Chapter 20 The Kelvasari Divided
The Kelvasari Divided
The world was pitch black, endless, and cold. Over the last few days, the Cycle of Dark had swallowed the sun whole. Not even the promise of dawn lingered on the horizon. Auryn couldn’t even see the clouds above. Just the stars, when they chose to shine through the merciless fog.
Only the Resh’Agar had the knowledge, wisdom, and experience to lead the Kelvasari and the Riven Blades through the heartless night.
Having traversed this land many times, he knew its dips and ridges, knew the stars better than most astronomers could claim.
But navigating by the stars meant sleeping during the day, and the company still reeled from the shift in schedule.
Torrents of rain slicked the ridges of the camp, dripping in steady rivulets, turning the ground beneath Auryn’s boots into viscous mud.
Taking even one step was a chore, as the ground clung to her feet like molasses.
The wind pierced through even the warmest of furs, cutting to the quick, unrelenting as it stole one’s breath.
Yet Auryn pressed on.
Kailorien hadn’t approved, but she’d requested to come inspect the wards the past few nights since she’d shown him and Thessia the workaround with copper.
Now she stood before the eastern Anchor, her hand hovering over its ley lines.
The glow inside was weak, its hum faltering, broken in places like a singer losing breath.
Auryn tilted her head, listening, silver eyes half-lidded as though the sound spoke only to her.
They’ve removed it. Just as the thought crossed her mind, the mud behind her squelched beneath multiple sets of booted feet.
“Look, she’s here again.”
The voice cut sharply through the storm.
Auryn did not turn, but the sounds of the mud told her they were closing in.
Three Riftwardens, cloaks drawn against the rain, faces shadowed but their eyes glittering with suspicion.
She turned to face them, just as she had the past few days when they’d come to ask about her origins.
“You never did answer us properly yesterday,” one with black hair and green eyes demanded. His tone was not curious. It simmered with frustration.
Another stepped closer, holding a dowsing rod and a crimson leather satchel. “What Line trained you? If you are a mage of any worth, you would present yourself.”
The third, a slight man with narrow shoulders, sneered. “She doesn’t present because she has no qualifications.”
“She is not from Krystopolis,” the first one said. “No Krystopolitan would suffer such… frailty.” His gaze swept her small frame.
The third sneered. “And yet she walks among us. Speaks to the Resh’Agar as though she has the right.”
Auryn took a breath and sighed. Weary of their rambling. She turned back to the Anchor, fingers brushing the curve of the rune, steady as ever. “Why do you need to train, when all you must do is listen?” she said. “The world sings—in memory and in magic both.”
A rough laugh answered her. The third Warden elbowed his companion. “I told you. She’s a witch. A heretic.”
And then he said another word, one that didn’t belong to the common tongue. Old, barbed, a curse from before memory. Auryn didn’t know its meaning, but its syllables cut like glass, and the air recoiled from it.
The others flinched but said nothing.
Auryn’s hand stilled. She met the man’s gaze.
“You think because the Resh’Agar has taken you for his amusement,” the Warden pressed, voice rising, “you can spread your lies of divinity while you craft your witch’s tricks?”
Auryn tilted her head. Considered him. Then she looked back at the Anchor.
“You have taken the copper from its heart for the third day now,” she observed. “Do you not realize that you endanger the entire company by doing so?”
The third Warden’s nostrils flared. “Because that contraption you set was heresy.”
She faced him fully this time. “That word belongs to religion, does it not? But magic is no myth. It is the world’s breath, its song, its language. If you do not listen,” she pressed her palm to the Anchor, “you cannot hear.”
She channeled magic to its core, though doing so bore a heavy cost. Her brow furrowed, the air thinning until her breaths came with more effort than before. Beneath her touch, the Anchor thrummed, steadier now, answering her voiceless call.
The Warden’s hand clamped hard around her forearm. Pain lanced up her shoulder, his intent crawling beneath his skin like a coiled snake ready to strike. A shadowed thing with scales of fear, hurt pride, and envy.
Auryn reached inward on instinct, searching for the Weave—for the power that always accompanied her every heartbeat.
Always, it was like water lying still beneath her bones, ready to be drawn.
Yet, now, the well was shallow; its threads faint and frayed.
For a flicker, she felt it—a radiant pulse, just beyond reach.
But it slipped through her like sand through a sieve, leaving only ache.
Closing the rift had hollowed her from the inside out. Even if she called now, the power would tear her more than them.
So, she stilled. Breathed. Lifted her eyes into his. Though her reserves were drained, something else still lingered in her body after the closing of the rift. Something that now stirred, transforming her voice, giving it an echo from a place too distant for the world’s memory.
“First with your words, now with your hands—do you truly wish to harm me?” Her voice reverberated as rain on steel. “Tell me, is it wise to place your hands into a darkness you do not understand?”
Her words unsettled even the storm. Around them, the rain seemed to falter in its flight from the skies.
The Wardens shifted, their cloaks rustling, eyes narrowing; not in contempt but in the prickle of unease—like men who had stepped too close to a chasm and only just realized the depth yawning beneath their feet.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
The Warden’s grip burned. His sneer deepened, and the fire in his eyes ignited as though he meant to do much worse.
“Release her,” a gruff voice demanded, each syllable honed to an edge.
The command cracked like lightning. Zarrek rounded the corner of the tents, his cloak snapping in the wind, his scarred face darkened with rain. His axe was not drawn, but the promise of it was in his eyes as he crossed the mud toward them.
The Warden’s hand fell away from Auryn’s arm as if burned.
Zarrek stopped between them, his broad shoulders a wall of steel. His voice rumbled low, dangerous. “Explain yourselves. Now.”
The Wardens looked away, muttering excuses, but their silence condemned them. Auryn only smoothed the sleeve of her coat where his grip had wrinkled it and turned back to the Anchor. She finished smoothing the knots in the magic, breathing them to life with reserves already nearing empty.
“The hum carries,” she sighed, exhausted. “Even through the rain. Had we copper, we could stabilize it better. For now—for tonight—it will suffice.”
Zarrek’s weight shifted. He glanced at the Wardens one last time, fierce golden eyes daring them to move, then reached for Auryn’s arm. “Come. Enough of this night air.”
Auryn allowed herself to be led, though her eyes lingered once more on the glowing Anchor. Its hum was steady now, but thin. Like a candle flame fighting the wind.
They walked in silence until the tents swallowed the storm’s edge, the shadows deepening into privacy. Only then did Zarrek stop, turning to look at her from beneath the hood of his cloak.
“You’re trembling.” His voice was rough, though softer now than it had been with the Wardens. “Did they hurt you?”
Auryn blinked, surprised. She hadn’t even realized the faint tremor running through her fingers until he named it. She curled her hands into her sleeves. “Only tired,” she confessed. “It takes more from me now, to listen.”
For a moment, Zarrek looked as though he wanted to say more. The air vibrated around him, around the runes that yearned so badly for him to call their names. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.
“They should thank the Void for your mercy,” he muttered. “Another step, and I’d have cut them where they stood.”
Auryn shook her head. “Riftwardens are needed now. Their dowsing rods are…crude…but they do listen.”
Zarrek studied her, the rain sliding down his scarred cheek. “So, not mercy but necessity? Don’t make me change my mind about you, little star.”
“Is necessity less honorable?” she inquired.
“It’s a better way to look at things. Improves your chances for survival.”
“Fear can addle even the sharpest of minds,” she said.
Zarrek gave a single, firm nod—as if committing her words to memory, even if he didn’t share her calm. “Still,” he said, voice low, “Resh will hear of this.”
Auryn’s gaze dropped to the mud-stained hem of her cloak. She said nothing, but in the back of her mind, the echo of her own voice lingered—something foreign, something vast—like a distant chord that refused to fade.
Firelight made a loose ring at the heart of camp, faces half-lit and thoughtful, bowls balanced on knees, spoons idling. Somewhere beyond, Blades ran slow forms in the muck, boots thudding in a rhythm too patient to be war.
Resh sat with his back to a tent pole, armor black as wet stone.
The heat from the coals had painted a ruddy sheen along his gauntlets.
He’d placed Auryn between himself and the fire, close enough to its warmth that the color crept back into her cheeks.
Zarrek sprawled opposite, one knee up, one hand always near the knife he pretended not to favor when he was off duty.
Auryn had eaten as he asked—slowly, steadily—and she’d fetched laughter like a shy ember when Talia wandered past to tease them all.
Now she watched the flames as if listening to them speak.
The braid Thessia had woven lay over her shoulder like a mark of quiet victory, oil-sheen catching firelight each time she breathed.