Chapter Twenty-Two: Trials

  Wood smacked against Ash's neck, sending a stinging sensation through him. He winced, slapping his hand over his neck as the pain radiated outward like ripples in a pond.

  "Better, but still dead," Amalia stated calmly, her voice betraying neither approval nor disappointment.

  She lowered her practice blade and sat down by the fire that flickered and crackled merrily. A full moon hung in a night sky full of stars, silver light dancing amongst the trees and casting shadows that played in the firelight. The scent of burning pine filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil and night-blooming flowers.

  A wolf howled in the distance, its mournful cry echoing through the forest, and a gentle breeze pushed a twig along the ground with a soft scraping sound. It was a beautiful night, and Ash was spending it sore, tired, and increasingly frustrated.

  "I don't know why you insist I keep practicing my swordplay," he said, rolling his shoulder to ease the stiffness. "Without elar, it won't mean anything." The words tasted bitter on his tongue, and he couldn't help the note of self-pity that crept into his voice.

  Amalia gazed into the fire, her amethyst eyes reflecting the dancing flames, like orbs of shadows hiding secrets as old as time itself. If it wasn't for her attitude, Ash would have said she was truly one of the most gorgeous women he had ever met. Her features were carved like those of a statue, perfect and timeless. But whenever he noticed that about his seemingly reluctant teacher, he remembered that she was essentially blackmailing him, and had a personality colder than the heart of winter.

  "Your attempts are amusing, but grow tiring every time you try, Master Lorcan," she replied, her fingers tracing patterns in the air, just above the flames.

  "Attempts at what?" Ash tried to keep the irritation from his voice and failed miserably.

  Amalia said nothing, her silence more infuriating than any rebuke could have been. Ash sighed, running a hand through his ashen hair, feeling the grit of dust and dried sweat. His muscles ached from the countless forms he had practiced, and his mind was weary from constantly trying to penetrate the wall that was Amalia Vane.

  He had been trying to get her to reveal why they were going to Drakosia. He hoped it had something to do with bridging that chasm within himself, which would grant him access to his elan, and therefore, his elar. That invisible power that everyone else seemed to access so easily remained tantalizingly out of reach for him, separated by a void he couldn't cross.

  Drakosia had been the city of the dragon lords, and Amalia had said he needed a dragon. The two facts connected in his mind like pieces of a puzzle, though he still couldn't see the full picture.

  Ash may have been sixteen, with a lot to learn, but he wasn't stupid. "Well, most days I'm not," he thought self-deprecatingly. He had been told he needed a dragon, and now they were going to the city of dragons. It felt obvious to him, like the connection between rain and wet ground.

  Except the city was no longer there. It was nothing but ruins now. Burnt buildings and ashes as far as the eye could see. Or so he had heard from the few travelers brave enough to speak of it. The name itself seemed to carry a weight of sorrow and tragedy.

  How could a dragon be there? Someone would have noticed by now. Dragons weren't exactly inconspicuous creatures, if the stories were to be believed. Massive, scaled beasts with wings that could block out the sun and breath that could reduce forests to cinders. No, if dragons still existed in Drakosia, the world would know.

  Over the week they had been traveling, he had been prodding at her like a child poking at a sleeping bear, hoping for a reaction but fearing the consequences. He was no master with words, but he tried to get her to answer his questions by asking seemingly unrelated ones, hoping she might slip and reveal something important.

  It hadn't been working. She saw through his clumsy attempts at verbal manipulation with the ease of someone swatting away a fly.

  Amalia insisted he train, and would tell him nothing he tried to pry out of her. She was a fortress of secrets, and he was armed with nothing more than curiosity and stubbornness.

  His frustration was always short-lived, though. This was how she had been since the beginning, and while he didn't like it, he was growing used to the treatment. The initial anger would flare up like a spark in dry kindling, only to sputter out when faced with her implacable calm.

  He didn't even think Amalia was doing it out of dislike or some desire to make him mad. She had reasons, and to her, they were good ones. Perhaps even vital ones, though he couldn't begin to guess what they might be.

  Despite the secrecy and the harsh training, he was making progress with the sword. Amalia hardly corrected him anymore, and at one point, he had even gotten an ever so slight raise of her eyebrow out of her. The tiny gesture had sent a wave of pride through him that was completely disproportionate to the actual approval shown.

  He tried to sear that memory into his brain. It was as good as a compliment to him, a rare acknowledgment that he was doing something right.

  Every day they drew closer to Drakosia. The landscape had been changing, becoming more desolate, as if the land itself was in mourning. Sometimes, they passed other travelers, their faces wary and drawn, as if the very air sapped their strength. Once they encountered a trader, his cart laden with goods from far-off lands. Amalia bought nothing from the man and his cart, however, though Ash had lingered, eyes drawn to a collection of polished stones that gleamed in the sunlight.

  At the end of every day, they trained. Ash's physical exercise had been shortened, in favor of focusing on the blade. The forms were becoming more natural to him now, his body remembering what his mind still struggled to grasp.

  Amalia taught him two other forms that he practiced until his arms felt like lead and sweat dripped from his brow.

  Heart of The Frost Dragon was defensive in nature, a stance designed to endure. It required a stillness that didn't come naturally to him, feet planted like roots of an ancient tree, blade held at an angle that could deflect the most powerful blows.

  Frost Dragon's Breath, by contrast, was full, crushing offense with the sword. It demanded quick footwork and decisive strikes, like a predator pouncing on its prey. Amalia had not said whether he mastered them yet, but he felt like he was close. There was a fluidity to his movements now that hadn't been there before.

  She still won every single match, even without elar. She possessed experience that dwarfed any talent he had by far. Her movements were efficient, precise, and utterly devastating. She knew exactly where to strike, when to advance, when to retreat. It was like fighting a force of nature.

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  She also had elar to fall back on if that wasn't enough, though she rarely needed it. That invisible power that enhanced strength, speed, and senses was a tool she wielded with the same mastery as her blade.

  Ash did not have that luxury. He was fighting with one arm tied behind his back, and they both knew it. Yet still she pushed him, demanding more, accepting nothing less than his absolute best effort. And despite himself, he found he was improving.

  The night deepened around them, the fire burning lower, casting longer shadows. Ash stared into the flames, watching them dance and flicker, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. Tomorrow they would reach Drakosia, and perhaps then he would get some answers. Or perhaps just more questions. With Amalia, it was impossible to know.

  On the twelfth day, Ash and Amalia reached Drakosia.

  What he had expected was what he saw, and yet seeing it still took his breath away. Outstretched before him was a field of ash, with the occasional building blacker than tar. He almost thought it was snow at first glance, a vast winter wasteland stretching to the horizon.

  The sight was eerie, unnatural. The ash should have blown away years ago, scattered by wind and rain. Sixteen years was more than enough time for nature to reclaim what had once been a thriving city. And yet something seemed to keep the ash in place, as if time itself had frozen in this desolate landscape.

  A chill ran down Ash's spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. There was something wrong about this place, something that made his skin crawl and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  Ash followed Amalia, a strange sense of familiarity settling into his steps as if he were back on the farm. It made no sense; he had never been here before, and yet his feet seemed to know the way, as if following a path walked many times before.

  Wind blew, folding over him like a welcoming embrace, whispering secrets in a language he couldn't quite understand. The gentle caress of air against his skin felt almost... affectionate. As if the land itself recognized him.

  None of the ashes stirred. Not a single speck was disturbed by the wind that ruffled his hair and tugged at his clothes. It was as if the ash was anchored to the ground by some invisible force.

  They trudged along in silence, the only sound the soft crunch of their boots on the ashen ground. Ash found himself looking hopefully around for a dragon, though he tried to hide his eagerness. There was none in sight that he could see, no massive scaled beasts soaring overhead, no ancient creatures lurking among the ruins.

  Finally, they came to a stop in what appeared to be an ordinary patch of ash, indistinguishable from any other. Ash couldn't say how he knew, but he was certain they were standing in the center of the field of ashes, the heart of what had once been Drakosia.

  Then Amalia spoke a word. A word he had never heard before, but somehow knew in the depths of his soul. She spoke it in a guttural, growling tongue like burning fire and booming thunder, a language that seemed to resonate with the very foundations of the world.

  "OPEN."

  The world responded immediately. Wind swirled around them, twisting and twirling, folding in on itself in a mini vortex that fell upon the ground at their feet. Radiant silver light spun from it, a thread of molten silver that cast shadows on the ash, weaving a pattern that seemed to pull at something deep inside Ash.

  Faster still it spun, the light growing brighter, the wind stronger, until all suddenly settled, as if the world had taken a deep breath and held it.

  Like a mirror, silver shimmered before them, and light spilled forth like a frothing waterfall, forming a doorway where there had been nothing but ash moments before.

  Amalia gestured toward the portal, her face as impassive as ever, though Ash thought he saw something in her eyes, a flicker of emotion quickly suppressed.

  "Enter the portal, Ash," she said, her voice unusually gentle. "Here is the first step."

  He swallowed, his throat bobbing, suddenly dry. The portal pulsed before him, inviting and terrifying in equal measure. What lay beyond? What would he find there? What would he become?

  Steeling his nerves, gathering every ounce of courage he possessed, he stepped into the portal, silver light engulfing him, swallowing him whole.

  ASH LORCAN.

  A voice older than mountains, louder than a crashing wave, and yet as soft as a whisper upon the wind, spoke to him from nowhere and everywhere at once. It resonated in his bones, vibrated in his blood, filled his mind with its presence.

  He blinked his eyes open, finding himself in a room of utter blackness, a void that seemed to stretch infinitely in all directions. He felt weightless, untethered from physical constraints, and couldn't feel his physical body. It was as if he had become pure consciousness, floating in an ocean of nothingness.

  "Where am I?" he thought, the words seeming to echo despite being unspoken.

  THREE PATHS LAY BEFORE YOU, ASH LORCAN.

  As the voice spoke, the darkness before him shifted, changed, taking shape. A road of pale moonlight shot itself outward, gleaming with a cold, serene beauty that promised peace and rest.

  Another road of rose light expanded beside it, warm and inviting, pulsing with life and love and the promise of connection.

  And finally, a third road of golden, shimmering power unfolded, dazzling in its brilliance, tempting in its majesty. It whispered of strength, of might, of the ability to shape the world to one's will.

  "Paths? What is going on?!" Ash tried to speak aloud, but no words formed. His voice was trapped within him, unable to escape into this strange realm.

  ONE PATH LEADS TO THE ETERNAL PEACE OF THE VOID.

  The moonlight path rippled in response, growing brighter for a moment, as if acknowledging its purpose. It called to him with the promise of an end to struggle, an end to pain, an end to the constant battle that had become his life.

  ANOTHER LEADS TO SALVATION FOR YOUR LOVED ONES.

  The rose path pulsed, beating like a heart, warm and vital. It offered not peace for himself, but the chance to protect those he cared for, to save them from harm, to ensure their safety and happiness even at cost to himself.

  THE FINAL PATH LEADS TO POWER BEYOND MORTAL KEN. ITS PRICE PAID IN THE BLOOD OF CRUSHED LOVE AND DEATH.

  The golden path beckoned, alluring and dangerous. It promised strength beyond imagining, the power to reshape reality itself, to bend the world to his will. But the cost... the cost was terrible to contemplate.

  CHOOSE.

  The voice rumbled through him, imperative and absolute.

  "Choose? I don't understand!" Ash called out with his mind, desperate for clarification, for context, for anything that would help him make sense of this impossible decision.

  CHOOSE, ASH LORCAN.

  The voice would offer no explanation, no guidance, no comfort. The choice was his alone to make, the consequences his alone to bear.

  "Choose what?!" he thought furiously at the voice, anger flaring at being put in this position without understanding why or how.

  But it was clear his protests would gain him nothing. He needed to pick a path. Except he didn't understand the context. Was it metaphorical? What did each path truly represent? Would all he love really die if he chose the golden path? The stakes seemed impossibly high for a decision made in ignorance.

  Power was what he desperately wanted right now. Not for himself, not out of vanity or ambition, but precisely because of what he loved. He needed strength to protect, to avenge, to find the truth that had been kept from him for so long.

  Yet if he picked the golden path, that would spell disaster. The voice had been clear about that. The blood of crushed love and death... he shuddered at the thought.

  And yet... it called to him like a siren's song. Power to get answers. To seek revenge for his aunt and uncle, for the life that had been taken from him. To find those responsible and make them pay.

  It was waiting for him. All he need do is choose that path. It whispered to him, showing him visions of himself wielding elar like he wanted, the chasm within him bridged at last, the power flowing through him like a river of ice.

  Of laying waste to any who challenged him, bringing them to their knees with a gesture, making them fear the name Ash Lorcan.

  Of protecting the innocent, the vulnerable, the Sallys of the world, ensuring that no one else would suffer as she had.

  The other two paths were nothing before it. Pale imitations of what he truly desired.

  He felt his consciousness step towards the golden path, drawn by its promise, its potential, its power.

  Everything he wanted lay down that shining road.

  Except his loved ones would die. Oh, maybe not literally. He knew that. The voice had spoken of "crushed love," not necessarily of physical death.

  But power could corrupt. Ash had seen the results of what those in power could do to those under them, had witnessed the cruelty and indifference that came when one person held dominion over another.

  It was monstrous. It twisted people, made them into something they never thought they could become. Would he become such a monster? Would the power he sought to protect others end up being the very thing that made him a threat to them?

  Ash didn't want power if it meant he could no longer love, or that he became twisted and corrupted by it. He had seen that darkness in the eyes of the man who had killed his uncle, a darkness that consumed all light, all compassion, all humanity.

  He wanted power, yes, but he would build it the right way, step by step, earned through effort and sacrifice, not gained in a single moment of selfish choice.

  With a mental wrench that was almost physical in its intensity, he turned away from the golden path and moved toward the rose one. He chose it because ultimately he wanted to be someone who saved, who protected, who sheltered others from harm.

  Not someone who took, who destroyed, who sacrificed others for his own gain.

  As he stepped onto the path of rose light, radiant flame washed everything in white fire, consuming his consciousness, burning away the paths, the void, the very fabric of reality itself.

  And in that moment of purifying flame, Ash Lorcan made his choice, not knowing where it would lead, only that it was the path his heart demanded he take.