Chapter Text
Our tale begins long ago, as many do.
Even in those days, beyond recorded history, the world was already old and full of peril. They spoke of before-times, of golden ages and myths, now lost forever.
They were, in most ways, like us.
There once were two brothers. They were strong of mind and body, and each pursued his chosen path with vigor. Between them, there was no rivalry, only encouragement, and no enmity, only love.
The elder brother was a historian, drawn ever downward, to ruins buried and tunnels deep beneath the world, to artifacts of an age when even the soil obeyed Mankind. He unearthed forgotten wonders, blending magic and machine, and in doing so, he grew wise.
The younger brother looked upward. He was a seeker, a dreamer, a slayer of dragons and rescuer of maidens - not for reward or renown, but for the righteousness of the act itself. It was for that reason that, when he climbed the tower of a trapped young woman, she chose him, and he chose her in return.
The elder brother also found love - a scholar like himself, with whom he shared his knowledge and his passion. Together, both families flourished.
But peace did not last. A great evil arose - a defiler of all that lived and breathed. Her name was
Salem
and her name was blight.
She slew the younger brother and his line, and in her madness, raised her hand against the gods. In turn, the gods laid humanity low. The elder brother fled, grieving, with his wife and their children into the bones of the world.
Time passed.
Tragedy gave way to grief. Grief gave way to reflection. And reflection, at last, gave way to purpose.
The older brother and his wife wandered the world. They studied every people, every law, every custom. And from those teachings, they forged something new. They returned to the ancient places and carved from a mountain their fortress-home, a crown atop the world. A sanctuary for a future not yet born.
Upon its gate, they inscribed three words: Control. Conviction. Composure.
And beneath every stone, in letters small and deep: Awareness of the Self.
Three values. One foundation. A creed, a compass, a lineage.
He called his family Brightborn— a family of logic, reason, and watchful guardianship. A family that would look backward, as he did, and forward, as his brother would have.
This is the story of that family. Of one daughter in particular. And the world that stands upon the edge of ruin once more.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Enya’s breathing came regulated. In and out. In and out. Her sword was gripped firmly, blade extended. Like a dowsing rod, she held it as she navigated the Emerald Forest. The mission was simple - locate and retrieve an artifact from the ruins within. For a girl who had been training to fight Grimm from the time she was 10, the trial seemed, on its surface, simple enough.
But she knew better. Those kinds of thoughts were the first step to failure, as her father often lectured. Every mission, every fight, every spar - they all deserved the maximum amount of focus and effort. She spotted an Ursai prowling up ahead and moved in. As the beast looked up and roared, she broke into a trot before sprinting. The distance closed suddenly.
Blade met claw, and the Ursai’s first swing was deflected. Wrath flickered out, the heavy blade severing tendon on the return as the Ursai tried for a second strike. With a howl, it lunged, and Enya met it. Strength met strength, and her sword Wrath sang true, cleaving the Grimm’s mask as it exposed itself to try and bite her. One down. Many more to go.
She kept moving, from one target to the next. Two Beowolves came rushing, and she flipped back, Wrath shifting into the secondary form - a lever-action shotgun. Fire bloomed from the muzzle as Enya pivoted around a tree, nailing the first with a precise shot. Wrath snapped back to a sword, and as the second monster circled about, she moved as well. Down came Wrath in an arc, severing the head. She kept moving.
The forest fell quiet. Enya slowed her pace. The kind of silence that fell after blood had been spilled wasn’t peace - it was readiness. Something had heard the fight. A branch cracked in the distance, the sharp sound breaking the calm. Not a Beowolf. Too heavy.
She knelt behind the roots of a gnarled tree, pressing her gloved palm flat against the soil. A tremor. Then another. Rhythmic. Steady. Growing.
A Goliath.
Of course, she’d find one here. She exhaled. Of all the Grimm to find, she found one the size of a small house. The terrain was soft and uneven, and the canopy was tight. A poor place to fight something that size - but she wasn’t here to complain about poor spacing. She was here to win. Wrath retracted into its shotgun state. She moved low, ducking beneath hanging moss and vine-choked trunks until the brush parted. There it was. The Goliath moved with slow, deliberate steps - an old one, judging by the faded bone plating etched with shallow scars. Its tusks were cracked; one eye was missing. But its breathing was even like hers.
It was waiting for something. Goliath were intelligent, and even this smaller one posed a great threat. But a Goliath on its own was odd - where was the herd? These creatures had lived long enough to have learned better than to challenge humans, and mostly kept to their own migration paths far from any settlements. Was this an outcast from the herd, or a scout, coming to check and see if the strength of humanity was still potent enough?
Enya’s body moved before her mind finished analyzing. Hesitation was defeat. Wrath extended mid-motion, blade biting into the earth as she pivoted hard left, rolling beneath the creature’s first stomp. Soil burst behind her. A tusk grazed her aura, flaring white. She spun low, then jumped - blade dragging against the beast’s side as she rose, carving through tendon. The Goliath roared and reared back, swinging its trunk like a flail. Too wide. She darted out and in. Up the leg. One - two - three went her feet. Her boots found purchase on the bone armor as she ran vertically up its shoulder, and she reversed her grip on Wrath. Down she drove the sword, blade cutting deep into the Goliath's head, but missing the Grimm mask.
The creature roared in pain and warning. The Goliath thrashed, smashing sideways into a dead tree. The impact sent her flying, crashing through brush and branch alike. Her aura cracked - white lines flickering across her form. Enya landed hard, rolled twice, and came up on one knee. The Goliath limped now. Slower. But still watching her.
Not charging. Not retreating. Just... watching.
She moved carefully, blade held high at the ready. The Goliath raised its head, staring at something behind Enya. She spared a glance.
The ruins had come into view - pillars half-buried in vines and age. Ancient stone, weathered smooth by time. And there, nestled in the shadow of an archway, was an oversized chess piece - a black knight.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Miles away, at a cliff’s edge, three figures watched a single scroll, broadcasting Enya’s fight. Ozpin, the Headmaster of Beacon, stood with Glynda Goodwitch at his side. Behind them both, another. Tall as a mountain, wide as a fortress wall, Cassian Brightborn, who was also watching his daughter’s progress. Ozpin hummed. “Her sword - Wrath, you said?” He indicated the weapon that the scarlet-haired girl on screen wielded against the Goliath.
Cassian nodded. “That is correct. Three feet or so of Dust-infused steel alloy. Chambered, at the moment, for 10-gauge shot.” Ozpin nodded in understanding. On Goodwitch’s own Scroll, she brought up the weapon schematics. The image expanded: an anatomical breakdown of Wrath. In its primary configuration, it appeared as a single-handed sword - longer than most, though not unwieldy. The blade was thick, reinforced at the center spine with a folded steel-Dust alloy, and shaped for both piercing and slashing. It carried the weight of a broadsword and the hilt of a rapier - which was wrapped in stippled fabric and protected by a reinforced knuckle guard. It was a soldier’s weapon, not that of a duelist, even with the superficial resemblance.
Then came the transformations. A switch beneath the guard allowed the blade to split and pivot downward, snapping into place along an internal rail to form a short-barreled lever-action shotgun without a stock. The crossguard rotated into the chamber housing, and the trigger nestled neatly into the now-angled handle. The knuckle guard that gave the sword the near-rapier appearance became the lever action of the firearm. Chambered for 10-gauge shells - standard or custom - its recoil was managed through the bracing curve of the guard and the subtle Gravity Dust inlays.
And last - its tertiary form. With a twist of the pommel and the shifting of internal magnetic locks, the blade and handle extended, becoming a full-length two-handed sword, with an additional crossguard folding out as the blade grew.
"Effective design,” the professor murmured, eyes narrowing.
The Brightborn man didn’t smile, not yet, but there was something like approval in the faint tilt of his head. “I believe one Qrow Branwen inspired her in the dual-melee forms of her weapon,” he added.
The Headmaster of Beacon gave a small hum. “And she moves with precision.” Silence fell for a moment, broken only by the sound of leaves rustling onscreen as Enya emerged from the underbrush. Her coat—high-collared, deep red leather, fitted and double-breasted—had been torn at the shoulder. Her gloves were still on, long and black, and despite the distance of the camera feed, the faintest glint of blackened veins could be seen beneath her torn collar.
Goodwitch’s lips pressed into a thin line. “She moves like her mother,” she said, quietly and curtly.
The Headmaster’s gaze didn’t leave the screen. “You disapprove.”
“I distrust,” his professor said, clipped. “I was on Helena's team, the one you had to disband. I would be loath to let her daughter hurt people the same way Helena's leadership did."
At that, Cassian gave a single breath of something between a chuckle and a sigh. “Helena has not been part of Enya’s life since she was six.”
She turned her eyes on him. “And that’s better?”
Cassian didn’t blink. “It is, in this case. Enya was not raised by her mother. She was raised by people who still value emotion.” Goodwitch merely pursed her lips again and turned back to Ozpin’s Scroll, continuing to observe the girl.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Enya swung low and high. The Goliath had been baited nearer to the ruins, where the underbrush was less. Wrath, now in two-handed form, cut deep into the legs of the beast and caused it to stumble. It roared once more and swung down its tusks to skewer the young would-be huntress. Enya moved. She ducked low and slid in, stabbing the sword right into the creature’s neck. Click. Wrath transformed into shotgun form, and Enya pulled the trigger. The monster’s head was blown clean off suddenly, a shower of Grimm ichor exiting the opposite end of the neck from where Wrath had been embedded. It fell.
The girl slipped away from the collapsed carcass. She trotted away into the ruins, head swiveling for any other Grimm, and saw the single chess piece displayed on a pedestal - a black knight. She retrieved the piece, pocketed it, and started her way back, checking quickly first to ensure the Goliath would not rise again.
The forest was quieter on the return. Or perhaps the scarlet-haired girl simply moved with such intent that even the Grimm, what remained of them, chose not to follow. By the time she reached the clearing near the cliff, a Bullhead had already landed to take the four back, the insignia of Beacon Academy proudly emblazoned.
Ozpin stood just off the ramp, scroll still in hand, unreadable as ever behind his glasses. Goodwitch waited nearby, arms crossed. And Cassian - imposing, unmoved, unmissable - stood like a wall against the horizon, shadow stretched long in the fading light.
Enya stopped several paces away, stood at attention, and withdrew the chess piece. “Objective retrieved,” she said evenly. “Combat included one Ursai, a Goliath, and assorted smaller Grimm.” The professor grunted in acknowledgment, tapping on her Scroll.
Ozpin glanced at the ichor still dissipating on her coat. “No Semblance use?”
“Minimal,” Enya replied. “My weapon was sufficient.”
Her father, behind them, gave a single approving nod. “She’s been trained well. Your verdict on her entry, Headmaster?”
Ozpin hummed. “Most unusual,” he murmured, turning the black knight over in his fingers. “Normally, this trial is at the beginning of the year. The other students have already passed - and have already been placed into teams. You’re late, Miss Brightborn. Care to explain why?” His eyes twinkled.
“I am aware, sir,” Enya said. “While my tardiness is regrettable, there were unforeseen scheduling conflicts with Clan issues.”
“It is not unheard of for teams to function with three members,” Ozpin continued, accepting Enya’s vague statement. “It’s uncommon, but permitted. However… five-person teams are rarely acceptable”
Cassian stepped forward. “She can rotate. Two weeks per first-year team. It will provide an even distribution of resources. No one will benefit or suffer from her presence for long. A rotation system ensures fairness in sparring, class balance, and combat drills. If a team expresses interest in permanent placement, we can easily reevaluate the system at such a point in time.”
Goodwitch frowned. “It’s not just about combat metrics. A semester has already passed. She’ll be behind academically and socially. Integration at this point will be difficult.”
“She took down a Goliath single-handedly,” Cassian stated calmly. “Any ‘difficulty’ lies not with her. Furthermore, she will be able to pass the academic tests - it is not unheard of for home-schooled students to join Beacon later.”
Ozpin’s gaze shifted to Enya again, studying her. “Such a plan will make it harder to form friendships. Is that something you’ve considered? You could just delay your arrival till next year.”
The girl’s expression didn’t shift. “Yes, sir. Father and I discussed it in full before I arrived. I’m prepared.”
Another long pause. Ozpin looked between them - Goodwitch’s suspicion, Cassian’s certainty, Enya’s calm resolve - and gave the faintest of smiles. “Then welcome to Beacon Academy, Enya Brightborn,” he said, extending his hand. She shook it firmly, and he waved her off to the Bullhead.
The wind stirred her coat behind her as she stepped into the Bullhead. Her father watched her go, his expression unreadable. Goodwitch folded her arms tighter. Ozpin simply turned his gaze back to the ruins for a moment longer. “A rotation system,” Goodwitch said under her breath.
The three boarded after Enya. The Bullhead rose into the sky.