Chapter Ten: Campfire Stories

  "Move your feet, Rosalia! If you lose balance, you're dead!" Amalia did not take a passive approach to training this afternoon. Her violet eyes tracked every movement with predatory focus, missing nothing as the group practiced their combat forms.

  She moved around them with fluid grace, staff in hand, the white wood catching the afternoon sunlight. Her black robes barely stirred despite her constant movement, as if they were part of her shadow. She barked out instructions whenever she saw a mistake, her voice sharp as a blade against stone.

  There were a lot of mistakes.

  The clearing they had chosen for practice was wide, trampled grass creating an impromptu training ground. Birdsong provided a cheerful counterpoint to the grunts of exertion and thwacks of wooden practice weapons. Sweat beaded on foreheads and dampened clothes as the afternoon sun beat down on them, relentless in its intensity.

  Every once in a while Amalia would lash out with her staff, smashing it into whatever part of their body happened to be open at the time. The wood connected with flesh with painful precision, leaving bruises that would bloom by morning. She showed no mercy, gave no quarter, her face remaining impassive as she inflicted her lessons upon them.

  "Be aware of your surroundings! Or..." Her voice trailed off, allowing them to fill in the blank.

  "Die, we know, Light curse you," Nick growled, rubbing at a fresh bruise on his forearm. His dark skin glistened with sweat, and his normally neat beard was disheveled from exertion. Frustration radiated from him like heat from a forge.

  Will laughed, his head thrown back, Adam's apple bobbing. The sound echoed in the clearing, bright and carefree despite their grueling practice. But his merriment was cut short when Amalia's staff bonked him on the head, the wood connecting with his skull with a hollow thud.

  "Ow!" He rubbed the top of his head, face scrunched up in pain, his previously laughing eyes now narrowed in discomfort. A red mark was already forming where the staff had struck.

  "Perhaps you should spend more time paying attention, and less time making fun, master Al'Seen." Amalia's voice was cool, carrying no hint of satisfaction at landing the blow. Her face remained a mask of indifference, though something flickered in her eyes, too quick to name.

  Will scowled, but squared his stance, adjusting his grip on his wooden sword. His feet shifted on the grass, finding better purchase. Rosalia smiled at him apologetically, her green eyes warm with sympathy, before attempting to bash him with her wooden sword. The practice weapon whooshed through the air, lacking finesse but making up for it with enthusiasm.

  Ash, for his part, felt right for once. Whenever he held the wooden sword, something clicked deep within him, a connection that felt as natural as breathing. He couldn't really explain it, he hardly knew it himself, but the blade felt like an extension of his arm, a part of him that had been missing until now.

  The wood was warm in his palm, worn smooth by countless hands before his. As he moved through the forms Amalia had taught them, the sword seemed to guide him as much as he guided it. His body knew what to do before his mind could form the thoughts, flowing from stance to stance with a grace he'd never possessed before.

  As a result, he hardly got called out by Amalia. Her stoic expression never changed, but there was an emotion within her amethyst gaze he couldn't place. Something like recognition, perhaps, or memories stirring beneath the surface. She watched him more closely than the others, her attention a weight he could feel even when his back was turned.

  She did try to hit him with her staff, approaching silently from his blind side while he was engaged with Nick. But Ash felt a seconds warning, a shift in the afternoon air that hadn't been there before, a prickling at the back of his neck. He pivoted smoothly, bringing his wooden blade up to parry the blow away from him, the weapons connecting with a satisfying clack.

  This time there was a crack in her mask, and a brief flash of shock crossed her face before it was gone, the stoic expression back in place. Something had surprised her, and Ash found himself wondering what it could be. Had she not expected him to sense her approach? Or was it his skill with the blade that caught her off guard?

  Nick was not doing nearly as well opposite him. The dwarf's compact, powerful frame was built for strength, not grace, and the sword seemed awkward in his hands, too light and balanced differently than the hammer he preferred. Amalia poked his feet with her staff, the wood prodding at his boots.

  "Wrong! Here, and here." Her corrections were precise but terse, offering no encouragement, only pointing out what needed to be fixed. She demonstrated the proper stance, her own feet perfectly positioned, then waited for Nick to mimic her.

  But no matter how many times he got hit, or how many times she corrected his footing, Nick looked like an awkward child about to throw a tantrum. His face was flushed with frustration, beads of sweat trickling down his temples. He couldn't land a single blow on Ash, who seemingly knew what Nick was going to do before he did it.

  Ash could read the dwarf's intentions in the tension of his shoulders, the shift of his weight, the flicker of his eyes. Each time Nick prepared to strike, Ash was already moving to counter, his body flowing like water around stone. It wasn't just skill; it was something deeper, an intuition that bordered on prescience.

  "Shadows take this fucking sword! I'm no good with it." Nick's voice cracked with frustration as he threw the wooden practice sword to the ground. It bounced once, then lay still in the trampled grass, discarded like his patience. He stalked away, boots stamping the ground, muttering curses under his breath. His broad shoulders were hunched with irritation, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  Amalia let him go, her face revealing nothing. No disappointment, no anger, not even resignation. She simply watched him leave, then turned her attention back to the others as if nothing had happened. The training continued without pause, the remaining students working harder to fill the space Nick had left.

  After sword training, it was back to training with elar and elan. The sun had begun its descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the clearing and painting the clouds in shades of amber and gold. The air had cooled slightly, offering some relief from the day's heat.

  They sat in a circle, legs crossed, backs straight. Amalia paced around them, her staff tapping a gentle rhythm against the ground as she spoke.

  "When you hold your elar, I want you to breathe in through your nose, and then push the breath out fast out of your mouth. Do this repeatedly." Her voice had taken on a different quality, softer, almost hypnotic. She demonstrated the breathing technique, her chest rising slowly, then falling in a swift exhalation.

  Everyone did as she bade, except for Ash. Rosalia's eyes were closed, her face peaceful as she breathed, a soft golden light beginning to shimmer around her fingertips. Will's brow was furrowed in concentration, but a faint blue glow was visible around his hands. Even from where he sat, Ash could hear Nick's deep, rhythmic breathing from where he had rejoined the group, a grudging participant once more.

  Ash tried as hard as he could to draw his elar, focusing on that winter orb within himself, attempting to bridge the chasm that separated him from its power. He pictured pulling the light across, imagined the cold spreading through his limbs, but no matter how he tried, it never worked. The light remained tantalizingly out of reach, a feast viewed through a window he couldn't open.

  Amalia offered no support, no encouragement. She knew he couldn't draw it out, he could see that much in her blasted dark purple gaze, and it made him grind his teeth in frustration. Did she enjoy watching him fail? Was this some kind of test? Or did she simply not care?

  But he kept trying nonetheless, refusing to give up, until Amalia called an end to the training. His determination was a cold fire in his chest, pushing him to continue long past the point where others might have surrendered to despair.

  By this time the sun was setting, its light smoldering out into deep amber and violet streaks across the darkening sky. The first stars were beginning to appear, silver pinpricks against the gathering dusk. The air had grown cooler, the day's warmth fading with the light.

  They had set up camp in a small clearing surrounded by ancient trees, their trunks wider than a man's embrace. The smell of loamy earth and pine resin hung in the air, mingling with the scent of woodsmoke as their campfire crackled to life. Night birds called to one another in the deepening shadows, their songs both familiar and alien.

  Dinner was made, with Amalia once again making meat, spices, and vegetables appear out of thin air. She never explained where these supplies came from, just as she never explained most of her actions. The food was plentiful and flavorful, satisfying after a day of hard training, and they ate in relative silence, too hungry for conversation.

  The fire cast dancing shadows across their faces, illuminating weary expressions and sore bodies. They sat on logs or stones gathered around the flames, the warmth a welcome comfort as night's chill settled in. Stars wheeled overhead, countless and ancient, looking down on their small circle of light as they had on countless others before.

  Before bed, with the fire crackling merrily, its smoke drifting into the sky like a gray serpent, Will broke the comfortable silence.

  "Would you tell a story, Amalia?" His voice was hesitant, almost childlike in its request. The flames reflected in his eyes, giving them a warm glow at odds with his usually cocky demeanor.

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  Amalia looked up from where she had been staring into the fire, her violet eyes reflecting the dancing flames, turning them into amethyst pools.

  "Hmm. What story would you like to hear, Master Al'Seen?" Her voice carried no particular inflection, neither eager to please nor reluctant to entertain.

  Will looked away, suddenly seeming younger than his years, his voice soft and almost shy, "I want to hear about the Nythum."

  A hush fell over the group, the only sound being the burning of the flames, the soft pop and crackle of wood consumed by fire. The name seemed to carry weight, significance beyond the syllables that formed it. Even the night creatures seemed to quiet, as if listening for what would come next.

  "A child's tale, Master Al'Seen? This is the story you want to hear?" There was no mockery in Amalia's voice, only a mild curiosity, perhaps a hint of surprise.

  Will shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in the firelight, then nodded, his eyes meeting hers across the flames. There was something vulnerable in his gaze, a need for comfort, for familiarity in a world that had suddenly become much more frightening.

  Violet eyes drifted to each one of them, measuring, assessing. "And you all? You wish to hear this tale as well?"

  They all nodded, drawn by curiosity and the prospect of losing themselves in a story, however briefly. Stories offered escape, understanding, a framework for making sense of a world that sometimes seemed senseless. After what they had witnessed in Deharra, they all needed that escape, that moment of reprieve.

  Amalia took a breath, her grip tightening on her staff, fingers flexing around the smooth white wood. It was a small gesture, but notable for someone who usually revealed so little. "Very well then."

  She shifted slightly, settling into the role of storyteller. Her posture straightened, her gaze grew more distant, as if seeing beyond the firelight to the events she was about to describe. When she spoke, her voice had changed, taking on a resonance and depth that hadn't been there before. It filled the clearing, wrapping around them like a spell.

  Amalia began to speak, and the world beyond the circle of firelight seemed to fade away.

  "After the Hero of Light sacrificed himself that day, and the Light departed, time marched on." Her voice painted images in the air, as vivid as if they were seeing them with their own eyes. "The Dragon Lords founded the city of Drakosia, and for a time there was relative peace. It was during this period that the elf known as Adonai Silverblade began to unite the elven tribes in Elendari."

  The fire seemed to shift, revealing glimpses of a magnificent city of spires and domes, of proud figures with dragons at their sides. Then the image changed, showing a tall, silver haired elf with eyes like chips of emerald, addressing a crowd of his kin. The visions weren't real, couldn't be real, yet they all saw them, products of Amalia's voice and their own imaginations.

  "That was the only conflict to truly speak of, at the time," she continued, her voice dropping slightly, taking on a darker tone. "But Shadow is a patient thing. Its prison was well made, but though it was outside creation, it could still wrap around it. Its presence could still be felt. As it so often had before, it corrupted the hearts and minds of people."

  The fire dimmed, the flames turning purple-black for a heartbeat before returning to their natural hue. Shadows lengthened around them, reaching like fingers toward the circle of listeners.

  "Among these were five dragon lords, heroes of the armies of light, each with numerous accolades to their names. Many speculate how such great heroes could have fallen to the Shadow's temptation, but if any know the real reasons, they have not offered up the knowledge." Something in her voice changed on these words, a subtle shift in cadence that might have been regret, or old anger long banked.

  "These once great heroes began to sow evil across the land, performing profane rituals, and calling forth things from the Nevervare best left alone." Her voice conjured images of dark ceremonies, of blood spilled upon stone altars, of things crawling through tears in reality. Ash felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air, a primal fear of the dark and what might lurk within it.

  "Weakened, but unwilling to allow this evil to fester, the Light descended once more." The atmosphere shifted, the crushing dread giving way to a tentative hope. The firelight seemed to brighten, casting back the encroaching shadows.

  "But this time, it did so in secret, taking the form of a lowly beggar, he went to the village of Rhaul." Amalia's voice softened, becoming almost conversational, as if she were telling them about events she had witnessed herself.

  "Rhaul wasn't a large village, with barely more than twenty people inhabiting it. It was here that the Light, disguised as a weak old beggar, hoped to find those pure of heart." The image of a small cluster of buildings appeared in the fire, a humble settlement unremarkable in every way save for the presence now walking its single street.

  "As the days passed, with the Light sitting there, waiting for anyone, even one person to notice him, he began to doubt." There was something in her voice, a weariness, a disappointment that spoke of deeper understanding than mere storytelling.

  "A smith passed him by one day, but spat on the beggar," her voice deepened, taking on a coarse, male quality, "'Useless old cur! Save us all some trouble and keel over, would ya?'"

  Her imitation was perfect, startlingly so, as if the smith himself had spoken those cruel words in their midst. Ash saw Rosalia flinch slightly at the harshness, her hands tightening around her knees.

  "The Light continued to wait, even as the smith visited another man's wife, committing adultery, for he too was also married under the Light." There was no judgment in her voice, only a statement of fact, yet something in her tone made them all feel the weight of the transgression.

  "The next day the town huntress crossed the street to get away from him, her pale face looking disgusted." Again Amalia's voice changed, higher this time, pinched with disdain. "'You reek, old thing. At least bathe!'"

  Will shifted uncomfortably, perhaps recognizing something of himself in the callous dismissal. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by a pensive frown.

  "Three adventurers past him by the next, and not one of them helped him. Rather, one with a sword said," her voice became harder, cruel and mocking, "'I could lop off his head, that oughta put him out of his misery, eh?'" She switched to a deeper voice, full of false joviality, "'He grinned at the ranger beside him.'"

  The casual cruelty was all too believable, too human. They had all seen such behavior, perhaps even been guilty of it themselves in smaller ways, walking past those in need, making mockery of suffering.

  "It was then that the beggar stood up, walking to the center of town. As he walked, his beggar rags shed themselves, pure, brilliant armor sheathing his form." Her voice took on a resonance, a power that seemed to fill the clearing. The fire surged higher, flames leaping toward the star-strewn sky.

  "His matted, dirty hair became pure light as the once beggar shown like a living star in the middle of Rhaul." The light from the fire intensified, forcing them to squint, to shield their eyes, as if the transformation were happening before them.

  "'Hear me villagers of Rhaul! All of you are steeped in sin, your hearts as black as shadow.'" Her voice had changed completely now, becoming something other, something beyond human. It carried power, judgment, a righteousness that brooked no argument.

  "The smith from the day prior scowled at the shining form of the Light," she resumed her narration, the fire returning to normal, "'Who are you to judge us so? You've no idea the struggle we go through!'"

  The question hung in the air, a fair one despite the circumstances. Who indeed had the right to judge the struggles of others, to weigh their hearts and find them wanting?

  "The Light burned with terrible fire, and the smith was forced to look away." No sympathy there, no mercy in the face of excuse.

  "'I am the Light! I came to this village seeking pure hearted people, for where else would I find such a heart but in a simple village? Or so I thought! Instead, your hearts are void!'" The words rang out, an indictment not just of those in the story, but of all who heard it, a mirror held up to their own failings.

  "Upon hearing this, the smith fell to the ground, and so too did the three adventurers and the pale faced woman who had crossed the street to escape him. 'We beg your forgiveness, lord!' She cried out." Fear, not contrition, drove their response, Ash thought. The terror of judgment, not true remorse for their actions.

  "The Light nodded, 'So you should. My judgment is thus!'" Amalia's voice took on that otherworldly quality again, and the fire responded, flames shifting and dancing to her words.

  "A great platinum dragon head appeared in the air, its scales shining like individual stars on a full moon's night, its eyes orbs of shining molten silver." The fire seemed to take shape, the vague outline of a draconic head forming in the dancing flames, a trick of light and shadow, yet compelling in its seeming reality.

  "It roared its glory across the skies, and all living heard it that day." The night birds fell silent, as if in response to her words, the forest holding its breath.

  "'Approach my dragon and survive its fire, for if you do, your hearts shall be purified, and you will stand with me as my champions, my Nythum!'" The promise hung in the air, tantalizing and terrible all at once. Purification through fire, redemption through pain.

  "It was the pale faced woman who went first. She stood under the dragon, whose eyes shined with radiance. It opened its maw and white flame bathed her form." Amalia's voice softened, growing almost gentle, a stark contrast to the violence she described.

  "Her screams were beyond imagining, her pain so great it beggared description." The words painted a picture more vivid than any visual could manage, each of them imagining that agony in their own way.

  "But she did not run away." Courage, then, or perhaps desperation for forgiveness, for a chance to be more than what she had been.

  "Moments later, an eternity to her, the flames died." The fire dimmed slightly, as if in sympathy with the narrative.

  "She stood made anew, skin as radiant as the dragon's fire, molten silver wings glowing upon her back." Light returned to the flames, brighter than before, a representation of the transformation, the rebirth through pain.

  "She became Ziven, the Unburnt." The name hung in the air, weighty with significance, the first of the Nythum, redeemed through suffering.

  "The smith survived the fires, and became Eruk, the Hammer." Another transformation, another chance at redemption, paid for in agony.

  "The ranger served and she became Adria, the Huntress." A third, completing the trinity of the redeemed.

  "The warrior attempted to flee, and the great dragon snapped its jaws, eating him whole, his screams ceasing instantly." No mercy for the coward, for those who would not face judgment, who would not endure the pain of transformation. The message was clear and terrible: face the fire or be consumed by it.

  "These three became the first of the Nythum, and their task was to hunt the five dragon lords turned to shadow, and all who served them." A new purpose, a sacred duty given to those who had been purified, who had been tested and found worthy.

  "Thus this story is complete, thus the Nythum were born." Amalia's voice faded along with the dying embers of their fire, the tale concluding as the flames diminished. The spell she had woven with her words slowly dissipated, leaving them blinking as if waking from a dream.

  No one said anything, merely sitting quietly, absorbing the story and its implications. The hoot of an owl in the distance seemed to signal the night's end, a return to the ordinary world after their journey into legend.

  Ash found himself staring into the glowing embers, his mind turning over the story's meaning. Pain as transformation, fire as purification, judgment as opportunity. Was there truth in it, or merely comfort for those who suffered, a way of finding meaning in pain? He couldn't decide, but the tale had resonated within him, touching something deep and nameless.

  He glanced at the others, seeing similar thoughtfulness on their faces. Will was staring at his hands, as if imagining them wreathed in flame. Rosalia's eyes were bright with unshed tears, moved by the beauty and terror of the tale. Nick's expression was guarded, skeptical, yet his usual bluster was absent, replaced by quiet contemplation.

  And Amalia, she was watching them all, her violet eyes reflecting the dying firelight. For a moment, just a heartbeat, Ash thought he saw something in her gaze, a sadness ancient and deep, quickly masked by her usual stoicism. What secrets did she hold? What stories could she tell that weren't legends, but memories?

  The questions swirled in his mind as the night deepened around them, the stars cold and distant above the trees. Tomorrow would bring more training, more struggle, more questions without answers. But for now, in this moment of quiet after the story, there was a kind of peace. A shared experience that bound them together, however briefly, in the face of a world grown suddenly larger and more dangerous than they had ever imagined.