Through The Ashes

32

Jorn wakes before dawn.

The camp is still quiet, the others either still sleeping or just stirring. The fire has long since died out, and only the faintest glow on the horizon hints at the approaching day. She walks toward a quiet, open space away from the camp.

She doesn't say a word to anyone, not even Mara, who's likely still asleep. Today, she needs to be alone.

Strapped across her back is Spencer's katana, its familiar weight a reminder of everything she's lost. Of everything she's supposed to be. Her fingers brush the worn hilt, feeling the grooves beneath.

This used to be second nature to her—the smooth draw of the blade, the effortless precision. But now, after weeks of being out of action, her body feels sluggish, foreign, like it doesn't belong to her anymore.

She needs to shake off the rust. She has to.

She reaches the clearing, the sun just beginning to kiss the sky with streaks of orange and pink. She pulls the katana from its sheath, the sound of steel slicing through the air bringing a fleeting sense of clarity. She grips the handle, her muscles tensing as she prepares to move, to let the blade cut through the silence like it always has.

She begins slowly, stepping into familiar forms, her feet moving over the ground in practiced patterns. At first, the movements are there—the balance, the control, the flow of her body with the weapon. But it doesn't take long for her to feel it: the stiffness in her limbs, the hesitation in her swings. She's not as sharp as she used to be, and with each mistake, each faltering step, the doubt creeps in.

Jorn's grip tightens, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. She swings the katana again, harder this time, but the blade feels heavier than it should, her arms slower, her footing less sure.

She tries again, pushing herself, but the more she forces it, the worse it gets. Her balance is off, her stance is wrong, and she knows it. She stumbles, the tip of the blade dragging in the dirt, and the sound cuts through her like a knife.

"Damn it!" she growls, angrily swiping the blade at nothing, feeling the sting of failure deep in her gut.

What the hell is wrong with me? she thinks, her mind spiraling. I used to be good at this. I used to be better. What happened?

She tightens her grip and tries again, but her hands are shaking now. She swings wildly, not with the control she once had but with pure desperation. And it's all wrong. Every movement feels wrong. The katana slips, catching awkwardly on a patch of uneven ground, and Jorn stumbles, nearly dropping the blade.

Her knees hit the earth with a thud, and the katana falls beside her, the cold steel gleaming in the dim light. She sits there, panting, her heart pounding in her chest. She stares at the sword, at the reflection of her own face on its polished surface, and something inside her breaks.

Jorn clenches her fists, her breath catching in her throat as a wave of emotions she's been trying to bury rushes to the surface. The failure, the doubt, the fear—it all crashes down on her at once. Her body, her mind, everything feels like it's betraying her. She's supposed to be stronger than this. She's supposed to be the one everyone depends on. But now... now she feels useless.

Tears sting the corners of her eyes, and she grits her teeth, trying to fight them back. But she can't. Not this time.

She crumples forward, pressing her forehead against the ground, her hands digging into the dirt. A sob escapes her, raw and jagged, and she squeezes her eyes shut, as if that can somehow stop the cascade of emotions pouring out of her.

She can't stop thinking about everything she's lost. Now, she feels small, damaged, and so far from the person she used to be.

"I can't do this," she whispers, her voice cracking.