Nova's Blade

Chapter 17

The metallic scent of determination and the rhythmic clang of steel on steel fills the air of the training room. Nova and Alistair move as if part of a deadly dance, their swords slicing through the air, blocking, dodging, and striking with practiced precision. As Nova ducks a high swing, she notices an opening in Alistair's defense, but finds herself hesitating, her mind suddenly elsewhere.

In the split second her focus wavers, Alistair takes advantage, delivering a swift kick to her abdomen that sends her tumbling backward.

"Nova!" His voice echoes around the room, stern and demanding, yet measured. "Why the hesitation?"

Struggling to regain her footing, Nova can do little but defend against the relentless onslaught. Alistair's blade comes at her in a series of swift, precise strikes that push her back, the fear evident in her wide eyes and the beads of sweat trailing down her face.

"Do you think our enemies will show mercy?" Alistair probes, each word punctuated by the sound of clashing steel.

Nova's breaths come in ragged gasps, her grip on the sword trembling. She can barely defend against Alistair's fury, each near miss making her heart skip a beat. She almost feels like he might actually kill her. And then, with a swift kick, he disarms her, leaving her on her knees, defenseless.

As Nova looks up, her eyes widen in shock as Alistair's blade darts forward, stopping just inches from her throat. She freezes, her heart hammering in her chest.

"A moment's hesitation can cost you your life," he advises, his voice calm yet serious.

With a swift move, he sheathes his sword. "We're done."

Nova gasps, her chest heaving. "What? It's not time yet."

"For you it is. You're not ready, Nova. If your current state is any indication, you won't make it to the next round. I see no point in continuing like this."

He turns to leave, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

"Alistair," Nova calls out, her voice trembling.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. "Return when you're ready. If."

Left alone in the echo of his words, Nova stands, feeling the weight of his disappointment like a punch to her gut. She grabs her fallen sword, the cold steel a stark contrast to the heat of her embarrassment and anger. With a guttural yell, she hurls it across the room.

Nova stands outside, the weight of her recent encounter with Alistair still lingering. A camera drone hovers into view, its lens zooming into her face as the lights on its body start a silent countdown for the interview.

"So, Nova," the drone's voice echoes with an artificial enthusiasm, "How does it feel to be facing Morgana in the next match?"

"What?" Nova's brows knit together in surprise.

She pulls out her phone, her fingers scrolling over the screen quickly. There, amidst the list of the next round's pairings, her name sits right next to Morgana's. A shiver of anticipation runs down her spine, her breath hitching slightly.

"Some think you're going to die against her? Any comments," the drone prods, its tone still irritatingly peppy.

In response, Nova strides past the drone, her jaw set and her eyes focused. She doesn't need to answer. Actions, after all, speak louder than words.

Fable leans against the wrought-iron railing, her gaze piercing through the bustling crowd that swarms the Delos café. She sips her lukewarm coffee, its bitter taste mirroring her irritation.

"Can anyone tell me how this stupid match system works? Is it Hannibal, the patrons, the viewers, or what?" she snaps.

Nova and Venus sit across from her, their faces bathed in the gentle sunlight that filters through the café's parasol. Venus, her fingers dancing around the rim of her coffee cup, exhales softly, her eyes unfathomable.