Chapter Nine: Magicless

  Ash walked with hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped and head down. He stayed near the back because he didn't want to hear the others talking about how amazing it was to be able to use magic. The familiar weight of failure pressed against his chest, a constant companion now.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, elar," Ash mocked under his breath, his voice bitter as a winter wind.

  The dawn's light played across the trees and road, painting everything in a soft golden hue. A gentle breeze tousled the party's clothes and hair, carrying with it the scent of morning dew and wildflowers. It was once again a beautiful morning, but Ash felt none of it. The world's beauty seemed a cruel mockery of his inner turmoil.

  In the past day, his Aunt and Uncle, who had been there for him his whole life, had been killed by monsters. The image of his uncle's body hitting the ground replayed in his mind like a recurring nightmare. What made it so much worse was that he didn't even know why. The lack of answers gnawed at him, a hunger that couldn't be satisfied.

  To even find a clue, he would have to become a bronze ranked adventurer because that was the only way the person who knew anything would tell him. Amalia and her conditions, always holding information hostage. His fingers curled tighter in his pockets, nails digging into his palms.

  How was he supposed to do that if he couldn't use this mysterious elar? The others seemed to take to it naturally, but for him, there was only that frustrating chasm. He could feel his elan, that winter light within him. He could find it far more easily now than the night before. He experimented as he walked, and discovered he didn't need to be sitting to do it.

  It was as simple as reaching out with his mind, like extending an invisible hand toward that glowing orb of winter within himself. Yet every time he tried to draw from it, to pull that power across the gap and into his body, nothing happened. The light remained tantalizingly out of reach.

  He cocked his head, his attention landing on a smooth blue stone in the road. It stood out sharply against the brown and grey of the road, like a piece of sky fallen to earth. He reached down, plucked it up and bounced it in his palm. The weight of it was comforting, something solid and real in a world that had suddenly become unpredictable.

  Morning light glinted off the stone, making it shimmer with inner fire. The blue wasn't uniform but had delicate striations of darker and lighter hues swirling within it, like frozen waves.

  Removing a cloth from his pack, he rubbed the stone, admiring how it shined even brighter as he did. The repetitive motion calmed him, bringing a moment of peace amid the chaos of his thoughts. As he polished, the stone seemed to grow warmer, though perhaps that was just the friction of cloth against surface.

  When he had left his desolated home, he had been forced to leave his collection behind. The thought of all those carefully gathered stones, each with its own history and peculiarities, now buried under ashes and rubble, sent a pang through his chest. Another loss to add to the mounting pile.

  Maybe he could start collecting again, after all the stone was awfully shiny. He slipped it into his pack, deciding to keep a lookout for more interesting rocks. At least that was something he could control, a small pleasure in a world that had suddenly become much darker.

  "Why do you do that?"

  Nick had fallen back a few steps to walk by his side. His ebony skin had a slight sheen to it in the light, in a way he was like a shiny stone himself, to Ash's eye anyway. The planes of his face caught the light, highlighting his strong jaw and thoughtful eyes.

  No, stop it. You cannot collect Nick. He hadn't at all been considering it. Well, maybe for just a second.

  Ash cleared his throat, uncomfortable with his own thoughts. "I like rocks, that's all." The explanation felt inadequate even to his own ears, but how could he explain the comfort he found in these small, unchanging pieces of the world?

  Nick grunted, his fingers idly tapping against the hammer at his side.

  "My Ma, she used to collect these carved figurines, from soapstone, or really any stone. She'd set them up on the mantle, like a tiny army up there." His voice softened at the mention of his mother, revealing a tenderness that Ash hadn't noticed before. "She'd tell me stories about each one, where she got it, what it meant. Said they each had a spirit of their own."

  Nick flicked a finger at Ash's pack, "Seems like somethin' you could do with that stone."

  Ash opened his mouth in horror at the suggestion, his eyes widening. The very thought of changing the stones, of altering what nature had created, seemed like sacrilege.

  "But... then they'd be different! What if they didn't shine anymore?" The words tumbled out, laced with genuine distress. His hands clutched protectively at his pack.

  Nick stared at him, his dark eyes taking in Ash's reaction. Then he threw his head back and laughed, his body shaking, the sound rolling out like thunder. The laughter wasn't mocking, but genuine amusement, warm and inclusive.

  Ash looked away, face heating up, he rubbed the back of his neck. His ears burned with embarrassment, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It felt good to hear laughter after so much darkness.

  "You're a weird one, Ash Lorcan," Nick said, his voice still carrying traces of laughter. "Do what you will with your shiny rocks, light knows it's not really my business." He patted Ash's shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie that somehow made Ash feel a little less alone.

  Ahead of them, Rosalia giggled, covering her mouth with one hand, her green eyes sparkling. She playfully shoved Will, who was grinning a boyish grin, his teeth white against his tanned skin. The easy camaraderie between them was obvious, their bodies angled toward each other, comfortable in each other's space.

  "Ooh, someone's mighty jealous," Nick observed, his voice low enough that only Ash could hear.

  Ash blinked, ducking his head, and twiddling his fingers together. A knot formed in his stomach, a mixture of longing and denial. "What? No. Of course not!" The protest sounded weak even to his own ears.

  Nick clapped him on the shoulder, his hand warm and solid. "You have it bad, my friend. Anyone with eyes can see that. You should tell her." There was genuine concern in Nick's voice, as if he truly wanted Ash to be happy.

  Ash tightened his shoulders, a physical manifestation of his emotional walls going up. "I don't know what you're talking about, Nick." He stared straight ahead, focusing on the path rather than meeting his friend's knowing gaze.

  "You can deny it till you're blue in the face, you're convincin' nobody. But if you don't put yourself out there, I can promise you this, someone else will." Nick's words carried the weight of experience, a nugget of wisdom gained through his own life.

  Ahead of them, Will gave an elegant bow, one hand flourishing in the air, the other pressed to his heart. Rosalia giggled again, her cheeks flushing slightly, the tips of her pointed ears turning a deeper shade of pink. The sight of them, so comfortable together, so natural, sent a spear of jealousy through Ash's heart.

  Cold seeped into his veins, a physical manifestation of the emotions churning within him. His vision seemed to sharpen, the colors fading as if winter had suddenly descended upon the world. His eyes became frost, hard and unyielding.

  "Shadow take me, but you look fierce when your face does that," Nick said, a note of surprise and perhaps a touch of wariness in his voice.

  Ash blinked, the coldness receding slightly. "What?" He wasn't even aware that his expression had changed.

  Nick pointed at him, his gesture slow and deliberate. "Your face. I've never seen you really angry before, but it goes all blank like that and then your eyes gain this frosty look. It's hard to describe, but it's like a hungry wolf in winter." He shivered slightly, though whether from the memory or some unfelt cold, Ash couldn't tell.

  "I don't look like that." Ash shook his head, uncomfortable with the description. He didn't want to be seen as frightening, especially not by someone he considered a friend.

  Nick shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in a gesture of acceptance. "Whatever you say, man. But can I share with you what I've learned over the past day?" His tone had grown serious, the earlier humor replaced by somber reflection.

  It was Ash's turn to shrug, curious despite himself. The change in Nick's demeanor caught his attention, pulling him temporarily out of his own thoughts.

  Nick's face sobered, his eyes gaining a serious edge to them. Lines appeared at the corners of his mouth, aging him beyond his years. "Life is short. You and me and Rosalia? We're all young, and we think we have forever to live. We don't, Ash. Last night proved that, and I have a naggin' feelin' in my gut that says things are only going to get more dangerous. Take your chances, because the clock is gonna keep tickin' and eventually there won't be time for any more chances."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  His words hung in the air between them, heavy with truth. The recent deaths had made the fragility of life all too clear. Ash swallowed, a lump forming in his throat as he considered Nick's advice. Before he could respond, Nick quickened his pace, moving on ahead and leaving Ash to his thoughts.

  Ash watched him go, the morning sunlight catching on Nick's dark curls. Was Nick right? Should he tell Rosalia how he felt before it was too late? The thought of rejection made his stomach twist, but the idea of never knowing, of always wondering what might have been, was almost worse.

  He glanced ahead at Rosalia, at the graceful way she moved, the light catching in her red hair like captured fire. Something deep within him yearned for her, a feeling that went beyond simple attraction. Yet every time he tried to imagine confessing his feelings, his throat closed up, the words dying before they could be born.

  The path stretched ahead, winding through trees that were just beginning to shed their morning dew. Ash trudged forward, his mind a battlefield of emotions, his feet mechanically carrying him toward a future he couldn't yet see.

  Purple smoke curled into the air above Deharra, a venomous cloud that blotted out sections of the blue sky. Ash knew then that they wouldn't find anything good. His heart sank, a stone dropping into a bottomless well.

  The village hadn't been large, just a few dozen buildings clustered around a central square, surrounded by fields that should have been alive with early crops and livestock. Which is why it likely hadn't taken a lot of effort to burn down. The destruction was complete, methodical, as if someone or something had taken their time to ensure nothing survived.

  Corpses littered the streets, burnt husks that hardly resembled anything human. Some were curled into fetal positions, arms wrapped around themselves in one final, futile gesture of protection. Others lay sprawled, as if they had been running when death caught them. Ashes blew in the slight breeze, gray flakes that had once been homes, possessions, lives. Each breath Ash took tasted of char and death, coating his tongue with a bitter film.

  Rosalia coughed, covering her mouth in horror, green eyes wide as she looked around. Her complexion had gone pale, the freckles across her nose standing out like flecks of dirt on snow. Tears began to form at the corner of her eyes, liquid diamonds that threatened to spill over.

  Nick looked grim, his face a mask of controlled rage. His jaw was clenched so tight that a muscle twitched in his cheek, and his eyes were hard, as if he were attempting to burn the scene into his memory. His hands opened and closed at his sides, seeking something to grasp, something to fight.

  Some of the corpses weren't burnt, their faces masks of terror, frozen in their final moments of understanding. Guts spilled from their stomachs, a grotesque display of innards never meant to see daylight. Flies buzzed around them, the only living things that seemed to thrive in this place of death. Their incessant humming formed a macabre background noise, a funeral dirge for the unnamed dead.

  The stench was so bad that Ash retched, bile rising in his throat. He turned away, one hand pressed to his mouth, the other braced against a charred fence post. The smell was a physical assault, a combination of burnt flesh, emptied bowels, and the beginning stages of decomposition. Will's face went white as freshly washed bed sheets, all color draining away, leaving him looking like a ghost himself.

  Amalia merely swept her gaze around the town as they walked, her expression unchanged, as if none of it touched her. Her violet eyes were cold, distant, taking in the carnage with clinical detachment. Not a flicker of emotion crossed her face, not a hint of the storyteller's passion that Ash had glimpsed during her tales.

  "We... We... should look for survivors," Ash croaked out, his voice rough with emotion and the effort of not vomiting. The words felt inadequate, a feeble response to the scale of destruction around them, but he had to say something, had to do something.

  "There are none," was Amalia's steely response, flat and final.

  Ash stopped in the road, nails digging into his palms, leaving crescent marks in the flesh. The pain was welcome, a small physical discomfort to focus on amid the overwhelming horror. Anger built within him, a hot counterpoint to the cold that usually filled his veins.

  "Doesn't this bother you! That's a child!" He pointed to the ripped open chest of a young child no more than ten years old in a ditch by the road. The child's face was unmarked, almost peaceful, a cruel contrast to the violence done to their body. Small hands were splayed out, as if reaching for help that never came.

  Amalia turned to face him, violet eyes as hard as gemstones, reflecting light but revealing nothing of what lay beneath. She said nothing, her silence a wall between them, impenetrable and cold. That silence, that utter lack of response, caused the cold within Ash to intensify, like ice that burned your skin when you touched it.

  "Why does none of this bother you? Are you a human? When you tell stories, your voice comes alive with emotion, you can actually tell you're a person. But this!" His voice rose, cracking with the strain of his feelings. "You may as well be stone with how you're acting!" The accusation hung in the air, a challenge that demanded response.

  For a heartbeat, something flickered in Amalia's eyes, so quickly that Ash wasn't sure he'd seen it at all. Then it was gone, and she was the same impassive figure as before.

  "Are you done?" Her voice was level, without inflection, as if she were merely waiting for him to finish an uninteresting anecdote.

  Ash felt a knuckle pop as his fists clenched tighter, and he forced out a breath, trying to control the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. What was wrong with her? How could anyone look at this, at a child murdered so brutally, and feel nothing?

  "Yeah, I guess I am." The words were bitter, resigned.

  Amalia nodded, as if they had merely concluded a business transaction. "We have some ways to go, and all of this talk is nothing but a delay." She turned away from him, her robes swirling around her ankles, and continued down the road without a backward glance.

  The rest of them followed, what choice did they have? Ash did his best to put the nightmare around him out of his mind, to focus on the path ahead, on the mechanics of walking, of breathing, of existing in a world where such things could happen.

  But no matter what he did, he couldn't quite ignore the smell of burnt flesh that clung to his clothes, or get the image of a child's dead eyes out of his mind. Those eyes would haunt him, he knew, appearing in the darkness when he closed his own eyes to sleep.

  And Amalia's reaction, or lack thereof, troubled him almost as much as the carnage itself. How could someone who told stories with such passion, who could make listeners feel as if they were there in the tale, be so unmoved by real suffering? It didn't make sense, and the inconsistency nagged at him, a splinter beneath the skin that couldn't be ignored.

  He glanced at the others as they walked. Rosalia's tears had given way to a numb expression, her eyes fixed on some middle distance. Will's naturally ruddy complexion remained pale, his usual quips silenced by what they had seen. Nick walked with his hand on his hammer, as if expecting attack at any moment, his vigilance a response to the helplessness they all felt.

  They were all changed by what they had witnessed, marked by it in ways that would never fully heal. All except Amalia, who strode ahead, untouched and untouchable. As they left Deharra behind, Ash couldn't help but wonder what it would take to crack that stone exterior, and what they might find beneath if it ever broke.

  "You want us to train? I think we could all use a break tonight, Miss Amalia." Rosalia's voice had a note of pleading to it, her usual brightness dimmed by the day's horrors. Her shoulders slumped with exhaustion, both physical and emotional. The request earned nods from everyone, a rare moment of unanimity among the diverse group.

  Ash especially did not want to train. He wanted to curl up into a ball and weep, to release the pressure that had built inside him throughout the day. His body ached, his mind was numb, and the thought of physical exertion seemed like an insurmountable challenge.

  Amalia looked around her, expression as stoic as any statue. Her eyes moved from face to face, assessing them in silence. The campfire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows across her features, making her seem even more remote, otherworldly.

  "Do you think the monsters that burned down that village and butchered its children asked them what they wanted?" Her voice was quiet but carried easily in the night air, cutting through the ambient sounds of the forest.

  Rosalia stared, then blinked hard, lost for words. Her mouth opened and closed, no sound emerging. The question was like a slap, unexpected and stinging.

  "What does that have to do with the price of milk?" Will asked, his usual humor edged with frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in spikes.

  "I wonder how many of those people would still be alive if they had the strength to defend themselves." Amalia's words hung in the air, a challenge that none of them had expected.

  Rosalia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes widening in shock and hurt. Nick interjected angrily, his voice rising, fists clenching at his sides.

  "Shadows, woman! They shouldn't have had to! Don't go blamin' them now, they were innocent!" His accent thickened with emotion, each word sharp with indignation. A vein pulsed in his forehead, and his dark eyes flashed with anger.

  "Oh? And did that matter very much when the monsters came knocking?" Amalia's tone remained level, her face unchanged. She shook her head, and she banged her staff once against the ground, a dull thump echoing around them as a small puff of dirt dispersed into the air.

  The sound seemed to reverberate in the clearing, drawing their attention like a spell. Despite their exhaustion, despite their resistance, they found themselves listening, unable to look away from the storyteller.

  "Hear me, children. There are bad things all across Dominion. Evil, dark things that care not for innocence or whether a thing is moral or immoral. They will kill you, and some of them will eat you, if given the opportunity. They will burn down your farms and villages, slaughtering your loved ones before your eyes. It matters not if this should happen. It matters not if it is hard to see. These monsters do not care. All it boils down to is whether or not you're strong enough to defend yourself, your loved ones, and your homes."

  Her voice had taken on the cadence of storytelling, but this was no tale for entertainment. It was stark, brutal truth, delivered without embellishment or softening. The firelight played across her face, casting half of it in shadow, the other half in harsh illumination.

  She swept her gaze around, meeting each of their eyes in turn. In that moment, Ash felt seen, truly seen, as if she were looking into him rather than at him. It was unsettling, invasive, and oddly comforting all at once.

  "Shirk your training if you wish, but ask yourself this, will you be strong enough to face the monsters when they come again? For they surely will, and they will not give you a break just because you had a hard day."

  The question lingered, unanswerable yet demanding response. Ash found himself looking at the others, reading in their faces the same conflict he felt. The exhaustion hadn't gone away, the horror remained, but something else had joined it, a determination born of necessity.

  Almost as one, they sighed and dropped to the ground, bodies protesting but wills overriding the discomfort. Amalia nodded in satisfaction as they began their push-ups, the rhythm of their movements a counterpoint to the crackling of the fire.

  As his muscles strained, Ash found his mind clearing, the physical exertion burning away some of the day's fog. Amalia was right, he realized. The world was cruel, unfair, filled with dangers they could barely comprehend. They couldn't control that, couldn't change it. All they could do was prepare themselves, make themselves strong enough to face whatever came.

  The cold within him crystallized into something harder, more focused. He pushed himself beyond what he thought possible, each movement a defiance of weakness, a promise to himself. He would become strong. He would learn to use elar, somehow, someway. He would find answers about his family's deaths. And when the monsters came again, he would be ready.