“What is this place?” Hunter asked.
“Some kind of druid’s grove,” Fawkes said. “Cursed.”
“Uh, yeah. Obviously.”
“Elder Rook told me about it. It’s been here for as long as anyone can remember.”
“So what the hell are we doing here?”
That made Fawkes smirk.
Hunter didn’t like that smirk.
“I was thinking that some of your fellow Aspirants’ egos could be cut down a notch.
“I would normally tend to agree, but I’m not sure I follow.”
Fawkes’s smirk turned into a wide, mirthless grin.
“If Rook’s to be believed,” she said, gesturing to the shadowy grove ahead, “this evil-looking patch of forest is guarded by monsters – twigmen of some kind. Apparently, no matter how many you cut down, more will have risen by the next dawn.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow, his interest suddenly piqued – though not, he suspected, for the exact same reasons as Fawkes’s.
“Go on.”
“I thought fighting these twigmen might make for good exercise. And it might also be a fine way to show the other Aspirants that fighting for your life is a whole different beast than sparring with dull blades.”
“I see,” Hunter nodded. “So we’re here to canvas the place?”
“Exactly.”
Hunter was itching to go check the grove out right away, but Fawkes was adamant. She’d rather do so in the morning, rested, and with a full day of sunlight ahead of them.
"Come on, Fawkes," he said, not even trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. "We still have a few good hours of daylight left. We could at least scout the area."
"And stumble into an ambush when we're tired and unprepared?" She shook her head firmly. "No. We make camp, get some rest, and approach it fresh in the morning. Trust me on this."
They backtracked for twenty minutes or so – another precaution – before settling on a small clearing to set up camp. While Hunter and Fawkes gathered wood for a modest fire, Biggs and Wedge circled overhead in wide loops, scouting the area to ensure there was nothing lurking nearby.
When they were done, dusk was still a couple of hours away. They sat down to rest, and Fyodor padded over to them, sniffing at the air before settling down next to Fawkes. The ravens had found perches in the nearby trees, still keeping an eye out for anything out of place.
“Do you mind if–” Hunter started saying, but Fawkes waved him off.
“Go. We’ll sit tight until you return – no wandering off this time. Ain’t that right, Fyodor?”
The direwolf didn’t have much to say on the subject, so Hunter logged out. When he returned forty minutes later, neither of his companions had moved an inch. Fyodor was sound asleep with Biggs and Wedge perched on his back, while Fawkes was poring over a heavy leatherbound tome.
“Is that a new book?” he said, plopping down next to her.
“New? Hardly. It’s over a hundred years old, actually. Braving Frontiers Most Savage. It’s a bestiary of sorts, written by a Lodgeman named Kearnes of Ochsslog. Renowned scholar-adventurer in his day.”
She held the book out toward him, her gloved finger tracing a line of text.
“Look here – there’s a brief mention of a druidic grove that sounds a lot like this one.”
Hunter skimmed through the passage. It was a secondary account, a story the author had reportedly heard from another Lodgeman – an individual simply referred to as Breverick.
Breverick’s account spoke of a grove of blood-red trees born from an act of justice that turned sinister. The tree at its heart supposedly had sprouted from the burial site of a noose used to execute a man “whose crimes were so foul that even his name was struck from memory”. Over time, the tree thrived and began to produce gnarled seeds, “each one birthing creatures of twisted bark and thorn – curse-bearing sentinels bound to the tree's malignant will”. The tale concluded with a somber warning: not all justice brings peace.
“I see,” said Hunter. “And just how reliable is this Kearnes fellow?”
“Let’s just say he’s been known to err on the side of fancy over fact.”
“Fabulous.”
Fawkes shut the book and placed it neatly to the side, careful not to wake the sleeping direwolf.
“Rook mentioned the Brennai once used this grove as a proving ground for their Aspirants, though that was decades ago. If that’s true, how dangerous could these tree creatures really be?”
“I’m not sure, but I hope you’ve got a few axes and torches hidden up your sleeve.”
That brought a smirk to Fawkes’s lips.
“I guess we’ll see tomorrow, won’t we? In the meantime, I’d been thinking about your Skills and Abilities and Transient magics and whatnot.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“I am your master, am I not?”
That gave him pause. She’d never put it like that before – but the time for mincing words was past, he supposed.
“Share your insights with me, then, master.”
She pulled out the notebook Hunter had used to jot down his character sheet, flipped it open, and tapped the page.
“We should work on your Evasion.”
“Already on it. It’s at 16 right now.”
“Good,” she said with a nod of approval. “Reiner’s fighting style was quite different, of course, but his ability to master mobility and evasive techniques saved his skin more times than I can count.”
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
One time too few, Hunter thought, but he kept that to himself.
“You’d be surprised how much faster I’m improving now that I can properly spar with the others,” he said instead.
“I know. I’ve been paying attention. Have you seen any improvement with your more… mystical Abilities, too?”
“I haven’t really had the time to do much with them, apart from cycling,” Hunter shrugged. “But I’ve got a few ideas I’d like to try as soon as I get the chance.”
Fawkes stared at the page, frowning.
“I was looking at some of the Abilities you’ve had for a while but haven’t really improved. Your Spirit Charms one, for instance. Let me see that thing you used in the fight with Sister Finch – the one that makes your skin look like a low-dweller’s.”
Hunter reached into his backpack and pulled out the charm. It was a crude thing, carved from an old bone and infused with the flesh and Essence of a low-dweller. The crafting process had been only a partial success. Using it granted him a damage reduction buff, but it also inflicted a nasty damage-over-time effect that made it a gamble.
“What about it?”
Without warning, Fawkes snatched it from his hands and slipped it into her left sleeve, making it vanish into thin air.
“Hey!” Hunter protested.
“If you’re going to use charms like these,” Fawkes said sharply, “fine by me. But make something proper. This shite’s going to get you killed. Again.”
“It’s not like the materials are easy to come by!”
Fawkes crossed her arms and shook her head, mumbling something about thrice-damned Transients.
“Fair enough,” she said after a moment. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know – bones, monster parts, monster Essences, that kind of thing.”
“You got plenty of those in your backpack already.”
“Wait – you went through my backpack?”
“Of course I did, fool,” Fawkes said with a faint smile. “Who do you think I am?”
“Jesus Christ, Fawkes!”
“Never heard of him.”
Hunter sighed, exasperated. She wasn’t wrong. He had enough grisly odds and ends squirreled away to at least try and craft something half-decent.
“If it’s any consolation to you,” Fawkes said, “you’re about to have an endless supply of twig monsters to deal with. I’m sure you can tear off a few pieces from their corpses.”
“That’s… not a bad idea, actually.”
“Moving on to the next thing,” Fawkes said, tapping her finger on the notebook’s page. “Your Conjure Familiar is at 25, but your Augmented Familiar is still stuck at 19. What’s the difference? You’ve been using these damn windbags day and night since the day I met you.”
Biggs let out an indignant caw, flapping his wings as if to protest, but Fawkes waved him off without looking up.
“If you don’t want me calling you a damn windbag, don’t fly around acting like a damn windbag.”
“Augmented Familiar is mostly about their Ill Will Ability, as far as I can say. That magical attack. Haven’t got much of a chance to use that lately, so it’s been stagnating.”
“I see. Well, as I said, you’re about to have an endless amount of target practice. Better make it count. What about that Mystic’s Eye thing?”
Oh, Hunter thought. That one.
He pulled up the Ability’s description, squinting at the glowing text. After a moment, he cleared his throat and read it aloud to Fawkes.
Fawkes raised an eyebrow as Hunter finished reading, her expression shifting from curiosity to chagrin.
“Lad,” she said. “You’ve been sitting on that this whole time and barely using it? Do you realize how useful something like that could be? Insight like that can make the difference between surviving and stumbling into your own grave.”
“I know, I know,” Hunter said, raising a hand to cut her off. “But did you notice what it said about side effects? Everytime I use the damn thing, it’s like I get kicked in the head by a horse. I’ve already got enough nosebleeds and migraines to deal with. If I can help it, I’d rather not boil my brain in my own skull, thank you very much.”
Fawkes furrowed her brow.
“Read it to me again.”
He did.
“What’s a Mystic’s Lens, then?” she asked.
“Beats me.”
Fawkes threw her hands up in exaggerated, mock exasperation.
“Oh, if only there were some mystical Ability – some Transient thing, even – that could, I don’t know, magically inform you of such things! Wouldn’t that just be splendid?”
“Hilarious, Fawkes,” Hunter rolled his eyes. “Do you have court jesters where you come from? Because truly, you’ve missed your calling.”
The fact that he hadn’t thought of using the Ability to figure out what a Mystic’s Lens was before she pointed it out irked him. He’d all but forgotten Mystic’s Eye. He’d all but forgotten about Mystic’s Eye. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and focused his mind.
The circle of black script etched on the back of his right hand flared to life, and a shiver ran down his spine as Essence surged through his channels. A sharp tug pulled at the space behind his eyeballs. New knowledge was implanted directly into his mind, setting his sinuses aflame with the strange, stinging sensation of saltwater and copper. A single droplet of blood slipped from his left nostril. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
Hunter scanned through the description, head still aching. Once he’d taken it in, he cleared his throat and read it aloud to Fawkes.
“Well, that’s not saying much we couldn’t have figured out ourselves from the other description, does it?” she said. “Except for that part about familiars. Do you think you could do that?”
Hunter gave it a moment’s thought, his brow furrowing.
“No idea,” he admitted with a shrug. “Guys? Think we could give that a shot?”
Biggs and Wedge just sat there and pretended to preen their feathers awkwardly. Hunter could feel their hesitation and uncertainty filtering into his mind through the link they shared like faint ripples of unease.
“So?” Fawkes asked.
“A soft no,” Hunter shrugged. “Which is still a no. These guys dive-bombed It That Whispers without batting an eyelid. If they’re uncertain about trying this, I guess they must have a pretty good reason.”
“Hmm. I do not blame them. Though it would be nice if you found a way to use this Mystic’s Eye thing without bruising your brain in the process.”
“Well, if wishes were horses…”
“...beggars would ride,” Fawkes finished the proverb. “Which is to say, you should work at it. I’ll dig through a few old logbooks, see if I can’t track down mention of a lens you might be able to use. But don’t hold your breath on that front either. For now, I have something else you could practice with.”
She pulled a coin seemingly out of thin air and handed it to him. Hunter turned it over in his hands. It looked remarkably similar to a silver dollar, though not quite the same. One side bore the image of a woman’s head, her features regal yet unfamiliar. The other side depicted something that reminded him of Howl’s Moving Castle. Intricate script bordered the edges, but the letters were in a language he couldn’t read.
“What’s that?”
“A Quortain Crown,” she shrugged. “A coin. Flip it.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow but obliged, flicking it into the air. It spun once, twice, before landing in his palm. Heads.
“What now?” he asked, clearly confused.
Fawkes lay back on her bedroll, hands tucked lazily behind her head, grinning.
“Now,” she said, “if you can get heads ten times in a row, I’ll give you a nice gift. Something you’ll actually want.”
Hunter blinked, looking between her and the coin.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“The odds of that would be…” Hunter paused, counting powers of two on his fingers. “Damn, Fawkes. That’s one in one thousand twenty-four. Not impossible, but definitely, definitely improbable.”
“Oh, if only there were some magical Transient Ability,” she mimicked her mocking tone from earlier, “that could – how did that description go? – subtly manipulate the laws of the cosmos, ever so slightly affecting the outcome of events as you see fit. Wouldn’t that just be grand?”
“What do you –” Hunter said, then realization dawned on him. “Oh. Mystical Phenomena.”
Fawkes’s grin only widened.
Enjoyed this chapter?
Elderpyre and get early access to chapters, consider joining my community.
Your support means the world!