Sasha

-----Eighth Entry-------

So, we're almost here; we've almost reached today.

After that conversation with Edgar, when I agreed—sort of—to the vigil, the world around me accelerated again. Within hours, I was in the legendary Anti-Chaos Coalition’s stronghold, the facility near the physical manifestation of the Door. Everyone knew about this place; this was where Saviors went to their vigil for millennia.

Now, it stood modern—a small city of stone and glass, buzzing with the energy of a thousand souls bound by duty. Researchers, soldiers, medics, and mages hurried by, faces marked with exhaustion but steadfast resolve. Thirty-five years since Alaric's return, the ACC was stretched thin, and here, it was felt.

My room was simple, nothing like the suite in Lovenia, but high-quality and equipped with everything I could possibly need—uniforms, tech, books, journals, all that. They went further, though, and tried to make it feel like home. The small gestures—the neatly folded bedsheets, the pictures that appeared on the wall, the plush puppy someone left on my bed—reminded me of what I was sacrificing myself for but also what I was leaving. I scoffed when I saw the plushie. How old did they think I was? I was (well, almost) eighteen!

But between me and you, I might have held onto that plushie in the middle of the night with more force than it was made to endure.

Edgar kept his promise: no guards, no locked doors. I had total freedom. Sometimes, I felt that he wanted me to leave. But I couldn’t, even if I also wished I could.

Training started the next morning. It was structured and relentless but not overwhelming. Edgar seemed surprised that I had no formal magical training, but he led me through the basics as if teaching a novice was normal for the most powerful mage in the world. “Magic is a conversation,” he said, watching me with that weight of understanding. “Not just a command. Feel it, then move it.”

The first time I managed a fire orb, a small sphere flickered and pulsed between my fingers, its heat radiating down my fingertips; it was like my heartbeat turned for a second into flame. I held it, feeling its warmth crawl up my arm, thrilling. It felt like discovering a piece of myself that had been waiting, coiled and hidden, finally set free. I glanced at Edgar for approval, and he gave a small nod, a rare smile forming.

“Good, Sasha,” he said. “Hold onto that feeling. Now, control it.”

Even as the rush of magic surged through me, connecting me to something profound, the bitter knowledge of why I was learning it never left. I was talented—just as I’d secretly hoped my whole life. But to only get the chance to learn now, with the most impossible teacher... it was a cruel irony. The world gave me what I wanted more than anything but asked for everything in return.

Battle training was a completely different story. I’d never been a fighter. Even as a child, I would take a beating rather than fight back. Even in video games, combat repelled me. Really, why do you even need fighting in a peaceful farm simulator? And now, facing targets, my hands froze. It took several days to understand that I had a block in my mind. Then, they switched the standard human-shaped targets for abstract ones—circles and triangles. It made it easier, but not by much. My palms grew slick with sweat as I tried to summon the energy, the air around me crackling faintly. My aim wavered, and spells lacked force.

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“You aren’t a warrior,” Edgar said one day. “And it's fine. But you will have to fight, Sasha. Chaos will make you. Better to know how than to be utterly powerless.”

The thought of fighting terrified and repulsed me, but the idea of being powerless, just a toy for Chaos, was far worse. So, I kept going, clumsy and hesitant. I must’ve been the worst trainee this facility had ever seen. Yet Edgar never seemed disappointed; he was teaching me to hold onto even the shred of agency, however futile it might be: "You won't ever win; it's not about it. But even the smallest edge, a second more of pushing back, will feel like everything."

Honestly, it didn't work. I was terrible, and now, after five months of training, I am not much better. But I have drilled the basics. Did it help you, future me? I hope it did.

But it wasn't just training, you know? Edgar insisted I spend time with ACC trainees, future battle mages, knowing I needed peers. "Maybe you shouldn't spend all your time with a 150-year-old man," he would say, with that phantom smile of his.

At first, I felt out of place among these elite cadets, the best from around the globe, a few years older but worlds apart in experience. They were like real soldiers and mages, trained from childhood. Yet they treated me with a mix of teasing and respect that felt normal. They called me “Twinkle,” a nickname born when my spell scattered into sparkles instead of actually hitting the aim. I pretended to hate it, but actually, I didn't. They also never used the word "Savior," and oh, how I did get to hate the "S" word at this point.

One night, we did something reckless. Mira, with a gleam in her eyes, suggested “borrowing” a battle helicopter. "I am a licensed pilot, you know. Well, almost" - she smiled. The rotors thumped above us as we lifted off, the lights of the facility shrinking beneath. The cold night air rushed in, whipping through our hair and stinging our cheeks. We whooped and hollered, sheer exhilaration filling us as we soared over the grounds, the world a blur below. For those minutes, I wasn’t Sasha, the Savior-to-be; I was just Sasha, alive and free.

Of course, we were scolded. Well, they were. No one dared scold me. Edgar didn’t say a word; he just gave me a knowing smirk, the creases around his eyes deepening as if he were glad I had this.

These moments kept me afloat. They were stolen glimpses of a life that felt light and normal. But when night fell, so did the silence, pressing down until it was suffocating. Those were the nights Edgar would somehow find me, every time, sitting in the dark, holding my plush puppy—the one secret comfort that made the darkness seem a little less endless—with eyes that burned from unshed tears. He’d bring me coffee and sit across from me in silence, a steady presence pushing back the despair.

“You won’t remember any of this,” he said one night, breaking the quiet. “But it matters, Sasha. Every moment matters, even when you think you’re losing them.”

I looked up at him, searching for something—hope, maybe. The weight of tomorrow pressed heavily, a lingering dread that never truly faded. He offered a small, sad smile but didn’t say more. It wasn't enough. But it also was everything I had.

The days blurred—training, laughter, fear, and conversations that carved into parts of me I hadn’t known existed. Edgar spoke of resilience, survival, what it meant to hold on and when to let go. He told me stories of his life, the fragments that remained and the life he rebuilt, and I told him about mine—about my family, my friends, and our dog Scruffy. It felt strange to tell the world’s greatest hero about my ordinary, small moments, but he listened as if they were treasures.

In those moments, he wasn’t just my mentor. He was someone who had faced the impossible and come back whole, if scarred. And I wanted, desperately, to believe that I could do the same.

Yet, as each day ended, the weight of what awaited me grew heavier, a shadow that clung to every thought.

So, I trained, laughed, failed, feared. And now, as I write this, I cling to the fact that, for now, I am still here. Still Sasha. And if there’s any part of me reading this someday, I want you to know: you were called “Twinkle” once. You laughed. You lived. And you were loved.