Dormant

26

You were the shadow to my light,

Did you feel us?

Another start,

You fade away,

Afraid our aim is out of sight,

Wanna see us alive.

Alan Walker, Faded

26

Everything that she had learned flashed through her head as she danced to the side, hearing the hum of the broadsword as it skimmed by her, slicing off the ends of her wine-colored hair. Just a few more steps, she thought to herself. Just a few more....

The moment for her attack came. Ducking another swing of the broadsword, she threw her arm out, her whip singing through the air. It sliced through its target without hesitation. Immediately, before her attacker could move, she jerked her arm the opposite way. This time her whip didn't have the same momentum as before and went deeper; the blade remained in the victim's body as they caught it. Her attack had been so quickly that the wound was only now starting to bleed. Her fate did not have a delay though and her body throbbed as she was tossed like a toy.

The air was knocked out of her as she slammed into the ground. She sucked in a breath, attempting to recover, and only coughed from the dust that had been unsettled when she landed. Her pale yellow eyes snapped open when she heard a chlanking. Instinct caused her to jerk to the side. More dirt exploded through the air as a massive broadsword thunked down in the spot that she had been in.

She tried gathering herself to her feet, but a hand grasped her throat before she could fully arise. A strangled gasp escaped her lips as she was lifted into the air. She did the only thing that she could at the moment: she spat. Instantly her whip was pried from her fingers. Fear overcame her as the grip about her neck tightened and she gurgled, finally meeting the eyes of her captor.

Lips turned up in a snarl, Hajor smirked at her with the nastiest look that she had yet to see him produce. Her spit was rolling off his thick, scarred skin, reminding her what she had done. The eye that twitched was slightly disfigured from a scar in an earlier battle not from her. Strands of his greasy dark blue hair had managed to escape his ponytail. His bare torso bore what she had done; the blade to her whip was still buried deep in his chest, looking impossibly snug. If that didn't scar, she would be impressed. Every muscle was massive, looking as if it had been crafted. Armor crawled up his arms. Torso bared for the world to see, armor from his waist down protected him. Designed on his abdomen was a lion holding an amulet. Though it shouldn't be possible, she could feel his temper radiating off of him like fire.

"You bitch!" Hajor snapped. "I should snap your neck right here and now!"

His grip tightened on her. Another noise slipped past her lips that she didn't know that she could produce. As a last minute, desperate attempt to escape, her foot flung out. Hajor's face twisted as the tip of Fury's boot just grazed the blade still embedded in his skin. She finally slipped from his hand, unceremoniously falling. She was so weak at that moment that her legs buckled and she panted as she watched Hajor roar in pain.

Fury never remembered just how much she hated him until moments like this. Did he have to be so hard on her? She was still just learning how to fight with her eldest brother's help. It was Death who had set this up for her. "You will fight Hajor at the end of each week to see you have progressed," he had told her when she had expressed the feeling that she wasn't improving. And she had hated it from the very first fight. Hajor was one of Death's brothers-in-arms; the Nephilim was one of the best and could single-handedly destroy entire populations by himself. Only War could match his strength. Absalom had never given Hajor a high position in the army because of his temper was so destructive. Why Death thought that she could surpass someone with more experience and power than her, she didn't know.