Chapter 4 Stirring of Awe
Stirring of Awe
Morning arrived with the mercy of a freezing wind and the scent of coming rain. Resh greeted the sorrowful sunlight and chill with a crick in his neck and the weight of a petite body across his chest.
Auryn draped over him like a living pendant, arm hooked across his ribs, cheek pressed just below his collarbone, knees tucked up, taking as little space as possible. Her hair tumbled down in pale waves, a few strands caught against the green teardrop earring still resting between her fingers.
He should have been worn out. Should have felt the weight of his position in bands of tension across his body. Yet something had changed. For the first time in memory, he was calm. At peace. Though his duties pulled at him, he drew a deep breath and moved without rush.
The mark at the nape of his neck didn’t itch today. Remained quiet. Dormant.
Resh slid his arm from beneath his unexpected bed partner and sat up. He adjusted his clothing and armor by rote, each buckle and strap falling into place without thought. When he reached for his belt, something slipped free and fluttered toward the ground.
He caught it mid-fall.
Silver ribbons.
The ones he’d bartered for the other day on a whim.
They’d reminded him of her.
He glanced back toward the cot. She’d rolled onto her side, hugging his pillow. His chest tightened. He crouched, holding one ribbon up so it caught the early light. It would look beautiful braided into her wild hair.
These scarred hands aren’t made for such delicate work.
He laid the ribbons by the folded cloak on the bedside table and straightened—just as the tent flap stirred. Cold air slipped in with the sound of boots on rugs.
Zarrek entered with the grace of a man hacking bread with a battleaxe. His fur-lined cloak was slung over one shoulder, hair damp from the drizzle. The soles of his boots tracked mud across the rugs.
He stopped dead. His gaze went to the cot, then to Resh, then back again. Auryn had rolled partly onto her back, one small hand fisted in the edge of the fur blanket, the other still curled around the front of Resh’s pillow.
“It’s in your bed,” Zarrek said flatly.
Resh shrugged. “She was cold.”
“That’s all it takes now?”
The air between them tightened. Zarrek’s eyes lingered one moment longer before he moved past without another word, the faint crackle of his runes humming just under his skin.
Resh didn’t watch him go. The weight of their future charged conversation pressed down like the storm now building over the Emerald Moores.
He looked back at Auryn’s sleeping face one last time.
She’s been here a few days and already she’s turned Zarrek and I into a pair of snarling varkhounds. My Second, who questions but never doubts me, now shows me his back. My Kelvasari—who would die for duty without a tremor of fear—looked terrified when she made those flowers bloom.
What’s next?
He reached for his nape. But the mark did not itch. Turning, he stepped out of the tent, donning his Resh’Agar’s mask, slipping on his mantle of duty as though to shield himself from all thought of her. But she lingered.
Even as he walked through the mud.
Even as he stepped farther from her unknowable warmth.
The Kelvasari company traveled with eight large wagons and a few smaller carts when needed.
Each wagon could have been its own house, so large was it in breadth, height, and capacity.
Six draft horses pulled each. Each beast stood twenty-two hands tall at the shoulder, having been bred for stamina and strength.
Warhorses carried the Reskala through rougher terrain, though their riders tried to march when possible, to conserve the animals’ strength in case a fight broke out on the grasslands. Most of the Vanguard and some of the Stone Wings had their own mounts, totaling close to sixty beasts altogether.
The work was endless, but necessary. His Kelvasari were divided into four Wings: Anvil, Stone, Vanguard, and Arcane.
His Reskala warriors comprised the infantry and scout-heavy Vanguard and defender caste of Stone.
These divisions were self-sufficient, with an able captain leading each.
But others traveled with them, too. Those of the Anvil: cooks, crafters, blacksmiths.
And those of the Arcane—Riftwardens, menders, and mages.
All had needs and vulnerabilities. Supplies that were crucial to their function.
Stablehands in the Anvil Wing and some Menders in the Arcane specialized in caring for them, but many would still perish on this journey.
The thought weighed heavily on Resh as the company departed.
As long as the draft horses made it through, they could press on.
But losing even one of those animals could leave them stranded or—worse yet—force them to abandon a supply wagon in the swamps.
The road from Brackenrood to Stonewake would be long and brutal, taking several months to traverse even in the best conditions.
The Emerald Moores was a sprawling grassland stretching for hundreds of miles in all directions, transitioning to swamps as one traveled east and tundras as the hills grew north into the Spine.
This was one of the safest regions of Elendria to travel during the Cycle of Fire, barring spontaneous mana storms, wildfires, and the occasional nomadic predators. Still, no merchant worth his salt traversed the steppe without mercenaries contracted to protect him.
The main roads from Maradryn to most small towns were well marked, but during the Duskfall—the brief period between Fire and Dark—everything shifted. Varkhounds hunted after the sun went down, and carrion wailers circled high above, their enormous azure wings spread wide, waiting for an easy meal.
The Cycle of Fire had sputtered out some weeks ago, and the constant, unrelenting chill of the past week was a clear indication of the Cycle of Dark’s swift approach.
Barring any Drift, the company had a good month before the Cycle caught up to them in the Moores.
Resh had consulted his almanac that morning.
So far, they were on track to reach Stonewake before the worst of the Cycle came.
At this time of year, the worst enemy was the damp and the rain.
Food spoiled and molded. Men fell ill, lost toes and fingers to fungus and frost burn.
In the moisture, horses developed hoofrot and parasites in the gut.
Tinctures had to be made at every stop, fed to both man and beast to keep everyone fit to travel.
Should anything happen to the wagons and carts, the journey would be compromised.
Resh moved from wagon to wagon, checking the iron bracers on each wheel and testing the weight distribution of the supplies.
Frost clung to the canvas covers, the kind that would melt to slick mud within the hour.
Already, the earth had begun to soften beneath the outer cart.
One of the rear wheels slipped in a shallow rut, tilting the load forward.
A sharp whistle rang out across the camp.
“Brace it!” someone shouted.
Four burly Reskala leapt into action to help the loaders, arms straining to hold the weight as crates shifted and threatened to topple.
The canvas tore; the ropes slipped. Resh didn’t flinch.
He crossed the clearing at a measured pace, no urgency in his stride.
When he reached the thick rope, he wrapped one large hand around it and pulled.
The entire stack bucked and groaned before obeying.
Supplies slid and clattered inside, but Resh stepped in—silent, efficient.
His boots dug into the frostbitten earth, and with the steadiness of a rooted tree, he hauled the burden back into line.
The taut ropes groaned under the strain, his shoulders flexing with inhuman power as he leveraged his full weight and drew the load into submission.
One arm braced the line, the other moved with grim purposesecuring the bracer-clip with a brutal precision honed over thousands of mornings like this one. A twist. A pull. Two knots tied so fast the rope didn’t have time to protest. The wagon was righted. Stable. Safe.
The younger warriors stood frozen a beat too long, their breaths visible in the chill.
Then, as one, they turned to him—not with words, but with symbols.
Hands flew up to sign the Resh’Agar’s fearsome title in the silent language of Krystopolis.
They made a claw, as if gripping something tightly.
A breath, then they slammed downward, palm facing the floor. More motions followed.
'Resh’Agar. Arm of the Void. We see. We serve.'
No thanks were spoken. None were needed. Resh only nodded once, curt and controlled, and turned away, already reaching for the next task.
Duty awaited. Always. He passed some cooks griping about flooded bags of flour in one of the wagons.
Voids-damned rain is going to be the biggest problem on this trip. Better ensure the spare wheels are in good repair before we set forth.
He mulled over that as he helped secure supplies and check wagon wheels for durability. It was during this task that Zarrek found him. The seven-and-a-half foot tall lumbering warrior approached with a look that could sour breakfast and set a bedroll on fire.
Zarrek gave a low whistle from where he stood, arms crossed and unimpressed. “Going to start pulling wagons with your teeth next?”
“Only if your ugly mug gets stuck under one.”
“You look glassed,” he muttered, watching Resh cinch the strap so tight the leather groaned. “Thought you’d have rested better, considering your choice of company.”
Resh didn’t look up, flowing to the next set of straps. “Didn’t ask for your assessment.”
Zarrek snorted, falling into step beside him. “That serious face of yours is going to crack one of these days, you know. Let in a draft.”
“You are the draft,” Resh said dryly. “Loud. Unwanted. Constant.”