Chapter 10
—Tristian—
Tristian pulled at his sleeves, brushing the last wrinkle from his loose dragon-scaled armor. The light fabric rested against his skin, shifting subtly as it caught the morning air, adapting to the elements around him.
He reached for his boots beside the door, already polished to a dull shine, pulling each leather cinch tight until they rested firmly against his calves—exactly where they belonged.
He rose from the bed. The frame, with its simple wooden carvings, had been built with care and extended further than most to fit his height. Tristian smoothed the blankets with the side of his hand, abolishing the creases until the covers lay flat and orderly across the mattress.
His home was small—no reason for more space when he was the only one living in it.
A narrow cooking counter stretched along the wall opposite his bed and housed a small iron stove beneath it.
Above the counter, a wide window opened toward the forest of giant trees.
Through the branches, soldiers crossed bridges that wound between the trunks of Trinity, their armor glinting as they moved from post to post.
Tristian took a slice of plain toast from the small plate he had left on the counter and took a bite.
A few crumbs fell to the floor.
He noticed immediately.
Setting the toast aside, he reached for the thin broom of bound twigs resting in the corner and swept the crumbs into a neat pile before brushing them into the hearth, then returned to his breakfast promptly.
His table sat beside a single sturdy chair and a carved shelf cut directly into the wall where a few books rested in careful order. Tristian drank from his mug of arrowroot tea, the steam warming his face as he looked once more through the window toward the bridges outside.
Everything was exactly as it should be.
Tristian tucked his sword into the scabbard at his hip and stepped outside, leaving the small home in perfect order behind him.
He headed toward the bridges to the training islands, intending to visit all eleven before the end of the day.
He would have Serenya from the Crystal Chorus send a crystal to Connak afterwards.
Clutching his hands behind his back, he stared at the small bridge linking the villages to the first island—Duskveil.
Someone tugged on his arm from behind, tiny fingers clutching him for an audience. Tristian turned to see the two small children who stopped him every morning, smiling sweetly at him—a girl and a boy, both with pale skin and light, ashen hair.
“Malia. Premian.” He nodded to each of them. “Good morning.”
Malia tucked her hands behind her back, mimicking his stance.
She was the eldest of the two at nine years old.
Her deep blue eyes complemented her cascading curls, and each strand was tucked neatly in place where it belonged.
She reminded Tristian of himself in that way as he spent a great deal of time ensuring each strand of his own hair remained carefully slicked to the side.
“I brought you a flower.” She pulled it from her back, revealing a large, star-shaped asterlily.
The petals were long and soft, fading from lavender and pale blue into a gentle pink, and the tips were dusted with white.
Sparkling specks clung to the petals. As Malia tilted it toward him, the center caught the light, glowing warm gold surrounded by delicate golden filaments rising like little sunrays.
“These were my mother’s favorites when I was a child,” Tristian said, kneeling to the children so he could see them more clearly.
He took the flower from the little girl, brushing the petals against his nose.
“She said it reminded her of my brother and me. A sun in the center for me, and moonlight spilling around the edges for him.”
“I like how you speak,” Malia giggled, digging her toe into the bridge and twisting herself from side to side.
Tristian hummed. “She used to recite a poem about them. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yeah!” they exclaimed together.
The High Commander smiled, staring into the flower as he recalled the words his mother used to speak before she died. They moved around often as children between Dove Port and Trinity. She was always sure to bring bouquets of them wherever she went, lining their windowsills at all times.
“A star fell softly into bloom,” he said, spinning the flower in front of them so they could imagine its beauty. “Lavender light in petaled form, gold breath glows at its quiet heart. As if night left magic behind. Hold it gently—the sky is still warm.”
“Do you have magic, High Commander?” Premian asked, wiping his nose.
“No,” Tristian lied light-heartedly. It was better for them if they didn’t know. He scratched the scar on his collarbone beneath the scales, letting his gaze shift into the colossal trees. Though he had magic, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be at full strength again, not after the death of his mother.
He was stripped bare afterwards, then sent away to the cold Elvish mountains to become this version of himself, only to lose his father in the process—and his brother in ways, who was too consumed with his shadow magic and Connak to work alongside Tristian.
This was who he had to be.
“One day, I’m going to be like you,” Premian said, lashing forward with an invisible sword to slice through his sister.
Malia jumped back and slapped at him. “Stop that, you feral Viking!”
Tristian held his hand up, silencing them both. “For one thing, Vikings are not as terrible as you may think. I encourage you to find nicer things to say. And another, you should take care of each other. A sibling is a gift—”
“Malia! Premian! Inside!” their mother scolded. “Chores.”
Tristian stood, eyes focusing ahead, beyond the woman as she approached. Premian and Malia bolted, giggling as they ran into their little home in the tree.
“High Commander, I do apologize. They—”
“Are children,” he said curtly, then turned to leave, twirling the asterlily between his fingers.
“Feet apart,” Tristian said to a batch of six recruits freshly out of Silverthorne—so fresh they didn’t even bother training them.
“Bend your knees.” He nudged a soldier’s elbow inward with the flat of his blade.
“Elbows in. Blade up. If your guard drops like that in a real battle, you’ll lose your head before you ever swing. ”
The recruit frowned.
Tristian stepped forward, flashing his own sword and resting the tip against the soldier’s collarbone. The recruit blinked, realizing his sword was still halfway raised.
“That,” Tristian said quickly, “is how fast it happens.”
The soldiers did as they were told, each lowering their stance and holding their blades in place with perfect precision, waiting for their High Commander to give the word.
He looked out over the edge of the Shardborn into the clouds as the tremendous trees rested below.
Sweat beaded the soldiers’ brows, their arms wavering, and still, they held.
Tristian nodded to Talon and waved him over. The Shardborn Commander’s falcon soared overhead, screeching into the wind, then landed on Talon’s shoulder as he approached, claws sifting through his master’s long strands of hair.
“At ease,” he called to the soldiers.
They dropped their elbows, shoulders slumping, then sheathed their swords, falling into a line to face their commanding officers.
“This is Commander Talon,” Tristian continued, pacing the line. “You will listen to everything he says, including when to rest, eat, and train. He is in charge until you learn the ways of Trinity.”
“Yes, High Commander,” they chimed in unison.
“All yours,” Tristian said, stepping away from the Shardborn crew.
Talon took over. “Welcome, recruits. We are the Shardborn, Trinity’s most acclaimed fighters. You’ll either bleed with us, or not at all.”
Tristian smirked as Talon barked his commands, then found a shaded tree to rest while soldiers ran through obstacles, hopping above trees, pulling themselves up on branches, and running at speeds only Talon would deem worthy.
He dug into his pocket, pulling the asterlily, studying it, letting it call his mind wherever it needed to go.
It was rare that any recruits, despite their magic, would be sent to the other eleven battalions.
Tristian’s goal was to ensure soldiers knew how to fight without magic, as Silverthorne only ever cared about magical prowess and how they could exploit it for further gain.
They’d try to do the same to him—coax out his power for academic purposes.
Tristian held it to himself, using his strength and speed instead to prove his worth in the Elvish mountains.
He vowed to do the same to any recruit Silverthorne deemed unworthy enough to push to Trinity.
He would make them worthy, if anything, to remove the stain of Elvish history.
Recruits ran by slowly, huffing. As they did, whispers trailed, carried by the wind shifting directions as the Galeweavers jumped between trees and away from their island above, training under the wing of Commander Raelan.
“—even more formidable than we heard in the mountains.”
“—lives up to his acclaim, that’s for certain.”
“—stronger soldiers because of him.”
“—speed and strength far outmatched. Like he’s something else entirely.”
Tristian followed their movements, crossing his arms as the tree he stood under rustled in agreement.
“I heard he made a deal with the Still Court for his position,” another recruit mumbled, slowing to catch his breath with another Elvish soldier. “Not as formidable as they say if he can’t even find the god of light for them.”
“Unless it’s him,” said the other.
The High Commander stepped into the sun. “Keep running.”
The recruits startled, sprinting away, the rest of the soldiers on the island silencing as well. Tristian grunted, pulling his sword from his scabbard, then stood there, waiting for the recruits to make their way around again.