Chapter 3 A Voice, Remembered
A Voice, Remembered
Dawn broke far too early, a poor omen signaling the coming shift in Cycles. Stiff and burned out, Resh rolled from his cot, brushing dark hair from his face. He covered Auryn with an extra fur blanket then stepped out of his tent to assess the weather and greet his men.
The sun painted bright oranges and golds across a sea of angry clouds.
A thick mist settled over the camp and covered everything in frigid dewdrops.
The water soaked into the grass, making mud of earth, staining his boots dark brown as he circled the tent and set new wards to guard Auryn against the wind and chill.
In the sky, a skarnyx and its mate circled Brackenrood like vultures, more raptors joining in as the world stretched and stepped into a day’s new stride. Their powerful wings balancing the currents, they opened golden beaks and gave peeling gull-cries as worship to the rising sun.
The camp stirred, waking to the light. Cooks stoked fires in preparation of the morning meal.
Blacksmiths heated forges to begin repairs of gear and weapons.
By the feeding troughs, the horses stamped restlessly, ears flicking toward the hills.
In the distance, the low and haunting sound of beast howls crested the surrounding hills, signaling the company could not afford much more delay before departure.
Zarrek was nowhere to be seen. He’d likely gone into the heart of Brackenrood to barter for supplies and privileges in Resh’s place.
Much needed to be done. Prepared. Gathered.
Judging by the state of the camp, they’d need one more day to pack up the wagons and secure all essential gear for the journey.
Villagers arrived just after breakfast—locals bearing travel packs and worn cloaks, bundles of food, and a quiet reverence for the legendary Kelvasari who had saved them from the Shades and varkhounds.
Zarrek must have made an impression. He was well versed in many languages and could leverage his fearsome reputation as the Resh’Agar’s Second to win over merchants and mercenaries alike.
A noise to his left. Footsteps.
“The morning weeps,” Auryn said, her voice softer than the murmur of the shifting grass.
He turned, caught off guard—not just by the words, but by the way she spoke them.
Like she’d been conversing with the clouds.
And in the common tongue. Not in the strange lilting syllables she’d spoken yesterday.
“You speak our language?” he asked.
“Because you know the words, they now flow through me as well.”
Their eyes met, gazes locked. Different from the day before. No wariness lingered there. For him, only awe. And for her, only trust and a sparking curiosity.
"Yesterday, you used magic," he said. "You were afraid."
She thought on it for a moment. "You moved too fast for my eyes. I wanted you still." Her head tilted. "Did I frighten you? You do not seem like the sort of man easily frightened."
"Just…surprised," he said, more unsettled than he would have liked to admit. She’d snuck up behind him, the fur blanket wrapped around her shoulders—her feet still bare against the dew-drenched earth.
“You should stay inside,” he suggested, gesturing toward the villagers. “We’re going to trade with these people. I can barter for some shoes for you, if you’d like.”
He examined his coin purse. A few Lutes jingled within.
A Plat or two. Not all cultures on the Surface used the same currency, and only developed regions like Maradryn bothered trading gold and silver tokens like those in his possession.
The people of Brackenrood were some of the few that did both.
Being a trading town, they liked to maintain that sort of flexibility.
When he next looked up, Auryn was halfway to the forges. He cursed and followed, worried her gleaming hair, bare feet, and reckless curiosity might stir the camp from its uneasy order. He tapped her shoulder when she reached for an abandoned tool kit on an anvil, giving her a nod of reassurance.
“This way,” he pointed. “I’ll show you the lay of the land.”
She smiled. “With you, I will remember.”
Her words slipped past his armor like a blade. He met her gaze, just for a moment, and the world quieted. It was the way she said you, like he was a place. A promise. A memory she hadn’t yet made but already missed. His pulse jumped, wild and hot.
“Then stay close to me,” he said, voice lower now. “There’s much to see.”
He guided her through every part of the camp, sparing no detail—using the time to double-check that everything was going to plan.
The Reskala warriors looked at Auryn like she’d fallen from the sky.
Not a far-fetched theory, considering. Especially when she paused beside a dying tree and pressed her palm against its bark as though in prayer.
After a few moments, she padded back to his side, her hair flowing and sighing as though it were a thing alive.
He wished the traders would hurry in their morning preparations.
He wanted to get her some shoes as soon as possible, worried she’d brush her foot against a firethistle or catch a thornroot fang between her toes.
His tension mounted as he neared the edge of camp. Still no sign of Zarrek. The man had never blatantly avoided Resh before.
Hopefully he’s drunk in a tavern and not off plotting a coup. Last thing we need is infighting before we set off for home.
Something tugged on his tunic, and Resh glanced down to see that Auryn had captured one of the stray ties of his armor in her hand.
She was twirling it absently around her pinky, her touch featherlight, as she watched a large group of villagers approach from behind the closest inn.
It was nothing. Innocent. But something about it sent heat crawling under his skin.
He fought the urge to catch her hand in his. To see if she’d let him keep it.
Her body was relaxed, but her mouth carried an unfamiliar tension in its downward curve.
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “Those are the traders I told you about.”
“Their voices are big,” she observed. “And their hearts. But they are too bright.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. "Don't try to freeze them with your magic."
The curve of her lips dipped downward. "They would not survive my magic," she said. "I used it on you because you are strong enough to bear its weight."
The villagers laughed and bantered as they strode into Resh’s outpost. No fear. No hesitation. As though among friends gathered in a lifetime.
Loud and brazen, the men traded jokes and slapped backs.
The women giggled, casting flirtatious glances at the warriors.
A few young boys rolled casks of bloodwine larger than their bodies towards the storehouse, playfully kicking each other in the shins as they went.
All of them bore supplies—baskets of food, bundles of leather and fur, and the easy camaraderie of people who’d survived the hardships of the world together.
Among the new arrivals was Agna, innkeeper of The Scout’s Lantern, one of the more popular establishments in Brackenrood.
She was a stocky, round-faced woman with braided golden hair, flour on her apron, and a permanent flush in her cheeks.
Her sharp eyes spotted Resh in the crowd, and she sidled over to him with all the charm of a merchant about to seal the deal of the week.
“Shadeslayer!” she called with a wink, her voice all warm thunder. “Morning to you, Commander. I’ve come bearing trade, temptations, and a list as long as my apron—”
Her hazel eyes snapped to Auryn, widening as Agna looked at her from head to toe.
“My,” she breathed, “what a little scrap of a thing you’ve found.” She gave Auryn a bright, unthinking smile, straight from the heart. “Hello, dear one. My name is Agna. What do I call you?”
The pull on Resh’s armor tie grew marginally.
Auryn tilted her head. “I am myself,” she said. Plain. Unapologetic. As though any and all should have seen that truth without the need to query it.
Resh cleared his throat when the silence in the wake of Auryn’s cheekiness lingered far too long.
“Agna,” he said, flashing his most charming smile, “I need a little help. I’m escorting this young woman East towards Stonewake, and we need a few supplies. Some shoes, perhaps. For travel.”
Agna arched a brow at Auryn’s bare feet. As though on reflex, small toes curled inward to hide beneath her cloak.
“Well,” the innkeeper drawled, placing a muscular hand on her hip. “Too small for anything of my son’s, but Joram’s lad just grew out of his hunting tunic a bit ago.” She sighed. “I’ll see what I can rummage up—clothes, rations, the lot. Make sure she eats proper meals, Shadeslayer.”
She bustled away before he could say another word.
That night, the town held a feast to celebrate their saviors and garner the gods’ favor for their travels. Tables set in the open green, lamps swinging from tree branches, music rising from hand drums and flutes. The event swelled in a wealth of noise and songs and dancing.
Most of his Reskala warriors kept to the edges, still not used to cheer or chatter even after nineteen years of Surface life.
The villagers took no offense, letting them be as they were and only stepping close to offer gifts and prayers.
Agna ensured the food and drink was endless, piling plates high and pressing mugs into empty hands.
Amid the whirlwind, Auryn sat near Resh in the borrowed clothes Agna had given her. They clung where they shouldn’t, cupped her hips too tight. Slight—but far from shapeless. He’d seen battlefields less distracting.
She watched the musicians with wide eyes, head tilted as if hearing something beneath the tune. Her striking hair left not a single eye indifferent. Men and women alike looked at her with wonder. When one younger Reskala lingered too long, Resh’s jaw flexed once before he looked away.