13. Kyra
13
KYRA
D ust rose in small clouds with each movement of Kyra's young fighters. She stood at the center, her body a coiled spring of potential energy in case one of her students got hurt.
They were practicing basic defensive techniques, but sometimes people got overexcited and forgot that this was training and they needed to be careful not to injure one another.
"Your stance is wrong," she called to Malik, a gangly teenager whose enthusiasm outpaced his skills. "Feet wider. Root yourself like a mountain, not a sapling in the wind."
Malik adjusted his movements, awkward but earnest. He had potential—raw, unrefined, but present. These fighters would continue the resistance long after she was gone.
Even if the angel of death never found her, which given her twenty-some-year experience of effectively eluding him seemed likely, she would have to leave this base and move to another to hide the fact that she wasn't aging.
Kyra was going to miss them.
Some new fighters had been with her for months, others only weeks. Within them, the same fire burned—the desire to fight against oppression, protect their people, and make a difference. It was that fire that drew her to teaching, even though others in the camp were equally capable of providing instruction.
"Remember," she said, her voice carrying across the training ground, "your enemy will always be stronger. More heavily armed. Better equipped." She paused, meeting each student's eyes in turn. "But they are not smarter. They are not more determined. And they do not have our cause. They will run to save their lives while we will keep fighting until our last breath to save our families, our people. We are the shield that keeps them alive."
Kyra demonstrated the movement again, her body flowing from one position to another. The other trainees watched, most with admiration, some with envy, and a few with a twinge of fear. She pretended not to notice the whispers that sometimes followed her—stories of her impossible feats, rumors of her supernatural abilities.
Let them wonder.
Mystery was its own kind of shield.
"Watch how the body moves," she instructed. "It's not about strength. It's about understanding your movement, your breath." She adjusted a young woman's arm position. "Feel the flow of energy through your body. Let it guide you."
The amber pendant at her throat warmed slightly—a familiar sensation she'd learned to interpret as guidance and other times as a warning. Sometimes, she wondered if the stone was sentient in some way, if it had chosen her rather than the other way around. It had been with her since her escape from that place of horror and darkness, though the exact circumstances of finding it were lost in the haze of her fractured memories.
A flicker of movement caught her peripheral vision. It would have been nothing to anyone else—a loose stone, perhaps, or a shift of wind, but Kyra's enhanced senses detected the precise moment a training knife was about to slip from its poorly secured sheath.
She leaped and caught it before it could pierce the foot of the clumsy young fighter, her movements faster than should have been possible.
Her students froze, looking between Kyra and the fallen weapon. She could read the questions in their eyes, the same questions she asked herself daily but never found answers to.
"How did you move that fast?" Malik asked. "And how did you know it was going to fall?"
"Training," she said dismissively. "One day, you'll develop the same ability. Always ensure your equipment is secure and your shoelaces are tied. Small mistakes of negligence can cost you your life." She demonstrated the proper way to fasten the sheath for the umpteenth time, shifting their attention from her impossible speed to the practical lesson.
Rashid, the camp's healer, watched from the edge of the training ground. His lips curled up in a knowing smile, making Kyra's skin prickle. He was too bright not to notice that she never let him treat her wounds, always dismissing them as scratches. More than once, she'd caught him studying her with thoughtful eyes, trying to solve the puzzle she presented.
The training continued as the sun climbed higher, and Kyra kept moving among the young fighters, checking stances and correcting techniques. She loved doing that. Perhaps it filled the void in her chest that craved motherhood.
After all, this was probably as close as she would ever get.
The little girl with eyes that mirrored her own that sometimes appeared in her dreams might be the manifestation of her yearnings, but what if she was real? A sister, perhaps? Was there a family out there somewhere wondering what had happened to her?
The asylum had stolen so many memories, leaving only fragments that made little sense.
"Enough for today," she called as the sun descended. "Practice what you've learned until it becomes as easy as breathing, as automatic as a heartbeat. The better you get, the better chance you have of surviving."
Most of them knew that there was no way out and that they would probably die fighting, but everyone needed hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, and training might make the difference between life and death.
As the students dispersed, wiping sweat from their brows and collecting their equipment, Kyra noticed Rashid pushing off the post he'd been leaning against and then walking toward her.
"Interesting training today." His eyes lingered on a fresh tear in her sleeve—a tear that revealed unmarked skin beneath where a blade should have left a wound hours earlier. She'd been careless, letting her guard down momentarily during a demonstration. The blade had definitely nicked her, she'd felt it, but like always, the wound had healed almost instantly.
"Your healing is remarkable," he said softly.
"I was lucky." She shrugged. "The blade never touched my skin."
But they both knew she was lying. Just as they both knew about the other wounds that had healed on their own—bullet grazes that disappeared within minutes, knife cuts that sealed themselves but had left a trail of blood stains on her uniform that were difficult to explain.
"One day, you'll tell me what they did to you to make you so resilient. It's not natural."
Kyra turned away, busying herself with collecting the practice targets. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right." Rashid stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Why are you lying for the regime dogs? Are you afraid that they will come for you?"
Yes, she was, and it was tempting to share her concerns with someone, but she couldn't.
It was too risky.
Still, for a brief moment Kyra allowed herself to imagine telling him about her enhanced strength and speed, rapid healing, hearing, eyesight, and sense of smell, and how she never seemed to age. About the fragments of memory that haunted her dreams, the child's face that brought tears to her eyes without explanation. About the fear that whatever she was, whatever had been done to her in that asylum, might someday be used against her people.
Instead, she straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. "Let it go, Rashid. Not everything needs a scientific explanation. Sometimes, it's good to accept there are such things as luck and fate."