Chapter 10 #2
I know I’m needed in this war. I know what I am and what I’m meant to be.
But when I look in the mirror each morning, I still see her; the girl from the village.
The one who worked the fields beside her parents.
Not someone who carries four Elemental magics in her veins or the weight of a realm on her shoulders.
Some days . . . I wish I could go back to her. But I can’t.
Walking away would be turning my back on everything my parents stood for—and I won’t do that. My father was a soldier, protecting the realm long before I was born. And I will continue carrying that torch.
They raised me to stand, not run. To protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. To give even when it wasn’t much.
Every harvest, once we’d stored enough to last the winter and sold the surplus, my parents shared whatever was left over to those who went without. No one asked them to or expected it, but they did it anyway. Because that’s who my parents were.
Their deaths can’t be for nothing. And if I don’t become what I’m meant to be . . . then who will?
Still, there are moments where I wake up and wonder whose life I’ve stepped into.
I exhale, watching my breath curl in the air. Spring is here, but the early mornings still bite with winter’s edge. I lift my chin, gaze drifting skyward. The clouds are darkening—heavy and swollen with rain.
Valen said it would storm today. I was hoping it would hold off until after my first lesson with the wraiths. No such luck. Looks like we’re doing this wet.
I’m wearing my fighting leathers. They keep me warm, but once the rain starts, they won’t do a damn thing to keep me dry. Great.
Daggers are strapped to my thighs, quick to reach in close quarters. A sword is sheathed across my back, the hilt familiar against my shoulder. It’s the one Thane chose for me during one of our first combat lessons and I have carried it with me ever since.
A belt of throwing knives wraps around my waist, each blade balanced and ready for mid-range strikes. There’s a boot knife tucked into my right boot—small, easily missed, but sharp enough to matter in close combat.
Hidden beneath my sleeves, nestled against my wrists, are twin sheaths holding slender blades no longer than my hands. Last resort weapons; the kind you reach for when things are going very, very wrong.
Valen said I could use both weapons and magics for this fight. Good. I plan on using both.
I check the straps, making sure everything is snug.
Across the field, Valen calls out, “Ready?”
I glance back at the two men who have been shaping me these past months. They’ve poured everything into me—knowledge, experience, time, skill. Piece by piece, they’ve rebuilt who I was into something stronger. They’ve invested so much of themselves into preparing me for what’s coming.
What amazes me is that they did it without ever truly knowing me. Their belief in me has been steady and constant.
They’ve stood by me while I grieved my parents, my village, the life I thought I’d have. They didn’t turn away or shame me.
They pushed when I resisted, always knowing when to press and when to give me space. They’ve answered every question I’ve thrown at them, no matter how sharp or broken I sounded.
They’ve never wavered.
Their belief in me has never depended on proof. All they’ve ever asked is that I try to believe in myself.
How does someone believe so unconditionally?
The training. The lessons. The magics.
All of it has been a kind of healing. A way forward. Each hour spent fighting, learning, failing—it’s helped me move through the grief. Not erase it, but carry it better.
I exhale once more, steadying the weight of everything I am. Everything I’ve become. Everything I will grow into.
Then I nod. “I’m ready.”
Valen lifts his hands, moving them in a slow, deliberate circle. The air around him ripples—magics humming, thickening, pulling at the edges of the world.
Then the wraith appears.
It tears into existence like a shadow peeling away from the sky. A winged creature, towering as high as a single-story house, its wings spanning twice that height. Its body is long and sinewy, covered in smooth, blackened hide that gleams like polished obsidian when the light hits just right.
It doesn’t roar or hiss. It waits—silent, a predator carved from nightmares. And it’s looking straight at me.
I know this isn’t real, it’s just training. I know Thane already laced the field with protective enchantments.
But none of that feels true.
Not when I’m staring at a Kethraki with my own eyes. The sketches in books don’t capture the size, presence, or silent menace of the monster standing before me. Seeing it in the flesh—winged, hulking, predatorily still—makes everything feel more deadly.
It bends its powerful legs—and leaps. A gust of wind hits me as it launches into the sky, massive wings unfurling with a loud crack. The Kethraki lifts effortlessly, soaring higher, eyes marking me as its prey.
My jaw goes slack. Even with the wings . . . I didn’t think it would actually fly. Not for my first lesson with a wraith.
Shit.
How am I supposed to fight something in the air?
Taking my eyes off the Kethraki for a split second, I scan the field. Boulders in the distance; lake glinting beyond the far ridge.
Air everywhere.
Air.
Wings.
My mind snaps into focus. I reach for the wind—first a breeze, then a steady push, then more. It roars into gale-force strength.
The Kethraki shrieks—a mind-splitting, unnatural sound that claws at the inside of my skull—as the wind slams into it mid-air, wings flailing to regain control.
I raise my arms, feeling the wind swirl tighter around me—around it. It howls, slamming into the creature with brutal force.
Then, I drop my arms, hard, as if dragging the Kethraki down from the sky with my own hands. The Kethraki falters as it’s yanked down from the air, spiraling toward the ground like a storm-tossed shadow.
I ready myself, planting my feet, as I watch the Kethraki push upright. It looks at me with fury as it begins to move towards me, clawed feet gripping the earth with each step.
I whip my arm forward, a fireball leaving my hand with a woosh.
The Kethraki dodges—barely. My fireball clips the edge of its wing, singeing its obsidian hide. It shrieks—high, piercing—a sound that makes my teeth ache.
It’s closing the distance fast. Thirty feet. Twenty. Another fireball is already burning in my hands. I launch it.
This one hits square in the chest—an explosion of heat and light. Flames engulf the creature, roaring outward before vanishing in a rush of smoke. Black smoke curls where the wraith once stood.
I stumble back a few steps, the adrenaline fading just enough for my legs to feel unsteady. My chest rises and falls, the heat of the fire still clinging to my skin.
Gods. I did it. But my hands are trembling.
I turn to Valen, ready to hear his thoughts—maybe even breathe for a second. But before I can open my mouth, his hands are already moving.
Shit.
He’s conjuring again. No rest. No pause. Straight into the next nightmare, just like a real battle.
The air shifts—thickens—like the world itself is bracing for what’s coming. They appear thirty feet away. Five of them.
Fellborn.
Valen’s lessons flash through my mind—the hours poured over books and battle theory. Know your enemy, he said. If you want to survive them, if you want to kill them . . . you have to understand who they are . . . what they are.
They’re solid, but twisted beyond recognition. Their forms are humanoid, but wrong. Stretched and distorted. They move on two legs, but their movement is unnatural—too fluid, too precise. Their joints seem rearranged, limbs elongated, torsos too narrow.
They’re silent when they move—unnervingly so. Until they strike—then they scream.
Their arms hang low, fingers grotesquely long, ending in curved, black claws that gleam like ink in the morning light. Too sharp. Those claws tear, rip, slice.
Their mouths are lined with jagged, needle-like teeth—serrated, uneven, made to shred. And when they attack, their lips pull back, exposing every inch of those fangs before they sink them into flesh.
The Fellborn start marching like they share one mind.
I reach over my shoulder and draw my sword, the steel singing as it frees from the sheath.
My feet shift into the stance Thane drilled, again and again, until it became instinct. I bounce on the balls of my feet, dancing from side to side, sword at the ready.
In unison, their elongated arms lift—curved fingers flexing toward me, claws like ebony scythes reaching for flesh. They charge.
The first comes in fast, low, too silent for something that big. I sidestep, pivot hard, and drive my blade through its torso—deep, clean, fast. Black mist bursts from the wound and it crumples.
Another is already on me—its face stretched too thin, jaws unhinging with a wet crack as it snarls. I twist my grip, parry the swipe aimed for my throat, then drive my blade upward—hard and fast.
The steel punches through the soft flesh beneath the creature’s chin, bursting through the top of its skull in a spray of black blood and splintered bone. Its body spasms violently as the snarl dies in its throat. It vanishes into a cloud of black mist before it can hit the ground.
They keep coming.
I duck beneath a clawed strike—it slices the air just beside my cheek—and roll low, coming up behind the creature. Driving my sword into the base of its spine, I feel the resistance give, and wrench the blade free. The Fellborn bursts into black mist.
But there’s no time to breathe. Another is already on me.
Claws rake across my back—tearing through my leathers, scraping raw against my skin. I hiss, stumbling forward from the blow. I swing my leg around and kick the Fellborn square in its chest. It flies back a few feet before scrambling back to its feet.