated status demanded more opulent surroundings, and her unmarried position necessitated residence under the Kadalis name, except for official duties or any plausible excuse she could muster.

Yet, in this humble home, she found solace. It was the only place where she could truly unwind, shielded from prying eyes. The room she had claimed as her own was a canvas for countless cherished memories. Here, she could momentarily shed the weight of the world and immerse herself in a quiet refuge, where the outside pressures seemed to dissolve within these wooden walls.

Nova struck a match and lit a nearly spent candle resting on her small table, its waxen surface coated with a fine layer of dust. The room, absent of a window for the still high sun to shine through, was cloaked in the weak flickering glow of the diminished candle. This room was a choice, there was a larger unused one. Although originally intended as a guest room, she preferred this den over the more expansive space, which seemed to amuse Raid. This room was small, roughly three by four meters, though she had never measured it precisely. When compared to her room at the Kadalis, it could be considered suffocatingly small.

But that was precisely why she had chosen it. This compact space provided a sense of security, with a wall at her back no matter where she turned. It wasn’t so small as to feel claustrophobic, at least not to her. Any other noble lady might have a different opinion. It was difficult to articulate why she was drawn to this room. It felt occupied, or perhaps, filled, was a better word? She couldn’t quite describe it. The room she has at the Kadalis seemed to dwarf her, she felt like a solitary flame attempting to illuminate a vast, pitch-black cavern, or the only guest to a grand banquet hall. This room didn’t evoke that sense of displacement.

Enough reminiscing, enough time has been spent in thoughts. Nova fiddled with her sword belt, unfastened her rapier and placed it on her bed. "Thank you for serving me so long," she said softly, dragging her fingers across its scratched and dented scabbard before parting with it, properly, for good.

From beneath the bed, she dragged out a short but wide rectangular chest. Though aged, its appearance remained pristine, as she had never intended to use its contents, which had preserved it from wear. Opening the latch, she lifted the lid, and as expected, its contents remained exactly as she had left them all those years ago. Silk cloths, tightly wrapped around two slim, elongated objects, one longer than the other, greeted her.

She hesitated, reflecting on why she had kept these items here, so far from her life. Among all the places she trusted with this cherished items, this place has seen the least of her presence. She wanted to avoid reminders of her heartland, unwilling to confront the involuntary memories these objects held.

As she carefully unwrapped the decorated silks, the two items emerged: a rapier and a single-edged short sword. Each scabbard bore her family’s emblem, a white pigeon perched atop a fox. Marcus had returned to their devastated homeland years after the fall of the Anyi, searching for and burying the remnants of the Fable family. He found some, including her father, but her mother remained lost. But he did find her swords, among the scattered remains of other unburied Anyi knights, their flesh long since reduced to nothing. Marcus had spoken with such sorrow on how long he inspected each corpse, finding that none had shown any indication that her mother was amongst them.

Nova gently ran her hands over her mother’s rapier, feeling each brass, silver, and copper engraving on its scabbard. She hoped for some trace of connection, some stirring of the past. She felt nothing. What had she expected? Nostalgia? A resurgence of long-lost memories? She couldn't even remember her mother's or father's faces. Her hand tensed unconsciously as incoherent screams came back to her. Maybe fire? She remembered being dragged away somewhere, crying. A guard apologizing profusely to her despite being near death. She exhaled slowly, trying to stem the sadness that was building within her. Reminiscing and sentimentality were not her purpose here. It was the swords themselves that mattered.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Artforms dictated how one fought, and Nova’s was no different. Like Alice’s Two Viper Step, her artform demanded two swords to function at its full potential. But up until now, Nova had resisted. Fully embracing her artform felt like shackles tightening around her wrists, binding her to a past she couldn’t outrun. It also meant forsaking some of her most valued classes and limited her fighting style. Instead, she had stubbornly clung to the rapier alone, leaving the short sword an unwelcome companion.

She knew it was a mistake. Every blunder, every hard-fought battle whispered it to her. But something deeper kept her from drawing that second blade. Maybe it was defiance. Maybe it was fear. To wield two swords, to follow the artform exactly as it had been passed down, meant more than just perfecting her artform. She thought that if she didn’t follow the exact method, she wouldn’t have to confront her mother. That she wasn’t ready. Not yet. It didn’t have to make sense. It didn’t have to. Trauma can develop and safeguard its host in unusual ways, protecting and imprisoning in equal measure.

Which begged the question, now, looking at her mother’s blades, how many bad outcomes could she have avoided if she had simply relented to reason and used two swords from the start? They didn’t have to be her mother’s blades. That was the cruel irony. There were countless blades that could have served the same purpose. Was the option of using any other short sword no longer viable once Marcus had presented her with her mother’s? It felt as though, whenever the time came for her to use two swords, it had to be her mother’s. But the moment she did, it would mean she had finally accepted her mother's death, acknowledging the blades as her inheritance, and with it, the legacy and history of a woman she barely remembered.

Would Raid be without that jagged scar along his neck if she had embraced her artform earlier? Would she have used the Blood Spider during the breakout? Could she have done more without her self-imposed limitations? Is this regret? Maybe she hadn’t changed at all from when she first entered the Kadalis. Weak and insecure. But the past couldn’t be changed. The only thing left to do was accept it.

Nova breathed deeply, pushing those thoughts aside, and her fingers tightened around the hilts. This was precisely why she had kept the blades hidden away, fearing they would lead her mind astray, into dreams and pointless melancholy. But this wasn’t a time for dreams. There was a hunt awaiting her.

She strapped both swords on. The short sword resting snug behind her wrist, the rapier hanging at her left hip. She drew it, the sound of the rapier slicing through the air clean and sharp, the weight slightly familiar yet foreign. It was heavier than she anticipated. A small thing. The muscle would come with time. She tilted the blade upwards, watching the candlelight catch along its edge, the flickering glow dancing in the steel. If she remembered correctly, Marcus told her the swords were made of Veliostok Steel, an incredibly rare metal and the best for blades.

The acceptance came quietly, like the stillness before dawn. There was no sudden epiphany, no rush of emotions. Just a quiet resolve settling over her, steady as the grip on her sword. She would now carry these blades, not as her mother’s, but as her own. And she would fight with both, as she should have from the very beginning.

The Anyi Clan was renowned for three exceptional artforms, each hailed as the pinnacle of the clan's creative achievements. These artforms were so valued that the clan went to extraordinary lengths to protect them, even amid their destruction. Fate intervened when Marcus obtained the Demon Step, entrusting its legacy to Raid, who by luck, had the constitution to learn it. Meanwhile, the Water Spider was the cornerstone of Nova's family's nobility, making it relatively easier for Marcus to secure it during his escape. The third artform, however, was lost to history. An artform without written manuals, which was unusual, its secrets vanished with all its practitioners who died defending the Anyi. There is little hopes of finding any remnants of it in the ruins.

Unlike the Demon Step, which gained fame for a single technique that defined the entire art and even lent its name to the artform itself. Nova's Water Spider, despite its flaws and historical tragedies, was preserved for a reason. It wasn’t renowned for a specific technique or stance but for a fighting style, the only one of its kind, that required two swords.

The Weaver's Edge, the 12th Unorthodox Class of the Water Spider, formed the foundation of this style. The rapier served as the primer, while the short sword served as control. This combination allowed the user to create and manipulate thin strands of aura for brief periods, adapting them to various situations limited only by the user's imagination. It is even said that this class was inspired by mystics, leading to speculation that the Water Spider might, in part, be considered a hybrid in classification purely due to this feature. These strings were by far the most deadly and signature aspect of the art.

But why had she accepted the blades now? Well, partly because It didn't feel like a choice but rather a necessity. If the oathbreaker’s reputation was true, she couldn’t risk the lives of the team for her own personal issues. She had once felt content with just a single blade. It hadn’t felt restrictive. She had believed that, even without Weaver’s Edge, her grit and wisdom would suffice. Missing a second blade hadn’t seemed like a significant detriment, not enough to excuse any losses.

But recent experience has proved otherwise. She had nearly exhausted her aura, twice, a situation that might have been avoided if she had dealt with her opponents more efficiently, something the Weaver could have done. She had barely survived the breakout, and if she had taken down a few more knights during the initial battle, then maybe Mae and the others might still be alive.

Now, she felt acutely unprepared. She needed every advantage, every edge she could muster. If she wanted to prevent the worst-case scenario, she had to embrace the blades and wield her artform to its fullest potential. Nova raised the rapier, poised to strike once more, when—

A sudden flash of memories overwhelmed her. Luis, his hate-fuelled face, a monstrous deer, a mage tortured with limbs contorted against his will. The rapier she held, once bright and pristine, seemed to taint with a crimson hue. Her vision swam in red as a tiny, hairy spider crawled up her arm, a hallucination paired with an overwhelming surge of bloodlust. The harsh metallic clang of the blade hitting the wooden floor jolted her back to reality. She had just dropped the sword without even realizing it, her back slamming against the door as she staggered backwards, gasping for air, trying to wipe away nonexistent sweat from her forehead.

She sank to the floor, her back resting against the door, and wrapped her arms around her knees, staring at the now ordinary rapier lying in the center of the room. Her vision cleared, but her breaths remained ragged, her mind struggling to steady itself. The relentless flash of memories had come and gone, leaving her shaken and disoriented.

What was that? What was that rush through her veins? Hot and fierce. The sensation, it clawed at the edge of her mind. Familiar. Too familiar. It felt like the Blood Spider. But why? Or how? Why was it stirring? She hadn’t even used it. The technique required precision, a specific flow to activate, not this wild, unbidden surge. Had it… triggered itself?

Another flood of bloodlust crashed over her, sharper this time, more savage. Her thoughts splintered, as though an invisible hammer had struck her skull. She gasped, her breath frayed and erratic, chest heaving. She bit down hard on her lip, the sharp sting her last anchor of futile control. And it was slipping, fast. The bloodlust gnawed at her sanity, twisting her thoughts, pushing her to the edge, and then, just as violently as it had come, it was gone again. Silence.

Her mind was left in ruins.

A bitter, broken laugh escaped her, a hollow sound barely more than a whisper. “Who the fuck do I think I am?” Her voice trembled, mocking herself, her own fragile illusion of control. “A hero? Protect everyone? Avoid the worst-case scenario? When I can’t even control my own artform...”

Nova sat there for a long time, thinking, reflecting, cycling through swells of emotion. For the first time in her life, she broke down, alone, in her own home. The stress had finally caught up to her after so long. She couldn’t tell how long she had been avoiding it, or how long it had been building up. Or what it was. But she had finally broken.

Tears fogged her vision, without the kindness of knowing why. Maybe there was no reason. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe… she just needed to cry. To let it all out, to pour every last drop of her pain and fear into these tears. To cry her heart out.

There was no need to be strong here. No one was here. And so, she did. Nova let herself break.