Page 28 of Warrior Princess
“Yes. I tried it back in Valoria, but I didn’t have anyone to teach me so it just consisted of whatever my brother and I could find in our library. When I attempted it, I was only able to make an orb.” I gave an embarrassed shrug.
Shiro raised his eyebrows. “That is actually not bad for a first timer with no assistance.” He stepped closer and withdrew a dagger from his boot, his movements slow and deliberate. The metal glinted ominously in the flickering torchlight. I tried not to flinch. “But we are going to try to do more, because you, Leila, are capable of so much more,” he whispered. “Now give me your wrist.”
With a deep breath, I extended my left wrist toward him and tried to steady my trembling hand. His gaze locked with mine, providing silent reassurance as he gently took my wrist in his free hand. The cool metal of the dagger kissed my skin, its sharp edge promising both pain and power.
“Are you ready?” Shiro’s voice was soft yet firm, demanding my full consent.
I nodded, not trusting my voice not to waver.
“Use your words, Leila.’
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, my voice was a mere whisper lost in the vastness of the cave. “Yes.”
Without further delay, the demon fox made a precise incision across my wrist. It was a practiced, careful motion designed to allow blood to flow without endangering my life. A sharp sting shot through my arm and I winced slightly, but I kept my eyes locked on Shiro’s crimson ones.
Vivid red blood welled up from the cut and dripped down in a steady, mesmerizing stream. Shiro watched the flow intently, his expression one of concentration and slight concern, making sure the cut was not too deep but sufficient for our needs.
“Now, focus on the blood,” he instructed, his voice a grounding force in the echoic space of the cave. “Try to sense its essence, its life, then channel your will to manipulate it.”
I stared at the crimson liquid in apprehensive fascination. My heart thumped loudly as I reached out with my mind, touching the essence of my life force as it flowed freely from the wound. It was a strange sensation, both empowering and daunting, as I attempted to weave the blood into something more than just a part of me.
Shiro observed my concentration, his eyes narrowing slightly as he monitored the flow of my blood. “Good, keep your focus,” he encouraged. “Blood weaving is about more than control; it is an art. It is about understanding the life that flows within you and directing it with purpose.” He paused for a moment, and his gaze drifted to the torch-lit shadows dancing along the cave walls as if gathering thoughts from a distant memory. “Celeste was a master at this,” he began, his voice taking on a reverent tone. “She used to say that blood weaving is akin to composinga melody with the soul’s orchestra. Each drop of blood carries a note, an intent, and when properly guided, it can sing.”
I focused on the trickle of blood and tried to tune into the essence Shiro described. The liquid was warm against my skin, strangely alive. “How do I make it ‘sing’?” Unwilling to break the concentration that steadily built, my voice was barely above a whisper.
Shiro moved closer, his presence both comforting and imposing. “Visualize what you want to achieve. Start simple. Celeste would often start with shapes—circles, waves, spirals. They are fundamental elements, but they help you understand the flow.”
I nodded and closed my eyes to visualize. Imagining a circle, I tried to bend the blood flowing from my wrist into that shape. It was clumsy at first, and the blood merely pooled without direction. But as I focused more intently, recalling Shiro’s words and thinking about the fluid movements of nature—the way water curves around stones in a stream, the way wind whirls leaves in a dance—I began to feel a subtle connection, a thread of control.
“Now, gently,” Shiro instructed, his voice a soft command. “Use your will to guide it.”
Opening my eyes, I looked down and saw the small pool of blood beginning to respond. Slowly, almost timidly, it stretched out and curved into a crude circle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. An excited thrill strummed through me.
Shiro nodded approvingly. “Very good, Leila. Now, try something a bit more complex. Think of a spiral. Celeste would weave her energy into every thread of existence—spiraling, ever expanding.”
Encouraged by my initial success, I focused on creating a spiral. This time, I visualized the pattern more clearly, emboldened by growing confidence. The blood moved to followmy intent, swirling into a tight spiral. The sight of red, vivid against the stone floor of the cave, was mesmerizing to watch.
“Yes, just like that.” Shiro’s voice was warm with praise. “You are doing beautifully. This is merely the beginning, Leila. The more you practice, the more intricate and powerful your weaving can become. Celeste could manipulate not just her blood, but the energies around her, which she would blend into powerful spells.”
I looked up at Shiro, my awe mingling with determination. “I want to learn more.” My voice was firm with resolve.
“And you will,” he promised, a smile touching his lips. “There is much to teach you, and you have the potential to surpass even Celeste, should you choose to dedicate yourself to this path.”
As we continued the session, I felt a deep connection not only to my own power, but to the legacy of the Moon Goddess herself. A power that threaded through the ages right to the heart of the blood that now danced at my command.
14
For the next three nights, I ventured into the shadowy recesses of the Grasslands mountains where the cool air of the highlands whispered through the dense foliage and the moonlight cast a silvery glow over rugged paths. These nightly excursions were my secret; under the cover of darkness, I met with Shiro in the secluded cave to hone my blood weaving skills. Each session left me more adept, and every night my power grew stronger.
However, as the days passed, the impending journey to meet my father in the Central Plains loomed over us, delivering a shadow of uncertainty. As we were saddling our horses and preparing to leave, I noticed Ronan's distant demeanor.
“Are you okay?” I brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow as he adjusted the saddle straps. “You seem… distracted.”
Ronan exhaled deeply, his hands pausing in their task. “I don’t know, Leila. Something feels…offabout this,” he admitted, his voice tinged with unease.
I frowned, concerned. “Why do you say that?” I prompted, watching his expression closely.
He crossed his arms and his gaze drifted off into the distance. “Your father loves you very much. When I was in Valoria, sequestered in the Northern Palace, he came to visit me,” Ronan revealed, catching my full attention.
