The morning air was sharper than usual, carrying the promise of a day that would test more than just my body. I rolled out of my futon, the wooden floor cold beneath my feet, and glanced at the sun barely cresting the rooftops of the Kyoshi halls. Today, the elders would speak of the clan's mission—a ritual, a challenge, a burden for those who reached sixteen.
I was fifteen. Almost sixteen. Close enough to taste it, too young to be called. Still, curiosity was a hunger that never listened to rules.
In the main hall, the elders gathered. The air itself seemed to bow under their presence. Every movement—every breath—was deliberate.
"The clan mission," began the head elder, his voice rolling like distant thunder, "is the rite of passage for those who come of age. Each task, chosen by the clan leader, tests strength, mind, and soul. Success brings honor. Failure ...."
No one spoke. Even silence had discipline here.
When the meeting ended, I made my way to the courtyard. Stipo was already there, hands clasped behind his back, watching the horizon like a man who could fight the sun itself.
"Today," he said, "you learn what your blood can do. You've trained your body long enough—it's time to train what lies beneath."
Ah. The energy.
I'd heard the theory a hundred times. But hearing it from Stipo was different—like being told the ocean existed by someone who had drowned in it.
"Energy," he began, pacing slowly, "is life itself. It flows through every living thing, but only a few can command it. It demands sacrifice—focus, pain, control."
He raised one calloused hand. "There are five primary manifestations.
Solidification. the user hardens their blood into a crystalline substance. It can shield, strike, and trap, but consumes more than most can endure. My own discipline, which I'd say I've mastered better than most.
Enhancement. Strength and speed beyond mortal limits.
Thread. Fluid and precise—blood stretched into cords, a spider's art.
Regeneration. Life defying decay, restoring cells, mending wounds faster than natural healing, faster than wounds can form.
And Affinity. The rarest, the most complex.. The one that listens, senses, predicts the unseen flow of the world."
He paused, then looked straight at me. "Most people are born with one type. One. Their blood knows its path. Try to master more than that, and your body tears itself apart."
I swallowed hard. My mismatched eyes caught his reflection in the blade at my waist. I didn't have one path. I didn't even know if I had one at all.
"Ready to fail again?" he asked.
"Always, sensei," I murmured, though my voice wavered.
The first attempt fizzled. The second—brief, flickering light—and then collapse. My veins pulsed with heat, then emptiness. My hybrid blood rejected the command, rebelling against both halves of me.
"Again," he said, calm but merciless. "Control isn't given. It's taken."
I grit my teeth. Again. Again. Each time, my strength slipped through my fingers like smoke.
And then—something else slipped in.
A scent. Sweet. Tangy.
Kiwi! My favorite.
The kitchen.
Before I knew it, my feet had already moved.
I froze, cheeks burning.
The kitchen was alive with warmth and light. And there she was—Sheshy, perched on a counter like she owned the air around her.
She had known Abel since they were children, their days entwined in the rhythms of the Kyoshi clan's training and routines. "You smell that too, don't lie," she said, tossing a slice of kiwi in my direction. I caught it, barely, still half out of breath from training.
"You shouldn't be here," I said, though my tone betrayed no real intent to leave.
"And yet, you are," she replied, smiling. "Guess we're both where we shouldn't be."
She sat perched on the counter, her long black hair cascading like a silk curtain. The blindfold covered her eyes completely, hiding their true color, for she had never seen light, color, or even her own reflection. Her delicate nose tilted slightly upward, giving her an air of gentle defiance, and her full lips, always in motion when she spoke, seemed to demand attention, though Abel rarely dared to look too closely. Despite never having seen the world in the way others did, every gesture, every movement, spoke volumes. The training some clan member have to endure, the affinity energy trainin.
"I can feel your pulse when you're near," she murmured, softer now. "Your energy's different. It's… noisy. Like it hasn't decided what song to play yet."
I blinked, unsure what to say. "You can feel that?"
"I can feel you," she said simply. "Even when you try to hide."
For a moment, the air between us felt fragile—alive with something I didn't have a name for.
Then, in that same teasing tone, she added, "You know… when I finally see you properly, I'll marry you."
I nearly choked on the kiwi. "W-what?"
She laughed, brushing her hair aside. "You heard me. I've already decided. You just have to stay alive long enough to make it possible."
I blinked, caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief. My tongue felt heavy, and all my usual clever retorts fled. Instead, I muttered, "I… I...Good to know."
She laughed, tossing another piece of kiwi. "Timid, but honest. Good enough for now."
The words lingered longer than her laughter. There was no mockery in her tone—just certainty. The kind that scared me more than any fight.
Then—
"ABEL!"
The word tore through the air like a whip.
I froze.
Stipo stood in the doorway, eyes dark as thunderclouds. "Running from training?"
"Sensei, I just—"
The first blow came faster than thought. A blur. Pain exploded through my ribs. The second folded me to the floor. The third—a brutal upward strike—lifted me off my feet and slammed me down among pots and bowls.
The world tilted. My lungs screamed.
When it ended, Stipo stood over me, breathing evenly, as if nothing had happened. "Lesson learned?"
I nodded weakly.
"Good," he said, turning away. "Next time, run faster."
As his footsteps faded, Sheshy knelt beside me. Her hand brushed my cheek—hesitant, careful...
"You really shouldn't make him angry," she whispered.
"I didn't mean to," I managed between breaths.
"I know," she said, smiling faintly. "That's why you're terrible at lying."
Her laughter—soft, almost musical—filled the space that Stipo's fury had left behind.
And as I sat there on the cold tiles, bruised and breathless, I realized that even in pain, this place still had rhythm.
A cruel rhythm—but one that I was beginning to understand.
To be continued…