The cracking of the whip, the flashing of the knife in the darkness. Constant pain, show no fear. This is my life. It is the life of all the Lunya in training. They teach us not to feel, or at least, not to show, pain. Any mess ups result in a whip across your back, legs, and stomach. Speaking out of turn gives you the flash of a knife over your face, arms, and head. Then, they'll give you a clever healing oil to place on your cuts. Called stagle, this yellowish oil stings and burns, causing more pain while ensuring no infections or scarring. But, this is only one part of our training.

Dear Mother,

Another day has come and gone. I hate that people here are so scared of me. But, it’s like I always imagined you saying, use what you have. I’m scared that when the time comes, I won’t be able to avenge you. I think of you often, and miss you even though I never knew you. I can’t imagine anyone else taking on the pain of growing up without parents. It is so hard. That is why this task was given to me I think.

It’s hard to go on, even five years since he left. I still sometimes forget, and think he is coming through the door. But he never does. I sometimes hear his voice, in my head, telling me what to do. I’ve learned not to say anything.

I have to go now, Mother. I will write again next week. Say hello to Father for me;

Ever your faithful daughter,

Sapphire

          I watched the paper blacken and curl in on itself as the fire I threw it in consumed it. No one could know how I really felt. I wrote every week to my mother to stop me from going insane with the emotions I kept inside. Footsteps shook me free of my emotions. I was late for class.

I rushed down the cold hallways to my next, and favorite, class. Swordplay. Such an elegant word for something so violent and fun. It was taught by your mistakes. Make a mistake; get slashed across with your opponent’s sword. Simple as that. I stood in the center of the ring, the only lighted area in the room. My opponent, a boy three years older than I, stepped forward. My sword swept silently from its sheath as I evaluated him. He was tall and muscular, handsome. His name was Geon, and his reputation around school was that he was a great swordsman and battle leader. His height would be his disability, as he would leave his legs mostly unguarded.

          Although I was tall as well, five foot seven, I had learned to deal with it. I hoped he had not, or at least, had not learned to block the moves that I would use. The bell chimed once as he drew out his own sword. He swung above his head, slashing down as though to break my skull. I dodged it quickly and easily, causing him to be slightly off balance. He apparently hadn’t underestimated my speed. I swung my sword at the back of his knees; blood splashed down his legs. He recovered slightly quicker than I thought he would. We were even in misjudging each other.  I barely had time to parry his next strike at my chest. As it happened, a thin line of blood appeared at my neck line.

          Adrenaline coursed through my veins as my blood ran down into my school uniform. The dark black cotton was soaked with blood from the many years of use. Together Geon and I parried, struck, and wound our way around the ring. We seemed evenly matched. Although, I knew I was fighting with my left hand; and I was right handed. I threw my sword up into the air and jumped over a shot aimed at my knees. Catching my sword, I switched to my right hand and swung hard at his back. Geon’s blood splattered everywhere. He fell to the mat as the lights turned back on, showing the blood splattered faces of my awed classmates.

Sword fighting was an important part of our lives. We were training to fight the Empire, who had taken over and caused chaos. The Lunyas had been secretly training children through adulthood for thirty-seven years. If we, the Lunyas, ruled, peace would be restored. No one would go hungry, get sick, or get hurt. Children could learn facts, not the propaganda the Empire feeds to them. Propaganda that most children, and adults, believed.

I was lucky. I had been taken away from the lies when I was born. Here I have spent the last sixteen years of my life, in a boarding school. Cleverly disguised as a “rich kids’ school” to keep the empire from suspecting. It was called the school of preparatory arts. Little did the Empire know that all this school was doing was prepping us for the art of killing them all. My parents had died for this cause, and I hoped to avenge them, even if it cost my own life. Their deaths were cruel, so I'm told. A slow death over a fire. Over, not in. They felt their blood boil, their skin crackle and fall into the fire. They heard the sizzling of their own flesh before their organs shut down from overheating. They suffocated on the smoke and their lungs shut down. It was a slow, cruel death. I am told that the Empire laughed as they watched my parents’ roasted flesh fall off into the fire.

"Number: L342A, you'll be on the red team." The instructor's voice broke my train of thought as it rang off the cold metal walls. I quickly ran to my side, placing the red shirt and pants on. "Number: G647N. You'll be on the red team as well." A shy, dark haired boy donned the red clothing as well. "This is a mock battle, but it is treated as a real one. If you make a mistake, your opponent has every right to kill you. Your object is to retrieve the silver disc." The disc was only 100 yards away. It looked so simple. We all drew out our swords.

Looking at the black side, I realized these are people I went to class with. People I ate my meager ration with. I couldn't hurt them. And yet, as I looked back at my team, I realized I would have to. My team was counting on me. The shy boy, Number G647N, gave me a reassuring smile. He couldn't have been more than two years older than me, yet he was the one comforting me. And then I realized I shouldn't need to be comforted. This is war. There is no room for petty sentiment.

          I looked again at the black team and instead, saw just an enemy. An enemy that must be defeated if I was to win. In real war, to win was to live, and I wanted to live. I had to live, to avenge my parents' deaths. I could not fail my team, nor could I fail my parents. Not now, not ever. We went out in groups of six, crossing the line with our swords drawn. The black team surrounded us, slashing with their swords. At the sound of a retreat, I refused to go back. Going on alone, surrounded on all sides, I cautiously edged toward the silver disc. It was just beyond my reach. Guards from the other team moved in, surrounding me.

I feigned being tired, and the guards relaxed slightly. Just slightly, but it was a big enough mistake for me to make my move. I swung my leg at the back of their knees and hit the three between me and the disk. They fell to the ground as I nimbly stepped over them. I grabbed the disc and threw it to my waiting teammates on the other side. One last thought rang through my head as they rushed into the fray. I had not failed them.

I was surprised afterwards when I saw how many cuts I had. There was no pain at all during the game, but when putting the stagle on there was a burning pain shooting throughout my body. My skin burned and itched all over as I tried to ignore it. I lay down on my stone bed, knowing it was all worth it. Someday it would pay off.