A tiny voice of ten cracked across the yard of ShinRa Mansion. In her fluffy dress and pretty shoes, Kleio swung a sword of red. The sun was going down, but the lights in the windows were off. Since his death, they were always off. "One! Two!" Block, turn! "Three! Four!" Jab, slash! "Five! Six!" Spell charge, flame ball. "Apocalypse!" Kleio's blade charged, runed and glowing. About the roots of the tree flickered a sigil of twisting words and circles that turned it to cinders. And then, eyes on another, she started again. She could feel her mother's stare from the upstairs window. Those crimson eyes always watched, always worried, always nagged her to "Stop playing with swords! That's what happened to your father!" But Kleio knew that had been no game. That had been a war; a dance of blade and blood that hard scarred the land, and dyed it red for ages to come. And the next one came about, be a year from now or twenty more, Kleio had resolved that she would be ready. "One! Two!" Her movements sped up. "Three! Four!" A reckless jab at air. "Apocalypse!" Another tree destroyed. Oh, her mother would be furious. Still, they could afford to lose nobody else. A few trees were a small price to pay for a warrior in training. By the time she was of age to hold a bigger blade, she would be a warrior to be feared. Just like her father before her. Exactly like him. She had his speed, his spells, his reckless ways. Injuries too, still healing from that night. They slowed her down and made her jabs painful and clumsy. And then tripped her. The blade skidded across the grass, and the dirt and stones sliced open a fresh cut on her knee. Though her eyes watered, she did not scream. Neither did she cry. Just hissed through her teeth, squeezed her eyes shut, and clamped her dirty hands over the open wound.