The dawn mist clung to the cave's entrance, pale light spilling in to mingle with the constant roar of the waterfall. Alpha sat with his blade across his knees, staring at its dull edge. His body screamed from yesterday's training—his arms heavy, his palms raw and bleeding—but his mind churned harder than the ache.
He had struck. For the first time, he had chosen. But his cuts had been wild, weak, born of desperation rather than skill. The Skeleton Knight's words gnawed at him still. 'Barely. But you live.'
The knight rose from the shadows, its armor clattering faintly as it moved. The empty sockets burned with steady light, unwavering.
"Yesterday you learned to strike. Today you learn why a strike matters."
Alpha tightened his grip on the hilt. "If I hit harder—"
The knight's blade lifted, interrupting him with a sharp hiss of steel. "Power without aim is wasted. Even a feather can kill if placed true."
Alpha swallowed. His throat was dry, his chest tense.
The training began without further words.
The knight swung, but slower this time, deliberate. Alpha stepped in and slashed, eager to prove himself. The blades met with a sharp clang—but his strike slid away, useless.
"Too soon."
Again. Alpha waited, then lunged too late. The knight's blade tapped his shoulder, light but humiliating.
"Too late."
Again. Alpha raised his weapon, swung with all his strength—his footing slipped, the strike wide and sloppy.
The knight's voice rumbled, ancient and patient. "Too wild."
Each mistake cut deeper than the blade ever could. Sweat stung his eyes, his arms shook, his breath rasped in and out like a dying fire. But the knight never slowed, never stopped. It only repeated the rhythm—raise, swing, halt. Waiting for Alpha to find the seam in between.
Hours blurred. The dull ache in his muscles sharpened into pain. His shoulders burned, his back screamed, but the knight's hollow gaze bore into him. Again.
When at last Alpha's strength broke, he collapsed against the stone floor, his sword clattering beside him. His chest heaved, sweat dripping from his jaw.
The knight lowered its weapon, voice steady. "Your body is weak. Your eyes are weaker. You do not see. You only react."
Alpha pressed his forehead to the cold stone. "Then teach me to see."
For a long silence, only the waterfall answered. Then, finally, the knight spoke.
"A strike is not born from arms. It is born from silence. To see is to wait, to breathe, to hear the enemy's intent before it is flesh. Swing less. Watch more. Patience cuts deeper than fury."
Alpha closed his eyes, forcing his ragged breath to slow. His hands twitched, aching to lift the sword again, but he held them still. The knight's words were foreign, heavy, but they rang with truth.
He remembered the overseers' whips, the way he had always flinched too soon, or endured too long. He remembered the moment yesterday when he had swung without thought, not precision. Always reaction. Never decision.
The knight's empty sockets glowed faintly in the dark. "Tomorrow, you will strike once. Only once. And it will matter. Until then, still your body. Sharpen your eyes."
Alpha nodded weakly, though the words terrified him. One strike. No wild swings, no desperate flailing. Just one.
As the knight retreated back to its silent vigil against the wall, Alpha picked up his blade again, staring at its scarred surface. The idea of a single cut, honed to perfection, felt impossible. But so had striking at all.
He leaned back, letting the cave's chill sink into his bruises. His breathing slowed, his fists unclenched. The roar of the waterfall filled the silence, steady and unyielding.
Tomorrow, he would cut not for survival, not for desperation, but with intent.
For the first time, he understood: endurance was not enough. Fury was not enough. Even choice was not enough.
To wield a blade was to see. And to see was harder than any chain he had ever carried.