Sylvie's Lament

sharpening the blade

The next morning, the big mansion buzzed with a different kind of energy. Sylvie, still adjusting to her silk robe and newfound status, found herself led through a series of corridors by Anneh, the silent maid. Finally, they stopped before a massive oak door, its surface engraved with snarling beasts, the door creaked open to reveal a sight that made Sylvie's breath hitch. Inside, a vast training arena stretched before her.  The air crackled with nervous energy as imps dueled, dodged practice blades, and lifted weights with an unnatural strength. In the center of the arena stood a figure so imposing it seemed to steal the air from the room. A tall demon, easily twice Sylvie's height, loomed over the other trainees. His skin was a cool, gray-tone, reminiscent of a deadly shark, and his eyes, cyan and utterly devoid of warmth, scanned the room with predatory focus.  Jagged fins protruded from his elbows and a cruel smile split his face, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth.  This, Sylvie realized with a gulp, was Chaz, her first trainer. "Alright, pipsqueak," he rumbled, his voice surprisingly lighter than Sylvie had anticipated. "First day, don't want to scare you off right away." A ghost of a smile flickered across his sharp-toothed grin. Sylvie wasn't entirely convinced. Everything about Chaz - from his towering height to his jagged fins - screamed intimidation. Still, she squared her shoulders and met his gaze.
I'm not easily scared," she declared, her voice firmer than she felt. Chaz raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering in his green-ish eyes. "Good," he said, gesturing towards a rack of throwing knives lining the far wall. "Let's see what you're made of then. Today, we focus on aim." He spent the next few hours meticulously guiding Sylvie through the art of throwing knives. He demonstrated the perfect grip, the weight transfer, the flick that sent the blade spinning through the air.  At first, Sylvie fumbled, the knives clattering harmlessly to the ground. She felt a familiar knot of frustration tighten in her stomach what if she wasnt really meant to this, it would be done. But then, something clicked. As Chaz patiently corrected her form, a sense of focus descended upon her. The world narrowed to the knife in her hand, the target in the distance, and the precise movement she needed to make. The throw that followed was near-perfect, the blade embedding itself with a satisfying thud into the center of the target. A surprised grunt escaped Chaz's lips.  He strode over, examining the knife with a newfound respect in his eyes. "Not bad, pipsqueak," he conceded. "You've got a natural eye for this." Sylvie's chest swelled with a surge of pride.  Maybe she wasn't just a street rat after all.  Maybe, just maybe, she could excel in this world. As the day progressed, Sylvie continued to impress. Each throw became more precise, more deadly. By the end of the training session, the once intimidating practice turned to be a piece of pie. Chaz, his grin now wider, clapped Sylvie on the back with surprising force, nearly knocking her off her feet. "Alright, alright," he chuckled. "We don't want to turn you into a one-trick pony just yet. But for a first day, that was damn impressive." Sylvie, muscles pleasantly sore and a newfound confidence simmering within her, couldn't help but smile back. Perhaps, by mastering these skills, she could forge a path not just for herself, but for the people suffering back in the Dust Bowl.  Sylvie entered the training arena the next day.
  Today's lesson - firearms. Chaz, the shark demon, leaned against a table littered with gleaming pistols and rifles. He looked less predatory today, almost happy to see her, with a toothpick dangling from his sharp teeth. "Alright, pipsqueak," he rumbled, his voice surprisingly light. "Ready to graduate from kiddie knives to the big leagues?" Sylvie plastered on a brave smile despite the tremor in her hands. "Ready as I'll ever be."  Secretly, she hoped she wouldn't embarrass herself. Chaz chuckled, He selected a compact pistol with a reassuring weight. "Let's start you off easy," He began with the basics, demonstrating the proper grip and sight alignment. Sylvie mirrored his movements, the gun feeling both foreign and oddly familiar in her grip. "Focus, girl," Chaz said, his voice low and firm. "Don't let the recoil scare you. It's a handshake, not a fight." His metaphor helped. As Sylvie squeezed the trigger for the first time, the explosion was sharper than she anticipated, but the recoil felt more like a firm push than a brutal kick.  The bullet, however, found its mark somewhere off to the side of the target. Chaz examined the bullet hole with a neutral expression. "Not bad, not bad," he said. "Closer than some manage on their first try." Sylvie's brow furrowed. "Closer isn't good enough," she muttered, a flicker of her competitive spirit igniting. A slow grin spread across Chaz's face.  "See, that fire's what I like to see." Over the next few hours, Sylvie fired a steady stream of bullets. Chaz's voice was a constant drone, correcting her posture, adjusting her grip, guiding her towards precision. Frustration gnawed at her – some targets remained untouched, others riddled with stray holes. But then, with a satisfying "thwack," a bullet hit the bullseye. Another followed, and another.  A small smile played on Sylvie's lips. As the training session ended, Sylvie looked at Chaz, a newfound respect in her eyes. "Thanks," she said. "For today." Chaz surprised her with a curt nod.