*Jacyntha of Grey Rock*

"This is the year. This is the time. No one will stand before you. You will dominate the circle and remind all those who have abandoned us that our path, our family, is to be feared and respected in equal measure."

Hastor's voice shook with emotion as he paced back and forth in the small tent. He had to periodically duck beneath a finely woven tapestry, but that seemed to have no impact on his grandstanding. Jacyntha, lying on the table with her head facing the floor, just hummed in response.

She knew better than to try and talk, even if it was in agreement. Her father's approval was to be gained only through action. Jacyntha was his vehicle to vindication, and as long as she continued to fight and win, she would receive her father's praise.

A small voice, sounding very much like her late mother, spoke softly in the back of her mind. Is this all you are worth? As had become habit over the last decade, she crushed it ruthlessly. There could be no room for doubt. If there was one thing Jacyntha knew, it was that a fighter had to have conviction.

So she stayed mostly silent, grunting now and then to show Hastor she was listening, but otherwise not contributing to the diatribe. 'We must reclaim our rightful place', 'the vultures took everything from us', 'remind them who we are', and on and on it went.

Jacyntha instead focused on the feeling of the cool hands massaging her aching muscles. Training and fighting were the only things she was good at now. She'd given up trying to make friends long ago. Funny how nobody wanted to talk after you beat their friend bloody for an insult. Wasn't even really an insult if she was being honest with herself.

But self-reflection wasn't something Jacyntha liked to do. She was self-aware enough to know it, but no amount of awareness would prepare her to face her demons. It hurt too much. Too much rage, too much anger, too much guilt and self-loathing.

If she ever started to truly grapple with her mother's death, she'd have to put the blame where it clearly belonged… on her own shoulders. And there was no gods-damned way she would ever do that.

Easier to beat some kid half to death when he brought up her mother in jest, whether the boy meant anything by it or not. Easier to push away anyone interested in helping than to open herself up to that spinning ball of fear and rage. Far easier to brand the elders as pompous, selfish and misguided, than to consider if they were telling the truth about her father.

No, Jacyntha focused on training and fighting, on earning her father's approval, and restoring their rightful place in the clan hierarchy. She would deal with the rest of it once she had done her duty, close at hand as it was. Hastor was right, this was the year. She'd beaten every competitor in her clan already, and last year gave a convincing showing in the circle too. She hadn't been crowned First, of course – there were too many tricky competitors last year, and she hadn't fully grown into her new strength so one or two had managed to sneak a win off of her.

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No longer though. The hands kneaded into her back, magic flowing from them into the lines carved into her skin. Ink and scar tissue mixed to form swooping patterns, relying on ancient principles to enhance her physical prowess. It was this secret that had her father kicked from the council, that had resulted in her mother's death and their shunning by the rest of the clan. They had discovered a path to power that others were too cowardly to take, and they had been branded heretics for it.

So your father says, whispered her mother's voice. Gods, it sounded so much like her.

She shook off the doubts once more. She couldn't deny the benefits. She recovered quicker, fought harder. Her Skills sometimes felt further away, hazy in a way that didn't entirely make sense to her, but with the power coursing through her muscles, she didn't really care.

What need for Skills had she when a single punch could shatter stone? She suspected she was beyond most early 2nd tier warriors in her clan by now, when the ritual magic flowed through her, at least. Some of the other clans had some terrifying warriors of their own – grizzled and experienced men and women still in their 1st tier somehow – and even a few young geniuses that could still trouble her. But her own clan was small, and she was far above the rest of their 1st tier warriors, diminished as their younger generation were.

And who's fault is that?

"Girl! Are you not listening?" Her father's voice cut through her thoughts, silencing the traitorous voice of her mother.

"Yes father. Tomorrow, I will crush them." She tried to put the earlier conviction into her tone, but it sounded weak to her ears. Her father didn't seem to notice, slapping her on the back just slightly too hard to be affectionate.

"See that you do. This is the final treatment. Remember my words girl, and you will make me proud." Jacyntha didn't turn, not wanting to see the scorn in her father's face. If she didn't see him speak the words, she could almost imagine they were sincere.

"'Mercy is a tool created by the weak to control the strong,'" she quoted instead, and focused once more on the hands kneading into her back, their gentle healing magic calming the aches and pains her father's harsh training had incurred.

"Your mother would be proud," Hastor said, ducking out of the tent and vanishing into the night without so much as acknowledging the old man working at Jacyntha's back.

She thought of her mother's face, arms reaching towards her, tears and blood spattering her face and Jacyntha's name on her lips. Begging her for help. She heard again the thud of fist against flesh, the sound of her father raging under the influence of foreign magics. Heard her once more beg for mercy.

Weak.

She didn't know if she aimed that at her mother or herself. Both were true, neither mattered now.

Her gaze landed on the great axe hanging from the ceiling, above a tapestry depicting her parents battling a Frost Wyvern, and she wondered if she'd ever live up to that legacy.

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