As time passed, I grew.By the time I was twelve, I had already begun studying the Celestial Orders in full—language, history, constellational ethics, spirit concordance, divine warfare, sacred law.
But among all the duties pressed upon me, the only time I felt truly alive… was when I trained with my lance.
Most of the others in the temple favored the Celestial Sword—a weapon said to represent both blood and peace. A holy duality.
The Celestial Sword was peculiar in shape: two blades forged into one.One edge to cut, the other to dance.It was four inches longer than standard blades, and it curved slightly to the left—meant to be wielded with both elegance and lethality.
But the sword never called to me.Not like the lance did.
My lance was custom-forged, crafted from pure silvered mithril—a rare and sacred metal that shimmered beneath moonlight. Its form was unlike any in the Order.
At its crown: a crescent-shaped blade embracing a golden straight edge made of blessed auric mithril—a gold so pure, it sang when it struck stone.At its base: a blunt silver stub, a weight I often used to slam against the training dolls or the earth beneath me, echoing like thunder across the marble floors.
It was heavier than what most would dare train with.It was meant for mounted combat—used by knights and vanguard riders.But I was not a rider.
I preferred the ground.I preferred the feel of my heels scraping against dust.I preferred to meet my enemies at eye level—not from above.
To the Order, that was improper.I was taught with a spear at first—common, straight, impersonal.
Until they found someone who could teach me properly.Someone who saw the way I moved and did not try to change it.
Her name was Perephone Hivashktik.
They called her the Lightning Seer of the High Mountains.
A name carried in legend.A myth said to have vanished the abyssal legions during the Era of Golden Time, a thousand years after the Mourning of the World.
She once served the Third King of Mourning—the last blood-heir of the great pact.When her sword shattered in the final war, she cast it away and chose the lance instead.
They say she made the skies weep.They say her lance touched the neck of a god once.They say she walked through a sea of curses and came out clean.
When the war ended, she disappeared into the High Mountains of the north.Many thought she had died.
But one day, without word or invitation, she came to me.
She arrived wrapped in stormsilk, her voice calm as rain, her hair streaked with silver and wind.
She watched me train in silence.Watched me struggle with a weapon that no one else understood.
And then she said only this:
"Your arms are wild. But your will is sharp. If you're to wield that thing, you must make the storm dance for you."
She became my master.Not through formal ceremony, not through divine decree.But because she chose to.
And for the first time in my life—So did I.
The first time we sparred, she didn't ask me if I was ready.She only said:
"Your hands are soft. We'll fix that."
The training grounds near the outer sanctum were forbidden to most—too sacred, they said, too steeped in the echoes of dead prayers. But for Perephone, no door was ever locked. And when she trained, even the stars above dimmed their gaze.
She stood ten paces away from me, holding a lance taller than I'd ever seen.Polished obsidian wood and stormsteel—etched with runes that shimmered faintly when she moved.Her body was light, almost unassuming, but every breath she took felt like thunder waiting for permission to fall.
I readied my stance—feet grounded, grip firm.
"Begin," she said.
I rushed forward, trusting the momentum.My lance cut a silver arc through the air, slicing toward her side.I thought it was fast. I thought it would impress her.
But she was already behind me.
I felt the tip of her weapon tap between my shoulder blades—gentle, but final.
"Too predictable," she said. "Again."
We reset.
I tried feinting left—then spinning with the rear stub of my lance.She dodged without moving her feet. Her lance parried mine with a flick, and I nearly lost my balance.
"Too much flourish. You fight like you're hoping I'll miss."
My heart pounded in my ears. I could feel my spirit—Solviel—stir faintly, observing but not interfering.The contract didn't help me here.
This wasn't a lesson in divinity.This was warfare.
I lunged again. She met me halfway.
Her strike hit my ribs. Blunt but forceful.I gasped, dropping to a knee.
Pain bloomed under my skin. My grip loosened.She didn't wait.
Her next strike slammed my lance away. The third strike—blunt-end—crashed into my shoulder and sent me sprawling onto the stone floor.
Dust clouded around me. My mouth tasted of copper.
"You think your pain makes you weaker," Perephone said, walking slowly toward me. "But pain is the first thing that listens when the rest of you hesitates."
She held her lance at her side, upright, calm.Lightning flickered in the sky above—soft at first, like a whisper waiting for its voice.
"Again," she said.
I forced myself to stand, every breath a battle.
This time, I did not lead with speed.I circled her. Waited. Let my hands remember the rhythm of the weapon—not as a burden, but as an extension of myself.
And then I struck.
Lower. Sharper. Cleaner.
The blades clashed in a burst of metal and light. Sparks flew.I slid past her guard, dragging the crescent blade across her thigh armor—but just barely.
She smiled. For the first time.
"Good," she whispered. "Now you're listening."
Then the storm answered her.
Lightning cracked the sky.A bolt fell just behind me, splitting the stone—not by accident.
"You learn with pain. You retain with fear," she said, her eyes glowing faint blue. "Again."
We trained until the lanterns burned out.Until my arms could no longer lift the lance.Until I was too sore to cry.
But I did not fall again.
And that night, as I sat in silence beside the temple's moonwell, I finally understood:
She wasn't teaching me how to fight.She was teaching me how to exist.
The wind stilled. The stone beneath us seemed to listen.And I—twelve years old, drenched in sweat, trembling from exhaustion—lowered my lance and fell to one knee.
Perephone had stopped me mid-strike with a single word.
"Stop."
And I obeyed.
Across the training grounds stood High Seer Vareon, his robe trailing behind him like spilled ink, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His face, as always, was unreadable—etched in marble calm, a man who had long mistaken silence for wisdom.
"What can we do for you, High Seer?" Perephone asked, tone dry as winter stone. Not respectful. Not hostile. Merely… tired.
"I am here only to observe the child's growth," he said, as if he had not sentenced children to death with that same voice.
Perephone scoffed.
"After placing her in a position no child should bear, now you care for her growth?"
"I merely bear witness to a being of majesty… bestowed upon the Celestial Order. She fulfills the prophecy made for her."
"Prophecy, huh?" she said with mock interest, tilting her head. "If she's truly prophecy-made, why does she need training?"
I dared not speak. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a prayer or a curse—I wasn't sure which.
"She will," Vareon said. "Solviel has already resonated within her."
At the name of my spirit, I felt the mark on my chest pulse faintly—an echo, like the chime of a distant bell across the mountains.
"Solviel," Perephone repeated, now circling slowly around me. "The Third Circle spirit. The one bound to the bloodline of Gadriel. Inherited, is it not?"
I could feel her gaze shift to me, but I couldn't meet her eyes.
"We can no longer delay her rise," Vareon said, clapping his hands together once, as if to summon destiny. "She will climb to the top of this world."
Perephone turned to him, smile cold as frost.
"And how long do you suppose that will take? Centuries? A thousand years?"
"With her birth," Vareon replied smoothly, "it will happen sooner than you know."
The air shifted.The pressure built, like thunder hiding behind cloud.
And I, still on one knee, could only watch as they bickered about me like I was a blade yet to be forged.
"You truly think she could face the Great Sage of the Silent Age?" Perephone asked, voice now openly mocking.
"The Sage will fall," Vareon said, without hesitation.
"Is that so?" Perephone raised her brow, then… smiled.
It wasn't a kind smile.It was a warrior's grin. The kind that came before storms.
"Then surely," she said, voice like coiled lightning, "you wouldn't mind if I showed you what I could do to her... if I were her enemy."
My breath caught in my throat.And then—
"Stand, Luna."
Her words struck like thunder. My body obeyed before my mind could catch up.
I rose slowly, my lance trembling in my hands.
"You say this girl will rise," she said, eyes now locked on Vareon. "But prophecy always forgets history. And history remembers war, not birthright."
She took five steps back and spun her lance once. The wind picked up around her. Her cloak billowed like a stormfront.
"Now spar with me," she said to me—not cruelly, but with terrifying purpose."With everything you have. I want to see what Solviel's light can really do."
She raised her weapon.
I hesitated.
"Fight me, Luna. Show them you're not just a name bound to a star."