Chapter 17: Chapter 15: Walks

“Lo my subjects, my sons and daughters, my kin and allies.” Klamfik called to his people. “Bring me the greatest gifts of magic, that which the dragons left for us to multiply and prosper.”

With his decree, his people scoured Galladia for the greatest magicians to teach Klamfik.

The first sage was from the southern lands, brought by gold. He taught Klamfik and his people the wonders of enchanting. He bound spells in stone and steel, in wood and bone, so that even the unskilled could cast spells with mastery equal to that of the enchanter.

The second sage was from the swamps of the west, brought by her love. She taught Klamfik the mysteries of the fae, spreading knowledge of alchemy throughout Klamfik’s country. She wove magic from the mundane into strange brews and potions so that the fae’s magic could affect even the most careful.

The third sage was a wretched orphan born within the heart of Klamfik’s empire. He taught the power of unity, spells that bind people together so that their strength could become more than their own. But he received no gold, no love, no honor. 

He cursed Klamfik and all that he made, condemning his legacy to fall apart and die. Klamfik lost his gold, his love, and his life.

His empire would never grow beyond what Klamfik made it, losing pieces itself to time, war, and greed. Beware, ye of great ambition, for it takes only the wretched and lost to destroy an empire. Beware, ye conquerors and kings, those bearing the third sage’s curse.

Extract from Tales of Old Galladia

 

Norn Thurid hefted the ax with one hand, eyeing the edge with intense scrutiny. She flipped it in the air, catching it with one hand. She hummed, tossing it to her tome. The weapon was midnight black with a lacquered willow handle. The sharp edge gleamed in the noon light, intricate carvings along the head depicting an ancient drakkar crashing on a wave.

“Finely balanced.” She hummed approvingly. “Beautiful as always, Sil.”

The tome-warrior readied the ax. It held the weapon above its head. The audience held their breath.

CLANG!

The ax swung down onto the log, lodging itself deep in the wood. Norn Thurid did not flinch as the ax dug into the log. She held up the log for the audience to see, ax head firmly stuck into it. Thurid’s tome-warrior stood there, handle clasped in its hands. Thurid shook her head and tutted.

“It broke! It broke!” The crowd roared.

“Beautiful…but quite flawed.” Norn Thurid sighed and picked up the greatsword.

When she swung it around, the sword whistled as it cut through the air. Letters glowed briefly on the blade with every movement, too quick to be read. Enchantments. Otherwise, the greatsword was far more modest than the ax, with a simple hilt wrapped in leather and a brass guard that curved up like fangs. Thurid’s confident smile stretched across her face. She tossed the sword to her tome and picked up another log. She looked at the sword for a moment, concentrating on the glowing symbols. She put the log on the table and stepped back. Her tome readied the blade. It raised the weapon high…and swung.

 The crowd was quiet. Both halves of the table collapsed, the perfectly cut log pieces clattering to the ground. The audience roared in approval.

“IT CUTS!”

The greatsword sliced cleanly through the log, the table, and even left a smooth furrow in the stone below. Rael gaped, focusing intently on the sword. They knew enchanted weapons could be effective, but to this extent? Unless an opponent’s armor was enchanted, the sword would cleave through them just as easily.

The tome flicked the greatsword and held it steady before the audience. Despite the distance, Rael got a good look at the glowing words. [Greater Cut], [Durability], [Puncture], [Reflex Increase] …Rael had no doubt these were enchantments worthy of a king’s weapon.

“Impressive. I approve, Cernos.” Thurid seemed the type of woman who rarely gave out compliments. The lead blacksmith who worked on the greatsword bowed proudly. The Norn took the greatsword and stabbed it into the earth. Cernos winced. “One more.”

Her eyes scanned the crowd until she found Rael and Gault. The latter met her gaze without looking away. Thurid nodded approvingly and picked up the sword they’d made. She ran her thumb down the edge, a trickle of blood swelling from it. Her grin betrayed her interest.

“Fascinating work. Unlike any I’ve seen before.” She handed the sword to her tome and picked up a log. “Let’s see if its more than just pretty steel.”

The audience chuckled at that, a few already making bets on how spectacularly it would break. Rael noted that none of the craftsmen were taking bets, their gazes split between the sword and Gault. There were even a few women twirling their hair as they leered at the clean-shaven smith’s back.

Norn Thurid did not treat the sword with the same caution as with Cernos’ work. She held a log up herself, not bothering with a table. The tome held the sword with one hand. And swung.

Thurid blinked a few times in surprise, holding the separate pieces of the log in each hand. She looked over the two halves as the crowd cheered.

“It cuts! It cuts!”

The Faulk crowd pulsated in excitement, people passing winnings and pushing each other enthusiastically. Quite a few hands patted Gault’s back, the smith smiling nervously under all the attention.

The pieces of wood were shredded through the end of the log, not as nearly cut as the enchanted greatsword. The fact remained that it was one of only two weapons to cut through a piece of wood thicker than a leg. Norn examined the edge of the blade again, running her fingers across it. The blade dug into her fingers, drawing blood again.

“Incredible.” Thurid was unable to find any flaws.

Rael stood straighter and beamed. Gault fist-pumped and shivered with pride. ‘How could she? I used my spell with enough intensity to make sure the hardest parts were outside, and we spent the rest of the time sharpening it.’ Rael’s ego deflated with Thurid’s next statement.

“Still lacking compared to an enchanted weapon. But the material is solid and keeps its edge better than any I’ve seen before.” Norn Thurid brought the sword to Gault and gave it to him, hilt first. “What do you call it?”

Gault’s barely reined excitement died. He was probably prepared to answer any question about the process, how he would have made it differently, and its advantages over other metals. But he never gave it a name.

“Dr—” A hand clenched his shoulder tightly.

“If you name it dragonsteel, I’ll be so pissed.” Rael whispered in his ear.

“I could not do this without you or Azmond.” Gault whispered back. “It’s only natural I name it after my benefactors.”

“No, the hells you are not.” Rael’s hand gripped tighter. “Not only is the name dumb and overdone, but it could paint a target on our backs. You can call it ‘wootz’ for all I care, just don’t reference Az or I.”

“Fine, fine.” Gault shook off Rael’s hand and cleared his throat. “I call it wavebound steel, for the waves that dance on its surface.”

“A good name.” Norn Thurid nodded approvingly. “A material that can be much improved with a team of enchanters. What would you need to supply the Jarls with such weapons?”

Gault’s jaw dropped. Thurid’s grin grew as more people came to offer the dazed smith congratulations. A few hearty claps on his back later, Gault shook himself from his reverie and swallowed.

“Are you…?” Gault pointed at Thurid, at himself, then the smithy behind Thurid.

“Yes, you lout!” Although the Norn’s exclamation was without malice, the smith straightened his back at attention. “I want you and the Dragonward to help me arm our greatest warriors for the war.”

“What about me, Norn?” Cernos raised his hand nervously.

“That’s a given, Cernos.” The old woman rolled her eyes. “You won the contest by a landslide, again. You’ve both brought pride to the Faulk and your respective Jarls, yadda, yadda…” Norn Thurid’s eyes flared as she looked over the crowd. “That means the rest of you trogs can clear out! Git!” The crowd shuffled away slowly, bleeding into the environs at a sedate pace.

Until Thurid picked up the enchanted greatsword and began waving it around threateningly. People cleared the area a lot faster, leaving only the smiths, Rael, and Norn Astrid. Thurid’s eyes narrowed when she saw Astrid, putting down the greatsword and approaching her. Despite her thicker frame, Thurid had to look up to meet Astrid’s soft smile.

“Norn Astrid.” Thurid grunted. The blacksmiths shriveled at the tone and backed away quickly.

“Norn Thurid.” Astrid bowed her head. “I am only here to observe Dragonward Rael. They have just come from the shaman’s path.”

“If I remember correctly, so did Gault, once.” Thurid’s mirthless smile reminded Rael of a wolf protecting its meal.

“Rael is interested in returning.” Astrid’s half-lidded gaze bore into Thurid.

‘I can go back?’ Rael didn’t realize that was an option. They’d gotten the impression it was a one chance only thing. ‘And why does it seem like these old ladies are fighting over me?’

“Why not ask instead of assuming?” Thurid walked around Astrid, ignoring the willowy woman’s slight frown. “Dragonward Rael. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed. I have no doubt that Smith Gault can reproduce wavebound steel, but your help can expedite the process. You can gain a lot of merit and many favors by making such great weapons.”

“Dragonward Rael’s destiny eclipses that of creating mere weapons.” Astrid stressed Rael’s title. She did not turn around, else she might have noticed the youth’s interest.

“Mere weapons?” The smith Norn stomped closer to Astrid. “It is not magic that separates us from the animals, but the tools we use. You are spitting on traditions that predate the dragons.”

“Weapons break and degrade.” Norn Astrid kept her back to Thurid and shrugged, the words slipping off her like water from a duck’s back.

“Magic exacts a heavy toll.” Thurid growled in response. The tension rose between the two women, Thruid’s death-glare bore deeper into the back of Astrid’s head. The craftspeople gave them even more space but were too curious to stop eavesdropping and leave entirely.

“Hold on.” Rael held up a hand, breaking the standoff. “Why are you speaking for me, Norn Astrid? I like smithing. If I can be useful by doing something I like, why shouldn’t I?”

Astrid whirled around with speed that belied her age. She cringed and held her back in pain but kept her eyes on Rael. Norn Thurid crossed her arms smugly.

“Dragonward Rael, I am not sure you realize how gifted you are in the matters of fae.” Astrid winced as she stretched, setting her back cracking and popping. “Shaman apprentices never return from their first steps on the path with sound mind and body. Injured, sobbing, or catatonic, maybe. Never with their heads held high, never without having spilled blood.”

“I dunno.” Norn Thurid smirked and picked at her dirty nails. “That spell they used was nifty. And Dragonward Rael already has experience in a smithy. Easier than starting from scratch.”

“Rael returned from a wild fae’s clutches. With gifts.” Astrid’s measured enunciations surprised Thurid. The shorter Norn quickly hid her expression and shrugged. But her gaze lingered on Rael’s lapel, where their emblem glimmered. “Mere brushes with wild fae have resulted in strange or disastrous consequences. Remember Knobheaded Loine?” Thurid cringed.

“Hey!” Rael snapped, both Norns turning their attention to the youth. “Why are you two deciding what I want to do? If I want to make weapons, I’ll make weapons. If I want to talk to fae, I’ll talk to fae.”

The two Norns stared at Rael. The youth shrank from their gazes but steeled their expression and stepped forwards. Astrid and Thurid looked at one another, some unspoken communication between them sparking Rael’s attention.

“Fine.” Thurid grumbled. She swung her arm to point at Rael. “Once all the materials are gathered, I expect you here every morning. Eat well because we’re going to be using that weird spell every chance we get!”

The stocky woman stomped off, waving to the craftspeople to follow her. Rael watched her leave, confused about what happened.

“You have a lot of gall.” Norn Astrid sighed and shook her head dramatically, her thin smile betraying her mood. “But it is good for you to stand up for yourself. Too many entrap themselves into a life of misery for a chance at success.”

“Now my temper is okay?” Rael raised an eyebrow.

“Moderation is key.” Astrid waved her staff in the air a few times, the tip only a few centimeters from Rael’s face. “My advice still stands. Pray that what you need and what you want do not conflict in the future. Just as people entrap themselves into miserable lives for success, so too are wanton desires poisonous. Short-term happiness can be the sweet resin that attracts a victim into its grasp. Enclosing them in amber, suffocating them until nothing but a bad memory remains.”

Not for the first time, Rael thinks about how Astrid and Wollow could have been great friends. They could imagine them sitting in comfortable chairs in Astrid’s hut and throwing metaphors at one another as they sip their tea.

“The forge-monkeys must gather materials, and I must consult some texts. Your recent trip has brought forth some interesting information.” The old woman began to walk away but paused.

“Ah, one more thing.” Astrid turned around and beckoned Rael close. “I expect you to visit me while you sleep, so long as you aren’t having one of those interesting dreams of yours.”

“Visit while I slee—?”

Norn Astrid shoved her tome-staff into Rael’s bruised gut, a torrential pour of energy spreading throughout their body. Collapsing to their knees, Astrid watched Rael carefully. Their tome unwillingly sprung into existence in their chest, a swell of information entering their head. ‘Not again.’ Rael inspected their tome, reading the new spell etching itself on the dagger’s blade.

[Dreamwalk].

Funnily enough, this was their first Second Circle spell, despite the Third and Fifth circle spells they already had. They were really not building a spell pool the normal way. ‘It’s the second time my tome is full. Does that make me the first Meta to have learned more than ten spells? Though technically, that happened after using [Synthesis] to make [Hydro-kinesis] …’ Potential ramifications aside, Rael wasn’t exactly pleased with Astrid. They wanted to say something, but the old woman’s expectant gaze quelled Rael’s outburst. The youth took a few deep breaths and grimaced, biting back a litany of remarks.

“Good.” Astrid could see Rael cutting their complaints short. “Smartass responses get you nothing but trouble. For now, I suggest you go rest. You’ve had an…intense day.” The crone swiveled around and waved as she hobbled toward the Norn’s Hall, her guards coming from the alleys to walk with her. “Go with the flow, Dragonward.”

Rael shook their head and rubbed their bruise. ‘She’s exactly like Wollow, from the know-it-all attitude to the obtuse advice shrouded in parable and metaphor.’ They blinked the blurriness from their eyes.

They walked to the shaman’s district, trying to remember where Bak offhandedly mentioned his hut was. The Dragonward focused on their tome, the etched text shifting into different words as Rael cycled through their spells.

‘[Ember], tier 8. Haven’t used it in a while.’ It made sense, as the small flame would be too dangerous to use near the calidaerum and was far outclassed in terms of utility by others’ spells. ‘[Minor Light], tier 10. Maxed out, but almost useless.’ Rael couldn’t deny they used it a lot. Whether it was rigging sails during the night shift or traveling into the dark cave to find the demon, it helped Rael see. Then again, it was easily replaced by a torch, the bottled fireflies they sometimes used in Feldon, or any number of allies’ spells. Azmond liked playing with the moving ball of light, but it was otherwise useless. The only advantage these two spells had was they were incredibly cost effective. They could be maintained for hours without Rael feeling any drain.

Rael hummed as they walked around the three Faulk drunkenly wrestling on the street, barely noticing the small gathering of people tossing silver and gold in a pot. ‘[Minor Mend] and [Minor Heal], both tier 5. Mend helps with fixing broken objects while heal closes cuts. Reliable in my past life but now…’ [Minor Mend] seen more use than [Minor Heal], fixing torn sails and fraying ropes. Not very helpful compared to the capabilities of other riggers, but still better than [Minor Heal].

Some screams echoed from behind Rael. The youth turned around to see what the ruckus was and was nearly bowled over by one of the wrestling Faulk. Her shirt was drenched in blood, her eyes shrunken pinpricks that saw past Rael for her escape.

“She stabbed him!” Someone yelled.

The wrestler pushed Rael and instinct took over. Rael swept her legs from underneath her. She slammed face first in the dirt. The wrestler tried to scrabble back to her feet, but found a knee firmly planted on her back and something sharp scraping the back of her neck.

“I suggest you sit still, or my dagger will dig much deeper.” Rael’s tome punctured the woman’s skin slightly, blood welling from the small injury. It was a familiar sight, a cold itch pulling at the scar beneath their navel.

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The wrestler was too scared to notice the slight tremble in Rael’s voice. If she summoned her own tome, would Rael be able to keep her promise? The woman’s labored breathing struggled beneath Rael’s knee and the pair waited for the other to act. Thankfully, the choice was taken from them when a couple of rough hands picked her up. The Dragonward backed away, letting the others bind the wrestler in rope. She said nothing. Her eyes were downcast as she allowed herself to be led away, toward the Norn’s Hall for judgment.

“We need a healer!”

“Is there a shaman?”

Rael focused on the trio tending to the wounded man, blood gushing from a deep cut in his abdomen. Rael wordlessly approached and pointed their tome at the victim.

“Don’t stab him again!” Someone yelled and reached for Rael.

“Shut up!” He was pulled away. “That’s the Dragonward. Their tome is a dagger.”

“[Minor Heal].” The injured man blinked woozily as Rael’s spell closed the stab wound, his shaking hand feeling his stomach. His hand came back slick with blood. Not the gushing flow it was before, but still enough blood lost to be worried about.

“You saved me.” He rasped.

“I just closed the skin.” Rael shook their head and motioned for his friends to lift him up. “You’re still bleeding internally.”

“Isn’t that where the blood is supposed to be?”

“Get him to a shaman, quickly.” Rael ignored him, instead speaking to his comrades. “He needs more help.”

“Thank you, Dragonward.” They bowed and hurried off with their wounded and confused friend.

If they didn’t get him to a proper healer in time, the man would die. Thus, the problem with [Minor Heal]: it was good for scrapes and small cuts, but not much else. Rael turned back onto the road, continuing to examine their spell list. ‘[Minor Cut], tier 7. Did decent damage against the demon. That’s when it tiered up last.’ [Minor Cut] wasn’t just effective, it had potential. Rael had witnessed what the higher Circle variant could do with he enchanted greatsword. When it was placed on an edge, it could turn a dangerous fighter into a deadly one.

‘Then, there’s [Minor Sense Life] at tier 8. Old reliable.’ If by some miracle, Rael could delete spells from their tome, they would still not remove the spell. It had…sentimental value. At some point, it became more than a gift from someone they’d bonded with in grief. More than proof that not everyone in their past life hated them. It allowed Rael to see the world beyond the confines of the slave ship in their darkest hour. It became one of the treasured spells in their repertoire that gave them an edge over others. This hunter’s spell switched Rael’s role on that airship from prey to predator. ‘If I get a chance between getting the higher circle [Sense Life] and [Cut], I’ll choose [Sense Life].’

Maybe because Rael was a softy deep down. They liked to think it was very deep down. They narrowly avoided a gaggle of children running through the alley. One of them tripped on a loose stone, stumbling to the ground and skinning his knee. Without even thinking about it, Rael pulled him to his feet by his arm, dusted him off, and cast [Minor Heal]. The kid, who was holding back tears, looked in awe at his healed knee.

“Thanks, miss!”

“Just Rael.” The Dragonward said automatically. They gestured to him to go, still mired in thought. The child ran off the meet with his friends, whispering as they saw him approach. Rael was oblivious to the attention of the kids and continued on their way.

‘[Minor Chill] at tier 6. Works well with [Hydro-kinesis], my only Third Circle spell, and my go-to offensive spell.’ Rael grimaced when they realized it was their only offensive spell. It was the base on which their other ‘offensive’ spells relied on. With good reason, considering the spell allowed far more water to be moved more precisely than [Shape Water], while also generating the water faster and in greater quantities than [Create Water]. The synthesized spell was greater than the sum of its parts, even considering increased energy drain. All in all, it was a versatile spell. Then there was the cornerstone to Rael’s success.

‘[Synthesis], fifth Circle. I only recently pushed it up to tier 3, despite using it so much since I got it.’ If [Hydro-kinesis] was versatile, [Synthesis] was mysterious and obtuse. It offered no real increase to Rael’s attack power but helped them in so many ways. It required more energy than [Minor Mend] but offered the same capabilities, and so much more. It didn’t stop at fixing things that were once broken, but it could also meld objects together and allow Rael to craft with unrivaled precision in new and interesting directions. Wollow’s last gift was beyond precious. It freed Rael from the bonds they thought limited all Meta. It freed them from the chains. It allowed them to survive the Bergin assault on the slave ship and be recognized as a smith worthy of a Faulk elder’s attention. Rael would call it life-changing, but they felt as if they were only scratching the surface of what [Synthesis] could become. ‘Life-changing’ was an understatement.

‘And now I’ve got [Dreamwalk], which I have no idea how to work.’ Rael was stopped by another crowd close to the shaman district. Well, less of a crowd and more of a massive brawl. Faulk were beating each other senseless, throwing meaty fists into each other’s faces, drowning each other in blows and raucous laughter. Craning their neck, Rael saw several spilled barrels of wine, streams of mauve running in streams downhill. The wind blew Rael’s way, the sent of rich elderberries almost inebriating them right there. Someone must have spilled the fine vintage and angered the owner. The fight would’ve spread from there. Thankfully, no weapons were drawn and no spells were fired, so the massive fistfight was an ‘innocent’ one. Rael shook their head and took an alleyway to go around.

The Faulk city was already dark with the constant overcast, but the looming buildings on each side of the alley plunged it into darkness. The sounds of the brawl faded away, and Rael was once again alone with their thoughts. It was in these deep shadows that fear crept up Rael’s spine. ‘What happens if someone tries to give me a spell again? It’s already happened twice. Both times, I was lucky to have a spell slot open. If it happens right now, I’d be exposed as a Meta.’ Rael pictured a man rushing from the shadows and forcing a spell on them. Their heart stampeded in their chest, eyes darting at every shape in the dark. A bit silly in hindsight, considering that someone leaping from a shadowy alleyway would be the last person to give someone a free spell. Fear is rarely rational. And fear drives people to do risky things. Stupid things.

‘Why not just use [Synthesis] to combine spells again?’

Simple enough in practice. When Rael had joined [Create Water] and [Water Control], the two spells had clicked together. As if they were meant to be. It was reasonable enough to think it would be the case for other spells.

‘Let’s try it. My two most useless spells, [Ember] and [Minor Light], could be synthesized. Worst case scenario, I get a weird third Circle spell and a free spell slot.’ Rael smugly looked at their tome, imagining the two spells clearly.

“[Synthesis].”

It was a time-honored tradition that young Faulk would make big mistakes in the dark alleyways of Stone Circle. An unwanted pregnancy, a drunken romp between friends, a dare gone wrong…these things had happened before. Credit to Rael for finding an entirely new way to fuck up.

The searing pain that burned Rael’s head was their only warning. They collapsed, clenching their hands to their head in a silent scream. Every synapse in their brain was on fire. Colors danced in their tunnelling vision. Rael writhed madly on the ground, every one of their muscles spasming intensely. The only thing on their mind was pain, and a desperate need to connect [Ember] and [Minor Light]. Another spasm coursed through their system, causing their legs to kick wildly against the nearby wall. Frothy bile climbed Rael’s throat, drowning their mouth in blood and their last meal. They forgot how to breathe. The colors began to bleed away, their entire life flashing before their eyes.

Rael’s mind latched onto the memory of Ty on the slave ship. When he stood at the wheel, watching people be subsumed by the monster, did his own life flash before his eyes? Or did he not have enough time, simply raising his hand and casting that spell with grim determination? Purple arcs of lightning jumped from his stretched arm. It didn’t reach far, but it was fast. Fast and effective, igniting the calidaerum closest to him and ending his own life while saving Rael and Azmond. It was light. It was fire. It was enough.

‘[Spark].’

Rael gasped for air. They pushed themselves onto their stomach, coughing up blood and vomit. Sickly fluids splashed against their hands, the acrid stench stinging Rael’s eyes. Every muscle screamed in pain as Rael pulled themselves up the side of the wall and limped out of the alleyway.

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Rael tried to summon their tome. A spasm shivered through them and a wave of nausea almost brought them to their knees. Rael’s blood ran cold. They tried again, pushing against some block until they broke through, the dagger jutting from their chest with a spike of agony Rael had never felt from it before. They pulled it out and looked over their new spell. Indeed, [Ember] and [Minor Light] were gone. In its place was [Spark], a second Circle spell. Rael grimaced. It wasn’t alone. There was another spell.

‘What in the Hells is [error:Null]?’ Rael thought incredulously as blood dribbled from their mouth.

Rael grumbled as they emerged from the alleyway. A few people saw them and gave them a wide berth. Partly because of their scowl. Mostly because coagulated trails of blood ran all over their face.

Somehow, Rael stumbled to Bak’s hut without further incident, limping to the closest bed. They stared at the bed, every part of their body screaming for a chance to rest. Azmond was in it. Rael collapsed by his side, the call to sleep too much for them to bear.

“There they are!” Bak’s voice called from the doorway. “Shieldmaiden Edith, I found them!”

The shieldmaiden walked into the hut, a wide grin on her face.

“It’s too early to sleep, Rael.” She chuckled as she towered over the bed. “We need to get you in better shape before the war really starts.”

With titanic effort, the Dragonward turned over and scowled. They could feel the dried blood flake off their face as they leveled the most poisonous glare they could muster towards her. For the first time since Rael met her, Edith flinched.

“Wow.” Edith scratched her head. “Never mind, you look like shit.”

“Mffgh.” Rael agreed.

“Tomorrow, then?” The shieldmaiden offered.

“Grrmgf.” Rael lifted a weak hand up to make a very rude gesture.

“Fine, the day after tomorrow.” Edith conceded with a shrug.

“Mmrh.”

“Hey Bak?” Edith called to the shaman. “Could you make sure Rael eats?”

“What?” The shaman approached the bed, mug of ale in hand, his cheeks rosy with alcohol. When he saw Rael’s condition he jumped back, spilling ale everywhere. “By the dragons, what the Hells happened to Rael? They look like they got into a fight with a rabid swamp panther!”

It hurt to frown, but Rael managed.

“Fghyu.”

Bak managed to nurse Rael and Azmond back to health in two days. A testament to his skill? Perhaps. Encouraged by a weakened Rael’s scowls and shieldmaiden Edith’s constant prodding? Definitely.

Azmond recovered faster than Rael. The Dragonward had to admit, once again, they were more brittle than the young boy. It still hurt to move after two days, but at least they could move. Bak was befuddled by their condition, his deluge of questions crashing fruitlessly against Rael’s stubbornness. Though Rael had to admit defeat in one aspect: they couldn’t bring Azmond to see Bleffy while they were bedridden. They reluctantly pushed Bak to set up the playdate. Which left Rael alone in the hut. Until Edith came back.

“Look who’s up and about!” Her sardonic smile stretched across her lips. Rael stared pointedly at their legs, still confined to their bed. “In a manner of speaking.” Edith shrugged, her grin not leaving her face.

“Shieldmaiden.” The Dragonward’s mouth was dry and uncomfortable. Edith pulled up a chair to sit by Rael.

“Can you walk?” She leaned forwards. “Jarl Feldon wants you to see something.”

Rael moved their legs and winced. “I don’t think that’s going to happen…”

“I do.” Edith’s smile widened. The giant woman picked up Rael like a baby and stood up.

“Hey!” Rael flushed and squirmed, wincing as they tried to struggle out of Edith’s grip.

“Either I carry you like this, or over my shoulder.” Edith stood up, smirking down at Rael.

“I choose neither! Haven’t you ever heard of bedrest?” Rael growled as their limbs flailed all over the place.

“You need some fresh air.” The Shieldmaiden ignored Rael’s weak struggles. “The more you squirm, the more likely I’ll carry you over my shoulder.”

Rael stopped moving. They were already sore, and Rael doubted that being held over the giant woman’s shoulder would do their aches any good. They crossed their arms grumpily and allowed themselves to be carried out of the hut. It was quiet outside, only a few shamans milling about. Those that did often found their attention wandering, turning to look at the omrads every few minutes. Rael was too busy pouting to notice until they made their way through the streets. It was nearly empty, faded cheering echoing through empty alleyways and sparse streets.

“Where is everyone?” Rael wondered aloud.

“Upset nobody seeing you being princess-carried away?” Edith chuckled.

“Ha-ha.” Rael rolled their eyes. “I’m no princess.”

“You absolutely aren’t.” Edith nodded eagerly. “You lack refinement, grace…” Rael scowled at the Shieldmaiden. “And you can kick ass like nobody’s business.”

The youth looked away bashfully. Edith carried them up a few more streets in silence.

“You really think so?”

“Fledgling warriors face different roadblocks.” Edith kept their head straight ahead and hummed. “Though maybe I should say we all face different challenges. The things you’ve been through…it’s a lot for someone your age. It’s a lot for someone my age.”

“Sounds like you’re making excuses for me.” Rael said gruffly.

“Not at all. You’ve been diligent. Beating people ten years your senior in physical matches is nothing to scoff at.” Edith met Rael’s gaze with a rare, genuine smile. “Not to mention your decisiveness. The mark of success is found in those who don’t let their fears and surprise slow them down.”

“They would’ve clobbered me if they used magic.” Rael summoned their tome in their hand, the glint of the blade catching Edith’s gaze for a moment.

 “A tale as old as history.” Edith ignored Rael’s sour expression. “Train the body or train magic? The physical word or the magical one? Spell or steel? One offers extraordinary power, and the other is weak but reliable. I’ve always thought it was hard to live without magic, but impossible without your body.”

Could Rael have survived their recent synthesis failure without a strong body? Rael didn’t want to think of the possibility, the shame of what could have been burning in the pit of their stomach. But if they were normal, they wouldn’t need to rely on their body or weird spells as much. If Rael was normal, they’d still be with their family. They’d still be Raela Greenthistle, the smith’s capricious daughter. But she’d be able to cast more than ten spells, she’d be able to be more than a stain on her family. She’d bond with Tipple over their magic, and probably take over the smithy when Yolfis messed up one too many times. She’d eventually get the respect of her family and her village. But that person wouldn’t be Rael. Rael, who’d escaped a slave ship. Rael, who survived the shipwreck. Rael, who killed demons. Rael, Dragonward and protector of Azmond.

“Were my words that deep?” Edith broke Rael out of their thoughts.

“Just thinking about my past. What I could have done differently. How I could’ve been different.” Rael said as they tried to figure out where the distant cheering was coming from. It sounded like it was coming from the dock Omrad.

“Stone Circle has a way of doing that.” Rael’s inquisitive gaze prompted her to continue. “It’s an archaic place, the steps long worn by centuries of Faulk footsteps. It has a way of bringing the past back to us. Not just the ‘what if’s that plague us in our sleepless nights, but old bonds and ancient debts. It is where the voices of the dead call to us, where old scars open again.”

Rael looked over the buildings of Stone Circle with a new perspective. Indeed, the steps were worn down to shallow troughs. The walls of the oldest buildings smooth from generations of trailing hands. There was just enough light to spot a thousand young lovers’ names, etched in the alleyways. Some names had faded beyond legibility, others smooth and old, and yet more carved as recently as that year.

Even the granite benches along the road were weathered by countless tired people, curved as if pressed under the weight of every Faulk who had ever sat down on them. Every part of Stone Circle spoke of ancient history, yet it was lived in and dynamic. A crumbling wall was replaced and supported by younger, rough stone. Some steps stood out, flat and rectangular without any moss or algae creeping into the cracks. Pieces of history that could not survive the rigors of a lived space, replaced and forgotten by pieces that would eventually follow their fate.

“You are not the only one haunted by spirits.” Shieldmaiden Edith’s eyes were distant, lost in a different time. “Others must deal with more…present voices.”

Rael understood what she meant. They’d seen it at the Norn’s Hall. Old rivalries sparked between captains and jarls, personal histories crisscrossing in a mad tapestry. Rael was almost afraid to pull at any strings they found, lest they unravel an entangle in a feud spanning generations. It reminded Rael of one of Wollow’s last words of wisdom. ‘You may eventually learn that chains are the easiest kind of bonds to escape from.’ In a way, the ‘ghosts’ that haunted Rael weren’t as real as the ones that loomed over every Faulk. Rael owed nothing to the previous Dragonwards, but the Faulk had their own bonds. Families, blood-debts, oaths…Rael was barely connected to it all. What would happen if Rael got too close? How enmeshed were they in this web of honor and merits?

“I’m going to carry you over the shoulder now.”

Before Rael could say anything, Edith hoisted them on her shoulder and climbed a ladder on the side of one of the bigger buildings. Rael felt like a cat being picked up and carried around. They had a terrible grimace when the Shieldmaiden picked them off her shoulder and dropped them gently on a chair facing the dock Omrad. Sitting comfortably next to them was Feldon, who was looking through a telescope.

“Ah, Dragonward Rael.” Feldon did not look away from the docks. “I wanted to thank you for helping Smith Gault in the contest. If you had not been there…” Feldon smacked his lips distastefully. “I would not be in the running for High Jarl.”

Rael settled down, acutely aware of their porter standing behind them.

“You don’t strike me as the type of person who would want to be High Jarl.” Rael muttered.

“And you’d be right.” Feldon chuckled good-naturedly. “I’ve lost enough hair from being Jarl. A position that was thrust upon me, I assure you.” He squinted intensely through the telescope. “But if Erikar becomes High Jarl, I would have a good deal more to worry about.”

 

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Feldon passed the telescope to Rael and pointed toward the Omrad. It was close enough that Rael had to crane their neck back to see the very top, but still too far to tell what the tiny people were doing. Rael took the offered spyglass and peeked through it.

A man with silvery skin punched another rippling with muscles. The muscular man caught the punch, his tattoos glowing and unpeeling from his skin to wrap around his opponent. The silver man tried to struggle against his bonds, but it was no use. The muscular man swung him around, knocking him into a few others, and threw him off the Omrad. Rael sucked in a breath, fearing the worst. Thankfully, the man was caught in a green bubble and was gently lowered into a crowd of similarly grumpy Faulk. They were all looking at an hourglass suspended over the gates on the Omrad’s stairs. When it flipped over, the warriors cheered and rushed up the stairs to fight again.

Scenes like this played out all over the Omrad: A woman spitting out a jet of flame towards a group of people, only for a stone man to tackle her to the ground. A man who sued his long beard as a way to wield several weapons at once, crying out in sorrow when someone’s sword cut his beard short. Another man walking leisurely up a set of stairs to a higher floor, everyone that attempted to get close to him falling asleep. A woman curled up in a ball, bouncing all over the place, knocking people over every which way. Sometimes, someone would get stabbed or bludgeoned. Rather than falling dead, a bright light would flash from their bodies and they’d be sent careening over the side of the Omrad, caught in green bubbles.

“Another contest?” Rael bit their lip to hide an excited smile. ‘If it wrong of me to think that it looks fun?’

“One you wouldn’t be able to join.” Feldon saw through Rael’s thoughts. “Considering your injury. Which makes me curious.”

Rael pulled away from the telescope. Jarl Feldon’s tone grew sharp, his jaw set forwards and the hair on his head rising with his temper.

“Did someone do that to you?” His words were laced with so much venom that Rael flinched. Feldon’s nostrils flared and blew gusts through his beard like a storm bends trees in a forest. His normally calm eyes blazed with an intense, violent fury. “You need to tell me if they did. You are my guest, and a guest of Stone Circle. Had someone attacked you, I will rain retribution on them with such fervor that tales would be told for generations of their misery.”

“Woah, woah.” Rael held up their hands and shook their head vigorously. “I hurt myself with my own magic. Nobody hurt me.”

“I hope you are telling the truth.” Feldon’s temper simmered down. “And you don’t plan on dealing with your problems alone out of some misplaced sense of pride.” Rael almost scoffed at the thought. But the Dragonward realized that they might have done that if they were attacked. “What manner of spell causes these injuries?”

“Uh.” Rael froze.

“Looked like rebound.” Edith leaned over them and interjected. She noticed Rael’s confusion and shook her head. “You really are from the boonies, huh?”

“Edith.” Jarl Feldon looked up to meet his wife in the eyes as Rael bristled. “We often forget that other countries don’t have the reliable communication systems we or the Bergin have. Rael’s ignorance is no fault of theirs.”

“Fine, fine. It’s not like you know either.” Edith crouched by Rael to explain. “It takes intense study and careful guidance to combine spells. If someone stubbornly melds spells together to make a higher circle spell without an idea of how they fit together…you get rebound. Most people have the sense to give up before that happens. Apparently, not you.”

Rael smiled sheepishly, the tall woman’s stare boring down into them. Feldon waved her away, putting a comforting hand on Rael’s shoulder.

“Mistakes happen, Rael. They make great teachers.” He turned his attention back to the Omrad and pointed towards one of the higher levels. “Take this opportunity to learn from the mistakes of others.”

The Dragonward nodded, aiming the spyglass at the topmost level. The fights at the top were the most vicious; snarling men and women beat at each other with war hammers, axes, and swords, unflinching and all-too-willing to draw blood. Every hit on their bodies caused them to flash, brighter and brighter with each successive hit. Until the light around them cracked. That’s when they were sent flying out of the Omrad, bouncing off anything and everything until they were in the open air. Most of the fighting was concentrated on and around the platforms like the one Rael used in their spars. Groups would join together to knock off the people on the platform, then fight amongst themselves or others that tried to take their place. Wasn’t this a game Rael had played in Tulip’s Hold?

“I was the best at king of the hill.” Rael grumbled as they focused the lens to focus on the fighters.

“Maybe if you didn’t go through rebound, you’d be up there.” Edith chided as she poked Rael in the side.

“How are they counting points, anyways?” Rael flinched as they watched one of the bigger men get launched into his friends, bowling a dozen people over the edge.

“Enchantments and unity spells.” Feldon pointed at the roots of the Omrad.

Gathered around the top of the hill was an orchestra of shamans, each channeling their magic into an enchantment or a more experienced elder shaman. Just by looking at them, Rael could feel the pressure of the magical energies push against their eyes. At the center of it all was a willowy old woman, one hand held directly beneath the Omrad’s center. Norn Astrid, surrounded by her three mute assistants, held the nexus of the complex spell in the palm of her hand. Her other hand was shoveling food into her mouth.

‘Makes sense, that array must consume loads of energy.’ Rael blinked the stars from their vision and looked away. Connected to the streams of magic were massive gourds that trickled water into ten different colored troughs. Every time a new group new took possession of one of the stages, the gourd would turn and fill up another bucket. ‘They’re using water clocks.’ Some water clocks would only drip water, while the larger gourds flowed into the troughs. The trough that was the most filled was a red one marked with an axe lodged into a skull wearing a crown. Jarl Erikar’s emblem. Several gourds flowed into his trough, turning away every now and then to fill some other Jarl’s trough.

‘The top level gives the most points. Makes sense, since you’d have to slog through ten floors with enough men to hold a position.’

Rael focused back on the topmost level, noting with a frown that most of Jarl Erikar’s men dominated the level. They rushed through the highest floor, tearing into their opponents like wild animals. Their spells all shared similar themes, the tattoos on their bodies lighting up and peeling off their skin to attack their foes. Sometimes it was simple lines used as whips, other times weapons that jumped off their skin and into the fray, and yet more had animals that reached off their bodies to attack. ‘Tattoo magic? With their tome-warriors helping, no wonder they’re winning. They’ve got everyone outnumbered.’

That wasn’t to say they alone kept all of the daises to themselves. Two other groups were capable enough to push Erikar’s men off. Rael recognized the first easily enough, their enchanted weapons flashing with every swipe. Where most warriors were comfortable with blocking a foe’s weapon with their own, most avoided the enchanted weapons entirely. One unlucky sap blocked a sword with his shield, only to be sent flying off the edge when the blade cut right through it. Rael swore they could hear him cry mournfully; it looked to be an expensive iron kite shield. ‘If Jarl Moryn’s people aren’t careful, they’re going to damage the Omrad.’ Rael was worried for nothing. A fighter wasn’t precise enough and cut accidentally through one of the branches. She looked at the ichor oozing from the cut branch, mortified. The wood regenerated quickly, but not before sending a beam of energy into the stunned fighter, shooting her into the abyss. Naturally, there were punishments for damaging the Omrad.

Rael didn’t know the other group, but it was clear they worked together better than Moryn or Erikar’s warriors. They shared similar elemental spells, using clouds of fog to hide their movements, clumps of mud to slow down their enemies, and shards of ice to eliminate them. They moved in groups of six to take control of the stages that were less defended, and when it seemed as if they were being pushed back, they’d retreat and regroup with other groups that had lost members. Rael was curious about this tactic until they realized the long-term benefits. Less people eliminated as the teams ‘respawned’ meant they had a more consistent force throughout the entire game. By paying attention to the gourds and troughs counting points, Rael identified their emblem as a mangrove emerging from fog. They were tied for second with Moryn, her own white balance emblem gleaming proudly on the glossy black trough.

“Who are the ones with the green trough?” Rael whistled. “They’ve got a great strategy.”

“Those are Jarl Trygyve’s men.” Jarl Feldon’s frown lightened at Rael’s confusion. “Yes, the Jarl who got kidnapped. Trygyve’s half-brother, Brenwyn, is leading them in his stead. You can see why they’re still in the running.”

‘But where are Feldon’s men?’

There was nobody Rael could recognize on the top level. Yet when they found Feldon’s emblem on the troughs, they couldn’t hide their surprise. The downward sword emblem marked a humble rust-orange trough, drinking greedily from more gourds than any other team. The smallest water-clocks trickled a few drops into it, but together they filled it up quickly. Not to mention three of the larger gourds flowing water into them. Not as quickly as the biggest, but consistently and reliably.

From the bottom, familiar faces jumped out at the Dragonward on each of the stages. Piles of tables and benches arranged around the daises acted as fortifications, defended by small groups of three. Most of their opponents passed them by, unwilling to drudge through the defenses for a measly few points. It was like this that Feldon’s men could hold the first three floors with minimal effort, monopolizing eight zones with only two dozen men.

“Captain Brenwyn is a skilled tactician.” Feldon smiled when Rael, flabbergasted, turned his way. The Jarl shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “I chose the more efficient route, taking advantage of peers’ lack of experience in holding positions.”

Most of Feldon’s remaining forces kept to the eighth floor, headed by Ulric and Derrol. Ulric’s tome stood behind him, holding up its arm in the direction of different groups of enemies. They’d charge towards Ulric and his men when something would pass over them. They all collapsed over each other, clutching their ears and puking. Ulric’s tome put down its hand as he raised his bow to pick off the stragglers. His men used similar tactics to disorient their foes with splashes of color, swarms of insects, or nauseous green fog. Then they’d leap in and deal devastating damage, slashing and hacking at their opponents until they shot out of the Omrad.

Derrol’s group was more savage and mobile than Ulric’s. While the first group could competently hold down an area on their own, Derrol and his group ran between two capture zones like twin rivers, gathering momentum to crash into any forces that tried to push them out. Their spells were more physically-oriented, showcasing titanic strength and speed as their weapons clashed oddly with their opponents. When Rael looked closer, they realized that most of them weren’t wearing armor, but spell constructs that kept them safe from major blows. Every time someone hit one of them, all their armor would dim slightly. ‘A unified spell? [Harmony]? What the Hells are their spells?’

Derrol was the most ferocious of all, lapping his men constantly, even wielding his ridiculously large great axe. Even so, he wielded it with the grace of a dancer, cleaving through his foes with ease. Not even dodging out of the way of the axe would save them; Derrol was able to turn his weapon on a pin, its form blurring strangely and slamming into them no matter how far away they jumped. Very few were lucky enough to avoid the worst of Derrol’s charge, but they quickly fell to the stampede that followed him.

Rael tried to find Kip’s distinctive curly brown hair among any of the groups. A few minutes of searching later, they gave up. ‘Did he not end up joining? No way. The guy has got something to prove.’

“Where’s Kip?” Rael mumbled as they tried to focus the spyglass.

“Try the top three floors.” Derrol shared a knowing smirk with his wife.

There wasn’t much to see on the top three floors aside from Moryn, Trygyve, and Erikar’s men mired in a constant cycle of competition. Except for a strange band of warriors running up and down the three floors, attacking everyone they passed. Strange because they lacked all armor except helmets, choosing instead to run around in loincloths, their oiled bodies bare to the world. The only exception were the tome-warriors that followed them mechanically, yet just as immune to shame.

“No.” The Dragonward gaped. They recognized one of the tomes.

They ran into a troupe trying to make their way up to the nineth floor, their leader a beast of a man covered in scars and furs. The fastest and oiliest of the group disappeared in a flash, reappearing a second later behind the leader. His limbs stiffened, the near-naked man wrestling him to the ground. As the leader was grappled into submission, the rest of the group was thrown into confusion. Some tried to cast spells or attack the oily man, but he just twisted around so the weakened leader would take the blows instead. The others were soon assaulted to the ground by the rest of the oily group. The first oily man brought his head up…and slammed it into his opponent’s face. Once, twice, three times, and the light broke. The warrior howled as he soared off the Omrad, his companions soon following.

The band of oily warriors got up and ran off again to assault some other group of warriors. They rushed through the three floors, leaving chaos and confusion in their wake. They never attacked zones, instead intercepting opponents rushing to join their allies. Their own casualty rate wasn’t low; the group lost most of its members throughout their blitz attacks. But when the respawn timer ended, they were the quickest to rejoin their fellows, leaving slippery tracks in their wake that slowed down everyone else. The only one that never got blown off the Omrad was the swift leader of the group, the one followed by a tome-warrior in chinampa farmer clothing. Kip.

“How is he casting so many spells without getting tired?” Rael furrowed their brow.

Kip’s speed was obviously enhanced, not to mention the ludicrous drain from the teleportation spell he used without any concern for his reserves.

“He’s pretty good, isn’t he?” Shieldmaiden Edith beamed. “I scouted him out when he was still a little scamp. His spell build is genius.” She glanced at Rael, who was lost in thought. Rael had to admit that Edith was right. He was only a few years older than Rael, yet his skills equaled captains like Derrol and Ulric. Edith snapped her fingers to get their attention. “Don’t tell him I said that. If his head gets any bigger, it won’t fit inside the helm.”

“What do you notice from his fighting, Dragonward?” Feldon prodded. “What makes him different from Derrol or Ulric?”

Rael didn’t need to think about it. “The only weapon he uses is his helmet, to bludgeon people as he gets them in a grapple. But more than that, he doesn’t get tired.”

True, Derrol could zoom around and leave a path of devastation in his wake. Ulric could spray foes with a debilitating beam, then pick them off from a distance. But Derrol stopped every few laps to rest behind his men, and Ulric had enough time to recover between every push. Their magic use was measured and precise, seemingly wild but without mistakes.

Kip didn’t care about mistakes. He jumped into the fray, slipped around, grappled the biggest target, and ran away if things didn’t go his way. His spells were as subtle yet feral as Derrol, with his strange spells and ferocious swings, yet as debilitating and confusing as Ulric’s stunning spell. Even when he lost, he managed to get away and leave his opponent weaker and stiff, sure to lose his next encounter.

“He’s not aiming for victory.” Rael realized. “He’s just there to ruin their day.”

“And he can keep going with a spell most believe to be fundamentally flawed.” Feldon nodded. “[Strength Sap] is one of those rare spells that can reinvigorate the spellcaster. In this case by stealing the vitality of the opponent.”

“That doesn’t sound flawed.” Rael was already considering what spell they’d like to replace with [Strength Sap]. ‘The freaky null spell or whatever. Definitely.’

“You need prolonged skin contact for it to work.” Shieldmaiden Edith’s statement stopped Rael’s thoughts in their tracks. “The more skin contact, the more you drain.”

“Ah.” Rael pursed their lips, the image of them standing tall over a pile of battered opponents disappearing quickly. They had to shake their head to remove the image of themselves oiled up and in the nude.

“That, [Blink], and [Joint Lock] make him the second-best wrestler in Feldon.” The Jarl hummed, a hint of pride in his voice. Rael was about to ask who was the best, but Edith’s smug grin let them know the answer already.

A distant bell echoed throughout Stone Circle, and a chorus of cheers from every occupied roof in the city filled the air. The fighters in the Omrad sheathed their weapons and sat down. The contest of might was over.

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