Hildebrand parried Dolph’s sword.

  “Slow down!” she yelled.

  “Humans learn best under pressure,” he said.

  “Ahh!”

  It was true. Screaming sharpened her reflexes as she twisted her sword, deflecting another thrust. The sharp crack of the wooden swords stung her sensitive ears. The pain kept her focused and ready for Dolph’s next attack.

  He had it all: strength, speed, technique, and even a sixth sense. And worst of all, he didn’t know how to hold back.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Hildebrand yelled. But Dolph stepped forward, delivering a strike towards her head with the flick of his wrist.

  Hildebrand stepped back, just barely avoiding his attack. But she stumbled backwards, arms flailing out of control. Her sword went flying out of her hands.

  She reached her hands out. “Help!” she yelled.

  And just as she demanded, Dolph ran forward and caught her hand, balancing her on her back heel.

  “Roger,” he said.

  “Who’s Roger?” Hildebrand asked, accepting both of Dolph’s steadying hands.

  “It means affirmative,” he said.

  “Oh,” Hildebrand said. Just another one of his strange expressions. “Roger,” she repeated, affirming her understanding of his strange vocabulary. She had picked up more than a few new words from him, and some were catchy.

  Hildebrand turned her attention towards Bridgette, who was the only other person in the gym so late into the night, still swinging her sword with her one good arm. She trained fanatically. It was even admirable, in a way. There were plenty of students who could have fostered their talents if they had put in half as much time into training as Bridgette did. The girl didn’t slack, and she didn’t rest. On the evenings she wasn’t swinging a sword, she was practicing magic out in the range.

  From Hildebrand’s observations, she had increased her training regimen after her loss to Cynthia. No doubt, to get used to her other hand.

  “She hasn’t improved at all,” Dolph said.

  Hildebrand furrowed her brows. “She almost lost her good arm,” Hildebrand said. “Of course she hasn’t improved.”

  “No. Since she started training with her other hand,” he said. “It’s been over a week.”

  He observed her quietly while turning and twirling his wrist and his sword along with it. “I was wrong,” he said.

  You must be, Hildebrand thought.

  “See?” Hildebrand said.

  He turned to Hildebrand. “I don’t need a few days,” he said. Then his beady eyes fixed on Bridgette. They stared unwaveringly, fixed in space and stable through time. Just like a statue. No, more like a machine. “I can kill her now,” he said in a monotone.

  Hildebrand gasped lightly.

  The first thought that came to her was, You can? Dolph was more than confident. He was being honest, as if he was observing a law of reality.

  She almost let herself believe it. But Hildebrand shook the thought away. No, she told herself. He’s getting ahead of himself. His ego was high in the clouds from his meteoric rise in skill. But he was still far from being a match for Bridgette.

  “That’s not part of the plan!” she said, thumping his shoulder with her fist. It was hard with dense muscle. Muscle coiled with tension, like it was ready to strike. “Hey!” she said, latching onto his arm and hand. She tried to pry the sword free of his hands, but his fingers were shut tight beyond comprehension.

  A quiet wheeze escaped through her teeth as she dug her fingers in, trying to get under his fingers. They didn’t even budge.

  “Dolph!” she shouted. There was more surprise than frustration in her voice. She had underestimated him. But she still didn’t want him to take the risk.

  “I know. The plan,” he said.

  “The plan!” she shouted, shoving her hand into his face. “You can’t kill her! That’s an order!”

  “I won’t…” he said. He returned the favor, shoving his free hand into Hildebrand’s face. He had a longer reach, much longer. “So, stop it,” he said.

  “Say roger!”

  “Roger.”

  “And let go of the sword!”

  “I’m not going to do anything,” he said.

  Hildebrand never could tell if he was lying. Not even when he said the most outrageous things. Or when he changed his story right in front of her. That was why, even when she could tell he was being honest, she couldn’t believe him.

  “Then let go! I’m ordering you!” she yelled.

  He snatched his hand away, his nose crinkling and his eyes narrowing. He was peeved, just like when he gave Priscilla a verbal lashing. “God dammit!” he yelled, throwing the sword down to the ground with a clatter.

  Hildebrand reeled back, her shoulder stiffly rising as her head sank. She felt like a frightened cat and stopped herself from yowling in fear.

  “I’m not going to kill anyone!” Dolph huffed.

  Hildebrand sheepishly clasped her hands together. “Geez…” she muttered. A pout was forming on her lips as she looked up at Dolph from the corner of her eye. “You don’t have to yell at me.”

  Dolph clenched his teeth so tight she could hear them grinding. Then he released the tension all at once with an exasperated sigh.

  “Sorry!” he sighed. His voice was still tense and gravely. He waved his hand around, trying to dispel his energy. “This body,” he said. “I’m still getting used to it…”

  Hildebrand picked his sword up and held it out for him.

  “Then,” she said. “The plan.”

  He nodded, taking it. “Right,” he said, his voice returning to its usual quiet growl. “The date.”

  “The date?” Hildebrand asked. “Today’s the third of Ed—”

  “I mean the plan,” he said. “The plan where I take Bridgette out on a date. That plan.”

  Hildebrand tilted her head. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”

  His nose wrinkled with annoyance. “A date is like a romantic outing,” he said.

  “Buying her a meal is a romantic outing?” Hildebrand asked.

  Dolph nodded. “It’s typical for a first date,” he said. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  Hildebrand paused at the thought of how many meals Hugo had bought her. “Let's say,” she said, “a man bought woman a meal, was that a date?”

  Dolph nodded, and so did Hildebrand.

  “What if there were other people?”

  “It’s only a date if it’s between two people,” Dolph answered. “Like if you were to have a meal with Hugo.”

  Hildebrand's heart skipped a beat at Dolph’s words. At the thought of how many meals Hugo had bought her, and just her. There weren’t many… They separated from his party and the Saintess's guards on only a few occasions. But she still needed more than one hand to count them all. She stared down at the faint rings around her fingers. More than one hand, if she excluded the Saintess’s fingers.

  “It still counts if the woman invites the man,” Dolph said.

  A soft smile settled on her lips. “Oh,” she muttered. It would take more than one hand, even if she included the Saintess’s fingers. She turned to Dolph with more questions at the top of her mind. Like, What else do you do on a date?

  “Sightseeing,” Dolph said. “Going on walks. Shopping. That sort of thing.”

  A new question raced to the tip of her tongue.

  “Loitering around fountains too,” he said.

  She shut her mouth and stared at Dolph intently, with eyes wide open.

  “No,” Dolph said. “I’m just predicting what you’re thinking.”

  Hildebrand raised a finger, ready to point it in Dolph’s face. But she didn’t get the chance.

  “Yes,” he said. “You are predictable.”

  “Not what I was going to ask!” Hildebrand said. “You’re romantically interested in Bridgette?”

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  He let out a grunt. That question caught him off guard. “No,” he said. “Not even a bit.”

  Hildebrand glowered at Dolph. You didn’t need to add that last bit, she thought. But it was his love life. She turned to Bridgette.

  They both turned to Bridgette, who stared back out of the corner of her eyes. Despite holding a sword up, with her back broadened and waist coiled in all her stunning stature, she looked like a small critter trying to avoid the gaze of predators. She was shocked. Or spooked.

  Just then, the door to the gym burst open and Erika strolled in. She snatched a practice sword from the stands and leaped into the ring in a single bound. She threw her arms around Hildebrand and Dolph and loudly cleared her voice. “I heard everything!” she announced. “Almost,” she added. “So, who are we killing? And when?”

  Bridgette quietly clambered down from the ring, not losing sight of the trio even for a moment, and started walking at a brisk pace towards the door.

  “Where’s she going?” Hildebrand asked.

  “Should I stop her?” Dolph asked.

  Then Bridgette broke out into a sprint.

  “She must have heard the plan,” Dolph said. “I told you the plan wouldn’t work.”

  “No, you didn’t!” Hildebrand countered. He did. And she thought, He was right.

  “The thought of me asking her out must disgust her," Dolph said. “She’s having a panic attack. We should calm her down.”

  She wasn’t certain of what he meant, but she could guess. “I know what you mean,” Hildebrand said. Occasionally, soldiers went wild, even while sleeping, and their comrades held them down until they calmed down. Hildebrand had seen it more than a few times. No one was immune to it, neither conscripts nor hardened professionals. Not knights or Paladins. Not even the Hero.

  Hugo had roared through the night more than once, like a rampaging beast, breathing ragged like he was at death’s door. He would only snap out of his stupor when his eyes met Hildebrand’s. Eyes filled with fear and wrath. Eyes filled with sorrow. And something Hildebrand recognized but didn’t greet. Nostalgia. She knew what it was because she felt it, too. But she always turned a blind eye to it.

  Perhaps it was a disease that afflicted only the passionate. The brave men whose spirits burned like raging fires, bright enough to fight back the darkness of the World’s End. It was the cold-blooded whom it didn’t affect. Like Yuna, who skulked around in the dark.

  Incidentally, Hildebrand also never experienced it. Which was why she always led the efforts to calm those afflicted. Once the afflicted were restrained, she just had to smack them over the head with the Saintess’s staff. It always set them straight.

  But in lieu of that old stick, Hildebrand held her practice sword tight.

  “Hold her down!” Hildebrand commanded. "I'll fix her."

  Erika took a step back instead of stepping forward. Ever the unreliable subordinate. “That’s a bad idea,” Erika said.

  Bridgette unashamedly let out a fearful yelp and made a mad dash for the door. She hurled her sword at Dolph, delaying him.

  Hildebrand jumped down. The shock to her knees slowed her down more than she expected. She didn’t have time to brace herself. “Wait!” Hildebrand said.

  But Bridgette barreled through Hildebrand. “Out of my way!” she shrieked. Bridgette’s shoulder slammed into Hildebrand’s chest, and then her elbow smashed into Hildebrand stomach like a club, sending her flying.

  Ah, Hildebrand thought, closing her eyes as she saw the wall approaching. At least the doctor will see me now.

  When it took longer than she thought to collide with the wall, she opened her eyes, hoping someone had caught her, only to realize she had simply misjudged the distance. She recalled something Dolph mentioned to her before. Was it called depth perception? she wondered. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as strands of her hair touched the wall first, warning her face of impending doom. No, it must have been death perception.

  ***

  Hildebrand found herself in the inky dark once more.

  “Am I dead?” she asked aloud. “Again?” she huffed, flailing her arms in a petulant rage.

  After she tired her arms out, she took her first step, stumbling over something unseen and landing on her hands and knees. She clutched something soft and dry in one hand. Grass and dirt. And in her other she held the distinctive knurling of twisted wood.

  “Ah,” she mumbled. I’m dreaming, she told herself.

  It was darker than the last time she was here, yet that made it easier to see. There were no lights to blind her, letting her eyes adjust to her most familiar element. She now saw there was an entire world before her.

  Off in the distance, a spire reached towards the heavens, but fell short of reaching them. Unlike the tall tower in the World’s End that pierced the clouds, ruin and decay left the distant structure before Hildebrand with only half its former glory.

  She couldn’t help but smirk. She hated the damn thing. And rightfully so. It was a monument to humanity’s nonsense, filled with endless malice.

  “Good riddance,” she said, with a voice more somber than she wanted. She couldn’t help dwell on it and all the nostalgia it held. She stared at it until her eyes stung, and when she closed them, it gave her the chance to turn towards a different horizon.

  She looked down and spotted a tiny yellow light in the distance. The only sign of life in all the black sea before her. There wasn’t even a single sound, not the rustling of creatures nor the chirping of insects. Not even the wind blew. There was just a treaded path of dirt leading her forth.

  It was a surprisingly long trek. One that felt all too real. Her knees ached, her feet hurt, and by the end of the journey, she was gasping for air. Even in the frigid night air, Hildebrand found herself drenched in sweat. It was in part thanks to the familiar heavy robes she found herself in, and in part to the sudden incline the light rested atop. Her only reprieve was her trusty old stick. The Saintess’s staff, as it were.

  She approached the light, huffing and puffing, putting all her weight on the holy relic. It was the most scared artifact of the Church, reduced to a mere walking stick. And not a very good one at that. Strangely, looking at it now, it was clearly missing some of its branching ends. It always had been. They had been broken before Hildebrand ever received the staff. She didn’t realize it until she thought to compare it to Hilde’s staff.

  Strange, she thought, as she drove it into the ground. She used it to climb over the top of the hill and left it standing there. To watch guard.

  Hugo sat alone by the fire, fork deep in a can. His face was clear to her, even in the low light of the flickering flame he had hastily built. It was well-worn, even more than usual. And more rugged, too.

  She looked again and thought, Or maybe he’s lost weight. And his hair…

  His hair was not only overgrown, it also showed signs of being hastily pulled and cut with a knife. He had even grown something of a beard. Every strand of hair on his unkempt head stood out against the flickering lights cast by the dying fire.

  He looked so awfully real. He looked as if she could reach out and rub through every strand of hair on his head with her fingers. She had never been much of a dreamer; she only dreamed of sinking. But she had always heard people say faces were hazy in dreams. They must have been lying. She had never seen him so clearly, other than the last time she dreamed of him, perhaps. Hugo was the exception to her dreams of sinking. And to the haziness of faces.

  He looked up, surprised. It was at moments like that, with his emerald eyes wide open, she thought, Cute. She had thought it more than once. When they were filled with light, and joy and excitement. Even when they were filled with unspilled tears and sorrow held back. When they were filled with shadows and quiet gloom. She couldn’t help but think, Cute, but she never dared to say it aloud. If she did, she might not have been able to hold back her desires to hold him in her arms.

  “Cute,” she said, admitting her thoughts. She smiled warmly. Then somberly.

  Of course, she thought. It would be him. Her guiltiest pleasure. The one person she couldn’t bear to look in the eyes, and the one person she would be happy to lay eyes on for all eternity.

  Even if he looked like he crawled out of a cave.

  “Hilde—” Hugo said, jolting to his feet. His voice crackled to life, rising like a flame roaring to life. His voice almost cracked.

  Her fingers twitched. Even in her dreams, he called her that. But she didn’t hate it. Just hearing him call half her name was good enough. She brushed her hair back behind her ear, only for it to fall back in place, framing her face.

  Hugo’s eyes went even wider, then narrowed. Then he rubbed them.

  It almost made her laugh.

  “Yuna?” he asked.

  That did too, but not in the good way. Hildebrand’s eyes narrowed with annoyance. “Are you serious?” she asked. “It’s not that dark,” she said, gesturing to the fire.

  “Hildebrand…” he said. His voice lost its luster and went flat. His eyes eased. And so did his trembling lips.

  For once, she wished he’d call her Hilde.

  “Hi, Hugo,” she said, just as flatly. It was all she could muster, with bated breath and a chest tight with excitement. She gingerly interlocked her fingers as she approached him. In the dim light of the small flame, she became acutely aware she was in her old body again, the Saintess’s body.

  How ironic, she thought. She felt like a timid child. But there was nothing to be timid about. If nothing else, her old body proved something she was already certain of—this was just another dream. It had to be.

  But it wasn’t a memory this time… There weren’t any tents. And there wasn’t much of a camp. It was just Hugo. And her. Just the two of them. And she felt timid again. It felt like the butterflies in her stomach would lift her away. They lifted her heels off the ground.

  She almost tiptoed over to Hugo as he sat down. He stared for a long moment, then patted the spot next to him, offering a seat and a smile. But Hildebrand hovered over him instead, feeling timid still.

  She peered into Hugo’s can. It held boiled meat, a common ration for soldiers on the march. But the Hero’s party rarely carried them, since they had Timeless Bags of Holding to preserve fresh foods. Then again, he was always the squirrely sort.

  “Wow,” she teased. “I never know what you’re going to pull out.”

  Hugo’s eyes narrowed as he pulled the can away. “You can’t have any…” he said.

  “I wasn’t going to ask for any,” Hildebrand said. She squeezed her lips shut, but still let out a giggle. “Geez!”

  “Good…” he said. “Because I wasn’t going to give you any.”

  She scoffed with a smile, crossing her arms. And rolled her eyes with one too. He was so childish about food. Maybe it could even be called one of his vices. Nothing could pry him away from his food. Neither Yuna nor Greg. Not even monsters. She had seen him venture into battle, still holding a half-eaten whole roast bird and defending it with his life, at least twice.

  He groaned quietly and rolled his head around. “Alright,” he said. “But just one bite.”

  She tilted her head at him.

  He clicked his tongue. “Ok, ok. Two bites.”

  Even if she wasn’t his Hilde, she was his one exception. It made her laugh.

  He held the entire can out to her. “Just take it.”

  She raised her hand to refuse it. “Really,” she said flatly. “I wasn’t going to ask for any.”

  He raised a brow at her. “It’s not bad,” he said, thrusting the can at her. “Actually, it’s pretty good. I like it. Try some.”

  “Woow,” she said. “Mr. Food Critic actually likes something.” She giggled again, poking at his shoulder. “Are you going to give it a gold star?”

  “A gold star?” he asked.

  “It’s a figure of speech,” she lied. As it turned out, it wasn’t. She was twice as shocked as everyone else when that detestable man, Roy Garland, actually brought out little gold foil stars to glue onto exam papers from classes that weren’t even his own.

  “Is it something bad?” Hugo asked.

  “No,” she said. “Why would you think that?”

  Hugo poked at his food. “You look like you’re about to strangle me.”

  “It’s not like that,” she said, wiping the scowl off her face. “I was just thinking of something terrible.”

  “I hope it’s not this,” Hugo said, raising his can of food up to her.

  “No! Never mind,” she said.

  Hugo held up a fork full of the boiled meat. “Then you should try some,” he said. “It’s good.” He practically thrust it at her.

  She lifted her hand, just to let it back down. “Alright,” she relented. She leaned over, holding her hair back, and took a bite. It was salty, but bright too, and just a little sweet. As she pulled her lips away, she locked eyes with Hugo. Even in the low light of the lonely campfire, she could tell he was blushing madly.

  “Ahem!” He looked down at the ground, and everywhere around, but at her. “So, why are you here?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be here?” she asked back.

  “It’s been some time since I’ve seen you,” he said.

  She smiled. “I can see that,” she said. She resisted the urge to run her hand through Hugo’s hair, just to straighten out the mess. He did it in her stead, combing his fingers through his hair and pulling it back to straighten it. He fussed with it, and he fussed with it. He curled long locks around his finger, just to pull them straight. In the end, it all fell back into place, just as messy as before.

  How rare, Hildebrand thought. How odd. It wasn’t every day she got to see him so openly embarrassed. He was many things, stoic, quiet, brave and boisterous, goofy even. But since when do you get embarrassed? she pondered.

  “Should I cut your hair?” she teased.

  Hugo pulled his hair back and out of his eyes again. And again. And again.

  “I was just joking,” she said. “But now I really want to cut it.”

  “Please,” he whispered.

  Her fingers curled and then fanned out. She slapped his shoulder. “Don’t be so meek!” she said. She hid her unease with a few laughs. “Do you have scissors?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Just a knife.”

  She nodded. Of course, she thought. If it was good enough for Hilde, it was good enough for her.