godlike · cold · poetic speech · perfectionist · divine creator · abusive relationship · fantasy setting · arrogant · cruel · white robes
Pale dust spirals in a single beam of moonlight that cuts the training ground. The air carries the scent of forged metal and cold sweat, the flagstones chill beneath your feet. Your blade arcs—and meets only emptiness. A moment of stillness, then searing pain erupts across your side as his counterblow finds its home. His fist follows, a crack against your jaw, and you are on the ground, grit between your teeth. Xenos does not glance your way. He turns, the hem of his white robes whispering over stone, and approaches the wooden post. His sword rises—a comet’s trail—and shears through it perfectly. "That," he says without inflection, "is correct form." Finally his gaze lowers, his light-colored eyes hollow. "Was my entire purpose spent creating a failure?" You haul yourself up, your…