On their way back to the Sacred Training Grounds, Fawkes picked a different path. Hunter couldn’t say whether it had been a conscious decision, but he suspected it had something to do with trying to avoid that place – the Tomb of Nevnassir. It was just as well. For some reason, even thinking about that oppressive inky blackness made Hunter shudder.

  None of them was particularly talkative on the way back – not Hunter, not Fawkes, not Biggs and Wedge. Only Fyodor was his usual curious and jovial self, tail wagging as he darted ahead and sniffed at every new scent along the path. At least someone was excited to be on the road again.

  Around noon, they stopped by a small stream to catch their breath. Hunter logged out to stretch his legs and have a quick lunch. Not forty-five minutes later, they’d set off again.

  The hours passed in a blur of steady footsteps and rustling leaves, the silence only broken by Fyodor’s occasional bark or the distant call of a bird. Fawkes was in one of her moods again, her brow perpetually furrowed, her mind clearly wandering to places Hunter would rather not guess.

  It was almost evening when they finally made it back to the Sacred Training Grounds. It was as if they’d never left; Two Aspirants were sparring under the vigilant eye of Elder Wroth – currently Inago and Tayen – while the third ran laps.

  As they neared, Hunter came to a halt. The others would surely catch sight of them soon. If he wanted to touch base, make sure nothing was wrong, now was the time.

  “Fawkes?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “We good?”

  She stopped and turned to him. For a moment, she just stood there, studying his face.

  “I should be the one doing the asking,” she finally said. “But yes. We’re good. I’m just not in a very talkative mood, is all. It’ll pass.”

  “You can talk to me,” he offered. “Anytime.”

  “I know. Thank you.”

  Fyodor could hardly contain his excitement to be back. He bolted toward the sparring Aspirants, yelping and wagging his tail so hard Hunter could swear he was about to strain it. Inago dropped his training glaive the moment he saw the direwolf and braced for impact. Wroth shouted something at him, but he was too busy being buried under two hundred pounds of furry, slobbery adoration.

  “Elder Wroth,” Fawkes called. “Hile. We have returned.”

  “So I see,” the man grumbled. It was clear he wasn’t pleased about the sparring session being interrupted. “How was your journey?”

  “Fruitful, as you’ll soon find out yourself.” She was already looking better. Nettling Wroth always did wonders for her mood.

  Hunter went to greet Inago, who was still buried under Fyodor, and Tayen, who gave him a nod and a pleasant half-smile. Yuma was still running laps, their arrival apparently not important enough to disrupt his training – not that Hunter cared.

  The first order of business was to commune with the Place of Power at the center of the Training Grounds and anchor himself to it. He wasted no time doing so. If anything went wrong and he kicked the bucket again, the last place he wanted to find himself return to was the entrance to the Tomb of Nevnassir.

  “Hunter!” Inago called as he approached him, Fyodor at his side. “How goes it, friend?”

  “It goes,” Hunter said, clasping arms with the other Aspirant. “How about you? How’s things around here?”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Good, thank the Ancestors. Elder Wroth works us to the bone, but the improvement we see is well worth the fatigue. Won’t be long before we’re ready to make the journey to the White Cloud Steeple, Elder Wroth says.”

  “Glad to hear that. Though I think there’s another journey we’ll be making before that.”

  “What do you mean?” Inago asked.

  “You’ll see,” Hunter said, and a smile spread on his lips as he visualized a couple of Bramble Blights chasing Yuma around the Blood Grove. “Don’t let me spoil the surprise.”

  ***

  The next morning, Hunter joined the other Aspirants for sparring practice. Fawkes made sure he was paired with Inago. To his surprise, he discovered they were now evenly matched. Inago had clearly made strides over the past few days, but Hunter had improved even more.

  The two of them sparred for a couple of hours – enough for Hunter to rank up his Evasion, Adaptive Defense, Glaive Expertise, and Opportunist twice each. His Danger-Sense also climbed by four points, and his Dodge Counter by five. He’d long given up trying to figure out the exact mechanics behind how his Abilities progressed. He was happy enough to see the numbers go up.

  As it turned out, the only thing Hunter had missed during his absence was Wroth’s latest teaching – a technique that, once mastered, supposedly allowed Aspirants to imbue their strikes with their force of will. The method involved naming their techniques and shouting the names as they executed them.

  Far as Hunter could tell, the only thing it accomplished was making them sound like shonen anime weebs. It took everything Hunter had not to burst into laughter each time he heard Yuma bellow “Wolf’s Maw!” or “Hawk’s Talon!” across the Training Grounds, tone as solemn as if he were declaring a sacred oath.

  Instead, they’d remained by the campsite at the edge of the training grounds, ostensibly to "discuss" how to proceed with the training of their wards. As it turned out, "discuss" was an euphemism. To Hunter, it looked far more like a long, heated argument, their gestures sharp and voices just low enough to keep their words from carrying.

  After what felt like an eternity, the bickering between them finally came to an end, and they strode toward the Aspirants. Wroth’s face was set in its usual stony scowl, while Fawkes looked as though she was holding back the urge to roll her eyes. Whatever understanding they’d reached, it didn’t seem to have pleased either of them.

  “Alright, alright, enough!” shouted Fawkes. “Gather up. We’ve got something to announce to you.”

  Hunter and the other Aspirants put down their weapons and gathered around the two elders. Tayen shot Hunter a curious glance, as if expecting him to know what all that was about. She was only half-right.Hunter knew Fawkes and Wroth had clashing views on what made for effective training methods and goals for the Aspirants, and it was clear their disagreements were wearing thin on their patience with each other. Beyond that, his guess was as good as anyone’s.

  “As I believe you’ve noticed by now,” Fawkes began, “Elder Wroth’s approach to your training has adhered closely to the more… sublunary traditions of White Cloud’s warriors. Which, I should note, is well within his rights as Elder.”

  She paused, her sharp gaze sweeping over the Aspirants. Nobody moved a muscle. Elder Wroth made no attempt to hide the fact that he was scowling at her, but she paid him zero attention.

  “My role, however,” she went on, “is to introduce a more worldly touch to your training. To add a bit of versatility to your preparations for the Ascension trials. To that end, I’ll be taking charge of your training for the next fortnight or so, effective immediately. After that, we’ll embark on a small journey to get you some practical experience fighting something other than each other with blunt sticks.”

  Yuma shot Elder Wroth a sidelong glance, his mouth opening as if to speak, but he quickly thought better of it. Even he wasn’t thickheaded enough to insert himself into whatever was fueling the contention between the two elders. For once, Hunter was glad he didn’t. You didn’t have to be a genius to feel it – the atmosphere practically reeked of trouble.

  Fawkes clasped her hands behind her back, her posture suddenly as austere and commanding as any hardass drill sergeant’s.

  “Elder Wroth’s dedication to teaching you the finer points of honorable, ceremonial combat has been nothing short of admirable. I have no doubt his teaching will serve you well during your Ascension trials. Out in the wider world, however, you’ll find that combat is rarely honorable, let alone ceremonial. It’s chaotic; quick, ruthless, and utterly without order. As an instructor, I could never in good conscience leave my charges unprepared for that reality.”

  Her gaze drifted from one Aspirant to the next, lingering on each of them as if she were quietly assessing them.

  “This is what the next couple of weeks of training will focus on: not just defending against unconventional and unorthodox tactics, but mastering them yourselves.”

  She looked at each of the Aspirants again, and a wicked half-smile formed on her lips.

  “In a word, you’ll learn how to fight dirty. Now, who wants to go first?”

  Enjoyed this chapter?

  Elderpyre and get early access to chapters, consider joining my community.

  Your support means the world!