Make Me a Weapon
623 Words
Chapter Seventeen
The first thing Cassian did was break her stance.
“No,” he said for the third time. “You’re not grounded.”
“I am grounded,” Elara snapped.
He kicked her foot out from under her. She stumbled.
He pointed down at her. “If I can knock you over, they’ll do worse.”
She pushed up, face flushed, blood thudding behind her eyes. “Then stop pulling punches.”
Cassian’s eyes darkened—not with anger. With approval.
---
The Hollow gave them space. Time. Silence.
They trained by the water's edge, the still pool reflecting every failure and every small victory.
Elara ran drills until her legs ached and her palms blistered.
“Again,” Cassian said.
She struck.
“Again.”
She ducked.
“Again.”
She bled.
---
He didn’t coddle her.
Didn’t treat her like something breakable.
He showed her how to move with the dagger, how to use her weight to her advantage, how to twist, strike, survive.
“Bloodless don’t care if you scream,” he growled. “They care if you scar them.”
“Then I’ll scar them.”
“Good.”
---
They moved through the trees, mock ambushes and sparring.
Cassian circled her like a predator.
“You’re too slow on your left.”
“Then come at me from the right.”
“Too obvious.”
He lunged.
She ducked—swept his legs, landed on top of him, blade at his throat.
Breathing hard. Hair in her face. Blood in her mouth.
He grinned up at her.
“Better.”
---
They trained until her hands stopped shaking.
Until her fear became a second heartbeat—steady, reliable.
Until she knew how to kill.
Not because she wanted to.
But because she had to.
---
One night, she dropped beside him by the fire.
Sweat-slick, bruised, barefoot.
Cassian passed her a flask.
She drank.
Then stared into the flames.
“I didn’t think I’d survive that first night,” she said quietly.
“I did.”
She looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t run. Not really.”
She hesitated. “I’m not like them. I’m not supernatural.”
Cassian leaned closer. The heat between them pulsed again.
“No. You’re not like any of them. And that’s the point.”
---
The next morning, she woke with the dagger beside her bedroll.
It wasn’t the same one she’d trained with.
This one was older.
Heavier.
Etched in runes she couldn’t read.
Cassian crouched nearby, eyes on the sky.
“Elara,” he said. “That blade belonged to a wolf who once fought the Darkroot alone.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died.”
“…Great.”
“But she almost won. Take it.”
She did.
The metal pulsed in her hand.
It knew her.
---
That night, they trained with weapons drawn.
Cassian came at her faster. Harder.
She met him.
Matched him.
For the first time, she didn’t feel like she was drowning in his world.
She felt like she could break it open.
---
After the session, she leaned against a tree, chest heaving.
Cassian stood close, watching her with something molten in his eyes.
“You’re not prey anymore,” he said softly.
She met his gaze.
“No,” she said. “I’m bait.”
He blinked, a grin curling at his lips.
Then, softly, “Damn right you are.”
---
They didn’t kiss.
Not yet.
But the air between them cracked with something hotter than fire.
And somewhere beyond the Hollow’s edge, something old opened its eyes and turned its gaze toward her.
Because Elara wasn’t running anymore.
She was becoming.
- Writer
