Chapter 25
The unbelievers do not accept the historical artifacts and texts, claiming a single Star could not cause such disruption of the Empyrean and subsequently, the realms. Yet, no other sources have been uncovered to dispute the actions of Dominion or his wraiths.
The Shattering: A history
ASTRAIA HAD TRULY NEVER BEEN kissed with such fervor, her lips swollen and hair disheveled by the time she retired to her stateroom.
Caelan had accompanied her from the star tower, bidding her goodnight with another lingering kiss, running his fingers through her hair with unequivocal abandon of any decorum.
She woke the next morning with her heart and head at war.
She could give Caelan part of her heart, but in doing so, she was painting a target on his back.
It was folly to think they could hide her true identity forever, let alone her bonds.
There would come a time when the truth would be brought to light, and it likely would only lead to death—hers and his.
Astraia cursed as she rose from the bed, head pounding from the wine, and glanced outside.
It was still early morning hours, the sun not yet risen.
Sleep had not been her friend in years. It seemed fitting that she could not sleep even here, covered in silk sheets and imprints of a lord’s lips on her skin.
She needed to clear her head, focus on the here and now, and she knew the exact remedy for her muddled mind.
As she strode across the room to where her small satchel of belongings still lay on a table, she caught a glimpse of white out of the corner of her eye.
Her steps faltered as she glanced downward at her clothes.
It was his shirt. She had worn his shirt to sleep last night.
Stars, how drunk had I been?
Impulsively, she lifted the collar of the shirt to her nose, inhaling the fabric—pine and a hint of smoke.
A twinge of regret and bitterness flickered in her thoughts.
It was insulting to save her life so many times, offer his companionship and strength, then disappear.
No matter his noble intentions of attempting to save her, she should have demanded he stay—fought harder to protect the flame that had only just begun to burn.
Astraia steeled herself, breathing deeply to calm her vexation. With one swift motion, she pulled the shirt over her head, gently folding it and stowing it deep within her satchel.
It only took a few moments to get dressed in her leathers and tunic.
She strapped her dagger to her thigh, slinging her bow over her back with her quiver of arrows.
Without a second glance, she marched out of the stateroom and made her way to the only place where bitterness and rage were welcomed with open arms.
It took her a few minutes of walking east of the manor when she heard it. The familiar clang of metal meeting metal pierced the morning air. Horses whinnied in the distance, and some men were shouting obscenities.
Astraia smiled as she came upon the stone courtyard that served as the entrance to the Virellian military compound.
Barracks surrounded the courtyard in a semicircle, offering housing to at least a hundred soldiers.
Most Virellian soldiers who stayed in the barracks close to the manor were young men, handpicked by Lord Vireaux himself, to train and later compete in trials for the honor of being named Empyrean Guards.
The Empyrean were not typical brutes or foot soldiers—they were as silent as the winds and twice as lethal.
Trained not only in warfare and swordsmanship, but also in the contentious art of shadow-walking as assassins.
When Astraia was fifteen, she had already been training with Elion and her instructors to sharpen her into a weapon, at the bidding of her father.
Her skills with her Starwood bow were unmatched, even at a young age.
However, her blade work was shoddy at best, despite hours of drills and several blisters on her hands.
One summer she spent in Volpes, she snuck out of the manor and followed Caelan to the compound.
For hours she had watched hidden from view as the men dueled and practiced drills with a blade, but she was ousted when Caelan found her cowering in the bushes.
Astraia had feared she would get a firm lashing for leaving the manor unattended and spying on the training sessions, but the training general, Cetus, had thrown her a wooden practice sword and, without a word, placed her in the lines of soldiers to run drills.
Every morning that summer and the next, she joined the recruits for morning drills, running leagues along the hillsides of Virellia, learning battle strategies, and mastering the blade.
Cetus would only ever give her short words of feedback.
“Good. Again,” or “No, like this.” He might not have been a verbose instructor, but Astraia had cheated death on more than one occasion thanks to his tutelage.
Glancing around the courtyard, not much had changed in five years.
It was still early morning, with mist coating the grounds of the compound, but that meant little to the men.
They were here to be the lethal extension of Virellia, which meant late nights and early mornings paired with grueling training sessions that taxed the body and mind.
Another clang of metal clashing with metal reverberated through the courtyard. Astraia’s eyes locked on the source of the cacophony—two men dueling in front of the other soldiers. Both men appeared energized, clearly unbothered by the sweat pouring down their skin or the crowd of men goading them.
Both men were shirtless, wearing nothing but their leather pants and armed with longswords.
The mist swirled at their feet as they danced in a circle, each weighing the other’s next move and calculating their retaliation.
Their bodies were honed to be expert killers, muscles defined by sweat dripping down their tanned skin.
One of the dueling men had an intricate tattoo of a vine twisting up his right arm, spreading into roots across his back. Peering closer, Astraia could make out the faint peppering of golden dots on the man’s low back in the distinct shape of the fox Vulpecula, the lumenmark of Desire.
Caelan.
He moved with refined grace, dancing with his opponent.
It reminded Astraia of his effortless footwork dancing with her last night.
Pure instinct as he stepped, blade at the ready, and a smirk on his face.
She kept her distance, watching the opponent’s movements, attempting to decipher his next move.
Caelan laughed, goading his opponent, “You seem tired, Apus. Did you get locked out of the barracks again for missing curfew? Stars know it’s not because of some woman.”
Apus’s face turned fifty shades of crimson, then he lunged with a roar, but Caelan was expecting him.
As Apus lunged, Caelan sidestepped, evading his attack.
Twisting mid-stride, Caelan was behind Apus within a breath and had kicked the backs of his knees.
Apus cursed, falling to the ground as a blade came to rest on his neck.
“Your emotions will get you killed if you can’t control them. Now, yield.” Caelan spoke sternly, no longer flippant.
Apus nodded, laying his sword down in forfeit. The small crowd of soldiers standing behind them clapped, some laughing and teasing Apus for his misstep.
Astraia strode through the courtyard, unfazed by the looks the soldiers were giving her as she approached the dueling ring.
“I thought the Empyrean were honorable, Captain? Or have standards slipped so low that they allow any riffraff who fights using his manhood in the guard?” She stopped only a few steps in front of him, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes.
The courtyard went completely silent, all eyes trained on her and Caelan.
Caelan smirked, sweat dripping from his brow as he closed the final distance between them. His eyes darkened as he spoke. “Why don’t you show us, since I recall you were once part of our riffraff?”
Astraia smiled, removing her bow and quiver. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Astraia removed her navy cloak, lightening any restrictions that might impede movement. Caelan was strong and fast, but she would need to move quicker.
The dampness of the morning mist clung to her hair and skin, but she welcomed the cold shiver that made its way down her spine as wind met beads of sweat. She needed to feel alive and banish Draven from her thoughts.
Just to be safe, she dove into her mind and fortified the tether to Power and Sacrifice, pulling the cord taut. This would be a trial of purely body strength, speed, and technique—her bonds needed to stay deadened and hidden.
Caelan eyed her warily, tossing her a practice sword.
He brandished his own as he circled opposite her in the dueling ring.
Astraia drew her focus to the blade in her hand and the weight of the hilt, the way the blade reflected light.
She readied herself, tightening her core and bouncing on her toes, preparing to dodge any advance from him.
Caelan winked at her, then thrust his blade toward her on the attack.
She dodged, spinning around and raising her blade to block another advance. The courtyard was eerily silent except for the clang of two dueling Starborne. Metal clashed with metal, creating an ominous symphony in the early morning hours.
The waltz continued for several minutes with Caelan on the attack, thrusting, slashing, and lunging at her. Her feet were light, avoiding his advances and managing to stay within the dueling ring. Soon, sweat beaded on her forehead as the sun rose, and her muscles screamed from the abuse.