Chapter Thirteen: Brilehaven

  Amalia walked away, her black robes rustling against the underbrush as she headed back to the fire. She paused, turning to speak over her shoulder.

  "I have the answers you seek, but I will provide them on my terms. There is nothing you can do to force them out of me. You have but two choices, adhere to my terms, or give up on any chance of finding the information you seek."

  She continued on, her figure gradually disappearing among the trees, leaving Ash alone by the stream. The revelation about dragons still rang in his ears, as impossible and absurd as it seemed. Dragons. Creatures of legend, beings that hadn't been seen in Dominion for generations. And he needed one to access his elar.

  Ash didn't follow immediately. She was right, and the knowledge sat in his stomach like a stone. He didn't have a choice but to go along with her wishes if he ever wanted answers. The only real choice he had was in the attitude he chose to adopt. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to sullen away like a scolded child.

  But that would get him nowhere. Instead, even if he lost every match, even if he fell a thousand times, he would keep training. If he would be forced to go without magic until he acquired this impossible thing, a dragon, then he would be the best swordsman he could be without magic.

  The stream continued to flow beside him, unconcerned with his troubles. Fish darted beneath the surface, silver flashes in the clear water. A dragonfly hovered nearby, its wings a blur of iridescent blue. The juxtaposition of its name with his current predicament wasn't lost on him.

  Even with determination burning within his mind, heating the winter cold that had settled in his veins, it was some time before he returned to the fire. The forest took on new significance now, every shadow potentially hiding secrets, every rustle of leaves making him look skyward. Dragons. Could they really still exist?

  When he finally returned to camp, the others were already preparing the evening meal. Nick crushed herbs between his thick fingers before sprinkling them into the cooking pot, their aromatic scent filling the air. Will and Rosalia arranged their bedrolls for the night, their movements more fluid and precise than before, a testament to the elar flowing through them. None of them asked where he'd been or why he'd stormed off earlier. Perhaps they sensed his mood, or maybe they simply knew better than to pry.

  Training continued over the next few days, establishing a rhythm that was both grueling and predictable. In the morning they would eat a simple meal of dried fruits and hard bread, the taste growing more familiar with each passing day. Then came exercises that left them gasping for breath and coated in sweat, muscles burning with exertion.

  Amalia pushed them relentlessly, her voice never rising, her face never showing satisfaction or disappointment. "Again," she would command, and they would comply, bodies learning to obey despite the protests of tired limbs.

  After that came weapons training, which for all of them but Nick meant using the sword. Nick preferred his hammer, the weight of it fitting naturally in his hands as if it had been crafted for his grip alone. Amalia would have them try and use their elar here as well, her voice carrying over the clearing as they practiced.

  "Pull from your core," she would instruct. "Feel the elar flow through your limbs. Let it sharpen your senses, heighten your awareness."

  Surprisingly, everyone but Ash was a natural at this, improving with each passing day. Rosalia especially seemed to take to it with ease, her movements becoming more fluid and confident as she learned to channel her elar. Her red hair would catch the sunlight as she moved, creating a trail of fire behind her swift attacks. Will wasn't far behind, his natural grace complementing the newfound speed and strength his elar provided. Even Nick, for all his stocky build and preference for brute force, had begun to move with a speed that belied his frame.

  Then they would spend the evening talking geography, history, or other such topics before meditating, finding their elan. Amalia would speak of the four large kingdoms that covered Dominion, of ancient battles and legendary heroes, her voice remaining flat and emotionless even when describing the most epic of tales.

  Ash couldn't do anything with his elan and elar. He tried anyway, which earned him nothing but frustration. The gap was ever present, a chasm he couldn't cross without the bridge Amalia had mentioned. He could see the cold blue light of his elan, feel its winter power calling to him, but he just couldn't reach across the void that separated them.

  So he threw himself into sword training with renewed determination. If he couldn't use magic, he would become so skilled with the blade that it wouldn't matter. His hands developed calluses, the skin hardening with each practice session. His muscles learned the patterns, the weight of the sword becoming an extension of his arm rather than a foreign object.

  But it did matter. He lost there, too. Everyone regularly beat him now, their elar-enhanced speed and strength giving them an insurmountable advantage. Rosalia moved like lightning, her blade catching the light as it swept toward him faster than he could track. Will seemed to dance around him, always a step ahead, always knowing where Ash would strike before he did. Even Nick, whose skill with the sword was the least among them, could now overpower him with brute strength enhanced by elar.

  No one looked very pleased when they won against him. That made it worse, of course. He could see the pity in Rosalia's eyes, the way her smile never quite reached them when she helped him up after knocking him down. Will grimaced slightly every time he flourished his blade after yet another victory, as if ashamed of his own success. Even Nick grunted, walking away without any kind of celebration in his eyes, his shoulders hunched with discomfort.

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  All of them clearly felt like they were fighting the equivalent of a cripple. The knowledge burned within Ash, fueling both his determination and his resentment. Why had he been cursed with this inability? Why did he need a dragon when everyone else could access their elar naturally?

  The smell of sweat and dirt became as familiar as his own skin, the taste of dust and disappointment a constant companion. His body ached each night as he lay on his bedroll, muscles protesting the day's exertions. But beneath the physical discomfort was a deeper pain, the wound of inadequacy that seemed to grow with each passing day.

  Despite this, Ash did feel like he was improving. The ingrained sense of rightness he experienced while holding the blade only intensified, and he found himself noticing flaws in his form without even being told by Amalia. His body was learning the patterns, the movements becoming more instinctive with each passing day. When he held a sword, the world slowed down, clarity descending like a veil. It wasn't elar, but it was something.

  Amalia was a constant presence, her violet eyes watching their every move, but Ash didn't find her to be a very good teacher. She offered no encouragement, no words of praise when they succeeded. Only corrections when they failed.

  She knew her stuff, there was no denying that. She was so far ahead of them that any correction she offered went leagues in improving them. When she demonstrated a form, it was with a fluid grace that made it look effortless, a standard none of them could hope to reach anytime soon.

  But her teaching lacked any passion. Make a mistake, it was corrected with a flat voice and emotionless eyes. Deliver the wrong answer, corrected with the same absence of feeling. Every explanation was matter of fact, given with no emotional inflection.

  There was little in the way of encouragement. If you got it right, Amalia said nothing. Ash felt like she just expected you to get it right, and it was only worth speaking to fix what you got wrong. It was a cold, efficient way to teach, but it left something to be desired in terms of motivation.

  At the end of the week, the group gathered up their things, and finally, they departed for Brilehaven. The road stretched before them, a winding ribbon of packed earth cutting through forests and fields. The journey took several days, during which Ash found himself constantly scanning the skies, searching for any sign of wings against the clouds. A dragon. How was he supposed to find a dragon in a world where they were believed extinct? The question occupied his thoughts during the long hours of walking, distracting him from the conversations of his companions.

  The weather remained fair for most of their journey, the sun warm on their backs, the breeze carrying the scents of wildflowers and pine. At night, they would make camp by the roadside, the stars spreading above them like scattered diamonds on black velvet. Ash would lie awake long after the others had fallen asleep, watching the sky, wondering if dragons might still soar among those distant lights.

  Brilehaven appeared on the horizon late on the fourth day of travel, the sight of it lifting their spirits despite the weariness of the road. It was a coastal village, mostly made up of fishermen and their families, the buildings clustered together as if for protection against the vast sea that stretched beyond.

  The stench of the sea stained the air, a mixture of salt, fish, and seaweed that grew stronger as they approached. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, just unfamiliar to those who had spent their lives inland. Fishing boats drifted lazily on the shining blue water of the harbor, their sails bright against the azure sky, nets hanging to dry in the warm sea breeze.

  There was a market square at the heart of the village, a bustling place where people sold their wares from colorful stalls. The voices of merchants calling out prices and haggling with customers filled the air, creating a cacophony that was somehow both chaotic and harmonious. Fresh fish lay on beds of ice, their scales glistening in the sunlight. Vegetables and fruits from inland farms added splashes of color to the predominantly blue and grey palette of the coastal village.

  But beneath the ordinary bustle of village life, Ash sensed a palpable unease. Conversations would stop as they passed, only to resume in hushed whispers once they were out of earshot. Villagers would glance nervously toward the sea before hurrying about their business, as if afraid of what might emerge from those shimmering waters.

  Ash heard fearful murmurs from men and women alike as they made their way through the narrow streets. "Another one gone missing last night," an old fisherman whispered to his companion. "Found nothing but his boat, drifting empty."

  Children dashed between buildings, seemingly immune to the atmosphere of fear that hung over their elders. They sang a rhyme as they played, their voices carrying on the sea breeze:

  "By the shore where waters gleam,

  Sally sings her shadowed dream.

  Step too close, and you'll beware,

  Her claws will catch you in the air."

  The words sent a chill down Ash's spine despite the warmth of the day. Will raised an eyebrow, adjusting his shirt as he listened to the children's sing-song voices. The wind carried the scent of baking bread from a nearby bakery, momentarily overpowering the omnipresent smell of fish.

  "Why do I feel like I just stumbled into a bit of foreshadowing? I don't like being a part of foreshadowing, not at all." His attempt at humor fell flat, his voice betraying his unease. His fingers played nervously with the strap of his pack, a habit Ash had noticed whenever the other boy was anxious.

  Amalia seemed unaffected by the atmosphere of the village, her face as impassive as ever as she led them to the notice board that stood in the village square. It was a weathered wooden structure, papers of various ages pinned to its surface, some so old and sun-bleached that their words were barely legible. She studied it for a moment before pulling a notice on brown parchment from among the others, her violet eyes scanning the text quickly.

  With the notice secured, she led them to an inn near the harbor, a two-story building with a thatched roof and windows that glowed with warm light as the sun began to set. A weathered sign hung above the door, depicting a mermaid holding a trident, the paint peeling in places. "The Mermaid's Trident," Will read aloud, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Charming."

  Inside, the common room was filled with the scents of cooking food and ale, the low murmur of conversations creating a comforting background noise. A fire burned in a large hearth, casting dancing shadows across the rough wooden floor. The innkeeper, a portly man with a bushy beard and ruddy cheeks, greeted them with a practiced smile that didn't quite reach his wary eyes.

  Amalia secured rooms for the night, her voice low as she negotiated with the innkeeper. She got her own room, of course, and so too did Rosalia, a fact that Nick and Will grumbled about as they learned they would be sharing with Ash. Their room was larger though, with three narrow beds and a small window that looked out over the village rooftops toward the sea beyond.

  The beds were simple but clean, the mattresses stuffed with straw that crackled as they sat on them. A washbasin stood in one corner, a cracked mirror hanging above it. The floor was bare wood, worn smooth by countless feet over the years.

  When they were settled in, they all met downstairs for dinner, gathered around a big table near the hearth. The common room had filled with villagers seeking food and company as night fell, their voices creating a constant murmur punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. The portly innkeeper served up a hearty stew that steamed in wooden bowls, the aroma making Ash's stomach growl with anticipation.

  The broth was rich with the flavors of fish and herbs, chunks of potato and carrot floating alongside morsels of white fish that flaked apart at the touch of his spoon. Fresh bread accompanied the meal, still warm from the oven, the crust crackling as he tore into it. It was a welcome change from the travel rations they had subsisted on for days.

  As they ate, Ash noticed that the conversations around them seemed to avoid the topic that clearly preoccupied the village. No one spoke openly of whatever danger lurked in the waters, as if naming it might summon it to their doorstep. Instead, they talked of the weather, of fishing quotas, of trivial matters that couldn't quite mask the underlying tension.

  Amalia placed the notice she had taken from the board in the center of the table, smoothing it with one pale hand. The parchment was worn at the edges, as if it had been posted for some time. In the flickering light of the nearby candles, Ash could make out a simple drawing of what appeared to be a woman with unnaturally long fingers.

  "Now then children," Amalia said, her voice carrying easily despite the background noise of the inn, "it is time we discuss monsters."

  The fire crackled in the hearth behind her, casting dancing shadows across her face. Her violet eyes reflected the flames, giving them an unnatural glow as she looked at each of them in turn. Outside, the last light of day faded from the sky, and the sound of the sea grew louder in the gathering darkness, waves crashing against the shore in a rhythm as old as time itself.