An Inheritance of Fire

It only took a few minutes of walking for Selerim to find the training grounds. There were really only two ways to go; and despite Worrick’s lack of enthusiasm, the black-haired human had been clear enough which one to take.

The “training area” was significantly smaller than the one in Cress. He understood why— space was limited here, after all, but it was still difficult to think of the small area before him as “huge.” It was situated in a corner of the wall’s interior, next to a wide open space that he assumed was another gated entrance.

The rectangular area had a dirt floor, rather than the brick under Selerim’s feet, and its long side was parallel to the city wall. A small awning stood over a portion of its near-right corner. A number of weapons were lined neatly underneath it, as were a handful of stools. Only one of them was occupied.

A woman sat in it; though it took him a moment to ascertain that. Her hair was cut short, and she wore a fierce expression; complemented by her crossed arms. “Are you the reason Worrick woke me up so early?” She asked as he approached.

Selerim hesitated, unsure of what to say.

Seeing his hesitance, she waved one hand to the side. “I have a job to do, and I’ll do it well.” The woman shifted, uncrossing her arms and leaning forward to offer one. “My name is Ralla. Your papers? And card?”

He handed them over wordlessly.

Ralla’s black eyes scanned the first page from top to bottom before looking back up at him. “You have no accolades despite being active for five years. Worrick is at it again, isn’t he?”

Selerim took a step back, but Ralla just snorted. “I don’t care. Plenty of people hiding their identities.” She paused. “Although masks are a bit more unusual, I’ll admit. Still, common enough to hear about. All this’ll mean is I have something else to hold over that bastard’s head.”

Ralla stood, unceremoniously dropping the papers and metal card on the ground before stooping down to pick up two weapons; one in each hand. A broadsword and a dagger. Despite the sword’s size, she hefted it effortlessly with a single hand.

“Pick a weapon if you don’t have your own.”

Selerim dropped his pack, drawing his sword from its spot at his waist.

“Elven make, eh?” She asked, watching him carefully. “No big surprise, given your build. But what’s up with the color? You paint that yourself?” Ralla crooked her neck, pointing towards the training area with her chin. “Come on, then.”

He hesitated, unsure whether to follow close behind, or take a position further away. He opted for the latter, standing a few paces away from the halfway point.

Ralla didn’t so much as look back until they were roughly seven paces apart. Then she dramatically spun around, slamming the broadsword into the dirt and leaning her weight on its handle.

“Alright, Ember. Your papers say you’re from some town with a name that I can’t pronounce. Taking the fact that it’s also from Worrick, I’m going to assume you’re either some hotshot from nowhere, or you’re a thrill-seeking noble who’s used to getting your way. I don’t care about any of that,” she said flatly. “And neither does Umbra. We’re not the military. There’s no ranks, no promotions, no commanding officers. That doesn’t mean that what happens in the dark stays there.”

Her eyes flashed. “If foul play happens, we will find out. And then the Guild will sic their mages on you, and you’ll die.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “Enough people die in the dark as it is. Let’s have no part in it. Understand?”

Selerim nodded.

Ralla gripped the sword and wrested it free with one hand. “It’s simple. Defend from my attacks for ten minutes. That’s it. No ranks. You’re either good enough, or you aren’t.”

He nodded again.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” The brown-haired woman raised an eyebrow. “Suppose it doesn’t matter.” She dropped into a low stance as she spoke. Though Selerim didn’t recognize it, it was clear she’d been well-trained.

Selerim held his weapon at the ready, extended a hand length’s from his body. Though not quite comfortable with it yet, he found the longer blade suited him better. Ralla’s eyes fixed on him—

And she dashed forward. It took her nearly four seconds to close the distance. She was slow compared to Saya— terribly so. The greatsword curved in a downward arc as she bore down on the hollow.

Selerim shifted his posture back a step, raising his sword just enough to block. Ralla, clearly expecting this, firmly planted her front foot on the ground. Their blades met in the same breath.

As the sound of clashing blades rang out, Ralla turned her wrist; turning the downward cut into a horizontal one. Though weaker than Verad, her control over the weapon was impeccable.

Selerim turned to the side, letting the force of the strike push him away. Stopping it completely would have been easy; but Ralla was supposed to evaluate him. Such a position required notable skill— and strength. Better to act weak than draw attention by matching her blow for blow.

And she’d told him to defend— nothing else.

The dagger held in Ralla’s other hand came up as she completed the wide, circular step, moving faster than she had just moments ago.

Selerim jerked his head back as the metal blade swiped just below his chin— and then again as Ralla flipped her grip, bringing the dagger back for another strike as she stepped away.

She put three wide paces between them before adjusting her posture. “Good.” Her voice was calm. “But you had time to counterattack. Why didn’t you?”

“… You never said anything about countering.” Selerim’s voice was muffled by the mask. He had to force himself to be heard, but that worked to his advantage, in some ways. Remaining hidden would be easier like this.

“Oh?” Ralla tilted her head to one side. So you do spe—”

The last of her words were lost as she dashed forward again— faster than before.

So that’s how it is, Selerim thought as he raised his weapon to block again. Her strike, too, was both faster and stronger than the last. Each strike was stronger— and faster— than the last; though still far below most others from Cress.

For the first time since reuniting with his family, Selerim felt at ease. No— that wasn’t quite right. It was just… different, from the comfort he felt when with his mother and sister.

This was a part of him they’d never understood— and one that he found difficult to explain. The truth was, even without Veile’s dire warning, he would have sought this out all the same.

He was a hunter.

But Cress was gone now— turned to ash. Embers were all that remained. Himself, his mother, Gwyn… even Viria, in some ways.

Wherever she was now.

Pay attention.

Selerim grimaced as one of Corvus’ rebukes, spoken an eternity ago, echoed through his ears, little more than a broken whisper. He adjusted his grip to block again, thankful that the mask hid his expression.

That wasn’t the only reason for his choice of alias, of course. It seemed fitting, given the strange flames that he now wielded— and, more than that, it was a promise. To himself… and to whoever had destroyed Cress.

He would find them— and burn them.

No matter what.

The hollow shivered, remembering the look on his mother’s face from the other night. She’d sent the letter.

Because he’d been too much of a coward.

And now, Viria’s country might burn— even though Veile claimed her people were innocent.

Selerim gritted his teeth. Stop. There was no point in tormenting himself over it. Even if he thought of her as a friend, he would never see the elf again. Ralla bore down on him yet again, sweeping both her arms horizontally, stepping forward with one leg to reach further with the shorter blade.

He held his own in front of him, blocking both weapons as they intersected. Ralla took one quick half-step back, preparing for the next strike.

A blue haze shimmered to life around her form— and something inside him snapped.

Ralla growled silently as their blades crossed again. There was something off about it, and her uneasiness only grew each time her metal blade met the stranger’s wooden one.

Though clearly skilled, the man in front of her seemed uncomfortable with the weapon he wielded. Possibly because of its elven origins; though lighter and thinner, they took some getting used to— and were more susceptible to damage.

Until he’d spoken, Ralla had half thought the man in front of her— Ember— to be a woman. Not only was he shorter than her by half a head, his frame was slimmer, clearly built for speed rather than raw power.

Despite Ember’s apparent discomfort, he wielded the weapon with ease, using his own steps to ease the weight of her blows. Just based on what she’d seen so far, she knew he would pass. His guard was strong, his movements quick and precise.

So what’s bothering me?

It was a lingering, nagging feeling that offered no answers regardless of how many times she questioned it; something borne from years of honed instinct, rather than conscious thought.

Ember raised his violet blade to block again, and this time—

There.

—She felt it in her hands this time. There was the briefest moment of resistance; less than a second where her blade stopped short. He was overpowering her for just an instant, and then letting her through.

Ralla frowned. She’d already threaded essence into her Sigil— just enough to power it, but not enough to make it obvious.

Still.

She should have been able to overpower a grown man— never mind one so slender.

That only fed her unease further. His papers made no mention of magic.

Let’s try this, then.

Ralla jumped forward, wringing every bit of strength from her arms as she swept both blades forward. Her opponent simply raised his weapon— and blocked both strikes simultaneously.

She half expected his weapon to break— or his arm.

Instead, both of her strikes stopped short.

She took a half-step back, pouring essence into her Sigil to prepare for the next strike. The edges of Ralla’s vision turned blue amid the glow of magic— and something seemed to come over Ember.

His whole body seemed to shiver from head to toe, but the change was subtler than that. It was nothing physical; nothing Ralla could pinpoint with her eyes, but present nonetheless.

The same instincts that whispered to her before screamed in her mind now, telling her to move, to flee— and then the masked man moved. His form was reduced to a black blur with a hint of violet; Ralla barely had time to raise her weapon to block.

The sound of clashing blades rang louder than any time before— and the broadsword was torn from her fingers. It spun away, glinting off the dim light before smacking into the city wall. It seemed to hang there for a moment before clattering to the ground below.

What the—

Before Ralla could even comprehend that, Ember whirled around. His inky black cloak whipped into the air, obscuring her vision— and then something crashed into her torso. It took her a moment to realize what it was.

His boot.

Or rather, his foot.

Ralla heard something crack as the breath in her lungs was violently expelled. Pain exploded as fell backwards, then again as the ground rushed up to meet her. Her head followed soon after, scattering her thoughts and blurring her vision.

If not for her Sigil, she could have died.

When Ralla’s vision cleared, she saw the masked man standing over her. Though his weapon was held at his side, his body was clearly tense. His visage was made all the more unnerving by the smooth violet mask that covered his face.

“What—” She coughed. “What happened to just defending?”

Ember was silent for a moment. “You didn’t say you were a mage.”

Her skin crawled. His voice was cold; completely devoid of care. It was made all the more impersonal by the mask he wore, rendering his voice little more than sound given form.

“Because I’m not,” she growled, “I’m strong. And tough. That’s all I have going for me.” Ralla paused. “Shouldn’t you know all this?” He’d overpowered her so easily.

He seemed to hesitate. “I come from somewhere far away.” Finally, the tension in his body bled away. “I’m sorry.” His voice was barely audible. “I lost control.”

Ralla waved his apology away. “Everyone has their demons. Just make sure that you keep them on a tight leash.” She held one hand up; even that simple motion caused pain to ripple across her torso. “You broke a couple of my ribs,” she said flatly. “Not that it matters. You passed. Now help me up.”

Ember obliged, clasping her hand in one of his own and stepping back to pull her up. He never let go of his weapon.

“I’ll go inform Worrick. You can leave now.” Ralla winced as she crossed her arms. “He’ll take care of the rest.” She grinned in spite of the pain. “Getting injured just means I can squeeze some more out of that bastard.”

He seemed to hesitate again.

“It happens,” Ralla said with a sigh. “Not the first time. Won’t be the last time. Now get out of here.”

He nodded once before retrieving his belongings and striding away.

Selerim hung his sword at his waist as he walked away. He felt Ralla’s eyes follow him until he took a left turn, leaving the exit— and turning into two guards. His still-racing heart jumped as they turned to face him.

“Merc?” The one on the left asked.

He nodded.

“Card.”

The hollow handed it over without a word.

“Weapon?”

He pulled his cloak to the side, revealing the violet sword.

The guard raised one of his eyebrows. “What’s up with the color?” he waved his hand. “Doesn’t matter. Through you go.”

Selerim dipped his head before walking by them. He forced his pace to remain slow, raising one hand to his chest in a futile attempt to steady his heartbeat. He’d lost control at the sight of magic.

Just for a moment— and nearly killed someone.

He ducked into a nearby alley, and, after making certain nobody was nearby, pressed his back to the wall and tore his mask off before whistling once.

A whirl of shadow landed in his arms.

Nyx.

Selerim held his Wyrd close as his legs gave out, sliding down against the stone wall until he was sitting on the cold ground. A cocoon of shadow swept up around him as he buried his face in Nyx’s soft plumage. He could feel her Heart beat against his skin.

Little by little, his heartbeat calmed and his breath steadied. But he stayed there for a while longer, taking comfort in Nyx’s silent presence. Raising his head, Selerim stared up at the woven shadows. “

Thanks, girl,” he whispered. He knew how badly this stood out— but he didn’t care. There was still hardly anyone on the streets.

She shook her body once, ruffling her feathers and looking him with her dark eyes. The action made no sound.

Selerim reached for his fallen mask, turning it in one hand. Despite falling to the stones below, it was completely unmarred. He stuffed it in his pack, pulling out the other. He strapped his sword to his back as he stood, then pulled the soft cloak over his shoulders.

Nyx vanished as he stood, and the shadowy veil fell away.