The Harvest

The yearly harvest of initiates was very much a mental game of darts, with little to no referee regulation. She had been playing it for years, each year obtaining higher respects from the council, but never winning. This year was different, she had her devices up and her energy fields set on hell fire but the attacks seemed stronger and more precise than ever before. Should she forefit the game she loved so dearly?

Laying in a puddle of her own mental anguish she flashed back to her childhood, remembering how she’d been subtly trained for this ordeal since her birth. Once they had even told her in a condescending, but serious manner, that she had the blessing and smarts to actually win this thing. At what cost though? she mused as she scribed a few symbols into her artilary, preparing for the worst. This was a cut throat challenge, she’d seen many over the years turn on their own friends and family as if they were perfect strangers. It had always been her rule though, to hit back hard without harming the opponent in any way.

Her methods had always worked in the past, while preserving her innocence that so many had lost. This year was different, she was not deflecting the attacks with enough force to cripple the opponent. She knew then she had only 2 options, quit or fight back with lethal force. Quiting was never an option