Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Bridge

  Lilith took her human form the following morning as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor. The transformation was seamless, her dragon scales and wings melting away like morning mist to reveal the small human girl with bright green eyes and vibrant purple hair. She wore a simple dress that appeared alongside her human form, its fabric shimmering slightly before settling into normalcy.

  She was curious about everything they passed as they made their way through the woods, pointing at each new discovery with the enthusiasm of someone experiencing the world for the first time. Each time she spotted something, a questioning thought would shuffle through Ash's mind, a wordless inquiry filled with childlike wonder.

  "That's a hawk," he said, following her gaze to a large bird circling overhead, its wings spread wide against the clear blue sky.

  Or moments later, "That's a flower," as she crouched to examine a delicate purple bloom nestled among the roots of an ancient oak tree.

  As repetitive as the explanations were, time passed quickly in this simple routine. The forest path wound ahead of them, bordered by towering trees and bursting with life that had long been absent from the ashen wasteland they had left behind. Birds called to one another overhead, small creatures rustled in the underbrush, and insects buzzed lazily in the warm air. It was peaceful in a way that soothed Ash's troubled thoughts, if only temporarily.

  Plus, she was adorable, and he loved talking with her, loved seeing the world through her fresh perspective. Each explanation, no matter how basic, seemed to delight her. Her reactions made him notice details he might otherwise have overlooked – the precise pattern of bark on a tree, the complex architecture of a spider's web glistening with morning dew, the subtle variations in birdsong throughout the day.

  Amalia walked ahead of them, her black robes somehow repelling the dust of the trail, her staff occasionally tapping the ground in a rhythm only she understood. She would stop them for camp just before evening, when the shadows began to lengthen and the light took on a golden quality, selecting spots that were sheltered and had access to water.

  Once camp was established and a small fire kindled, it would be time for training. She insisted he keep up his conditioning, making him run through a series of exhausting exercises designed to build strength and endurance. Burpees, sprints, and endless pushups left his muscles burning and his lungs heaving for air. While he hated every moment of it, the soreness afterward providing uncomfortable proof of his exertion, he did it anyway, understanding its necessity even as he resented it.

  After that would come sword-play, and Amalia did not let up. She was relentless in her instruction, circling him as he moved through forms, her violet eyes missing nothing, her commands sharp and precise. She pushed him to his limits and then beyond, demanding perfection in every strike, every parry, every footfall.

  It was the one area Ash was certain he excelled in. The sword felt right in his hand, an extension of his arm rather than a separate object. He could be confident in this because Amalia rarely had to correct him, a stark contrast to her constant critiques in other aspects of his training. He felt as one with the blade, moving through the few forms he knew with a fluidity that surprised even himself.

  She wouldn't teach him another form just yet, as she claimed it was best to master one before moving on, but he knew she would soon. The occasional approving nod, so slight it might have been imagined, told him he was progressing well.

  He was a natural, and he felt no shame in admitting that. The realization brought a strange comfort, a foundation of confidence in a world that had upended everything he thought he knew about himself.

  Then came his least favorite part of the day.

  Accessing elar.

  The winter storm within him remained untamed, wild and overwhelming. Each attempt left him gasping, his body shaking from the strain, his mind reeling from the assault of sensations that threatened to drown him. He still struggled to identify these clues Amalia spoke of, the key that would unlock control over his power remaining frustratingly out of reach.

  He pestered her in an attempt to wear her down, asking the same questions in different ways, hoping she would tell him just to get him to shut up. His attempts at manipulation were transparent, but he was desperate enough to try anyway.

  "Just one hint," he would say. "Something small to point me in the right direction."

  Or, "Wouldn't it be easier to just tell me instead of watching me struggle day after day?"

  The violet-eyed woman possessed a powerful ability to ignore whatever she chose to. She would continue stirring the cooking pot, or sharpening her blade, or simply staring into the fire as if he hadn't spoken at all. He never succeeded in getting her to reveal more. She didn't even have the decency to roll her eyes, or rebuke him with a word. Silence was his only answer, a wall as impenetrable as the chasm that had once separated him from his elan.

  Bedtime came shortly after that, the camp settling into quiet as the fire burned down to embers. Lilith would move closer to him in the darkness, her small form radiating a gentle warmth as she curled against his side. Her presence was comforting, a reminder that he wasn't alone in whatever lay ahead.

  But that warmth couldn't fight off the dreams that plagued his sleep. Visions of fire and destruction, of burning cities and shadowy figures with malicious intent. The woman in radiant armor facing a darkness that seemed to consume everything it touched. Sometimes he woke gasping, his heart pounding, the images fading but the sense of dread lingering like a bad taste.

  On the third day of their journey, as the sun climbed toward its zenith in a cloudless sky, they came to a bridge that had been built over a swift-flowing stream. The water gurgled beneath it, clear and cool, reflecting the sunlight in dancing patterns. The bridge itself was made of wood, sturdy enough despite its obvious age. Weathered planks, their surfaces worn smooth by countless travelers, stretched across the water, supported by thick beams sunk deep into the stream bed.

  Amalia paused before they approached it, her posture suddenly alert, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around her staff. The subtle shift in her demeanor sent a warning prickling along Ash's spine.

  "We have company, Master Lorcan," she said quietly, her voice barely audible above the burble of the stream. "Try to stay silent, let me do the talking."

  Ash had already noticed them at the end of the bridge. A group of four men lounging with the false casualness of predators waiting for prey. Three of them were dressed in battered leather armor, bows slung across their backs, and swords hanging at their hips. The fourth, clearly their leader, wore heavy plate armor that might once have been impressive but was now marred by dirt and rust, telling the story of a fall from grace or legitimate service.

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  As Ash, Amalia, and Lilith neared the bridge, he had the opportunity to study the men more closely. They were all grim, gruff-looking individuals, with hard eyes that spoke of harder lives. Their beards were unkempt, with no attempt at combing or cutting them, adding to their wild appearance. Scars marked their visible skin, souvenirs from past violence.

  The one in armor, a hulking man with shoulders like small mountains, had a large two-handed sword sheathed on his back. Even from a distance, Ash could see that unlike the rest of his appearance, the weapon was well-maintained, its hilt wrapped in clean leather, its pommel gleaming in the sunlight.

  When the rough group of men saw them approach, they gathered themselves, their lazy postures transforming into alertness with practiced ease. Three of them stepped forward and unslung their bows, nocked arrows with fluid motions that spoke of long experience, and pointed them at the travelers. The armored man addressed them, his stance wide and confident.

  "That's far 'nough," he called, his voice carrying easily across the distance. "This bridge 'ere? It's a toll bridge. You gotta pay if'n you wanna cross."

  His voice was slightly nasal, as if his nose had been broken one too many times and never properly set. It did look awfully crooked, Ash thought as he glanced at the man's face, the bridge of his nose veering sharply to the left before connecting with his forehead.

  Lilith narrowed her eyes at the man, her childlike face suddenly fierce, and a thought cut through Ash's mind like a sword blade, sharp and unmistakable in its intent.

  She wanted to fight. The sensation was accompanied by images of claws and fire, of tearing into the men who dared threaten them.

  He placed a hand on her head, trying to reassure her with his mind, projecting thoughts of calm and patience. Amalia would take care of this; there was no need for violence yet.

  He had every confidence she would handle the situation. Ash had seen her in action against far more dangerous foes than these road bandits. Lilith huffed, a small sound of reluctant acceptance, but subsided, though the tension in her small frame remained.

  "Ah, I hadn't realized Aleria had imposed a toll on this bridge," Amalia said, her voice carrying an air of innocent surprise that Ash knew was entirely feigned. "It has never had one before. How much is this toll?"

  The armored man scratched his beard, looking momentarily uncertain, as if he hadn't expected to be questioned. "Erm. How much 'ave you got?"

  Amalia tapped her staff on the ground, the sound sharp against the natural backdrop of flowing water and rustling leaves. "Surely Aleria has set a specific amount? They wouldn't ask for all of our coin, now would they?"

  The man's face took on a look of confusion, his brows drawing together as he tried to parse her response. It was clear from his expression that he wasn't accustomed to victims who talked back, especially with such calm assurance.

  "Just tell me what you got!" he finally barked, his face morphing from confusion to ugly frustration, a vein pulsing visibly in his forehead.

  Amalia sighed, the sound containing a wealth of disappointment, as if the men had failed some test she had given them. Shaking her head, she lifted her staff, and suddenly blurred forward with such speed that Ash could barely track her movement.

  The group of men tried to strike her, arrows whistling through the air where she had been only moments before, but none met their target. The armored man hefted his two-handed sword from his back with surprising quickness, swinging it in a wide arc that would have cleaved a normal person in two. But the blur that was Amalia simply ducked under it, her movement graceful and precise.

  Four distinct thwacks sounded out like lightning striking a tree in rapid succession, followed by four solid thuds as bodies dropped to the ground in near unison. There were no sounds of groaning or pain, no cries for mercy. Just silent breathing and unmoving lumps of flesh sprawled in the dirt.

  Ash almost whistled in amazement. Amalia was on another level entirely, her combat abilities so far beyond his own that he could barely comprehend the gulf between them. In the space of a few heartbeats, she had neutralized four armed men without apparent effort.

  Lilith clapped her hands, bouncing on her toes, her expression lit up with delight at the display of martial prowess. Her earlier tension had transformed into excitement, her green eyes wide with admiration.

  "Patience was never one of my virtues," Amalia muttered as she stood among the unconscious men, straightening her robes which somehow remained pristine despite the brief but intense combat.

  "I thought you'd maybe pay them, then trick them somehow, like pick their pockets as you passed or something," Ash said, stepping forward to examine the fallen bandits. None showed signs of serious injury, though each would likely wake with a substantial headache.

  Amalia rarely showed much of any emotion, but she looked genuinely puzzled now, her brow furrowing slightly as she regarded him. "Why would I do such a thing? Aleria despises bandits such as these. Even if they did choose to tell anyone, we will be long gone from here. Besides, I am leaving them alive, which is more than alerian patrols would do if found."

  She gestured with her staff toward the bridge, indicating they should continue on their way. Ash and Lilith followed, stepping around the unconscious men and crossing the bridge, their footsteps hollow on the wooden planks. Ash glanced back once, wondering what would become of the bandits, but Amalia showed no concern, and so he pushed the thought aside.

  They continued their journey, the bridge and its false guardians soon disappearing behind them as the path wound deeper into the forest.

  That night, as they sat around the campfire after another grueling training session, Ash decided to ask Amalia more personal questions. All this time together, traveling and training, and he knew next to nothing about her, this enigmatic woman who wielded such power and knowledge yet revealed so little of herself.

  Smoke from their fire trailed into the air in lazy curls, dissipating against the night sky where few stars were visible through the canopy above. The night air was still, almost unnaturally so, as if the forest itself were holding its breath.

  Scents of earth, forest, and burning wood drifted around them, mingling with the aroma of the simple stew Amalia had prepared. Lilith was happily eating her portion, occasionally pausing to poke at the fire with a stick, delighted by the sparks that rose in response to her prodding.

  "Who are you, really, Amalia?" Ash asked, his voice cutting through the quiet of the night. "You're obviously not a normal storyteller."

  Amalia's violet eyes reflected the firelight, giving them an almost otherworldly glow as she looked up from her bowl. "Let us not do that, Master Lorcan."

  "Do what?" Ash pressed, unwilling to be put off so easily.

  "Try to get to know me." Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet somehow conveying a finality that bordered on warning. "I assure you, knowing me, knowing my past, would only serve to hurt you. Let the ghosts of the past rest, for all they bring is memory, and memory, Master Lorcan, is pain."

  The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implications Ash couldn't begin to unravel. He stared at her for a few moments, taking in her composed features, the way she revealed nothing even as she spoke of pain and ghosts.

  "Has anyone told you that you can be kind of dour?" he finally said, the question containing a hint of genuine curiosity beneath the obvious frustration.

  "Not before now, no," she replied, her expression unchanging.

  Ash pursed his lips before bobbing his head downward in acknowledgment, accepting that this, like so many other inquiries, would lead nowhere. "Consider yourself told. You can be dour."

  With that, he set aside his own empty bowl and closed his eyes, shifting into a more comfortable position on the ground. Despite the earlier rebuff, he continued his attempts to control his elar, trying to scan every failed attempt for any of these hints Amalia told him were there, any pattern or insight that might unlock the secret.

  Cold.

  Ash snapped his eyes open, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. Of course! His elan, that orb within him, was cold. Back when he had first uncovered it within himself, it had been numbingly cold, even then. Finally being able to draw it, he had always felt like being in the middle of a winter storm, battered by frigid winds and surrounded by ice.

  On the farm, he had never felt the cold. It had never bothered him, even during the deepest winter when others huddled close to fires and wrapped themselves in layers of wool. He had always attributed it to his natural hardiness, never questioning the oddity.

  His elan must have been why. The winter within him had been there all along, manifesting in this small immunity, this connection to ice and cold that he had taken for granted.

  Amalia had said that controlling elan was different for everyone. As if he were a dog following a scent, he went down that path of logic. It had to mean that not everyone felt this cold. Other elan must evoke different impressions – fire, perhaps, or wind, or earth. Each person's experience would be unique to their aspect, their connection to their power shaped by its very nature.

  How would that let him use his elar?

  Ash tried to think of a way this knowledge would help him, how understanding the nature of his power could lead to controlling it, but nothing immediately came to him. The pieces were there, he was sure of it, but they had yet to form a coherent picture.

  He was surprisingly okay with that for now. He had made some tangible progress, uncovered a truth about himself that had been hiding in plain sight. It was a step forward, however small.

  He still had time, and progressing in this way meant he would be able to put it together eventually. The key would reveal itself, he just needed to keep looking, keep trying, keep learning. With that comforting thought, he opened his eyes and found Amalia watching him, her expression unreadable as always.

  Satisfied with his discovery, if not yet its application, he prepared for sleep, arranging his bedroll near the fire. Lilith, having finished her meal and exhausted the entertainment value of poking the fire, came to curl up beside him, her small form radiating warmth against the cooling night air.

  This time the dreams of the woman in radiant armor and the dark creature seeking to destroy her returned in vivid detail. He watched as she fought valiantly, her silver sword a beacon in the encroaching darkness, her armor reflecting light that seemed to come from within rather than without. The creature, massive and terrible, with eyes like burning coals, sought to consume her, to extinguish her light.

  His sleep was consumed by fire and battle, by the clash of light and shadow, and by a sense of familiarity that he couldn't quite place, as if he were remembering rather than dreaming.