Rising from the Ashes

Broken bones and blinding light

The air around us felt like it was cackling.

“Did you see—" Raze started, but she cut him off.

"I slipped," she said quickly, too quickly. "Lost focus. The angle was wrong."

He studied her for a long moment, those amber eyes searching her face.

She kept her expression neutral, controlled, even as her pulse raced and her palm still tingled with the ghost of that impossible warmth.

Finally, Raze nodded slowly. "Your form is getting sloppy. We'll work on it."

Relief flooded through her, though she didn't let it show. "Again?"

"Again."

They resumed their positions, but something had shifted. Lyra could feel it in the way Raze watched her now, more careful, more assessing. And she could feel it in herself—that foreign warmth still lingering beneath her skin, like an ember that refused to die.

She felt off and couldn’t shake the feeling that something strange was going on with her.

The more she tried to brush it off, the more the gnawing feeling of unease settled in the pit of her stomach.

Around them, the fog pressed closer, and somewhere in the depths of Hell, something howled. The sound echoed off the bone-ground and the pillars, a reminder that this place was built on suffering, that mercy was a myth, and that anything different, anything other, was a threat to be eliminated.

Lyra clenched her fists and pushed the warmth down, down, down into the darkest corner of herself where it couldn't be seen.

Where it couldn't get her killed.

"Ready?" Raze asked.

She met his eyes and lied. "Always."

They clashed again, and the fog swallowed them whole. The heat burned the sweat rolling off of them.

The training session lasted another hour, maybe two—time moved strangely in Hell, stretched and compressed according to some sadistic whim.

By the end, Lyra's body was a map of bruises, her knuckles split and bleeding, her muscles screaming. Raze looked no better. A cut above his eye leaked black liquid down his cheek, and he was favoring his left leg where she'd managed to land a solid kick to his knee.

They sat on the edge of the training ground, backs against one of the pillars, passing a canteen of water between them. The water tasted like metal and burned as it went down but it was wet, and that was all that mattered.

"You're getting stronger," Raze said after a long silence. "Faster too."

Lyra took another sip, then handed the canteen back.

“Not fast enough. Malakor nearly took my head off yesterday."

"Malakor is three times your size and has been fighting for centuries. The fact that you're still breathing is impressive enough."

She didn't feel impressive. She felt tired. She was tired of proving herself, tired of waking up every day wondering if this would be the day someone finally managed to kill her. Even with protection, everyday felt uneasy and unsafe.

But she didn't say any of that. Weakness was death here.

"Your mother would be proud," Raze said quietly.

Lyra's jaw tightened. "Don't."

"I'm just saying—"

"Don't," she repeated, harder this time. "You don't know anything about her. No one does."

It was true. Her mother was a ghost, a void, a question that had no answer. She'd vanished the moment Lyra was born, leaving behind nothing but silence and speculation.

Some said she'd been killed. Others said she'd fled. A few whispered that she'd never existed at all, that Lyra had simply manifested from Hell itself, another demon spawned from darkness and despair.

Lyra didn't know which version she preferred. Only Raze knew that she wanted to believe she wasn’t a demon born from nothing and that her mother loved and wanted her.

Raze was quiet for a moment, then sighed. "You're right. I don't know. But I know you, and I know you're meant for more than this."

"More than what? Fighting? Surviving? That's all there is."

"Maybe," Raze said. "Or maybe there's something else out there. Something beyond all this."

She looked at him sharply. "That's dangerous talk, let’s not lie to ourselves Raze."

"Everything worth saying is dangerous." He met her gaze, and for a moment, she saw something in his eyes she'd never seen before. Hope. Actual, genuine hope. "Don't you ever wonder, Lyra? Don't you ever think there might be more?"

She wanted to say no. Wanted to tell him that wondering was pointless, that hope was a poison that would only make the reality of their existence more unbearable.

But her palm still tingled with the memory of that impossible light.

"No," she lied. "Never."

Raze studied her for another long moment, then nodded and pushed himself to his feet. "Come on. We should get back before someone notices we're gone."

Lyra stood, ignoring the protest of her battered body, and followed him into the fog.

Even in the fog she could make out his tall silhouette. She could somewhat see his brown curly hair that looked worse for wear and see his broad shoulders. He really was different from the other demons. She couldn’t see them at the moment but his amber colored eyes, were her favorite. She knew when he was feeling intense emotion - they almost seemed to dance with fire. And the minute he asked her if she longed for more, they were dancing.

Behind them, the training ground disappeared into the darkness, and ahead, the twisted spires of Hell's inner sanctum rose like accusations against a sky that had never known stars.

She didn't look back.

She never did.