Assassin In Training
Chapter Eight
The Chosen
I somersault across the ground, dirt and grit scraping my palms as I roll. The moment my foot hits soil, I spring upright and twist outward, sword arm stretched, knees tucked tight. Steel sings as it cuts the air.
The dummy’s straw-stuffed head parts cleanly from its body and tumbles unceremoniously into the dust.
Three remain.
I move through them in a weaving rhythm—steps unpredictable yet measured, breath steady, muscles coiled.
A blade whistles toward my head. I drop low, sweeping beneath it, the rush of displaced air grazing a mere inch above me.
My body slides across the ground in a controlled skid.
Using my hand for balance, I vault upward in one fluid motion and drive my blade into the dummy wearing the red scarf.
The steel bites deep. Straw bursts from the wound as the blade tears through the upper half of its chest and exits through the other side of its neck. The form shudders before collapsing at my feet.
Two more.
The immortal dose still surges through my veins, a restless energy humming beneath my skin, but it’s been two weeks since my last infusion, and I feel the difference—my reactions are slower by a fraction, limbs heavier, breath coming quicker than it should.
A flaw. A weakness.
I allow the thought to circulate through my mind for only a moment before I prowl forward to face the third demon.
The one wearing a black threadbare shirt, his sculpted muscles stretching the fabric.
My imagination has wielded the image of him to perfection because at this point, my mind needs to be just as creative as my combat skills, or I’ll be wholly unprepared when the time comes to defeat them.
It’s quite possible my imagination and stamina may be all that stands between survival and death.
So each day, for hours, I wage war against the four of them within the theater of my mind. I move as though death waits for me with every strike they deliver in return.
We dance together, circle one another—the Black Horseman and I. He’s lovely to look at, a dark godlike being with a face most womankind would fall prey to. Soft curls frame his face and lie over the tips of his rounded ears. Taller than the White Horseman. Just as flawless.
His strikes come harder and faster than the others. He exudes a wealth of power that vibrates with potency in the very air around him.
I’m more careful with my advances when we face one another. Every step is deliberate. Every breath is controlled. He’s different from the others, though I cannot name why. The certainty of it settles deep, resonating in the marrow of my bones like a warning.
And often—too often—I feel as if he’s merely playing with me. Not truly trying to win or kill me. Not pressing for victory. Not seeking my defeat.
Testing me.
Again, this battle is all in my mind, so it matters not. But still, this feeling comes and goes and hones itself into this odd awareness about the Horsemen that grows by the day.
Yet the awareness persists, sharpening and shaping my understanding of them in ways I do not fully comprehend.
Still, I push myself relentlessly. Each day I refine my enemies, layering detail upon detail as months bleed into years. The only true limit I have is the boundary of my belief in what I am capable of.
And those limits continue to break.
My strength. My endurance. My gifts. All forged by the mysterious liquid—the elixir that granted immunity, immortality, and transformed me into something I scarcely recognize.
Something more.
Death and I circle the battleground on opposite sides, mirroring one another with deliberate precision. Dust whispers beneath our boots as we move. He rolls his wrist and spins his blade in an effortless flourish, the steel glinting as it turns.
His body is loose. Relaxed.
His shoulders, nearly double the breadth of my own, rest back in perfect ease. Not an ounce of rigidity mars his posture. No tension. No wasted effort. Only quiet, terrifying control.
Unlike mine, which is coiled tight, as I ready myself to lunge for him.
I take note of it and force my limbs to release some of their strain. My grip loosens slightly on the hilt. My shoulders settle. Breath steadies in my lungs.
The adjustment feels unnatural at first—like stepping into unfamiliar skin—but something within me shifts, unfolding hidden knowledge. Instinct refined into discipline. My mind is teaching my body what it must learn to survive.
It happens often now.
And I trust it.
With a smoother gait and shoulders no longer rigid, I narrow the circle between us, closing the distance inch by careful inch.
Time presses against me. The White Horseman’s grand announcement to the new order will be this evening, and I still have preparations to complete before heading to the city.
So time is of the essence. But I refuse to let urgency poison my focus.
Instead, I shorten the dance—cutting off the slow ritual of circling before he can stretch it into a game of endurance.
In my mind, Death wears layered leather and armor that creaks softly as he steps closer. The sound drags along my nerves like a warning. His presence alone seems to dim the world around him.
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, low and grating. “Priestess,” he says, voice smooth with dark amusement. “Put down the blade. You are not yet ready to fight me. You will only hurt yourself.”
“Oh, will I?” I tilt my head, lips curling faintly. “I suppose we shall see.”
“You will lose… again.”
His flippant tone grates, and a scoff escapes me, sharp and contemptuous. My lip lifts in a sneer.
I lurch forward and feign left, shifting my weight at the last instant before driving my blade toward his chest in a vicious arc.
These exchanges that bloom to life within my mind are disturbingly real—so vivid they linger long after the battle ends. They often leave me unsettled for days. In moments like this, when I allow the vision to consume me, the boundary between imagination and reality dissolves.
Another gift of the elixir. Another cost.
It grants me dreams that feel like memories—visions that come both in sleep and waking thought. My instincts have expanded beyond reason. My intuition whispers truths I do not consciously understand.
And sometimes, I see battles I have not yet fought.
Brief flashes only. Fractured glimpses of a future yet to come.
When they come, they overwhelm the senses.
I smell the rot of death thick in the air.
I hear the hiss and clash of metal. I feel the sucking pull of mud clawing at my boots, dragging me down as the ground drinks the blood spilled upon it.
I do not yet understand all the ways the elixir has changed me.
Only that it has.
I have learned to adapt—to test its limits, to endure its consequences, to wield what it has turned me into.
Death deflects my next strike with effortless precision, his blade sliding against mine with a shriek of steel. “Come now,” he murmurs, almost gentle. “Must we do this?”
“Yes,” I breathe, tightening my grip. “We must.”
He exhales a put-upon sigh, then he moves so rapidly his form blurs—motion folding into shadow.
Instinct snaps through me. I spin and steel clashes as my blade meets his in a jarring parry that rattles up my arm.
I duck at the last possible instant, the rush of displaced air whispering along my skin. As I rise, I wrench the hidden blade from where it rests inside my shirt at the same time as I drive my elbow sharply into his groin.
“God’s Almighty, woman—” he hisses, doubling slightly as he cups himself.
I don’t hesitate.
Before he can retreat fully, I drag my knife across the thickest part of his thigh. The blade bites. Resistance gives way beneath the edge.
His grunt is low, animalistic, and vibrates, rumbling out of his chest.
The next second, the world tilts.
My arm is seized. I’m spun hard by the elbow, my balance torn from beneath me. Cold steel presses into my stomach, the point buried against my flesh. It does not pierce my clothing, yet the promise of it is unmistakable.
My own blade rests against his throat.
A thin line of blood beads along his skin and spills slowly down the curve of his Adam’s apple. Not deep enough to open his jugular—but a single flick of my wrist could end him.
We stand locked in place, balanced on the knife’s edge between breath and oblivion.
His amber eyes capture mine—ancient, steady, utterly unafraid.
I catch the faint heat of his body, the scent of leather and cedar clinging to him.
His breath ghosts across my lips, warm enough to stir the fine hairs along my skin.
His gaze drifts from my eyes, tracing the lines of my face with disturbing focus, as though memorizing me.
Foreign words fall from his lips. They’re low, resonant, shaped in a language I do not know.
They send a chill down my spine. The tattoo at the back of my neck prickles as if awakened. It was given to me as a child, and over the years, I’ve learned it serves as a kind of warning—a physical signal when something significant, good or ill, is about to unfold.
Shock fractures the vision.
I sever the daydream and drop my blade. The illusion dissolves like smoke. A crude dummy fashioned from burlap sacks and rope stands where Death stood, mounted to a weathered beam.
My limbs trembled slightly as if my bones no longer cared to be caged inside my flesh.
Feeling out of sorts and wanting to rid my mind of thoughts of the Black Horseman, I leave the makeshift training yard I’ve created and retreat to the house.
After grabbing soap and what other supplies I’ll need, I make my way to the river to bathe. The cold water steadies me and clears my mind. It’s chilly this time of year and just the right temperature to focus my thoughts on the tasks ahead.
When finished, I grab cleaned clothes from the clothesline behind the house and dress.