Episode 5: Young Trials

  Chapter 013 - Trials of Rest

  After a few more rounds that stretched longer than two minutes, like they were supposed to, Vynelor finally slumped onto his little stump. A bruise colored his cheek, something Wallan hadn’t bothered to heal with his runes, arguing the boy needed to feel the ordinary sting of pain now and then. Vynelor didn’t mind, as long as he could eat. He was too focused on the fish in his hands, clutching it like a starving kitten.

  “Mmm,” he mumbled with a mouthful, biting into the meat as if he hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch. He sprawled his legs out and gave them a happy little bounce with each chew.

  Across the campfire, Wallan sat with his own fish, eating in an unhurried manner. Only the boy’s joyful hums filled the clearing. By this time, the last log in the fire cracked and crumbled into ash.

  By nightfall, both got into their makeshift bedding, the pillows made of tied-up grass and the blankets pulled over them as rough cloths. They lay and stared at the dark canopy above, where stars peered through the shifting branches.

  Vynelor had gone quiet after the meal. Having eaten two arm-sized fish in one meal, it left his appetite quenched, leaving only steady breaths.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  Wallan was halfway to sleep, that call making him grunt like he had lost all progress. “Hm?” he murmured.

  “I was thinking,” Vynelor said, propping himself up on his elbows. “How did you leave and start traveling?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you left RrodKa. You told me you stayed there for a while. You said that place has a… big thing with slaves.”

  Wallan’s gaze drifted to the canopy, thinking about what the child brought up. “I passed through,” he said at last. “Stayed just long enough to see how it worked. They only take slaves from the bloodlines of a founder long ago. I’m not a descendant, so I could come and go as I pleased.”

  “From PortThorioh, right?”

  Wallan grunted in agreement. “My home. I am an exile.”

  “Oh,” he said, startled. “Like, you were kicked out?”

  “That’s what they are.”

  The word carried his shock, needing time to process it in quiet. The scars across Wallan’s body that appeared random, brutal, and each one with its own tale, suddenly felt heavier in meaning. “Is that why you won’t bring me there?”

  Wallan sat up. “If you go, you will become like them. You will not live like this.”

  Vynelor shook his head, firmly keeping his position. “I want to go there. My mother and father are there. You told me. They put me in a basket to save me.”

  The man was quiet, feeling like something was restraining him from speaking further. He picked a smooth stone from the dirt and rolled it lightly in his palm before tossing it once, catching it again. “If you wish to go there, fine by me. I will keep training you so that you can protect yourself.”

  “I am ready,” he replied confidently. “I can protect myself. Let’s go tomorrow.”

  “We are not going until you can comfortably handle my offense. Once you can, you will be above most soldiers there. Now, go to sleep. We’ll be traveling tomorrow.” Wallan tossed the rock to a distant shrub and lay back down on his bed.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  It left Vynelor pouting impatiently, his thrill growing thinner. “Whatever, old man.”

  He shifted restlessly in his makeshift bedding, thoughts tumbling, until the sound of Wallan’s snores nudged his mind toward sleep.

  Silence settled. The wind brushed through the trees, leaving a soft rustle that faded quickly. Everything got quiet. Nothing made a noise.

  Tranquil. Still.

  Vynelor’s eyes snapped open.

  A burst of colors blazed across his vision, forcing him to shield his face. Memories—or something like them—flashed through his mind in brief images, flooding too fast to grasp. Voices surged with the images, a chaos of whispers and screams. These voices felt surreal and foreign. There was one voice coming from behind, and eight more voices ahead of his own. Each fragment blinked past him, impossible to catch, impossible to understand.

  Then sounds vanished, and the wind stilled. Even the sun seemed to dim. His first instinct was to figure out where he stood. It felt real… too real. His feet pressed against the stone. Was it stone? It was rough but unnatural. The pale slabs were manmade, laid flat without blemish, though chunks had broken loose and lay scattered across the ground. What is this material? He thought, as if it were otherworldly.

  The air reeked of metal and flesh.

  Looking up, he saw clouds spread thick across the sky. What was supposed to be a day became evening. When he turned, his heart dropped.

  He was standing among towers that rose higher than anything he could imagine. Their heights pierced the heavens, the bottom unseen and clouded by smoke. And before him, standing on top of these towers, five figures hung from vertical beams. Their heads bowed and eyes were lifeless. Blood streamed from their bodies and down the beams and pooled at their feet.

  Vynelor tried to step back, but his body wouldn’t obey. He was frozen, as if something else held him there, forcing him to look.

  Above the beams was a platform stretching from one end to the other, and on it stood a single figure. A man. His head was turned away, but slowly he turned, slowly turning until he saw Vynelor.

  The boy met his face, if it could be called a face. Its features defied description, yet every part of it filled him with terror. His body trembled.

  The man narrowed his eyes and began to descend. Each step brought him closer, and Vynelor’s vision blurred. Static roared in his ears. Dread began to sink into his body. Every footstep carried a weight like countless souls crying out—oh, the death count this man had done. Malice radiated from the figure—an impossible, suffocating malice.

  When he was only a few steps away, the boy’s vision became full static. An explosion of colors rapidly flooded his sight. Only two glowing eyes cut through the chaos, the gaze locked on him. And he closed in.

  “Vynelor. Vynelor.”

  Darkness swallowed his sight. Static faded into nothing. Sounds and howls vanished until everything grew quiet. Blood tingled through his body, nerves flaring as if waking itself from sleep.

  Slowly, he heard a bird chirping and branches rustling. And then there came a familiar voice he knew so much.

  “Vynelor. Hey, wakey wakey.”

  A bucket of cold water splashed on him. Vynelor jolted upright, gasping. The freezing water shook him to the point that his yell had turned to puckered lips and gasps. It felt like the water had poured for a full minute. When it finally stopped, Vynelor sat there another minute just trying to collect himself. His bed hair had been undone and covered his eyes. His limbs shook, and his arms crossed against his chest to keep himself warm. He swept his wet hair from his face and looked up.

  “Morning, child,” Wallan said, squatting in front of him. “Go wash by the river. I gave you a head start.”

  He then stood and began tidying their camp. Vynelor watched half-awake, half-shocked. His fingertips quivered uncontrollably. But he had to look down and observe his hands. His skin still tingled—something cold water wouldn’t really give. He wasn’t sure if it was from the icy drenching… or from the dream. It was more of a nightmare than a dream, really. He had felt something like this once before, but back then he hadn’t understood.

  This was the second time.

  He heard Wallan grumble, followed by a sharp grunt of his name. Vynelor jumped a bit from the voice, which was enough motivation to get out of bed. It was better to move than risk being tossed in the fire. He pushed the dream aside and walked barefoot.

  “More cold water, huh?” he shouted over his shoulder, heading downhill toward the shimmer of the river through the trees. “Dad, can we maybe heat it up with m—”

  “No magic.”

  “I thought so,” he sighed.