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Some mortals challenge the Elders despite better counsel. Hegir the Guile was one such man. He made a bet that should the Blacksmith craft an indestructible shield, then Hegir would admit the Blacksmith to be the greatest forgemaster. Blacksmith obliged. Hegir knew full well that the Blacksmith would succeed and when he took the shield, he did so with glee. What Hegir did not know was that all attacks phased right through it. He never did get to deliver his praise. —Tales of the Mountain, by Black Summer.
“I am certain you didn’t learn that in my army. We don’t train our soldiers to fight like that.”
“It carries more weight than you can understand. Let’s say Dalila did become some nefarious witch that burnt everything to the ground. That kind of event would undoubtedly be held over my family’s head forever. It damages their hold and reputation, in the eyes of the court as well as the people.”
I had never seen Erefiel in action; he never needed to be. He would sit aback Zephyr and simply command the troops from his vantage point. From what I had heard, Erefiel was truly a sight on the battlefield. Others had described him as a dancing feather that no blade could touch, a feather that transformed the wind about him into great, slashing razors.
The glistening steel of it looked like it was polished with crystalized gems, the hilt adorned with a golden pommel, and the dark leather wrapping of the hilt left untarnished. A brown marble finish to the guard spread wide and tapered to catch any blade, which slid down the steel.
“It is designed to gather air and lend itself with a stream of wind to make the strikes ever faster the more you swing. Eventually, the vortex of collected wind makes each swing lighter than the last.”
I didn’t quite know how to feel about the way Erefiel and I addressed one another. Since the day we met, I looked up at him with adoration. The air about him, the respect he demanded. His reputation when it came to defending Greyhill made him an idol ever since I decided to join the army. Thus, when he took me into his regiment, no matter how short-lived that experience was, I felt incredibly fortunate. He was charming, forthcoming, and gregarious in all the right ways. But I didn’t want a friend, I wanted a leader, someone to look up to and strive towards.
Bracken isn’t lawless, not by any means; the denizens are just more discerning about their goings-on. Does everyone know about the gambling halls and fighting pits? Of the brutish dog fights? Absolutely. They just pretend like it doesn’t exist. All of it is swept under a rug till it forms prominent mounds one can peddle as an aesthetic rather than a problem.
A town of industry and enterprise showed itself over a final hill, just as dusk stretched the shadows. Nestled snugly underneath a wreath of bounding hills as a perpetual air of smog rose from its top was Bracken. Delbour River ran gently along the wide valley to our left, down the steep drop from where the wagon trundled upwards.
As I entered the pit, my feet bare so that they could feel the sand between my toes, I mentally counted the steps to the centre of where my opponent stood. I accounted for five long-footed strides before I could reach him. I took note of the diameter of the ring and found myself pleasantly surprised at the amount of manoeuvrable space provided. Though seeing the man titled Giant Munasen, I wished for more.
The only thing I found fortunate was the straightforward approach of the Munasen. No feints, no combos, no footwork. I slipped my way out of corners, my feet dancing and gliding across the sandy floor, just the way Uncle Duncan had showed me as a child.
The veracity of certain gods is questionable. It is undoubtable that the Elder King and the other Elders do exist. By extension, it leaves little doubt for the existence of the Creator. However, other gods such as Oxular leave greater questions. Is this the manifestation of people’s imagination or does Oxular truly decide to not reveal himself to the people? A bigger question yet is how an unseen figure can become the deity for those who believe in the power of witnessing. —A study on the creation of the Witness church, by John Mauro.
I cursed my weakness and vowed to be stronger, to never cry in front of those who didn’t deserve my tears.
Uncle froze, his eyes searching for an answer somewhere on my swollen cheek, my bruised and broken nose, my open eye. But all his look begged for was forgiveness. Mercy was not one of the things he taught me.
and when she asked if I wanted any coin for my troubles, I again refused. I stated, rather arrogantly, that I had already been paid handsomely for my efforts. This left Mother Vinrie rather confused, or at least I thought it did—the woman was unreadable.
The words should have hurt, but they didn’t. They just hammered against a heart so callous that the impact formed diamonds.
Nobody spoke any words of greetings but stared at me like mindless spectres observing something not supposed to be in their own world. Their smiles withered like discarded masks to reveal the maddening scrutiny in their eyes. There I was, an outsider, someone who brought conflict into their perfidious village. Their stares were scalding as I ran past.
The sound within this abbey was more of the former, like a great striking wave threatening to pull me under. I tried to ride its rhythm instead of going against it.
During my first day, I entertained the idea of starting again, but I felt my soul stretch itself thin like scraped butter on toast. My past would not leave me. I moved on, taking a page from my father’s book and losing myself in my duties.
His crown grew from scalp and was of the brightest gold, as if forged by the flames of his own sun; his skin perfect and glistening like diamonds,
There was a certain bluster to these stories that was lost on me. Perhaps due to recent events which made me less excitable. Or perhaps being told about these old legends in a classroom robbed the stories of their appeal.
She did not reprimand students in that tasteless way some teachers did, but rather tentatively redirected and ushered one towards the focus of class.
“Well, the Seed is born as a vessel, a conduit for the cycle. As pliable and impressionable as a babe, they are raised within Mount Morniar until they form ideas, concepts, and
Thickwood is an uncontainable and direct consequence of the receding Haar. What remains of the sprawling cultures are now protected behind Bravnicka’s borders. But alongside Estria, it is believed the ruins of old cultures and kingdoms still lay buried somewhere inside the forest. And if not there, then it waits within the embrace of Haar.
My squadron paced close to my heel and numbered fifty men. Twelve were archers and another four rode alongside me on horseback; the rest were foot soldiers, pikemen and swordsmen, but no akar.
“He is a performer. Every bit of what he did was theatrics to make sure we paid attention. The way he executed that man, he inspired fear into our troops.”
“It tells us that whoever it is we are facing, has a knack for strategy,” Erefiel said unwaveringly. Like awaiting sentinels, we rose and made our way to prepare for bloodshed.
Some cultures believe that the spirit of death arrives with scythe in hand to sever body from soul. Don’t be fooled. Death doesn’t wield a scythe—it wields time. —A need for Death, by Visian Plume.
I felt it work its way into me and instil a calm. It brushed away nascent fears, providing me with a sense of confidence and clarity for what was to come. Like the design of an ambitious and wholly striving chef, I appreciated a subtle note, as if hidden underneath the aroma of confidence and serenity. It was a dancing dash of an exotic spice, a herb from distant lands like a gentle kiss; entirely magical. It did not overpower but accentuated the whole performance—that spice was courage.
It was an itch, a passion, a need to perform for any who would dare listen. Here was a man who played not because of a war, but because the music demanded to be played, even through thunder and lightning or the promise of death.
To my right was Erefiel atop Zephyr. His hawk-shaped helmet made him regal in comparison to his army. His blade of Bereniel was still sheathed at his side, and a kite shield of equally polished steel hung from his left arm.
The only other presence at our rear was a tight-lipped and tense Cassidy and several other men on horseback. Cavalry was out of the question given the conditions which would provide poor footing, but we still could use horses to deliver information quickly between the ranks.
“I can’t kill the son of Jason Femur, but know this: I am the son of White-Hawk, I am Lieutenant General Erefiel who commands the defence of Bravnicka from the invading akar. I wield the Blade of Bereniel and have felled scores with its edge.” The bravado backed by Erefiel’s tone built upon itself like a rising storm. Cassidy gathered enough of his wits to truly wither under Erefiel’s gaze.
However, step far enough, and you find that even the most fluid of concepts have their edges and rules while the rest is exploitable.
The screaming had stopped—if she still wandered those labyrinthine halls, it was as a lost spirit.
“You already have. For months now, I have been helping people,” I retorted. “Not into a warzone, where the wounded suffer in such great numbers. The situation is dire, and this sort of bedlam is not something you are prepared for.”
“Child, we were made to come here against our will. Offering us a life of servitude in place of death is no great act of clemency.” She sighed. “Make no mistake, peel away at these ivory walls and you will find that its foundations are just as black as any other house.”
the ring of storm is one such item. It is said that a traveller took to the seas and travelled far and wide, in an age before the leviathans were born. In his travels, he discovered the boundary of Minethria and saw a realm of perpetual storms. Here, he placed a portal which connected the storm and the ring, so that the wind could be summoned wherever the ring-bearer wished.
As if sensing this, Father Maurice offered me another balm, another piece of information.
“Would you inscribe each and every last one of them to your mind and etch their names onto the wrinkles of your brain?”
“Selfless, yes—not masochistic. Not someone who fetishizes their own suffering.”
My tongue was tied, made lame and impotent; I didn’t know how to respond. I felt shame, as if my shell of virtue was torn from me to lay bare the self-hating woman that I was—a writhing fleshy worm of no worth.
“But there was one thing Igura suffered from—his emotions. Bound by fears that played tricks on his mind and turned his quiet nights into fitful nightmares. His passion for things was uncontrollable. Always he would bound upon things and be distracted, and whenever he was faced with the same lesson, the alluring promise of deceptive hope made him repeat it all again. “Fear, passion, hope, benevolence and will: these were the five aspects that made Igura who he was. Yet four of those things warred with each other, fed into one another, and made all of Igura’s talents useless. “So instead, he
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“In a manner of speaking. Yes, he did. But his emotions had for far too long been separated from him. They became their own beings. They lived and dreamed and joked like Igura himself. They could no longer be one again. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t work as one. Face yourself, allow for your emotions to work in tandem rather than turning them numb to one another. With their wisdom and power combined, Igura was mightier than he had ever been alone and the world was all the better for it.”
“Is this just another myth, or did this Igura truly exist?” I pressed. “When it comes to legends, Mothers will tell you one thing and scholars another, but does it matter? The depth of this story is truer than any past event in history because it is present. Yet it is an old tale lost to the ages. I doubt anyone has heard of it.”
“You wish to save the lives of the unfortunate, but forgo on your own happiness all the while.”
“Then learn to love yourself, learn to believe in life and to help others because you want to. You are like Igura’s compassion, aimless and alone you wander the world and fill your self-worth by making sure that others are happy. You give more and more of yourself until there is nothing left, like Mimir the Mad. You want to heal the world? Start by forgiving yourself and opening yourself up to the possibilities again.”
The words that Father Maurice spoke were a necessary confrontation; not because I agreed with him as of yet, but because I finally noticed the rot eating away at my beliefs.
They knew my vain attempt at seeming virtuous, treating the ill only to make my own light shine brighter.
It took an entire day to organise ourselves and regroup the remaining survivors. The rain had settled, clouds subsided, and we were left to behold the ruin. I didn’t manage any sleep. It was a luxury I still had the privilege to complain about, while my fallen men did not.
