Oblivion's Throne

The training hall was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of Orion's breathing. His hands clenched around the hybrid blade, its obsidian surface pulsing with crimson veins of power.

It didn't make sense. A week. Just a week, and Varun had already decided.

Orion had expected brutal training, had expected to be pushed beyond his limits—but he had never anticipated this.

His fingers traced the weapon's intricate surface, his thoughts spiraling. Varun wasn't the type to make decisions lightly. If he had chosen Orion, there had to be a reason. But what? Skill wasn't something that could be measured in a week. Prowess wasn't determined so quickly. Was it something else? Something deeper?

A voice cut through his thoughts.

"You're gripping too tightly."

Orion's head snapped up to see Varun watching him from across the hall, arms folded, eyes sharp.

Varun smirked, stepping closer. "You still think I chose you on a whim?"

Orion exhaled through his nose. "I think a week is too short to determine a warrior's worth."

Varun studied him for a moment, then reached out, tapping a finger against Orion's forehead. "You adapt. You push yourself beyond what's asked. You don't hesitate."

Orion rolled his shoulders, feeling the ache in his muscles. "That doesn't mean I'm ready."