Arc 2, Chapter 13: The Road Between

  Daylight pressed through Ash's eyelids until his eyes watered.

  He opened them and stared up at a ceiling he did not recognize.

  Thick wooden beams crossed above him, their surfaces darkened by years of smoke. Between them, plaster showed hairline fractures and uneven repairs, older patches layered under newer ones.

  A sharp, bitter scent of dried herbs filled the room. His fingertips slid over clean sheets.

  The smells, the bedding, the quiet arrangement of the room all pointed to the same conclusion. He was in a healer's ward.

  Ash turned his head.

  A man sat on a stool beside the bed, close enough that Ash could see the lines at the corners of his eyes. The man wore plain robes. His hands rested on his knees, and his expression stayed calm and unreadable. He watched Ash wake without moving forward.

  Voices carried from the doorway.

  Isolde stood there with her body angled partly away from the bed. Her white robes looked stark against the grey stone walls.

  She was speaking to a knight Ash did not recognize. The man looked around thirty-five, with black hair cut close to his scalp and an expression trained into calm neutrality. A black tree spread across his chest plate, its roots branching wide. House Valendris.

  Isolde stopped in the middle of a sentence.

  Her head angled toward the bed. Her pale eyes stayed unfocused, and the line of her attention landed on him with unnerving precision.

  Ash stayed still and kept his breathing shallow.

  The clearing returned in jagged flashes. The dragon's roar hit his ribs hard enough that he tasted it. Firelight climbed the trunks, and then the sky split with brightness and sealed again, leaving the ground unchanged.

  Isolde dipped her head once, shallow and quick. Her feet were already turned toward the doorway before Ash could even think of speaking.

  The latch clicked when she stepped out. Her footsteps faded, and the ward filled again with the herb bite in the air and the soft scrape of cloth from the seated man.

  The Valendris knight stepped away from the doorway and came toward the bed.

  He stopped a few paces short and looked down at Ash.

  "Lord Ash." His voice stayed flat and controlled. "Your recovery is progressing well."

  Ash kept his face still and gave him nothing.

  "Transport has been arranged. A carriage will collect you at dawn and take you to the main estate." The knight paused, then continued in the same measured tone. "You held your ground out there. That has been noted."

  He paused again, long enough for the silence to feel deliberate.

  "Five years in Thornwood," he said. "You walked out. The trial is behind you now."

  He bowed with precise form and turned toward the door before Ash could decide whether speaking would matter.

  The healer remained on his stool with his hands folded now. His gaze stayed on the far wall, and his posture did not shift.

  Ash pushed himself upright.

  His muscles resisted the movement, tight and sore. His joints scraped when he shifted his weight. Exhaustion still sat deep in him, but it did not pin him down. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, set his feet onto cold stone, and stood. He crossed the room to the window where thin daylight slipped through warped glass.

  The outpost lay below.

  Thick stone walls surrounded a courtyard, built wide enough to take a battering. Barracks lined the eastern side. Stables occupied the western edge, and horses moved in the open doorways, their breath drifting in pale clouds in the chill. In the center, a training yard spread out with sand raked into smooth lines.

  Knights had assembled in the courtyard.

  They stood in formation in black armor, catching what little light the overcast sky allowed. Each man held a drawn sword upright before his covered face, blade pointed straight up.

  A knight at the front called out, and the glass swallowed the words.

  The swords lowered together. They rose together. They lowered again with the same disciplined control.

  Ash saw his reflection in the pane, thin and washed out over helmets and steel. He set his palm against the glass, and cold seeped into his skin.

  He saw the crater again as clearly as the glass under his palm.

  The dragon rose from it with armor lit like a forge. Everything they tried, their spells and drilled formations, had scattered and failed.

  He stayed at the window while the ritual continued below under the flat grey sky.

  —

  Fog lay thick over the outpost when Ash stepped outside.

  He stopped beside the carriage and watched the mist drift between the stones. It slid along the ground and climbed the walls, blurring corners and swallowing the far end of the yard. Nearby, three knights stood with the black-haired man from the infirmary. Their voices stayed low, and Ash caught only a few syllables, not enough to make out a point.

  A dark, lacquered carriage waited in the yard, its panels still glossy under the damp. Moisture beaded on the wood. Iron bands and hinges sat tight against the frame, fitted with careful work.

  On the door, carved deep into the grain, a black tree spread its roots downward. House Valendris.

  Ash looked from the crest to the men and back to the black-haired knight.

  "The others," he said. "What happened to them?"

  The man turned. Surprise flickered across his face and disappeared.

  "The commander withdrew with part of the rear guard," he said. After a pause, he added, "They're recovering at another post."

  Before he could ask anything else, the man gestured toward the carriage.

  "Safe travels, my lord."

  Ash climbed inside.

  The door shut with a firm sound. The carriage rolled forward, wheels creaking as they found the rutted ground. Through the window, Ash watched the outpost slip away into the fog until the walls thinned into pale shapes and vanished.

  The trees thinned behind them, but the forest line stayed visible for miles, a dark band along the horizon. Ahead, fields spread out under a low sky, pale and dry-looking, the soil and grass the color of old bone. Ash leaned his shoulder against the window frame and let the wheelbeat steady his breathing.

  A shape stood alone in a field to the left of the road, maybe two hundred paces out.

  At first he took it for a scarecrow until the fog shifted and the details sharpened. It was stone. Human-sized. Wings lay folded against its back, and the feathers had been cut with enough care that his eyes kept trying to make them move.

  It was an angel.

  It held a sword in both hands with the tip planted in the earth. The posture was not relaxed. It looked like a guard was set in place and told to wait.

  More statues appeared as the carriage rolled on.

  They were scattered across the fields and along the roadsides, spaced far enough apart that each one had its own patch of land. Some carried two wings. Others had four or six, the extra limbs layered behind the shoulders in heavy stone arcs. One figure stood with a single wing extended. The other side of its back was smooth, bare stone, as if the matching wing had been broken off long ago.

  Their weapons changed from one to the next. Ash saw swords, spears, bows with arrows drawn and held forever, shields lifted as if a blow might land at any moment. The poses did not look ceremonial. They looked caught mid-action, like someone had halted them in the middle of a fight and never released them again.

  He had grown up with them.

  They lined the main roads. They stood near farm plots where the planting rows ran right up to their feet. They rose at the edge of villages where children chased each other through their shadows. Most people stopped looking after a while. Ash never managed it.

  As another group slid past the window, cold gathered behind his ribs. Five figures stood in a loose line with wings spread in different numbers and weapons angled outward. They faced an empty stretch of land.

  People called them relics of the Abyss War. The war had ended a thousand years ago, but the statues still watched as if the enemy might return on the next turn of the road.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Ash had heard the questions all his life. Who carved them, what stone they were, and why they stood in fields instead of temples. No one ever had an answer.

  Everyone knew the rule. Touch one, damage one, and punishment followed. Ash had heard different versions of what that punishment looked like, but the result stayed the same. Children kept their hands off the wings and weapons, and even drunks gave them space.

  Another statue passed close enough that Ash could see the pattern of six wings stacked behind the shoulders. The spear in its hands pointed up into the blank sky. Its face was turned away from the road, so he could not see its eyes.

  His stomach tightened. The feeling came every time, quick and sour, as if his body recognized a danger his mind could not name.

  The carriage kept moving.

  The angels fell behind one by one, still facing outward across the fields as Ash rode on.

  Low hills rose ahead, and a village came into view between them. Around forty buildings clustered around a square, their roofs close together. Thin smoke drifted up from chimneys in narrow threads. His gaze snagged on the shrine at the edge of the buildings.

  Then he saw the field beside it.

  The grass along the shrine's eastern wall had turned black.

  It was a black that looked poured on. The stalks bent and warped in place, and the ground beneath them had darkened to a slick, ruined color that made his stomach tighten. The stain showed from the road. It should not have reached this far from Thornwood.

  Ash leaned forward and knocked on the carriage wall.

  The driver slowed. A face appeared at the window, brows lifted.

  "Stop here."

  "My lord? The estate is still two days away."

  "I'll walk. Keep going without me."

  The carriage rolled to the roadside and stopped.

  Ash took his bag and stepped down.

  The grass under his boots cracked and crunched. He looked back toward the shrine. The black patch sat against the pale field like a mark pressed into the land.

  He started toward the village.

  —

  The shrine sat at the edge of the village, a short walk from the road.

  The crown built shrines like this for healing. This one was a small grey stone building with a plain roof and simple symbols for restoration and purification carved above the door.

  People came to places like this when they ran out of options. Farmers carried feverish children. Merchants paid for a blessing when a wound stayed dark at the edges and refused to close. Work that kept a village moving.

  Ash slowed before the shrine's grounds.

  An arched chair stood out in the grass near the wall. The patch around it looked oddly healthy, green where the rest of the fields had gone dull. Four children sat in front of the chair with their legs folded, faces tipped up as if they were afraid to miss a word.

  A woman sat in the chair.

  Her brown hair had been pulled into a knot at the back of her head. Spectacles rested on her nose. She wore plain robes that had been washed too many times to hold their original color, but they were clean.

  Ash stopped at the boundary and leaned his shoulder against a tree where the shade broke up his outline. He listened.

  "...and that's why it works." Her voice carried clearly despite its softness. "The core sits here, close to your heart. You can't see it, and you can't touch it, but it's always there. It draws power from the world around you. Like a well that refills itself while you sleep."

  A boy raised his hand. Eight years old, perhaps. Maybe younger.

  "How do spells happen?" he asked. "How do mages make them?"

  The woman smiled.

  "That part is harder. We can't grab magic the way we grab a rope. It's too raw." She held up her hands in front of her, then drew them back as if she had felt a sting. "If you try to take it without a barrier, it's like putting your bare hand on lightning."

  The children leaned forward.

  "So we use rules," she said. "We use structures that shape it into something safe. That structure is called a Gate." She held her palms facing each other with a gap between. "Think of a door. The power is on one side, and we are on the other. The Gate lets us open it a crack. Just enough to reach through and take what we need."

  A girl raised her hand. "What if you open it too much?"

  For a moment, the woman's smile slipped. It returned quickly.

  "Then the magic stops flowing around you," she said, "and it starts flowing through you."

  She brought her hands together once, a sharp clap that made the children blink.

  "That's enough for today. Go play before the weather turns."

  The children protested all at once, groaning and pleading, but they stood when she waved them away. They ran toward the square, laughing as they went, and their voices faded into the village noise.

  The woman watched until they disappeared between the first row of houses. Then she reached up, removed her spectacles, and pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose. When she exhaled, it sounded like she had been holding her breath for the length of the lesson.

  Ash pushed away from the tree and walked toward her.

  Her head turned at the sound of his boots on the grass. Her posture shifted first, cautious and ready. Then her eyes moved over his dented armor and road-stained clothes.

  "That was well done," he said. "You made it easy to follow."

  Color flooded her cheeks, spreading from her neck to her hairline.

  "No." She fumbled to replace her spectacles. "It's basic theory. Anyone here could say the same."

  "Most people can't say it without turning it into a tangle," Ash said.

  The color deepened. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  He held out his hand.

  "Ash."

  She looked at it, then down at her own hands. They were clean, but faint stains lingered around her nails, the kind that came from herbs and tinctures. She wiped her palms once against her robe and took his hand carefully.

  "Mira," she said. "I serve at the shrine." Her eyes flicked back up. "Are you traveling through? Do you need treatment?"

  "Traveling," Ash said. "My carriage kept going." He released her hand. "I need to reach the Valendris estate eventually, but I'm in no rush."

  Her brows lifted.

  "Valendris?" she said. "You work for them?"

  "In a way," he said.

  "Oh." She fidgeted with her spectacles. "Well, be careful then. People say they're strict. They like rules."

  A short laugh slipped out of Ash before he could stop it.

  "Yes," he said. "They do."

  She blinked at the laugh, the confusion plain in her face.

  "What position do you hold with them?" She tilted her head. "If you tell me, I can mention it when their knights next pass through. They might be able to arrange—"

  "I'm the heir," Ash said.

  The sound of the village dropped away for a beat.

  Mira's mouth opened and closed. Her hands flew to her hair and smoothed strands that were already flat. Then she started a bow that stalled halfway, as if she could not decide how deep it needed to be.

  "My lord, I didn't, I'm sorry, I…"

  "That's unnecessary," Ash said.

  She froze.

  He lifted one hand and pointed at himself, at the dented plates, at his boots crusted with road mud.

  "Look at me," he said. "Does this look like a man who needs ceremony?"

  Mira stared, then let out a small laugh that surprised her as it surprised him. Her shoulders dropped.

  "I suppose it doesn't," she said, still catching her breath. "My lord."

  "Ash," he corrected.

  "Ash," she said, testing it once, then nodding. "Transport from the estate comes through once a week. You missed the last one. The next should arrive in six days."

  "Is there somewhere I can stay until then?" he asked.

  "There's a guild hall at the end of the main road," Mira said, pointing toward the center of the village. "It's small, but they rent rooms. It's where the sword-hands usually sleep when they pass through."

  "My thanks," Ash said.

  Mira dipped her head, not quite a bow and not quite a nod.

  He left her by the arched chair and walked toward the village center.

  Behind him, her chair creaked as she sat back down.

  —

  The guild hall sat at the end of the road.

  Two stories of weathered timber and patched plaster rose above the mud. A sign hung above the door with paint bleached past recognition. The windows had been wiped, but grime still filmed the glass.

  Ash pushed inside.

  Four tables stood on a swept wooden floor. A counter ran along the far wall where a woman sorted papers into uneven stacks. A staircase climbed to the upper level and disappeared into dim light.

  An old man sat in the corner.

  He filled a chair too small for him. A beard the color of fresh snow spilled down his chest and disappeared under his belt. His hood stayed up even indoors. Armor covered him head to toe, practical plates left dull and plain. Scratches and dents scored the metal in layers, older marks buried under newer ones.

  Three people stood in front of him.

  One wore a knight's harness polished to a bright shine, its surface etched with patterns along the breastplate and vambraces. Beside him stood a woman in layered robes with wide sleeves and clean seams, her staff held upright with both hands. The third was a broad man in thick plate with a deep chest and heavy greaves, his helmet tucked under one arm.

  Ash knew what they were. Heroes. Otherworlders.

  The knight was talking.

  "Corruption is spreading from the forest," he said. "Villages need protection. We've been sent to—"

  "I'm not interested in your little quest."

  The old man's voice was quiet, and it ended the conversation. The knight's words stopped.

  The old man rose in one smooth motion.

  A spear rested against the wall beside his chair.

  Golden metal, too bright to be brass, with red markings spiraling down the shaft. The lines seemed to shift whenever Ash tried to stare at them straight on.

  His Crimson Eyes flared.

  Heat lit behind his vision, and the room snapped into sharper edges. Mana wrapped the spear in dense waves that pressed against his skin from across the room. Ash recognized the feel of it from the dragon's armor, the same refined signature gathered into something compact and controlled.

  The old man's hand closed around the shaft.

  He turned his head.

  Ash met his eyes beneath the hood and caught only pieces of a face, a hard set of scars and weathered skin.

  The old man smiled.

  "This is amusing," he said.

  Ash's stomach tightened.

  The three shifted.

  The old man stepped past them, slipped through the door, and vanished into the street outside.

  For a heartbeat, the three stood frozen.

  Then their faces changed. The knight's jaw set hard. The woman's hands went white around the staff.

  Ash crossed to the counter.

  "What do you charge for a room?" he asked.

  "Three copper for the night," she said. "Five if you want a meal."

  Ash checked his purse. The coins left inside would barely cover a week of sleeping indoors.

  He set three coins on the counter.

  "Last door on the left," the woman said. "Upstairs."

  Ash took the key and went up while the three argued below in harsh, angry murmurs.

  The room had a bed, a chair, and a window that looked down onto the village's single street.

  Ash set his bag beside the bed and sat. The mattress sagged under his weight, and the springs let out a long metallic creak.

  He closed his eyes and took a slow breath. Then he reached for the Seed of Life.

  Mana answered in a steady pull. It drew from the air, from the timber in the walls, and from the earth beneath the floor. It gathered in his chest where a core should have sat. Warmth filled the space instead.

  The flow stayed thin.

  He stayed on the bed and kept drawing mana until the light at the window dulled. The street noise thinned as doors closed and voices drifted away. When he opened his eyes again, the glass showed only night.

  Ash lay back and stared at the ceiling beams until his eyes started to blur.

  He turned onto his side, shut his eyes, and slept.