Reforged Blades
The winds of Arkhelm had grown quiet, but the war drums beat on in silence. For months, Lyra and Elian trained under the rigorous eye of the now one-handed but undeterred Captain Sheane Heath. His injury had changed nothing about his standards—it may have even raised them. With his left arm in a sling, he barked commands, demonstrated maneuvers, and even engaged in sparring.
Their mornings began at dawn with grueling endurance runs across Arkhelm's industrial rooftops. The jagged pathways tested their reflexes, speed, and balance, all while wearing weighted vests and dodging simulated ancient projections. Elian's stamina improved tenfold, and Lyra began matching his pace without effort.
Afternoons brought combat drills—bladed sparring in shifting sand pits meant to mimic ancient terrain. Sheane taught them to fight with rhythm and instinct, using everything from titanium short blades to blunted polearms. Every strike had to land with precision, every parry counted. Elian's brute strength was tempered by Lyra's honed technique.
Later sessions introduced aerial combat with Wind Gliders. They flew over the city's outer borders, practicing evasion tactics, midair marksmanship with pulse pistols, and synchronized takedown formations. The sky was no longer a boundary, but their new battlefield.
Some nights were spent in simulated fear tests—mental endurance chambers that forced them to relive traumatic moments against AI-recreated Ancients. Elian would often see his sister's crushed home; Lyra saw the shadow of her twisted sister. And still, they pressed forward.
Months passed.
---
Inside the Arkhelm Medical Division, Sheane sat silently on a steel bench as his cast was removed. The room was sterile, lit with a dim cyan glow. The air reeked of antiseptic and burnt synth tissue from another wing.
Doctor Marlen, a spry woman in her late fifties, peeled the cast back with care. Sheane winced slightly as air kissed his skin.
"Your ancient DNA really saved your arm," she remarked. "Your arm was basically porridge a few months ago, Captain."
Sheane shot her a sharp glare.
"I told you not to mention that. What if someone hears?"
"Apologies, Captain." She chuckled. "Porridge arm, noted as confidential."
He flexed his fingers. The pain was there—but so was the strength. His body, slightly altered by prolonged contact with the Ancients on the battlefield, had begun mutating slowly, subtly. He could feel it—not in rage or thirst, but in durability.
Sheane left the infirmary and walked through Arkhelm's soldier barracks, nodding silently to saluting troops. Most of them looked up to him with a blend of fear and admiration. Few remembered that he used to be like them—reckless, stubborn, hopeful.
He found solitude on a private training platform where he began to practice alone. With his left hand still healing, he fought with a single blade in his right. Each slash was heavy, balanced, and meticulous.
"Again," he muttered, breath fogging in the cold evening air.
He recalled his first kill.
He remembered being seventeen—terrified, bloody, broken—watching an Ancient devour his older brother during a defense mission. He hadn't cried then. He'd stared as it happened, immobilized by fear, until something snapped.
Sheane Heath had never stopped moving since that day.
He moved through forms with ruthless grace, thoughts drifting to the two soldiers he was training. Elian's raw potential. Lyra's sharp resolve. The strange tension growing between them that reminded him far too much of a younger self and someone he once knew—someone now buried beneath the old ruins of Vandrel.
That night, he stood atop one of Arkhelm's signal towers, looking out over the city.
It was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
He knew what was coming. He could feel it in the scars that burned beneath his uniform, the ache in his still-recovering arm, the quiet before the next cataclysm.
The war wasn't over.
Not even close.
And if Elian and Lyra were humanity's next hope, then Sheane would make sure they were ready—no matter what the cost.
He closed his eyes and whispered into the wind: "Get stronger. The next time the barrier falls… we won't have the luxury of mercy."