Mydaiel had decided that while having wings brought a host of wonderful feelings, there were also drawbacks. She’d rolled over in the middle of the night and bent several feathers painfully out of place and it had taken quite a while to smooth them out again when the discomfort had woken her. It also made getting dressed significantly more challenging. Cloaks aside, many of the garments they wore were backless, which made a lot more sense now to Mydaiel, in case wings needed to come through, but dressing with them in the way was a hassle, trying to maneuver around the appendages she had not fully mastered control of yet in order to tie the laces to the bodice she was donning for training.

The breeches had been just as bad, and even as she walked, she tried to shift her hips so her tail feathers would not feel quite so crushed beneath the waistline. She would have hours worth of pruning ahead of her to sort herself out again; not out of vanity, but necessity. Feathers crucial for flight and movement needed to be properly preened to be effective. Despite the awkward training garbs, Mydaiel found herself eager for the morning. They had trained, as hatchlings, with wooden poles and practiced footwork, but she had yet to hold a true blade, and there were many variants to choose from.

The halls were desolate, but it was early still; dawn had yet to crest the horizon and the world beyond the halls was coated in a soft, pale gray light that lingered from the quiet shades of twilight and midnight. Mydaiel was not entirely alone, a few lurked the halls as she did. Scholars often ducked by, arms laden with tomes and text, or papyrus scrolls sealed with wax ribbons. Their hoods were always drawn and they skirted her as they passed, stepping lightly and quickly to produce minimal disruption. Truly, she quietly admired them and the way they dutifully kept record of every event on Earth and Avalon alike that was known to them. The texts, the few times she’d the chance to peek, had favored neither side, instead stating fact and figures alone, for record keeping should be free of opinion to remain pure. They were closer to the core, the heads among them even more so than the priests that lead the Nephilim warriors. Though their feathers were stunted and they’d never grow wings, she never understood why they behaved as though beneath the brother and sisterhoods. Perhaps it was merely an acknowledgement of differences, for they depended upon each other, and scholars were separate of emotion and worldly ties, often lurking in silence, observing rather than interacting.

A hushed giggle rose through the hall, redirecting Mydaiel’s attention. Despite apparent efforts to keep the noise reduced, it near thundered in the silent hallway, and as she rounded the corner, she pulled up short to avoid bumping into a small cluster of fledglings. Her arrival silenced them, and eyes grew rounded and focused blatantly on the wings tucked against her back, the tips which rose above her shoulders. Two of the trio were still quite young, with rounded faces and owl eyes. One, a dark brunette with darker skin laced in ivory veins, pulled his cloak a little tighter to his form and stepped back. Beside him, another youth with hair like flames, glistening wisps of red-gold, feebly stood her ground. Her nose wrinkled slightly, scrunching the freckles that peppered skin otherwise white enough to appear frozen.

At the head, stood a fledgling Mydaiel knew well, who was not so much younger than herself. Tight black curls bobbed as the girl cocked her head and bit her lip as if it would successfully tame the grin trying to pull at her mouth.

Mydaiel frowned and shifted her weight. She ought to be going or she would be tardy to the fields, but emotion clutching at her heart kept her rooted as a tree where she was. It was frowned upon for fledglings to interact socially with the Nephilim. Only in studious form with priests, scholars, and their clutch heads were they even permitted to speak. She should walk away, but perhaps here, in the early morning with few around, she could smuggle a greeting to a good friend she’d spent a fair bit of time with in her youth. The bond had not faded nor dulled in the weeks since she’d been separated from the other fledglings to complete her transition.

“Kara,” she murmured so softly she doubted the other girl would hear.

The worry was inaccurate, as Kara lost the battle with her smile and it spread wide. “Mydaiel,” she beamed back, stretching her spine a little straighter. “It is good to see you. Looks good,” she praised, jerking her chin.

Mydaiel’s wings shuffled on her back in response. “Your time will come swiftly. A few years will pass swiftly enough.”

Kara shook her head and snorted rather unbecomingly. “It would, but Leader Sergil is going to hold me back, I know.”

“You push back too much,” Mydaiel agreed before glancing over at the other two, barely hatchlings, really, who were still cowering behind Kara. “Do not allow this one to influence you.” Silence stretched after her words as neither of the two found the courage to speak. She did not blame them for it.

“You are heading to the fields?” Kara inquired. “We were hoping to sneak to the sidelines to watch. Your sisters are there, right? I thought I saw them walk by.”

Mydaiel nodded. “Yes. They are waiting for me.”

Kara winced and boldly reached to pat Mydaiel on the arm. “I do not envy you. May it end swiftly.”

It was a taunt at her abilities and a retort hung heavily on Mydaiel’s tongue, but before she could utter the protest, a heavy cough made her spin, feathers ruffling to reveal the noise had startled her. An elder stood at the end of the hall, eyes narrowed at the small cluster. She was a scholar and ancient, by the soft wrinkles of her flesh and silver strips in her hair. Her hood was down, which Mydaiel rarely saw, but now wished was in its proper place, for the displeasure in her amber eyes chilled Mydaiel’s core.

The brunt of her annoyance seemed directed at the fledglings, the younger two cowering at the sight of her. Even Kara had the wisdom to step back and lower her head. “Lingering in the halls is unacceptable,” she spoke simply, in a raspy, underused voice. “Be off with you three else there be consequences.”

Nothing further needed to be said and the three scrambled off. Kara, despite her hot headed, stubborn behavior, was no fool and knew wisely this was a time to quietly retreat. Mydaiel shook off the prickling thorn of annoyance jabbing at her at having the conversation interrupted and took a step to continue towards the fields. She was annoyed, but the crueler barb was that of burning shame at getting caught; her first day full fledged was hardly one to go breaking rules.

“Nephilim,” the rasping voice drew her back, turning slightly to once more face the elder. “Fledglings have their place and you your duties,” she reminded. Mydaiel dipped her head in respect. There was no argument to the statement, for it was correct. Despite her closeness with her youthful friend, it was time to cast off childhood bonds in favor of the responsibilities of adulthood.

As she neared the heavy oak doors that led out to the fields, Mydaiel could hear the mock battle cries and grating sounds of blades crashing together as Nephilim got a jump on their swordplay. It was always like this, she presumed, in the days leading up to the hunt. Charmeine and Sarielle would often return at the end of the day weary and sweaty, but Mydaiel had often looked on in awe as they walked past to bathe and eat. She’d admired and envied her elder siblings in her youth, wanting desperately to join them. Now, facing the opportunity down, she felt nothing but a tangled knot of nerves in her gut; Sarielle was an intense warrior, and the implications of facing her were not lost on Mydaiel, who’s lack of experience was now glaringly obvious as she pushed her way outside.

The sun was beginning to rise, casting a brilliant golden glow over the courtyard, reflecting off various blades and causing Mydaiel to squint. She blinked rapidly and shielded her eyes as she adjusted, scanning the courtyard in the process. Several of the sparing rings were already taken with her brethren locked in ferocious combat.

Mydaiel easily picked out Charmeine on the field. Though her sister was small, she was impossible to miss, flitting about the packed dirt like a vengeful fairy. She spun a long glaive with thin, wickedly curved blades on either ends of a pole longer than she was. Her partner in combat was a larger male Mydaiel did not know, but he was losing ground rapidly against her sister’s brutal onslaught. Though she should find Sarielle, she could not help but linger to watch Charmeine’s haunting beauty on the battlefield. She wore a twisted grin as she beat down on the man’s broadsword. Charmeine twisted in an impressive show of flexibility, her glaive sweeping out to knock her opponent into the dust. She pressed the curve of the blade near his throat, then spun it away and offered a hand to help him up. He said something to her Mydaiel did not catch, but her sister already seemed to be looking away in search of her next victim. After bearing witness to the sparring match and being on the receiving end of Charmeine’s abilities last night, she almost pitied the humans on Charmeine’s list for the hunt. Her sister was near legendary with her warped sense of enjoyment on the hunt. She toyed with her prey for the simple pleasure of it, and were she not one of the sweetest and silliest Nephilim Mydaiel knew, it would be horrifying to get close to her.

“Mydaiel,” Sarielle’s voice was tense, for once not with displeasure, and Mydaiel spun around to face the eldest, who had three fingers to her lips, suppressing a chuckle. “Why are you wearing scholar breeches?”

At first, Mydaiel was confused by the statement, until she noticed the way Sarielle’s own dipped in the back to allow her tail feathers to flow freely, and embarrassment began to prickle her cheeks and burn the tips of her ears. Scholars had no need for flight, their feathers were small and stunted, and there was no need for special dips and cuts in fabrics to free them. She had been a fool in grabbing garments for the morning.

“I did not know,” Mydaiel muttered softly, earning her an exaggerated eye roll from Sarielle.

“Turn, you cannot effectively move like that, let us see what we can do.”

Obeying the command, Mydaiel turned to face the courtyard again, her gaze finding Charmeine again, observing as her sister clashed with another female with a long spear. They were careful with their blows to prevent true injury, but impressive scratches were sometimes opened, and it seemed that both had nicked the other, from the ruby fluid dripping down Charmeine’s calf and spilling into the other’s eyes and down her wrist. They were frenzied, dancing around one another like starved animals circling a kill.

As Mydaiel watched, she stood perfectly still and felt Sarielle pressed against her as she deftly wielded a dagger and began to slit the fabric. Mydaiel winced as her feathers were pulled, then practically sighed with relief as they fell free and Sarielle’s fingers smoothed them back out. “Thank you,” she murmured as she shifted her hips to determine if the tears would affect the fit, but the breeches remained firmly in place. Turning to face her sister, Mydaiel dipped her head, eager to begin but nervous to ask.

“You need a weapon,” Sarielle prompted when the silence continued to stretch. “Come.”

Sarielle spun on her heel and strode towards a long, single story shed at the far end of the training fields. Mydaiel took a deep breath, then began to follow her along the dusty side of the courtyard, sidestepping out of the way of a pair of warriors as they flung themselves too far to the right, nearly knocking into her. As she walked, she wriggled her hips once more, trying to shift her crumpled tail feathers back into a proper position. She winced as she did so; there was definitely a bent shaft that would need tending too, if it did not break on the field as she had the suspicion it might. Charmeine had not held back yesterday, and Sarielle was a very to the point instructor; Mydaiel had a feeling that she was going to leave the fields far more battered than she had gone to sleep last night.

The long shed proved to be an effective barracks, lined with many expertly crafted weapons sorted based on size and class. Mydaiel paused, raising her fingers to trail over the grooves of a toothed spear tip. She had some basic training in wielding weapons of varying weights and lengths, but rarely did fledglings engage in combat with forged blades, rather dulled, dented steel or heavy wood to learn their balance and strength. To be this close to true blades was breathtaking and she found herself lingering longer than she meant to.

“Mydaiel,” Sarielle drew her attention away from the spear; her sister’s voice calm as she blinked knowingly. “The choice of blade to wield is yours alone, but if you value my advice, you are ill suited to a spear. You have a lot of strength and raw talent better suited to something less crude, more sturdy.”

Mydaiel dipped her head and stepped away from the wall of long poles tipped with sharpened teeth; she did not truly wish to wield a spear and was merely admiring it. She allowed her gaze to wander as she followed after her sister. There were several spears and other long, staff weapons, a few axes or other brutal looking hunks of metal, maces and clubs that looked larger than her arm; she doubted she could lift one if she tried, suspected she was not meant to.

They then hit the section for swords, rows and rows of them, from broadswords to blades so thin Mydaiel wondered how they did not shatter at the first strike. “What do you wield?” Mydaiel found herself asking as she traced a nail over lightning bolt etchings on a thick sickle curved sword. “How am I meant to choose; there are so many here.”

Sarielle’s warmth pressed against her as her sister came from behind. Her arms draped over Mydaiel’s shoulders and she pressed her lips to her skull, just above Mydaiel’s ear. “I use a sword; a longer, thinner short sword with a wave pattern to the blade,” she murmured. “I call it Mauta Aoybn.”

“Death from Above,” Mydaiel murmured with a nod; it suited her sister. “What does Charmeine call her glaive?”

“Something crude,” Sarielle responded. “Spare your mind a little longer.”

Mydaiel could not help but snort at the notion. She shook her head and turned her attention back to the wall of options before her.

“You will know,” Sarielle added after a moment, stepping away to allow Mydaiel room to peruse. “It may take a little trial and error sometimes, but usually you know.”

Mydaiel took a deep breath and allowed the tension to evaporate from her body as she continued down the rows, her gaze wandering. At first, nothing drew her eye much, each blade was gorgeous, but did not quite feel right for her.

Gradually, as she neared the end of the racks, the blades shortened away from swords into daggers and sai, and Mydaiel began to lose heart and consider perhaps she was being too choosy and should return to test some of the longer blades. After all, these were rarely fit as primary weapons, more often a side knife, kept at the belt for emergency situations.

She turned her head away to head back when she caught sight of something appealing. Crouching down for a better look, she silently examined a pair of twin sai placed delicately on a hook. The handle was black, shimmered like crushed onyx, and wrapped at the grip with a dark, aged leather, and there was a shimmering opal set the tip of each hilt. The blades themselves were narrow, sharpened to a deadly point, and the metal was cured a blood red near the hilt, fading to a rosy pink that gave way to brilliant silver a third of the way down. They were as long as her forearm, and the outer prongs were tiny and barbed, deep red and meant for ripping flesh should the blade be stabbed far enough.

Mydaiel held her breath as she reached out and plucked one off its hook. The weight felt right in her hand, balanced and fluid, and she found the leather providing a proper grip; they were exquisite.

“Find something you like?” Sarielle inquired as she joined Mydaiel in a crouched position and reached out to pick up the other sai. “These are very nice,” she agreed with a slight strangle in her voice.

At the sound, Mydaiel’s head lifted away from the blade to examine her sister’s face, where worry lines had creased her brows and the tendon in her neck had tightened. “Is something wrong?”

Sarielle shook her head, the midnight locks she had pulled into a high tail waving over her shoulder as she did. “Of course not, they are finely crafted and the choice is yours,” she responded. With a flick of her wrist, Sarielle flipped the sai so she was gripping the blade, holding out the hilt towards Mydaiel, who hesitated before taking it. “I would prefer you with a sword, something longer, puts you at a safer distance…you wish to go back to the spear?”

Mydaiel’s shoulders dipped at her sister’s disapproval, but she shook her head; these were what she wanted.

Sarielle’s hand fell on her shoulder and she found herself being spun to face her. “Mydaiel, you have my support, I only inquire if you are certain. These are a very personal weapon. Your kills will be very short range. Sometimes distance can be your ally.”

“It should be personal,” Mydaiel whispered back as she rubbed a thumb over a blade. She made no move to elaborate, unsure if her sister would understand. She was eager to take her place in the hunt, to fulfill her duties to Avalon, but ending a life was a heavy affair in a world where natural life was viewed with utmost respect. Humans may not be overly natural, but they still breathed and pumped blood from heart to flesh the way she did. She would kill them, but not lightly; lest she become no better than the poisonous beasts of Earth themselves.

To Mydaiel’s surprise, Sarielle dipped her head, acknowledging the words. “That is a good moral to have; a lesson that is hard to teach and even more so to remember in difficult moments; I believe the dual sai will suit you nicely. Are you prepared to test them?”

“Yes,” Mydaiel agreed. She set the sai aside long enough to pick up the sheath. A long, thin belt with a thin sheath on either side to flank her hips. Rising, she buckled it easily around her waist beneath her feathers where it would not chafe, and then slid the twin blades into place. Her hands found a place resting comfortably atop the hilts. Though she had been nervous about facing off against her sister, and still was, an eager readiness was latching hold of her confidence like a tidal wave and there was no hesitation as she strode back out into the rising sunlight after Sarielle.

Her sister paused at a bench just outside, where a Nephilim of the brotherhood was perched, arms folded as he watched over the proceedings. He glanced their way with an eerie yellow gaze, irises like molten gold to match his hair and ivory flesh. He grunted in acknowledgement as Sarielle plucked up the sheathed sword leaned at his side.

“My appreciations for watching over this,” she said with a dip of her head. Mydaiel waited patiently as her sister secured her weapon to her waist and strode out onto one of the empty spaces of the courtyard; it was hard not to admire the confidence that Sarielle moved with at all times, especially when she had the skill to back it up.

With a shake of her head, Mydaiel hurried to catch up to where her sister was waiting, already crouched into a fighting stance, though she had yet to draw her sword. Despite earlier bravado, a thorn of nerves wedged into her side as she found herself standing opposite her sister, who was grinning at her.

“This is about training, Mydaiel, but do not expect that to mean this battle will be light. Draw your sai and get acquainted with them.”

The blades slid easily from their sheathes, the metal singing as it rubbed against the thick casing designed to help sharpen them and Mydaiel took a moment to spin them through her fingers, adjusting to the weight and feel of them. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Sarielle draw Mauta Aoybn and was surprised at the vivid glint the blade gave off. The alloy was warped into thick, tight waves and was polished to reflect like a mirror and the blade was roughly the length of Sarielle’s arm, if not slightly longer, with a blood ruby nestled center in the metal near the hilt. It was a far flashier sword than Mydaiel would have expected her very practical and duty-bound sister to have gone for, but was very beautiful and complimented her properly.

Sarielle flipped the sword in her grip a few times before bringing it up, her legs bending in preparation. Mydaiel took a breath, closed her eyes for a moment and simply held, before opening them again on the exhale and putting one foot behind her for better balance. She had never trained before with dual weapons, but she suspected she was going to crash course the lesson and when her gaze met Sarielle’s, she received little more than a blink of acknowledgement, a rapid warning before her sister was on her, moving fast enough that the wind whistled sharply as her sword swung through the air.

Mydaiel just barely brought a sai up in time to defend herself. The sword caught between the forks of her knife and the two crashed together with a deafening screech as the force behind Sarielle’s strike drove Mydaiel to a knee. She grit her teeth as her jaw clacked and fought to push back as her sister bore down on her; Sarielle was both relentless and impossibly strong, with both hands on the hilt for better control. It took Mydaiel a moment to remember she had a free hand, so while one arm shook with the effort of keeping Sarielle’s blade from hacking at her, she flipped the free sai in her hand so the handle pointed out, and jabbed at her sister’s exposed side, driving the hilt against her hip.

Sarielle grunted and leapt backwards, giving Mydaiel barely a moment to stand and grab a breath before they were locked again. This time, instead of winding up in the dirt, Mydaiel acted on instinct and crossed her blades so Mauta Aoybn slid harmlessly sideways and she could shove back against her sister, taking a quick swipe on the pass, but Sarielle was already bending backwards to avoid the blow. As she moved, a leg swept out and knocked Mydaiel’s feet out from under her.

Having not expected the sudden loss of balance, Mydaiel yelped as she crashed back into the dust, but there was no time to recover before the sword was arching down at her again. Throwing her weight back, Mydaiel forced her body into an awkward roll and pushed herself back upright in time to catch the blade again. Her breath was panting from a heaving chest and she pushed away to have a moment to wipe sweat from her brow. Across from her, Sarielle looked as if she could continue at this pace the rest of the day, with even breathing and a hardened look.

She had also moved a few steps back, so they were now out of reach of one another and Mydaiel hesitated as her next move. Sarielle far outclassed her and despite the power behind the blows, she knew her sister was holding back; had she been a true target, her life would be ebbing away with her blood by now, and she was not sure how to counter that.

Sarielle did not give her time to figure it out before she was charging forward again. In a rash decision, Mydaiel dove into a roll beneath Sarielle’s blade and came up as quickly as she could, using some of the lingering momentum to swing into a kick to Sarielle’s wings, having learned yesterday what a correctly aimed blow could do. She was not certain why her sister had not pulled hers in last night, but she was going to take advantage whilst she could.

The hit was effective, as Sarielle gasped and her wings fluttered against the blow, nearly pitching her off balance. The glory was short lived, however as Sarielle then came spinning back around, her arm moving so fast that the flat of her blade made contact, crashing against Mydaiel’s shoulder, knocking her sideways.

Her skin split against the force and she grit her teeth as the blood began to flow, using one sai to force the sword away while she jabbed forward with the other, hoping to drive Sarielle into a retreat. Sarielle merely caught the blade in her free hand, having switched to wielding Mauta Aoybn with just one. Though the sai had to have cut into her palm, she gripped it easily and grinned down at Mydaiel. “Come now, little sister; impress me,” she whispered, but refused to relinquish the blade when Mydaiel tugged.

Indignation surged in Mydaiel and she bared her teeth angrily, though she wrestled with the inevitable, she did not wish to lose this fight. It was almost easy to give in to instinct and act; her knees bent and her wings opened as she launched herself up, successfully ripping her weapon free from Sarielle’s grasp. She could have flown higher, forced Sarielle to join her, but she knew she stood as much chance in the air as she did on the ground, so instead she crossed the blades again and folded her wings, driving down towards her sister and forcing her to raise her sword in defense. Mydaiel’s wings opened again to keep her aloft as she pressed down, the tips of her feathers whacking against Sarielle’s face and stirring up her hair, and Mydaiel felt immense satisfaction as her strength forced Sarielle to take a knee this time.

Her sister’s grin widened. “Better,” she praised before shoving back up and knocking Mydaiel off balance. There was barely time to land before Sarielle was up again and once again, Mydaiel was dodging a blow at the last moment. Her heart was pounding, her breathing ragged, and her energy was starting to wane, but she grit her teeth and forced herself back into the fight.

It began to feel surreal, automatic as she and Sarielle danced around one another, sparks igniting on a few of the more intense blows exchanged and for a while, Mydaiel held her own, though her arms quaked and she grew gradually more sloppy despite Sarielle appearing as energized as when the fight began. Mydaiel had little left to give, so when Sarielle granted her a slim opening, she took it, knocking Mauta Aoybn away and aiming a stab to the throat, which was meant to pull short at the last moment; Sarielle was not a target.

She was not given the chance as Sarielle caught the blade again and smiled. “Good, Mydaiel,” she praised even as she ended the fight. Mydaiel felt her feet go out from under her again the same moment the hilt of Sarielle’s sword connected with her skull and she crumpled.

Mydaiel’s ears were ringing and the world suddenly felt painfully bright. She squinted as the courtyard spun, shapes blurry. It took a moment for things to come into focus and when they did, she found herself flat on the ground with Sarielle crouched over her. She stared at her sister’s outstretched hand for a moment before her brain caught up with what was happening and she took it. Sarielle yanked her to her feet, her free hand coming up under Mydaiel’s wings to balance her.

“You did well, Mydaiel; I have no doubt you will be a fine match against your prey. Perhaps someday you will even become worthy competition.”

Mydaiel flushed and groaned, bringing a hand to her temple, where a lump was definitely rising and found herself wanting to protest against the hit and whether it was truly necessary. “If bashing skulls is your preferred method, I know why you have named your sword so,” she grumbled, unable to help herself.

Sarielle shook her head and chuckled with amusement. “I call it that because most often, my prey is dead before I have need to land,” she replied, patting Mydaiel on the back. “You took a harder blow than I intended, are you well enough to walk?”

“Just a little dizzy,” Mydaiel admitted, though she forced herself to stand a little straighter, despite how her muscles shook and threatened to collapse beneath her weight. “I will be fine.” As if to spite her, as she made the statement, her legs gave out and she slumped, only for Sarielle’s shoulder to meet her as her sister took her weight.

“It has been a lot,” Sarielle acknowledged. “I think perhaps a chance to clean and tend yourself before resting would do you some good.”

“I can take her,” a new voice offered. Mydaiel glanced up to see another woman approaching. She wore her dark oak hair in a tight braid, eyes like almonds in shape and color sparkling brightly and she held a curved bow in one hand, a quiver of arrows poking out from beneath the dark red cloak tied over her shoulders; she looked familiar, but Mydaiel could not grasp at why.

“That would be appreciated,” Sarielle responded and Mydaiel felt her give her a nudge. With a sigh, Mydaiel forced herself to stand once more, fluttering her wings a little for better balance. Determined to stand on her own, she politely refused the other Nephilim’s offered hand; her first days fully initiated were hardly the time to show off weakness and dependence.

“Leaving so soon?” The taunt was playful, based on Charmeine’s wide grin as she leaned against her glaive, though she did not appear tired, despite having been on the fields at least twice as long as her sisters. “And here I thought we might get a rematch.”

“Leave her be, Charmeine,” Sarielle warned. “You were not much better off your first time.”

Charmeine’s lip jutted out into an exaggerated pout and she rolled her eyes. “True; I suppose Mydaiel does deserve a break; it is my turn.”

“Oh, is that so? I would think you would want to leave today undefeated.”

“I will,” Charmeine retorted as she straightened and pulled her weapon closer. “Have no doubts about that, sister.”

Sarielle pursed her lips and hummed softly. “We shall see.” Mydaiel would have liked to witness more of the amusing banter, but with a nod in her direction, both of her siblings made their way back out onto the fields to decide which would best the other, and Mydaiel was forced to turn her attention to the woman who had offered herself up as a guide.

Her head was still spinning and she had double vision, making her walking pace erratic and unstable, and she started as the other woman slipped an arm under hers, linking their elbows and offering a silent support. “It is okay to need a little assistance; it is not so easy to walk from a blow like that. Try not to let people land too many, hmm?”

Mydaiel nodded and allowed herself to slump a little. She was not ashamed of her defeats, she knew she had little chance of winning and her desire was instead to hold her own well enough to earn approval, but after two grueling sessions so quickly after being initiated; she was exhausted and her hunger was growing more restless, a caged beast deep in her gut snarling and pacing, seeking release to maim and kill.

“It gets easier,” the woman assured her. “Do you remember me, Mydaiel? It has been a long while, I would understand if not.”

Mydaiel glanced over at her escort’s face and pondered, and when the answer did finally hit her, it felt like a physical strike. “Dalna,” she murmured upon realization, and knew she was correct when the easy smile flowed across Dalna’s lips in response. “You are right, it has been a very long time.”

“Fledglings and Nephilim are not meant to interact much, but I often wished it were not so; not when I left good friends behind.”

Mydaiel nodded, knowing exactly how Dalna was feeling; it was the same struggle she was having with Kara; it was not easy to leave a friend behind when often fledglings would feel they only had one another. It tended to create a strong bond that breaking left behind the bitter taste of regret.

Dalna had been a good friend once too, though Mydaiel had been very young at the time and had never known why the older fledgling had bothered with her. When Dalna was initiated, before Mydaiel had properly met Kara, she had felt terribly alone and she had not seen the Nephilim since they had announced she was ready to complete her training. “I am glad to see you again,” she murmured as they walked down a long, dim hall. She had never been to this wing of the compound before and was not certain as to where they were going.

“Are you eager for your first hunt?” Dalna inquired as they walked. Mydaiel had begun to regain some of her strength and the dizziness faded now that she had the chance to get her breath back, so she straightened up off Dalna’s shoulder, though still stuck close to her old friend.

“Yes,” she replied. “It has been a lot the past few days, I feel as though caught in a twister, but I am eager for the chance and also a little nervous; I have not been told much of what to expect.”

Dalna squeezed her shoulder and Mydaiel fixated further attention on her, hoping that Dalna might finally be the one to answer some of her questions. Instead, Dalna merely shook her head. “Have faith, Mydaiel; when the time comes, you will know all you need to.”

Mydaiel sighed, hating the confusing and seemingly pointless way the other Nephilim were being so cryptic about the hunt; especially now that she was to join them.

Dalna stepped ahead and pushed open a rather heavy looking marble door, beyond which lay a dark corridor. No light seeped in from outside, nor from the lamps often lit within the building at night.

Mydaiel hesitated for a moment before curiosity got the better of her and she made her way inside. “What is this place?” she inquired as Dalna followed her in and the door shut noisily behind them, plunging the two into near complete darkness; even with their enhanced vision it was difficult to see.

Mydaiel placed a hand on a rough stone wall; it had not been smoothed like many of the slabs used for constructing their home and she almost enjoyed the way it scraped against her skin. There was moisture clinging to the walls as well, she could feel the residue as her hands brushed over and her bare feet threatened to slide on the slick floors.

“What is this place?” Mydaiel asked. Though she whispered, her voice echoed in the room and Dalna offered no answer. Squinting, Mydaiel could make out a faint glow ahead and as she rounded the bend in the hall, she got her answer as the space went from a narrow walkway into a large chamber. Mydaiel’s eyes widened at the sight before her. The room was a cave, with a large water basin lapping gently at the edges of the natural carving of the pool and the soft glow was emanating from clusters of crystals growing from the walls and roof. They bathed the room in a rainbow of glittering blues, greens, and reds, with purple and icy blue-white pulsing beneath the water from ones growing up from the depths. She inhaled the tangy scent of salt and stone, closing her eyes with a sigh; it felt peaceful here, in the dark silence.

“This is one of Avalon’s rewards,” Dalna murmured as she stepped up and, without prompting or request, easily unlaced the tied at the back of Mydaiel’s training shift. The fabric slid sideways on Mydaiel’s shoulders and she shuffled her wings until the garment slipped off to the floor. After making certain the sai were properly secure in their sheathes, she removed the belt and tugged down the tight breeches that had been crushing her feathers earlier. Now that there was no longer a need to battle, she twisted to examine the stem she had felt bed and crack earlier.

As she had suspected, it had snapped and was dangling uselessly, radiating painful static at every prod. She grit her teeth in a tight grimace; it was her own fault, really, but the shaft would need to be plucked and tail feathers were a pain to yank. She twisted her arm in an attempt to catch it as close to the flesh as she could when Dalna caught her by the wrist.

“Do not pull it, Mydaiel, there is no need to cause yourself unnecessary pain.”

“It has to come out,” Mydaiel argued, her brow furrowing at the odd request.

Dalna shook her head and sighed, placing her hands on Mydaiel’s shoulders. Though there was no malice behind the grip, it was firm and ironclad. “Turn; there is an easier way with tail feathers; no one has ever taught you?”

Mydaiel shrugged as she complied with the command. “I have broken a tail feather only once before; as a child and I felt no need to complain about it, I removed it the moment I was alone.”

“It must have been painful to do and bled a lot; tail feathers cling to their vessels when they break,” Dalna responded. Mydaiel could feel her fingers delicately tracing the feather up to the break and then beyond. “You are lucky, the break is very close to the top, there is no need for a fresh one. This will pinch a bit.”

“Pain is a message,” Mydaiel echoed, reciting from youth. They were all taught as fledglings to accept pain for what it was, the body’s advice, warnings; it was necessary and they must be resilient to it. She took a breath as Dalna’s fingers closed more firmly over the broken feather shaft and heard the sharp resounding crack as she broke it the rest of the way. There was barely a twinge as it came away, but the tip still buried in her flesh itched like a burdensome thorn and her fingers twitched with the desire to rip it free.

Dalna rose and moved to her side, offering the remnants of the long feather. Mydaiel took it gently and ran a fingernail over the fronds. It was long and narrow, but grew to a rounded bulge at the end in a brilliant silver plume with a dark eye in the middle. “Your flesh will detach and purge the tip itself, there is no need to cause yourself unnecessary grief ripping it free, no matter how resilient to pain we are meant to be.”

Mydaiel cocked her head at the strangle in Dalna’s voice and found her brows furrowed and a somber smile creasing her lips. Mydaiel chewed on her lip, hesitating to ask the question scalding her tongue.

Dalna sighed and shrugged as she began twisting free the elaborate knot on her cloak, allowing it to flutter to the ground to reveal a backless white gown that tied around her neck. Mydaiel moved behind her to return the favor and tug on the laces holding it in place. “I have the utmost respect, Mydaiel, for who we are and what we stand for, remember that. I do not, however, condone many of the means and lessons they taught us as fledglings; the elders are wrong about many things.”

Mydaiel’s fingers slipped at the statement and a rather embarrassing croak died in her throat. She forced shaking hands to steady so she could finish her task, but her mind was reeling from the statement Dalna had just made; to question the elders and their teachings was to question their entire society, themselves and their purpose as a whole. The elders upheld the customs and lessons the Nephilim needed to be the warriors Avalon required; without that, they were nothing. Mydaiel shuddered and shook her head as she stepped back to allow Dalna’s gown to slip free; they could not be wrong, no matter what her old friend seemed to think. How long had she been festering on treasonous thoughts.

As if sensing the sudden unease, Dalna turned and raised her hands to cup Mydaiel’s face, her gaze stern. “Speak of this to no one, Mydaiel; it is not yet for open ears, but not everyone follows blindly what we are taught. I have come to question many things and while I will never falter to do what Avalon needs of me, I have my own identity and reasons for action and so should you. You will understand after you hunt; it changes you and it is important you remember to ask yourself why you fight, why you slay, and if the answer is because you are told to, then you do not truly have purpose; you are a slave.” At the end of the whispered speech, Dalna gave her a soft smile and stepped back, turning towards the water. Her muscles rippled as she stepped to the edge and fell back into its grasp.

Mydaiel winced before reluctantly following, putting the words aside to consider later. She did not think that she would much enjoy bathing in the pool, she hated getting her feathers wet; they clumped and knotted and took extra time and care to sort that she did not have the energy for today, but this was clearly the reason for coming, so she stepped into the basin and sunk nearly to her waist.

The water was different than rain or wash water, she realized immediately; it hugged at her feathers and gently pulled at the grit caught the ruffled downy plumage. The feeling was pleasant more so than an annoyance and she trailed her fingers through the ripples along the surface. Though she had originally opened her wings and angled them up to avoid soaking them, she now dipped one forward and trailed the tip through the warm liquid.

“Submerge,” Dalna suggested.

Mydaiel eyed her wearily, still not certain if she should trust the woman or turn tail and have nothing more to do with her, but Sarielle would not have sent her after the archer had she not had some trust in her, so Mydaiel held her next breath within her chest and bent her legs. Her weight dropped out from under her and she sunk into the pool. Her eyes squinted as she watched the crystals glow and pulse in the dark. She would have expected the salt and grit in the water to irritate her eyes, but it did not sting or bother at all. She cocked her head, wings spreading to full length, lightly beating the water to keep herself upright as she listened to a faint musical hum. Angling her body, she swam to the bottom and pressed a hand flat against the rock only to discover it truly was vibrating and though there was no lyric or tune to mimic, the melody sang straight to her heart and she understood what Dalna had meant. This was one of Avalon’s rewards; her strength felt revitalized and here, she could hear the world, the core of Avalon calling to her. She wanted to get closer, but she would need to breathe again soon.

As she reluctantly turned away from the depths and kicked back towards the surface, Mydaiel decided that despite the water and potential hours of pruning, she would make the sacrifice eagerly; this was her favorite place in the whole of the city.