Blade of truth

They took me when I was five.

The night was black and cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made you feel small. My village was quiet, too small to matter to the galaxy at large. The only sound was the whisper of the wind and the soft creak of my mother's chair as she hummed a lullaby to me.

Then came the ships.

They descended from the sky like shadows come to life, blotting out the stars. The ground trembled as they landed, and the air grew heavy with the scent of scorched earth.

My father ran to the door, his shoulders tense beneath his worn tunic. He looked back at us, his face pale but set with determination. "Hide her," he said to my mother. "Now."

She grabbed me roughly, her fingers trembling as she pulled me to the small trapdoor beneath our kitchen. "Kaida, listen to me," she whispered, her voice shaking. Her dark eyes were wide, glistening with unshed tears. "Don't make a sound. No matter what you hear. Do you understand?"

I nodded, too scared to speak.

She kissed my forehead, her lips warm but unsteady. Then the door slammed shut, and darkness enveloped me. I clutched my knees to my chest, the rough fabric of my dress scratching my skin.

Above me, I heard the heavy boots of the pirates, their voices loud and cruel.

"Where are they?" a gruff voice demanded.

"I don't know!" my father shouted back. "Please, leave us alone!"

There was a crash, followed by the sound of glass breaking. My mother's scream pierced the night, raw and full of terror.

My breath hitched, but I didn't move.

Then the floorboards above me were ripped away.

"Look at this little rat," a pirate sneered, his scarred face twisted into a grin. His hair was greasy and clung to his forehead in thick strands, and his armor was patched together from scavenged pieces of different battles. He reached down, his calloused hand grabbing my arm.

"Let go of me!" I screamed, kicking at him, but he was too strong.

"Feisty one," he chuckled, hauling me out. His breath stank of something sour, and his grip bruised my arm.

I looked around wildly, searching for my parents. My mother lay crumpled on the ground, her dress stained with blood. My father's body was slumped against the wall, unmoving.

"No!" I cried, my voice breaking. Tears streamed down my face, but the pirate didn't care. He threw me into a cage on the ship with the other children, slamming the door shut behind me.

The pirate ship was dimly lit, the walls covered in rust and grime. The cage was cramped, filled with crying children. I pressed myself into a corner, trying to make myself as small as possible.

"Where do you think they're taking us?" a boy next to me whispered. His voice wavered, and he clutched a torn blanket as if it could protect him.

"I don't know," I whispered back, my throat dry.

The boy looked at me, his face pale and streaked with dirt. "Do you think we'll ever go home?"

I hesitated, my chest tightening. "No," I said quietly, my voice cracking. "I don't think so."

The boy's eyes filled with tears, and he turned away, sobbing into his blanket.

I wanted to say something more, something to comfort him, but I couldn't.

The day we arrived at the asteroid, the air inside the ship was stifling. When the hatch opened, the blinding light made me squint, but I forced myself to stand tall.

We were herded out like cattle, stumbling onto the rocky terrain. The asteroid was barren, its jagged surface stretching endlessly under a dull gray sky.

Then he appeared.

Father.

He stood at the top of a metal ramp, his silhouette sharp and commanding. His frame was massive, wrapped in a black cloak that billowed in the wind. The steel of his armor glinted dully, and a mask covered his face, hiding all but his glowing red eyes. Those eyes burned like embers, scanning us with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

The pirate captain beside him fidgeted nervously, his posture hunched. His usual bravado was gone, replaced by a meekness I hadn't thought possible. "These are the best we've got, I swear," he said, his voice shaky. "Strong, healthy—"

Father raised a gloved hand, silencing him instantly.

He descended the ramp with a deliberate pace, each step echoing across the barren landscape. The crowd of children parted as he walked among us, his presence suffocating.

When he stopped in front of me, I felt my legs lock in place.

"What's your name?" he asked, his voice deep and resonant.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "K-Kaida," I stuttered.

His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer. Then he nodded. "You'll do."

The pirate captain stepped forward, his hands wringing together. "She's small, though. Are you sure—"

Father turned his head slightly, and the pirate fell silent, his face draining of color.

"Small does not mean weak," Father said, his tone final.

The next thing I knew, I was being dragged onto The Abyss, Father's flagship.

The training was relentless. They dressed us in plain black uniforms, the fabric stiff and uncomfortable. Each child was given a pair of boots too large for their feet and a single knife.

"Your weapons are your life," the trainers barked. "Lose them, and you might as well be dead."

I gripped my knife tightly, my knuckles turning white.

The drills started at dawn and didn't end until long after the sun had set. We ran until our legs gave out, fought until we couldn't lift our arms.

I collapsed more times than I could count, but I always got back up.

"You've got fire, girl," one of the trainers said one day, his grizzled face softening for a brief moment. "Don't lose it."

By fifteen, I wasn't just surviving—I was thriving.

"I heard she killed a beast twice her size," one boy whispered as I passed him in the mess hall.

"She thinks she's better than us," another muttered.

I stopped, turning to face them. My boots clinked softly against the metal floor as I stepped closer. "It's not that I think I'm better," I said, my voice cold and even. "I know I am."

Their glares followed me as I walked away, but none of them dared to challenge me. They knew better.

Father began calling me into private training sessions when I was sixteen.

"You have potential, Kaida," he told me once, his voice a rare mix of approval and caution.

"Why me?" I asked, unable to keep the question to myself.

"Because you're willing to do what others won't," he said simply.

I nodded, though his words left a chill in my chest.

By the time I was twenty, my name was spoken in whispers across the galaxy.

And I made sure it stayed that way.