4 A Threat
A Threat
Energy surged down Vaelira’s arm like a bolt of lightning. Her eyes flew open as the cold slammed into her.
She wasn’t being rocked to sleep.
She was drowning.
The water was endless and crushing, pressing desperately against her ribs as she thrashed upward. She broke the surface, air ripping into her lungs. Waves roiled around her while the storm raged beyond the half-submerged cave mouth, its howl reverberating through the stone.
She dragged herself onto a slick, jagged rock and stared at the pale light glowing from the smooth stone in her palm. It pulsed softly, a small heart beating in rhythm with her own.
If it weren’t for the soft thrumming against her skin, she would have thought it just a rock, but this was something else.
Something alive.
She had heard of glowing creatures that inhabited the ocean, which shone at night and lured their victims into deeper waters until they were lost, never to be found.
A shiver ran through her. She shook it off and looked back at the stone, tilting her head. It was as good a marker as any.
Vaelira rose, holding the stone high, its cold light casting shadows across the cavern walls. Rotting planks lay broken against a far wall, rusted iron nails still embedded deep into the wood.
A strip of red snagged her attention and she scrambled towards it, slipping over the wet stone.
An iron post jutted from between two rocks, a square of crimson cloth hanging limply in the damp air.
She stared at the marker for a long moment, then lowered her gaze to the glowing stone cradled in her palm.
Compared to the maze of tunnels, the climb had been simple, just a rusted iron ladder leading to the top of the cliff.
She had thought her fingers would be numb with cold, but heat pulsed beneath her skin, the only challenge the wind shrieking around her, clawing at the strip of cloth tied to her belt.
Even in the storm, the open air felt like freedom after the smothering dark.
She hauled herself over the edge, collapsing onto sodden ground. The wind tore at her soaked clothes and skin, but the climb had stirred enough energy in her that the storm now felt distant, almost tame.
She turned south along the coast, following the cliff’s edge until she spotted the Eastern Outpost. She hurried towards it and shoved open the doors.
Eli’s head whipped towards her. Behind him, a small fire crackled in the centre of the room. He looked like he’d been pacing, his shoulders tense and eyes restless as they swept over her. His brow furrowed. Then he bolted past her and out into the storm.
A few thudding heartbeats passed, and the doors banged open. Commander Lysander strode in, pulling her into a tight embrace. His chin rested lightly atop her head and his chest rose and fell rapidly under her cheek.
“You scared the Abyss out of me,” he murmured, almost too low to hear. He stepped back, his hands firm on her shoulders, his eyes assessing her. There was something in his expression she hadn’t seen in years, something raw and shaken that vanished almost as soon as it appeared.
“Her cloak,” he snapped. His hand shot out towards Eli, but his eyes stayed fixed on Vaelira.
Eli paused. His hair had turned jet-black in the rain, water dripping from the curling ends and running down his flushed cheeks. His jaw was tight, his full lips drawn into a hard line.
It must hurt, taking orders from a provincial Commander, when you reported to those in direct contact with the King. Perhaps he didn’t rank higher than Lysander as she had suspected yesterday.
He exhaled sharply through his nose then stalked to where Millie stood tethered to a rotting post and unfastened Vaelira’s cloak, handing it over. Commander Lysander wrapped it around her shoulders before leading her to sit in front of the fire.
The warmth closed around her, and for a breath, she wasn’t standing in a storm drenched outpost. She was back in a different storm. On a different day. She remembered the smell of Lysander’s cloak, her small frame swallowed by the heavy folds as her father’s funeral pyre burned in the distance.
She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders as the two men joined her, Commander Lysander sitting to her right, while Eli sat opposite, the fire flickering between them, his dark eyes intense, his expression serious.
“What happened?” Eli said, gaze fixed on her.
“I went through the tunnels, then the tide came in, so I swam,” she said, shifting under the weight of his stare. She hesitated but she didn’t look at the Commander. She couldn’t lose her nerve now. “I found the marker.”
She had almost forgotten the scrap of red fabric. She untied it and laid the sodden cloth beside the fire.
Eli’s eyes tracked the movement. “Did you feel anything in the tunnels?”
“Other than sharp rocks and the cold?” she said, trying for humour. It fell flat. The stone in her pouch seemed to thrum to life as if in answer, but surely she was imagining it?
“Nothing else?” Eli pushed, his eyes never leaving her.
The intensity surprised her. Was she supposed to have discovered something, and why wasn’t Commander Lysander asking her these questions?
“No,” she said firmly. “Commander, this is the marker, isn’t it?” she asked, gesturing to the red cloth.
“It is,” Commander Lysander said, finally looking at her. “Congratulations, Vaelira.”
The ride back to Anhaven passed in a blur.
Leaving Millie at the stables, she hurried back to the cottage, shaking off the memory of suffocating dark, and a strange glowing light.
When she reached the cottage, the tension coiled in her muscles seemed to intensify, as if it had been waiting for a safe place to let it all in.
She sat heavily on the sofa, her head in her hands, sucking in breaths between silent tears. She had done what she knew her father had never truly thought she could, and he wasn’t even here to see it.
She tried to drown out the thought with the pride that wavered in her chest, but it was tainted by guilt, Freya’s absence souring the moment.
She stood and headed for the bedroom. She didn’t bother with a bath, just planted herself face down in bed, her boots still on, the strange stone forgotten.
A quiet knock stirred her. She cracked one eye open. The room was dark, the pillow beneath her cheek damp with drool. Her knee throbbed from where it had hung off the bed, and when she pushed herself upright, her stitches pulled tight across her ribs. Eli’s pain relief had worn off.
“Hey Lira,” Jon’s voice came softly from the doorway. He was a dark silhouette against the firelight in the next room.
She turned, and he laughed. “You’ve looked better,” he said, sitting beside her.
Vaelira brushed matted hair from her face. “And yet, you’ve never come close to looking this good.” Her voice came out rough and scratchy, but Jon laughed anyway.
“So?” he asked, nudging her gently.
“So, what?”
“The trial, Lira. Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”
She tried to shrug, but pride burned behind her eyes. A smile crept onto her lips. “I passed.”
Jon clapped her on the back hard. She winced.
“Salts, sorry,” he said. “Wait here.”
Jon left the room with a spring in his step. Vaelira let out a quiet laugh, the first in days.
He returned with a long object wrapped in cloth held in both hands. “Lysander gave this to me on my eighteenth birthday,” he said, already unwrapping it. “I’ve been holding onto it for you.”
Her eyes widened. Resting in Jon’s open palms was a blade. A curved crossbar grounded the black leather hilt, the metal polished to a soft gleam. In the simple steel pommel, a small ruby caught the firelight and winked at her.
“How have you kept this a secret for three years?” she whispered.
“I have plenty of secrets you don’t know about,” he said with a teasing grin. She tilted her head, but he didn’t relent. “All you need to know is Lysander gave it to me, and I’ve been keeping it safe for you until your eighteenth.”
“But I turned eighteen months ago.”
“Ah, but you’re not allowed your own sword until you officially join the Guard, are you?”
“What would you have done if I hadn’t passed?”
He huffed a laugh, but it sounded strained. He held the blade towards her, and her hand reached for it without thinking.
“Careful,” Jon said quietly, but he didn’t pull away.
Slowly, she reached again with both hands. The sword was heavier than she remembered, or maybe it was the weight of everything it carried.
Tears stung her eyes as she laid it gently across her lap, her fingers trembling. She looked up at Jon. His eyes shone, their shared grief a balm on an open wound.
Her finger lightly traced the centre of the blade, the metal cold beneath her touch. Her father.
She followed the path up and over the crossguard, along the hilt, until her finger came to rest on the ruby. Her mother.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“He would have wanted you to have it. I knew it would end up with you as soon as talk spread of my little sister spying on recruit training.”
“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” she said softly, lost in the beauty of the blade.
He laughed again, his eyes shining at the memory.
“You weren’t as subtle as you thought. You were only fourteen but so damn stubborn.
My friends used to tease me, said you were tougher than me.
” He shrugged, wiping his eyes with the back of his arm.
“But I was proud. I was never meant for that life. But you—” He looked at her, his voice catching.
“You were meant for this, Vaelira. This was always meant for you.”
The next morning, Vaelira dressed methodically and left the house at first light. She walked as quickly as she could with her stitches, the sheathed sword swinging on her hip with every step.
Her gaze went to the wall. Only guards were allowed to walk the allure, and she couldn’t help but wonder what Eastvale looked like from that height. How it would feel to look down upon the land like a bird, only without the privilege of soaring on feather-tipped wings.