Veil of Sparks

Kael crouched low, his dagger gripped tightly in one hand. His breath misted in the chill morning air as he tried to steady his nerves, the faint crackle of his Spark tingling along his fingertips.

"You're taking too long," Ren called from somewhere beyond the ruined archways. His voice echoed, sharp and mocking.

Kael grit his teeth, peering around the edge of the broken wall. The inner ruins stretched out before him in a labyrinth of crumbling stone and overgrown vines. Somewhere out there, Ren was waiting, spear in hand, ready to pounce the moment Kael made a mistake.

"You know," Ren continued, his voice carrying, "if this were the Festival, you'd already be dead."

Kael exhaled slowly. "You're a real motivational speaker, you know that?"

"Someone's gotta keep you humble, Sparky."

Kael rolled his eyes, scanning the ruins for any sign of movement. The faint hum of Thread energy buzzed in the air, a constant backdrop that made his Spark feel alive, restless.

It had been a week since Ren had dragged him into this new training exercise—a game of cat and mouse, as Ren had so enthusiastically called it. Kael's job was simple: find and disarm Ren before he could strike first.

Simple in theory.

In practice, it was a relentless nightmare. Ren moved through the ruins with the ease of someone who had lived in them for years, slipping through shadows and vanishing before Kael could react. Every time Kael thought he had the upper hand, Ren's spear would dart out of nowhere, leaving him flat on his back.

But Kael was learning.

He adjusted his grip on the dagger, the rough leather hilt pressing against his palm. His mind replayed Ren's movements from earlier—the subtle way he shifted his weight, the way his voice echoed to mask his position.

"You can't hide forever," Ren taunted, his voice coming from somewhere to Kael's right.

Kael smirked. "I don't need forever."

Kael darted from his cover, his steps light as he moved through the rubble. His Spark flared faintly as he reached out with his senses, trying to feel the energy of the ruins around him. The air buzzed in response, and Kael caught the faintest flicker of motion to his left.

Got you.

He pivoted sharply, channeling his Spark into the dagger as he lunged toward the movement. Lightning crackled along the blade, lighting up the shadows as Kael struck.

The dagger met only air.

"Close," Ren said from behind him.

Kael barely had time to react before Ren's spear swung toward him. He twisted, the blade grazing his shoulder as he stumbled back.

"You're getting better," Ren said, twirling the spear lazily. "Not good enough, though."

Kael straightened, his grip tightening on the dagger. His shoulder throbbed, but he ignored the pain.

"Again," Kael said, his voice steady.

Ren raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You're looking a little rough around the edges."

"Again."

Ren's smirk widened. "All right, Sparky. Let's see what you've got."

The next hour passed in a blur of motion, sparks, and clashing steel. Kael pushed himself harder than ever, his movements growing sharper with each exchange. He could feel the difference—the way his body moved with more confidence, the way his Spark responded more readily to his will.

Ren was relentless, his strikes fast and precise, but Kael was beginning to anticipate them. He watched the subtle shifts in Ren's stance, the flicker of his gaze, the tension in his muscles before an attack.

When Ren lunged, Kael sidestepped, his dagger flashing toward Ren's exposed side. Lightning crackled along the blade, forcing Ren to retreat with a sharp laugh.

"Not bad," Ren said, twirling the spear as he stepped back. "You might actually survive the Festival at this rate."

Kael smirked, lowering his dagger. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"Don't get used to it."

Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Kael and Ren sat by a small fire near the edge of the ruins. The training had left Kael battered and sore, but a faint sense of pride lingered beneath the exhaustion.

"You've come a long way, you know," Ren said, his tone more serious than usual.

Kael glanced at him. "What's with you and compliments today? Did you hit your head or something?"

Ren chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm just saying—you've got potential. If you keep this up, you might even give the golden boy a run for his money."

Kael's expression darkened. He didn't need to ask who Ren meant.

Evan Cross.

The thought of him still left a bitter taste in Kael's mouth. The destined hero, the chosen one, the perfect protagonist of this world. No matter how hard Kael trained, it felt like he'd always be a step behind.

"Yeah," Kael said softly. "We'll see."

Ren watched him for a moment, his amber eyes unreadable. Then he grinned, tossing a stick into the fire.

"Don't overthink it, Sparky. The Festival's not about beating anyone else—it's about proving you've got what it takes to survive."

Kael stared into the flames, the crackling firelight casting shadows on his face. The Festival was only a week away, and the weight of it pressed heavily on his shoulders.

But for the first time, he didn't feel entirely unprepared.

The next morning, Kael stood in the middle of the training ground, his dagger in hand. Ren watched from a nearby wall, his spear resting across his lap.

"You ready?" Ren asked.

Kael nodded, his expression calm but focused.

"Then let's go," Ren said, standing.

The battle was on.