Stonebreaker Series (Original Fiction)

Shorts and excerpts from the Stonebreaker Series.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

OKAY for the new ask game, let's put all our eggs in exactly one (1) basket. If you don't like that one though you can do it 10 more times ;) <3

SONG: Ain’t No Rest For the Wicked - Cage the Elephant

______

“You know coin doesn’t grow on trees, right?”

A laugh bubbled from Sylda’s lips, her mouth and chin coated in a brown, sticky syrup. “I know,” she said as she sucked more droplets from her fingertips. “See? No waste.” As if in proof, she locked eyes with Delver and licked all the way up the back of her hand, on skin that Delver knew couldn’t possibly have syrup on it.

Anything to make a point.

With a put-upon sigh, Delver shook his head and cast his attention around the street. Most of the smaller towns didn’t have a market quite so crowded, but with Cheln ravaged by who the fuck knows what and abandoned, Karrak had seized the opportunity to put itself on the map with both hands. Now, the once emaciated town was practically bursting at the seams, a river of people and wagons and colourful stalls threatening to make cobbles of the smooth road that ran its length.

“You’re thinking.”

Delver’s eyes cut across at Sylda’s accusation. She was mercifully done with the sticky breaded mess she’d been inhaling. “This may come as a shock, but most people do.”

That earned him a swat on the arm - honestly, a little harder than was necessary - but he huffed a laugh as he shook her off and nodded to the far side of the market road. “See that house? The small one beside the baker. I know the woman who lives there.”

Sylda’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline as if launched by a catapult. “Oh? Know her, eh?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What? You’ve never stopped and had a tumble between stamping papers and plucking thieves off nooses?” Sylda skirted around to plant herself in front of him, hands firm on her hips, head cocked with dangerous curiosity. “Look, I know you’re a miserable bastard, but surely someone could look past it for a night or two?”

Delver glared at her. She stared right back, mouth half-twitching into a smirk as she fought hard to keep a straight face. “Fine,” he bit out eventually, and her triumphant smile bloomed. “You win. It’s exactly what you think.”

“Yes! I knew it.” With a newfound bounce in her step, she hooked her arm through Delver’s and began tugging him towards the centre of the busy street. If they were trampled by a wagon or a particularly excited market-goer, well, so be it. Sylda wasn’t one to think quite that far ahead. “So... what’s her name?”

“Eigrel.”

“Oh.” A brief falter. “Well, I’m sure she’s got a great personality.”

Rolling his eyes, Delver allowed Sylda to resume dragging him across the road. Their direction completely at odds with the rest of the crowd, she chirped meaningless apologies every time they startled someone into a sudden stop until they finally reached the far side, and the house in question. It looked the same as he remembered, down to the chip in the bottom corner. Eigrel had slammed it on her late husband’s foot once, and had clearly deemed the memory worth preserving. Before Delver could even begin to retell the story, Sylda was hammering on the door with her bony fists like the woman inside owed her coin.

Well... to be fair...

The door swung open, and suddenly Sylda was face to face with Eigrel. Older than the third of the sister moons and bent as a willow, Eigrel looked on the precipice of a bitter tirade, red-faced and vibrating with anger, before the sight of Delver stole the acid from her tongue. Instead, something in her eyes sharpened, her mouth twisted into a smirk, and she raised her chin. The motion was imperious and just how he remembered. “Well, well. Was wonderin’ when you’d be back. Needed a few seasons to recover, did you?”

Delver gave a deep, formal bow. It was entirely to hide the grin on his face from Sylda, who looked on the verge of full-body collapse. Or nausea. He could never tell with her until it happened. Schooling the smile away before straightening, Delver looked Eigrel in her one good eye. “Come now, Eigy. How could I stay away?” Stepping forward, crowding out Sylda with the span of his shoulders, he rested a hand on the door frame and leaned close. Eigrel smelled of old linen. Nutmeg. Clove. “You know I like a challenge.”

A grin split Eigrel’s face, the cracks of her wrinkles deepening into crevasses. That one brown eye of hers, offset by its milky partner, was as shrewd as ever. “Thought you’d be tired of it by now, boy.”

It was Sylda’s voice that responded, cautious, as though she was afraid of the answer but too painfully curious not to ask. “Tired of what?”

Eigrel’s eye never left Delver. The grin never wavered. She spoke the word like a promise.

“Losing.”

Snorting, Delver straightened with his own imperious half-shrug. “No rest for the wicked, as they say. But,” he pulled out a pair of bone dice, holding them aloft between his fingers, “I’m feeling lucky this time. Made them myself.”

Scoffing in the wet, tactile way unique to the elderly, Eigrel cleared her throat and leaned forward to inspected them, getting close enough that he could have coughed and accidentally poked out her one good eye. But, confident in his workmanship, he allowed her to check the angles like a master smith testing the line of a sword. He turned the dice slowly in his fingers, one side at a time. Sylda watched, silent. The tension was near palpable.

Eigrel never approved. She simply stopped disapproving. This time, her acquiescence came in the form of an unspoken invitation as she huffed, stepped aside, and didn’t slam Delver’s foot in the door. “Go on in, then. Let’s test that so-called luck. Bring your friend, too. Girl should learn how to play proper.”

Sylda, still at a loss, quickly raised her hands as if to ward off a curse. “No, no, that’s all right! You two have your, ah... fun. Playing. Y’know. Whatever it is you’re playing.”

For a moment, Delver thought he’d have to be the one to do the convincing. After all, she was the last person he’d trust in a busy market unsupervised. But before he even had a chance, Eigrel had fixed the full force of her attention on Sylda. Pinned her with that wicked-bright eye. It gleamed in a way that made Delver suddenly nervous.

“Don’t you want to learn how to beat a man with his own dice?”

Before Delver could blink, Sylda was gone, vanishing inside Eigrel’s house like a cat at mealtime. He opened his mouth to protest her betrayal, but knowing it would be useless, gave up with a sigh. Damn Eigrel. Somehow, before even starting, he was already defeated. And they both knew it.

“Go easy,” he plead as he stepped in off the street and slid off his dusty boots. “She’s enough trouble as is.”

Eigrel responded with a raspy chuckle.

“Not on your life. You need a bit of trouble.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Soft sentence starter prompts! “You’re not in bed. I came looking for you.” OR “If you keep doing that, I’m going to scream— stop smiling, I mean it!” OR [Puts feet on the other’s lap], your choice! (Also, if you can make, “My gut does the weirdest things around you— acrobatic things.” work then by all means because that's the funniest thing I can imagine someone saying.)

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED: “My gut does the weirdest things around you— acrobatic things.”

In which Delver has buried himself in a Cipher job, forgetting that he is traveling with three other people who have not agreed to so much downtime...

“Delver. Enough is enough. We need to keep moving.”

“Alright, alright. We will. I just...”

Leaning against the doorframe, Kyri watched as Delver trailed off to mutter something under his breath, his blood-shot eyes fixed on the mess of pages splayed beneath his fingers. When was the last time the fool slept? she thought, the sides of her jaw aching until she forced herself to unclench her teeth. If nothing else, it was good to know Sylda hadn’t been lying when she’d said Delver had a unique kind of focus. Admittedly, her exact words had been terrifying and obsessive, but there was nothing about the stubborn man that Kyri found particularly terrifying. No - he was just a scholar, neck-deep in his passions and willing to stay there until he died of old age.

Unfortunately, they did not all have time for such luxury.

“It has been almost a full turn. You said this would not take more than a few days.”

“I was wrong.” He spoke like a person used to having the last say, his words clipped, his tone final. “Clearly.”

Oh, he would have to do much better than that.

“Clearly. When was the last time you sle---”

---“Kyri, please. I need to focus. Just give me a few more days.” His eyes never left the pages. They barely blinked. “I’ll have it done. I’ll get it. Then we can collect our sicets and be on our way."

“There are other ways to make coin. Faster ways. Sylda said---”

--- “Sylda would rob a blind man giving her sweets if the poor sod forgot to string his purse tight enough. No. This... this is better.” Paper rustled as he shifted one aside, replacing it with another, his brow set in a deep frown. “Can’t get arrested for this. Usually.”

Sighing, Kyri reached up and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “We don’t need the coin, Delver. We have enough between the four of us.”

To her surprise, Delver gave their conversation enough mind to bark a dry laugh. “We do, do we? Sure, you might have a few sicets left over, but Sylda and I share the same miserable purse. And Taelan?” He snorted, although his attention had clearly drifted back to his work, the flow of his words slowing to a trickle. “The lad... he was bondsworn. Didn’t even own his own body for most of his life, yet alone anything else. No... this... this is how we do things. We need coin. I’ll get it done.”

No. This is how you do things. It took a few moments before Kyri realised the pain in her palms was from her own nails, biting crescents into her flesh. Stubborn bastard. She uncurled her fingers one by one, taking the time to force her temper back into compliance; squash it down so she didn’t unleash it carelessly. Just because Delver had a point didn’t mean she had to like how he made it. But now was not the time for that conversation. In truth, she wasn’t sure he was even hearing her right now. With what he was saying - the cruel carelessness of it - he might not even be hearing himself.

“How much do you have left?” Levering herself off the wall, Kyri moved into the room, her nose wrinkling as she approached. It seemed bathing, along with eating and sleeping, formed three parts of the same distant memory for him. Pausing at his side, she leaned over, peering at a page of what looked like incomprehensible squiggles and symbols, crossing one another at senseless angles. Beside the page was a second piece of parchment, its contents partially constructed, a scattering of words and phrases in more familiar scripts perched at the tip of Delver’s quill. Somehow, some way, he had pulled them from the maelstrom of their source. How he even found one common term was beyond her understanding, yet alone several. She would never claim he was not talented. Impressive, even.

But also exhausting.

“Go. Please.” Delver’s voice pulled Kyri out of her quiet regard. The request was almost strained, as he muttered something unintelligible and shifted the pages slightly. Apparently her shadow had fallen one of the page’s corners. There wasn’t even any writing on it. “You’re making it impossible.”

Kyri frowned. “To...?”

“Divider’s Own - focus, Kyri!”

“Focus?” She straightened, her frown deepening as she folded her arms across her chest. “I was not speaking.”

Delver huffed, penning down another word and scratching it out in the same terse movement. “I know, I know. It’s not-- look. My gut does the weirdest things around you— acrobatic things. I need it not to right now, so if you would please just...”

With that, he jutted his quill towards the door, a few droplets of ink scattering on the floor, his gaze still fixed on his precious papers. Taken aback, Kyri stared at him for a moment, wondering if his clearly overtaxed mind would ever catch up to the mad words that had just tumbled from his lips. But those same lips were already moving again, forming silent phrases, testing them, casting them aside with a frustrated grunt. His quill quickly returned to the parchment - writing, pausing, scratching out - and Kyri realised that there was really nothing more that could be said. Not right now, at least.

“Fine. But I will be back at nightfall.” She leaned even further forward, planting her hand firmly on the desk. “Finished or not, Delver, you will eat, you will sleep, you will bathe. Understood?”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Delver waved a distracted hand, as if to brush hers off the table. Then he hesitated, midway through re-inking his quill, his expression turning thoughtful. “Give me an extra hour tonight. After sundown.”

Kyri cocked a brow. “Why?”

“I can eat in the bath.”

She stared blankly at him for a moment, then groaned and cast her gaze to the stone ceiling. “Shei-tah preserve me - fine. If that is what it takes.” Despite her frustration, she lifted her hand and began to move back towards the door. “I will see you then.” Pausing, she glanced back at Delver, his fingers tangled in his copper hair, hunched over his work, and added more gently, “Just... do not push yourself too far.”

Whether her concern reached his ears or not, she couldn’t tell. She could never tell with him; he was not one to carry such things where they could be seen. But, the rest of their conversation aside, she was content with her parting words. That would have to do.

So, softly, she shut the door

[thereluctantinquisitor]

19. sea change

Thanks for the prompt, nonny!

19. sea change (550 words)

Taelan had never seen the sea. At least, not since he was a child, and even then, the memory was vague, tainted by fear, thick with uncertainty. All he remembered was the feel of bodies, pressed together in a too-tight space. The taste of salt. The smell of iron and sweat.

It was nothing at all like the translucent water, cold to touch, that now lapped gently at his feet.

The others were busy arguing with a coast-runner, attempting to barter passage to Tel Shival via the Trade Coast. Apparently that was easier than just going through the front gate, if you could convince a captain to risk their reputation and take you. At first, Taelan hadn’t cared what route they took. But now, his boots discarded by the shoreline, his feet submerged in the bite of the water, he found himself wanting to go further. To sink down into the maw. Spread his arms. Let himself drift away...

“Your toes falling off yet or what?”

Taelan opened his eyes, not even realising he had closed them to begin with. “Not yet,” he said, after confirming with a downward glance. He couldn’t exactly feel them. Turning, he threw a questioning frown back at Sylda. She was standing on the thin strip of sandy shore, arms crossed, looking thoroughly disconcerted about something. About him. A familiar pang lurched in Taelan’s stomach and he quickly turned away, palms pressing instinctively to the sides of his thighs. What was he doing? “I’ll come out.”

“What? No - hey, it’s alright. I was just teasing.” Something in his voice must have given him away. Or maybe it was the fact that his hands had curled into fists without his permission. But before he had a chance relax, a splashing sound from behind stole his concentration.

It was Sylda, her trousers rolled clumsily to her knees, wading into the ankle-deep water. “Divider’s ass!” She gritted the words out through clenched teeth, a pink flush already colouring her cheeks as she braved the bitter cold. “You’re fucking with me, right? You can’t be enjoying this!”

He didn’t really know how to explain. How to put into words that the throb of the cold was comforting because it was something he had never felt before. Unlike so many things, it wasn’t a memory he’d made as a bondsworn. There was nothing to compare it to. Nothing to taint it. It was new. It was his.

“I guess I just like the cold.”

“Ugh. Insanity.” Sylda cringed, but continued wading out towards him like he owed her money. “I s-swear, this is----ACK!” The water suddenly swelled, rising to mid-shin, and Sylda’s voice pitched with it, her horrified yelp loud enough to disrupt the negotiations taking place further down the shore. “Shitttt!” She rose to her toes, but it did little to save the bottom of her haphazardly rolled clothes. “Shit shit shit!”

Abandoning her misguided quest for solidarity, she spun and hurried back to shore, cursing and yelping the entire way, threatening every gentle wave with a painful death until she was back on dry land. Once safe, she immediately began the futile task of trying to wring the sodden ends of her trousers, muttering darkly, glaring and snapping impotently at any wave that dared venture too close.

And, for the first time in a long time, standing there in the glittering water, Taelan laughed.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

7 or 20, for whoever suits best in the Stonebreaker cast!

Thank you! I went with Kyri (with a brief appearance from Taelan) for this one. This vaguely takes place some time after Kyri teamed up with a mercenary group and completed a bounty for the Elect of Sarnon. 

20. alone, finally

Alone, finally.

Kyri sighed, closing her eyes, simply allowing the breeze to wash across her. It was cool with the promise of evening, but earthy as well. A gift from the Bleakwood, she assumed, dense and dark and waiting for her just a half-mile east. At her back, the bustling town of Sarnon had gently folded its occupants into the embrace of its many doorways, the streets quiet now that the sun had begun its final descent. The days were long, here. Long enough that night was still met with bone-deep weariness and eyes that burned for rest.

It was the perfect time. To venture out. To clear her head. She could not allow herself anymore distractions.

Despite her efforts, she remained exactly where she had started, every step forward matched by a set of invisible hands tugging her back. All she had to show for the death of five people was lost time and their share of the Elect’s bounty. And, in the days since, a new truth had revealed itself; even a pouch full of eastern coin wasn’t enough to buy her a guide through the Bleakwood. Now, to the townsfolk, she wasn’t just mad. She was wealthy and mad. Her plan had failed. 

Of course it had.

All that remained was to do as she had always done. Put one foot in front of the other, and pray to Shei-tah that she was heading in the right direction. Instinct, and fading dreams, were all she had left. Now, with her options all but severed at the neck, she feared it would have to be enough.

That was, of course, until she heard the sound of shouting.

Turning sharply, something flashed in the distance, bright and frantic and indiscernible in the fading sunlight. It took her a moment to realise it moved to the rhythm of footsteps, descending the last of the rolling hills that separated the town from the Elect’s estate. Voices chased the figure, soon manifesting as five bodies at the top of the hill, armed and armoured, moving gracelessly over the uneven terrain. Raising an arm to block the sun’s glare, Kyri turned her back on the Bleakwood and reached on instinct for her weapon. 

She must have been spotted by the first figure, moving much faster than the rest. They baulked, then changed direction suddenly, swinging away from the town and towards her. The new angle meant they no longer caught the light, and the familiar shape - the shock of bone-white hair - was as unmistakable as it was unexpected.

He was the young man - the Morithi - who had led their group to the bounty’s location. The Elect’s favoured bondsworn.

Kyri picked up her pace, moving to meet him, her pulse beginning to quicken as the guards, shouting indiscernibly, finally spotted her. 

What was his name again...?

Before she had time to recall, the man was at her feet, his legs giving out beneath him, the metal band around his ankle catching the light one last time before he collapsed on the sodden ground. His back heaved as he pulled in deep, shuddering gasps, the strain of it nearly enough to break him in two. Without thinking, Kyri moved to kneel, but his hand shot out first, as if in panic, seizing the fabric of her breeches, gripping tight enough to tear. More cries sounded from ahead - a guard had knocked a stone free and lost his footing on the slope. Then that hand tugged again, and she felt her gaze pulled down. 

Eyes, pale as silver, bright as the first of the sister moons, stared up at her, stark against the black band that stained the skin around them. On his right ankle, the metal band of a favoured bondsworn gleamed.

“Take me with you.” His words were frantic, running into each another as the guards reached the base of the hill. “Please.” He pulled harder, hands shaking, the voices growing louder. “You have to take me with you.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

WIP Whenever

Thank you for the tag @captainsaku! At the moment, I’m still limping through the opening chapters of Stonebreaker, trying to get a feel for the story and work on strengthening my atrophied writing muscles. Anyway, I figured I’d share what I have so far of Adiran’s introductory chapter. It’s basically just an awkward, descriptive mess, but at least it’s something. At this point, I’ll count that as a win!

I also put a short glossary at the end in case some terms were confusing. <3

Chapter 3 - A Scene

Be present. Do not cause a scene.

They were simple enough requests, Adiran supposed, as he braced himself and drained his third flute of wine. He knew it was poor form to cringe after swallowing, but the dry white was about as pleasant as a mouthful of sand and only went down half as well. If he was the paranoid type, he’d think the servers were offering him the worst vintages on purpose.

Then again, the celebration had stretched into its ninth day, now. Even the royal cellars had a limit.

Despite overstaying its welcome, the event remained at a predictably lofty height of splendour. In the ballroom - Vetrose’s famed Silver Font -  delicate rivulets of water, no wider than the span of a hand, curled their way across the marble floor, draining into a shallow pool at the base of the royal thrones. Above their heads, weavelight strings were draped elegantly between pillars and across wide arches, their glowing pinpricks joining the blazing chandelier to bathe the room a honey-gold.

Beneath that radiant light, the Talveran nobility moved like swans, jewellery glittering, ankle-length gowns and embroidered jackets flashing enough to catch the attention of nesting crows. Hundreds packed the Font that night - an entirely different crowd to the evening prior, and likely the one prior to that. Attending Talveran court, with its litany of demands and expectations, was an exhausting and expensive affair. Every evening demanded a new outfit. A new glittering showpiece. A new plan for navigating the treacherous waters of social interaction, careful not to show too much interest in any one person. One night was difficult enough to survive. Very few could afford to be present for an entire turn’s worth of celebration.

Unfortunately, Adiran had no choice in the matter. It just had to be his brother returning from the northern border. As if no one else had ever come back from that waste of a campaign.

Keep reading

[stonebreakerseries]

Aftermath (Adiran and Riin)

So this started as a sappy meme prompt about two people touching forward and the stubborn one whispering ‘I missed you’, then turned into a 2200 word monster. Because apparently I have no chill. Who knew.

This is quite spoilery, so if anyone cares about that, read at your own risk!

                                    -------------------

Everything had happened too quickly. Too quickly for Adiran to pause and think. Too quickly for his mind to catch up with what he was seeing, yet alone what he was doing. Now, as waves beat against the ship’s hull, the lights of Vetrose grew smaller and smaller until they were no more than pinpricks on the horizon. Hundreds of tiny, earth-bound stars. All his life, Adiran had never seen those lights slip into the distance like that. It had always been the other way around; always been the lights of Talvera’s capital rising to meet him as he returned from a day on the road, lanterns bleeding life into streets and windows.  

Would he ever see those lights again?

Movement to his right caught his attention. Riin was sweating, his skin ashen, his body wracked with tremors. He was trying to heal. Or at least, that’s what Adiran assumed was happening. He didn’t know enough about the Kyriin, yet alone the black-eyed krea morei, to say for certain. All he knew was that Riin had burned through what little strength he had left during their escape from the palace. Divider, just thinking about how close they had come to being caught sent a chill down Adiran’s spine. If he hadn’t called in his favour with Crosus - if the Northerner hadn’t come through for them and carried Riin from the upper city to the docks - they might not have made it at all. 

A familiar sensation, like a hand closing around his throat, sent his heart into a stammer. With a shaky gasp, Adiran reached up, knotting his fingers in his sweat-damp hair. Stop it. You idiot. You’re out. No one caught you. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine.

For now.

Deep down, Adiran knew that the King and Queen would hunt for them. Try to spin their escape as some kind of kidnapping; anything not to lose face in the spiteful eye of the court. But there was more to it than that. A missing prince warranted a bitter, desperate search - one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. The fact that they were actually after Riin didn’t matter. All Talvera would see were two panicked parents. Not monsters chasing what he had stolen from them. 

No. 

The thought - that single word - arrived so hard and so bitter that Adiran could taste it on his tongue. No. He hadn’t stolen a damn thing. They had no contract. No claim. No right to Riin, as man or soldier or prisoner. No one did. 

I should have seen him off. I should have insisted. Made sure he...

Guilt, like a restless snake, twisted inside Adiran, hollowing out a pit in his stomach. Divider, he’d let a full season pass in a self-absorbed haze, barely looking up from his own loneliness. If he’d just been paying attention, he might have realised something wasn’t right. He might have been able to...

A soft groan, lower than the protests of the ship’s aging wood, pulled Adiran from his thoughts. He looked up, heart stammering to a near-halt as he leaned over the makeshift bed. Hope, like baited breath, knotted at the back of his throat. 

“Riin?”

The Kyriin’s brow was tense; a furrowed echo of a deeper pain. Agony was etched in every line of his face; every clenched muscle. In any other moment, Adiran might have taken him for having a bad dream. A true, burning nightmare. 

Maybe he was. Certainly no one would blame him. 

“Hey…” Adiran hated the way he sounded. Hated the way his voice felt so hollow. Uncertain. Afraid. Weak. But instead of flinching from it like a hand from a flame, he forced himself to move closer. To reach out and rest his hand over Riin’s. “Can you hear me?”

Adiran knew it was a long-shot. Even before, back in the palace undercroft, Riin’s lucidity had been a short-lived, flickering thing, erratic as a candle on a windowsill. Divider, Adiran would never forget the way Riin had looked at him, when he’d forced his way through the cell door. His eyes, framed by dark circles and bled half-way black, had seared into him like hot iron. Thick blood, dark as pitch, was dried in layers on his skin; had soaked into his ruined clothes. It was impossible to tell how long it had been there. 

Adiran wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, when he hit the bottom of those uneven stairs. All he knew for certain was that, after that heart-stopping moment of recognition, Riin had hated him. 

And he’d had every reason to.

Sitting there, his hand a feeble warmth against Riin’s icy skin, a new fear slowly crawled its way up from the bottom of Adiran’s chest. In the frantic mess of unlocking chains and checking wounds, Riin had clearly set aside any mistrust for a chance at freedom, no matter how slim. Even if came at the hands of someone he despised. The entire time, he’d barely spoken to Adiran. But the first words he’d said had been a knife to the gut. 

So, it was all true. He’d gave a bitter laugh. Or was it broken? I wondered how long it would take for them to send you here.

He should have said something. Thinking back, he needed to have said something. But he hadn’t. In the moment, he’d been too focused on escape. Too terrified that Lirea would betray him, and the palace guard would come flooding in like rats to a carcass. There hadn’t been time for reassurances, or the truth, or---

“You’re... hurt...”

Adiran jolted, nearly losing his balance between the narrow crate and the uncertain sway of the ship. Riin’s voice was raw, ragged from screaming his pain and fury to unfeeling stone. The words were barely able to cross the narrow distance between them. He was awake, watching him feverishly, one eye a clear amber, the other drenched in shadow. A dark stain, like spilled ink, spread from the inner corner to the furthest edge of his iris.

There he was, with one foot in the grave, worrying about everyone but himself.

“What? Are you s---” To Adiran’s surprise, his voice hitched. Once the shock had passed, he cleared his throat sharply. “Are you serious? Fuck how I am. I’m nothing. I’m fine. I’m…” Slowly, he realised that Riin’s eyes had drifted down to where their hands were resting, one atop the other. Without intending to, Adiran’s fingers had somehow managed to avoid the ruined skin ringing Riin’s wrist. In a rush, he realised he’d never actually seen Riin bruise before, yet alone bleed. It was childish - sheer foolishness - but he hadn’t actually thought it was possible. Even after eight years of sparring together - eight years of swords and sand - he had been convinced Riin was untouchable. Invincible.

But in the wrong hands - hands willing to scrape and grind - even the strongest stone would eventually break.

Riin’s breathing was shallow. Worryingly so. Still, he forced himself to speak, the words limping from his lips. “N-No... you’re not f---.”

---“Stop.” Adiran barely recognised his own voice, pleading and pathetic. All of a sudden, he was a child again, curled in the corner of his room, his first bruise blossoming on his upper arm. “Damn it, Riin - don’t. Don’t make this about me. Not now. You… you’re…”

He couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t say them. What could he possibly say? You’re hurt? You’re shaking? You’re terrifying me?

“You’re crying.”

Adiran froze. His awareness, weaponised over the past hours like an out-turned blade, faltered at Riin’s words. Then, slowly, it angled inward. In that hanging silence, his sense of self slipped back beneath his skin, and Adiran finally realised that yes. He was.

“I’m not... it’s nothing.” Roughly, he pressed the heel of his free hand to both eyes, swiping away the offending tears. There was too much to say. Too many emotions pushing against this skull, ravaging his chest, crowding his throat. “I’m just… I...” Like betrayal, a sob broke past his defenses, weak from exhaustion. Weak from relief. “I’m sorry. Riin, I’m so f-fucking sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t even think...”

The shame was too much. Adiran cracked. Curved forward. Buried his face in his hand and just cried. It was all too much, but at the same time nowhere near enough, as though he was deep inside his body and outside and around it all at once. He knew he had to stop. That this wasn’t the time. His guilt wouldn’t help anyone, yet alone Riin. It was just another burden; a capstone atop the torture he had already endured. Divider, Adiran didn’t even know what he had been through. The extent of the pain he was in. How deep those wounds truly ran. But he knew what he should have said, back when he had first laid eyes on his friend in that dark cell. When he’d first seen the blood, smelled the sour sweat, tasted the rot on the back of his tongue. An apology was not enough. He knew that. No words could ever undo what had been done. But Divider, that didn’t make it any less of the truth. 

If Riin let him, he’d spend the rest of his life proving it. It was the least he could do for the only man he’d ever called friend.

Suddenly, Adiran felt a pressure on top of his hand. Heavy, but without force. Without roughness. Part of him knew that, if Riin had the strength, he would have squeezed. Maybe in reassurance. Maybe in forgiveness. Maybe just in tribute to the bond they had shared; one that had surely been severed, now. But, when Adiran finally looked up, only one thing had truly changed. Riin’s gaze was resting on him. Quiet. Pained. Feverish. Relieved.

But the hate, seared so clearly and so terribly into Adiran’s memory, was gone.

“I knew,” Riin breathed. “I knew y---AH!” Suddenly, he cried out, arching, gritting his teeth as his upper body spasmed. Maybe it was a fit. Maybe it was pieces of bone snapping back into place beneath his skin. Regardless, all Adiran could do was look on, horrified, and hold his hand through it, wishing feverishly that he knew how to make it stop. It passed in seconds that felt like minutes. It left Riin gasping, shaking, tangled in his thin blanket, skin soaked with sweat. Just as Adiran was about to scramble to his feet and call for help, Riin’s weak voice reached out from the bed, like a hand snagging the corner of his shirt.

“I-I knew you couldn’t have… they said... so many things. But I didn’t...”

Adiran just nodded, not quite understanding. almost afraid to. Just thinking about what Riin might have been told - things to make him break - turned Adiran’s stomach. Cheeks damp, throat tight, Adiran just shifted closer instead, his thumb stroking the back of Riin’s hand in a feeble attempt to smooth away the pain. “Whatever those bastards told you, they were lying,” he said, because he desperately needed him to hear it. To know it the way Adiran knew every line of Riin’s face. Every scar on his hands. “I swear on my life, Riin, if I’d known…”

Slowly, Adiran trailed off. Partly because he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. If he’d known… then what? How would he have stopped it? Would he have challenged the King and Queen - his own family? Would he have kicked and screamed and threatened his way into his own set of shackles?

He didn’t know what would have happened. Maybe they would have both found themselves in chains, Inquisitors cutting bored slices from their skin. Just the thought of it was enough to turn Adiran’s stomach. If he’d been there - if he’d been forced to watch... Divider, he would have told them anything. Anything to make them stop.

Would Riin have broken his oath and done the same?

Luckily, there was no immediate pressure for Adiran to finish his hanging sentence. At some point in the silence, Riin’s breathing had slowed its pace into something halfway resembling sleep. His hand lay limp in Adiran’s, but somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to untangle their fingers. Not just yet.

Instead, Adiran hesitated, then leaned forward until their faces were just inches apart. Slowly, tiredly, he closed his eyes, exhaled, and gently rested his forehead against Riin’s. Their lashes brushed, their breath mingled, and just for a moment, he let himself feel it. Really feel it. Just for long enough to remind him that the man he cared for more than anyone else was really, truly there. Beaten and bruised. Alive and wonderful.

“I missed you,” Adiran breathed. The confession fell from his lips more easily than his own name. And, for the first time, he didn’t care if anyone heard him say it.

They would get through this. 

Somehow, they would get through this,

[thereluctantinquisitor]

[eyes emoji] 26. how dare [you]. Sounds like something Adiran would say but ALSO feel free to take this in whatever direction you deem appropriate ;P

Micro Story Prompt

Or should I say, ah... ‘micro’ story prompt? (729 words - pls I tried).

CW for language because Adiran.

          ------------------------------------------------------------

“You fucking liar.”

Lirea winced at the venom in Adiran’s voice. She wore her sadness well. She always did. He wondered if she knew how to feel anything anymore, or if it was all just a carefully crafted act. “I’m sorry.” Her voice echoed along the stone corridor, perfectly hollow. “I know you hate me right now. But I was just... father and mother said... I didn’t think...”

“How dare you.” In any other situation, Adiran would have laughed. He would have laughed until he pissed himself at the idea that Lirea, of all fucking people, didn’t think. “Cut the shit - you didn’t think? When do you ever stop? It’s all you ever do!”

Cringing, Lirea moved closer, pale eyes darting the length of the corridor. She almost reached out to grab Adiran’s arm, then clearly thought better of it. "Be quiet,” she hissed. The sound suited her perfectly, the fucking snake. “Adiran, I know you’re angry, but you need to keep your voice down.”

“I’m more than fucking angry.” He couldn’t stop shaking. His body was on fire, pulsing with panic and fury and something he couldn’t even begin to explain. But even so, he lowered his voice. He had to. No matter how desperate he was to tear the palace apart stone by stone, he needed to stay focused. A life depended on it. A life he was too much of an idiot to care about when he had the chance. “Damn it, I don’t have time for this. Take me to him. Now.”

“What?” Lirea’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t just---”

“Lirea.”

Something about his tone - something about the look in his eyes - stopped his older sister mid-sentence, her lips parted, face stunned. Maybe it was the way his breathing had suddenly calmed. Maybe it was the way his hand had moved, instinctively, to curl around the hilt of his blade. Her eyes, blue as The Pale, widened, and for the first time in his life, Adiran saw something very real flash across her carefully sculpted face.

Fear.

“Adiran.” Her tone was careful now. Wary. Good. It should be. “We can’t just walk in there.” Hurriedly, she raised her hands, stepping back as Adiran growled and advanced. “No - listen to me. I knew you would act like this, but I told you anyway. I want to help, or I wouldn’t be here right now. You have to believe that much.”

“I don’t have to believe a damn thing you say.” The sound of his own voice, cold and flat, was unfamiliar to his ears. The voice of a stranger - one capable of things he’d never even entertained before. It was like Riin had once said, smiling at the horizon, the sun a honey glow against his skin. Our lives are made of thousands of tiny moments. I know you feel lost right now, but some day, one of them will light a fire beneath you. 

Adiran’s hand clenched hard around the hilt of his blade, knuckles bleeding white as the leather dug ridges into his palm. He didn’t have to believe her... but he would. What choice did he have?

“Fine,” he said, releasing his his grip, his hand instead forming a fist at his side. “But whatever we do, it’s happening tonight.”

“Adiran, you can’t be---”

“Tonight, Lirea.” When it became clear to her that he was in no mood to argue, Adiran pressed on. “Meet me here at first bell. And think of a way to deal with the guards.” He met her gaze. Held it. “If I get caught, I’m taking you down with me. You have my word on that.”

To his surprise, his sister didn’t seem even slightly perturbed. Her brow was already furrowed, her arms folded, her finger tapping a steady rhythm against her elbow. She did, however, spare a final glance for him. The fear from before was gone, replaced with her usual detachment. “Fine,” she said in a voice as chilling as a winter’s night. “And what will you do until then?”

Adiran was already turning away, his mind marching ten steps ahead of his body, his heart lodged firmly at the base of his throat. The fire in the sconces shivered against the stone. The hallway seemed to stretch into eternity.

Panic, he thought, feeling sick.

“Prepare,” he replied. And then he left.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

AHHH I MISSED PROMPTS! How about we give someone in Stonebreaker something they desperately need. 22, nap!

Micro Story Prompt

In which I, once again, fail to deliver a micro story. (1453 words SHAAME).

                                         ---------------------------

“Hey, Delver... can we stop for a bit?”

The heat was unbearable. Oppressive. Smothering. So much so that Delver trudged a few more steps, deep in the trance of just putting one foot in front of the other, before he even realised Sylda had opened her mouth. By the time he lumbered to a halt, the young woman was already veering off the road, her pack half-slung, dangling from her elbow. “What?” He blinked slowly, glancing around the roadside. Red dust. Brown grass. A scattering of rustbark trees. “Right here?”

Divider, he felt like his head was about to split open. Whose bright idea was it to make the sun so damn... well... bright.

“Mhm. Why not?” Sylda, the brat, was already dragging out her spare cloak. Deftly, she shook out any stray pieces of grass before laying it down again beneath the thick branch of one of the rustbarks. The squat tree, its copper leaves drooping like a miser’s purse, cast its shadow at a long, wide angle. They still had a few hours of light left. It made no sense to stop.

Delver opened his mouth to say as much, only to turn and find Sylda already lying on her back, one leg kicked over the other, her foot bobbing, shoeless, in the late afternoon heat. He stared for a beat. And another, bemused. Then, with a defeated sigh, he shook his head and trudged over, boots grinding against road until the sound was replaced by the snapping of brittle grass.

“What, no argument?” Sylda seemed genuinely surprised. He supposed that was fair enough. On a regular day, he would have a number of choice words at the ready, but right now his head hurt enough to turn his empty stomach inside out. So instead, Delver just grunted, dropping to the ground, not even bothering to put anything beneath him. He wrapped himself in his cloak and leaned back against the rustbark’s knotted trunk. As always, it was about as comfortable as lounging on a bed of river rocks, but for some reason it didn’t bother him so much. The shade alone, like a salve against his throbbing skull, was worth the rest of the discomfort.

”Twenty minutes,” he said, and tried hard to keep the relief out of his voice as a gentle breeze trickled around the tree, curling the edges of his cloak. Merciful Divider. He failed to stifle a yawn. “After that, we keep moving.”

“Forty,” Sylda countered. Because of course she did. “I’ll keep watch for the first half while you take a nap. You can do the second. Deal?”

Delver would have sent her a vicious glare - Divider knows she deserved it.

But, lucky for her, his eyes were already shut.

                                                ---------------

Delver awoke, disoriented, to the sound of birds. Groaning, struggling onto one elbow, he nearly yelped like a startled maid when something slid from on top of him and landed with an indignant rustle in the grass.

A cloak?

His cloak.

When had he...?

As his consciousness slowly rejoined reality, Delver glanced around, perplexed and more than a little wary. A few feet away was a fire pit, lined with stones, the smoke of a freshly quenched fire curling from its charred center. A pot hung above it, filled with water, about a cup short of full.

And, perched atop the already packed coil of her sleeping roll, was Sylda.

How had she managed to boil an entire pot of water in twenty minutes?

“Oh, hey.” Turning, apparently alerted by his attractively befuddled waking noises, Sylda threw Delver an innocent smile. It called forth just the right amount of dimples to disarm even the sternest opponent. It was the exact smile she used when she was up to something. “Feeling any better?”

As much as Delver wanted to verbally eviscerate her, he found himself strangely lacking the willpower to see it done. Again. Oddly enough, this time it was because he didn’t feel like a mule had kicked him in the head.

He was losing his touch.

“I’m fine. I was fine yesterday, too.” He cast her a disparaging look. “You didn’t keep watch all night, did you?” He wasn’t sure what would make him angrier. Camping roadside was dangerous at the best of times. One of the biggest benefits to traveling as a pair was having a second set of eyes readily available. If she’d stayed awake, she was an idiot. If she’d dozed off, she was a reckless idiot.

Sylda shrugged, before climbing to her feet and moving towards the pot of water. Well, at least she'd put her boots back on. “It’s alright. I sleep well most nights.” She left out the unspoken unlike you. Tactful of her. “And before you start, it was an accident, okay? I got all stuck in my thoughts and forgot to wake you.” She scooped a ladle of water into a cup. The water was probably still pleasantly warm. “You didn’t even snore for once. It was peaceful.”

While it was a valiant attempt to distract him, Delver refused to rise to her very obviously false bait. He didn’t snore. He had that on good authority. “It doesn’t do either of us any good if you’re exhausted,” he chided, accepting the cup when she offered it. “You won’t be able to concentrate on your lessons.”

The water was a sweet, sweet mercy. This throat felt thick and dry with dust. It coated his skin, his hair, darkened the underside of his nails. Divider’s Own, he couldn’t wait to be rid of it. Away from the dust storms, and the burning heat, and the shadeless stretches of sun-cracked road...

He lost himself so thoroughly in the simple act of drinking that he completely missed that Sylda had spoken.

“I said,” she repeated with a roll of the eyes that he liked to think was fond, “you’ve been in no shape to give me lessons these past few days anyway, so what does it matter?”

The urge to argue was nearly palpable. It rose like a flood within him. In fact, Delver spent a good half-minute in stony silence trying to come up with an even remotely feasible defense. But, like with most things lately, it just kept slipping through his fingers. He might not be in crippling pain, but he still wasn’t himself. As much as he loathed to admit it... she might have a point.

“Oh!” Clearly immune to his silent treatment, Sylda tugged up her sleeve, her fingers making short work of the leather straps binding the anchor to her wrist. “Here. I took it off you while you were sleeping. Figured I could try practice a bit overnight, but...” She faltered, some of the brightness in her dimming as she turned the ebenite disc over in her hands. Delver waited silently, figuring she had more to say. But then she just handed it over, her eyes fixed on the brown grass at her feet. The shame radiated off her so intensely that Delver nearly felt it.

“Drawing from an anchor isn’t easy, Sylda.” The disc felt right, strapped to his wrist again. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed its absence the second he woke. “And an Ebenite one? It’s practically impossible. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here.”

More importantly, if she truly couldn’t do it, she wouldn’t be here. Alive. Breathing.

Mothering him.

“I know, I know.” She sighed, shoulders rising and falling heavily. “I just... I don’t know. I have the anchor, and I have you. I figured I’d be able to do something by now.”

You and me both, Delver thought, but kept it to himself as they lapsed into silence. She self-applied more than enough pressure without him adding to it. He might be a belligerent asshole, but he liked to think he knew when to ease off. “We should pack up,” he said after a time, sensing they both needed a distraction. As Sylda nodded and stood again, his gaze followed her, a slight frown tinging his brow. “You’re... sure you’re not tired?”

His kindhearted concern was met with an unnecessarily world-weary sigh.

“I’m not, Delver. Really - I feel better than fine. It was just one night. I’ve stayed up for longer before.”

Just one night. Sure, if they were lounging around eating grapes and reading poetry, he might accept that. But they were on the road, traveling all day in the dragging heat of Latesun. It just didn’t add up.

Then again, he had to admit, she really did seem fine. No heavy footsteps. No dark circles beneath her eyes. No sluggish reactions as she went about clearing up their makeshift campsite, bundling utensils, kicking dirt over the fire, re-scattering the stones. She wasn’t even yawning, even though she had been the day before.

Slowly, Delver’s gaze drifted down to the anchor. It was warm against his wrist. As warm as usual? It was hard to tell, with the day’s heat already climbing fast around them. Regardless, he made a mental note to pay closer attention in the future. Something could be happening right beneath their noses. Something subtle enough that they could blink and miss it.

“So are you planning to watch me do all the work, or...?”

Snorting, Delver waved an acquiescing hand and struggled to his feet, muscles protesting the movement, aching from a night spent curled on the uneven ground. “What, you mean your goodwill only lasted one night?”

He barely caught the ladle as it went spinning towards his head.

Fair enough.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

micro story prompts: 47 crave :)

jdklsakd the next one will be a micro story even if it kills me i swear.

Instead, we have a 24 year old Delver as he begins a job in Tel Shival, working alongside a woman who scares him in all the right ways (962 words)

                                         -------------------

What was it about her? In all his years, he’d never been so utterly crippled by... was it lust? It wasn’t love - he knew little enough about it to know that much. But Divider, every time she snapped a judgemental glare in his direction or prefaced his arrival with a tired sigh, it made him want to rip his clothes off.

Delver spared a moment to wonder if that was normal, then immediately decided he didn’t care.

“You’re late.” Maeser Tellene glanced up, her gaze skimming the top of her frameless lenses. She sat, imperious, behind a heavy wooden desk, her ample figure buried behind layers of crimson robe and paper stacks. “Was I unclear about the importance of my work, or do you just enjoy testing me?”

Oh, she had been perfectly clear. In a three and a half hour seminar, of which he and two begrudging Maesers were the sole audience. All of the others had refused to attend. Tellene had a reputation for being... well, polarising.

“Considering the two options, I think I’ll go with the latter.” Closing the door, Delver barely even acknowledged the sound of the lock clicking sharply into place. The Maeser Weaver was as fond of her privacy as she was of disproving the long-held beliefs of everyone around her. It went a ways towards explaining her popularity. “So,” Delver continued, doing his best to amble casually towards her desk. “How’s progress?”

“Slow,” she replied flatly. With a flick of the wrist, she snapped her book shut, the pages coughing dust into the weave-lit air. “Your kind did an excellent job of burying truths in fantasy, Cipher. If I have to read one more story about sorceresses and towers and beastly apparitions, I’ll gouge my eyes out.” She reached up, pressing a fingertip to her temple, and fired a sharp glare in his direction. “Or maybe I'll start with yours, for subjecting me to the process alone.”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of Delver, firmly shattering his fragile aplomb. Having arrived at her desk, he found it scattered with books and papers to the point of anarchy. She really had been hard at work. “Well... I suppose I should apologise,” he said slowly, taking in the carnage like a soldier after a bloody battle. “If it helps at all, it wasn’t my choice. I was summoned by one of the Archons.”

“What?” Tellene sat up straighter, her posture a single snapped thread short of alarmed. “Who?”

“They, ah, commanded discretion.”

As expected, his answer did not satisfy. Tellene tsked icily, returning her chin to her palm. “Of course they did,” she muttered. “They only share one spine between them, and they keep it locked away most days.”

“They probably don’t want to risk you coming along and snapping it in half.”

It was a dangerous play. A foolish one. Of course, everyone knew Tellene’s view of the archonate was far from generous, but no one actually said it. It was one of those unspoken things, like the inevitability of death or fear of dark water.

Then, to a mix of surprise and relief, Tellene laughed. It was a subtle thing - almost more of a hum - but to Delver, it was victory. “Well, perhaps they're wiser than they appear,” she acquiesced, then hesitated. “Although, I still have my doubts.”

Delver’s lips curved into a smile. As the woman made to stand, he moved behind her chair, pulling it out gently. A few strands of dark hair, pinned for the most part into a bundle at the back of her head, tumbled free in languid spirals. It seemed long hours of twisting and pulling at the intentionally loose pieces had shaken a few others free.

“A gentleman, a rebel, and a prodigy,” she mused. “Another woman might consider herself lucky.” Her hands swept adroitly down the front of her robe, flattening out the creases, dusting off a few stray crumbs nestled in the folds. They were quite the opposite, in that respect. While Delver was prone to forgetting to eat at all, Tellene seemed to find comfort in the process. It helped her think. Focus.

“And what do you consider yourself?” Delver asked. He moved around to face her, doing his best not to give away all of his cards in one round. But, beneath her dark stare, he found himself strangely warm. Not necessarily in a bad way... but he wouldn’t describe it as overly good either.

Tellene regarded him for a long, dangerous moment. Then, she took a step forward. She was a few inches shorter than him. A handful of years older, with eyes sharp enough to shear clean through stone. Divider, give me strength. “I,” she began slowly, “consider myself tired, and very thin of patience, Cipher.” She quirked a brow, and he had no idea whether the exchange was meant to be playful or terrifying. “I strongly advise you do not try me further.”

With that, she swept past him, retrieving her cloak from a nearby table, fastening it around her shoulders as she headed towards the door. Delver stood, transfixed for a moment, before his senses returned in an indignant rush. “Hey - where are you going?”

“Out,” she replied simply. Her hand was already on the doorknob. “You have quite a lot of catching up to do. It is best I leave you to it.”

Witch, Delver thought, impressed. The door swung open, releasing a billow of cool air into the room. It carried her perfume with it - something aromatic and woody, like the mossy edge of a forest. Then, without so much as a parting glance, she snapped it shut behind her.

No click.

I could follow her, Delver thought. He took an instinctive step towards the door.

Then, with a defeated sigh, he slumped back into the chair and grabbed a sheath of papers.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Let's go with 27 from the micro story prompts, forrrrr Adiran? :)

An actual short one! Miracles do happen!

But also TW: implied abuse (child and adult)

                                                  ------

In a room filled with soldiers, a person should feel safe. In a palace, surrounded by walls seven storeys high, fear should be as distant as a ship on the horizon, drifting ever further out to sea.

And yet, sometimes, the only thing Adiran wanted to do was hide.

It didn’t matter who was present. It didn’t matter if he was alone. It didn’t matter if he was twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty. The wrath of a King was terrifying because it was untempered, like raw steel unmoved by a blacksmith’s forge. It was feared because it was fearless. It broke everything it touched.

Adiran learned to break quietly. Behind closed doors. Away from prying eyes. He didn’t do it for the King, or the Queen, or anyone else. He did it for himself. For his own pride, made fragile from years of being held to the grindstone. If no one saw, then it could be ignored. Reshaped. Forced down and hidden it among old bruises and fractured bone until all the shards of pain blurred into one.

But sometimes, he didn’t want to be strong. Sometimes, the twist of dread, the cold that spread from his spine to his fingertips, was too much to bear.

Sometimes - and it didn’t matter if he was twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty - the only thing Adiran could do was hide.

[stonebreakerseries]

Day 6: Luxury + “that was impressive”

Day 6 of @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober, as well as the Fictober20 prompt. This one takes place some time after the final round of the Red Fury, and basically continues from THIS piece I wrote a while ago.

                              ______________________________

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction)

Character(s): Riin & Crosus.

                               ______________________________

When Riin walked into the South Gate tavern near the outskirts of Vetrose, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. All around him, bodies were pressed close around tables, hunched over dice, deep in conversation, laughing raucously as they poured ales and wines and harder drinks down their throats.

Nose wrinkling, Riin slipped inside as casually as he could, doing his best not to stand out among the distracted patrons. Which was surprisingly difficult, all things considered. He’d put on quite a show in the arena, and already, eyes were fixing on him, flicking away the moment he looked. Idiot, he chided himself as he sidled between chairs and tables, stopping abruptly as a waitress cut past, a tray of thick brown stew balanced on one hand. He’d spent almost a full ten years in Talvera without revealing what he could truly do. Now, it seemed to be all anyone spoke about. The demand for him to compete in the arena - to engage in a friendly fight with a champion from one of the noble houses - had become incessant. It didn’t seem to matter how many times he refused, a new offer always presented itself the following day, the wording more insistent, the payment higher. Do us this one favour, before you depart for your homeland.

Huffing, Riin managed to pause in an empty space and scanned the room. It didn’t matter how much they offered, he could not be bought. He was a Kyriin; a soldier representing his people, acting on behalf of Kal-Kriyan interests. He was not a spectacle to be gawked at and gambled on.

It was a concept Talverans didn’t seem to understand. Not fully, at least.

A boisterous shout from his right drew Riin’s attention, his gaze snapping across. A drunken man stood, albeit barely, a card in one hand, a tankard in the other. Liquid sloshed dangerously as he ranted at the other players around the table, accusations of cheating and trickery being thrown back and forth among the competitors. 

Luckily, seated at a table just past them, was the man Riin was looking for.

Crosus grinned wide, spotting him at the same time, his huge hands wrapped around a flagon. A collection of admirers crowded him on either side, partially obscuring him from view, explaining why Riin hadn’t been able to spot the giant sooner. As he approached, Riin glanced between Crosus and his companions, brow tensing into an uncertain frown. This… wasn’t what he’d been expecting. When he’d received the man’s message, he had assumed they would be speaking alone.

Luckily, Crosus either read the misgiving on Riin’s face or never intended for his sycophants to remain in the first place. Before Riin reached the table, Crosus was already shooing them away with his bear-like hand. “Right then, off with you lot,” he said. When the demand was met with hesitation - even disappointed whines - he tossed a small pouch of coins to one of young men with a good-natured wink. “Enough of that. Tavern’s got plenty of room elsewhere. Go on - get yourselves drunk on a champion’s coin.”

Apparently, all was forgiven. There was a collective whooping - loud and sudden enough to almost startle Riin into taking a step back. Bodies pushed past him, the men and women seeming utterly unaware of his presence as they rushed towards the bar. 

“That was… quite a crowd,” Riin said as he finally approached the table. He paused, then gestured to one of the newly vacated seats. “May I?”

“Sure,” the big man drawled, raising a bushy brow. “Didn’t ask you here just to make you stand all evening, black-eyes.”

Riin’s shoulders tensed, but he hurried to mask it by sitting down, resting his forearms on the table. Unfortunately, as he feared, Crosus far from an unobservant man.

“No good?” the northerner asked, and to his credit, he seemed genuine. “Sorry. Heard folk calling you that lately. Figured it was proper.” He snorted, bringing his flagon to his lips. “Should’ve known it was probably an insult. Fucking Talverans…”

Riin had to admit, the man was oddly disarming. And relatable. So much so that he found himself relaxing into a smile, offering a resigned shrug of his own. “It’s not an insult. Just…” He hesitated, but decided it didn’t hurt to share. “I’d hoped no one would find out. That’s all.” He huffed. “I was so close, too. Being called that name just reminds me of my own failure.”

Crosus grunted. “Yeah. That kind of fame’s more trouble than it’s worth, isn’t it?” Raising a hand, he flagged one of the waitstaff, who seemed to have been loitering nearby. “You - yeah lad, you. Bring my friend here some of the good stuff.” He paused, glancing at his own drink. “Another for me, too.” Again, he tossed a small pouch of coins, the scrawny young man catching it between shaking, over-eager palms before scurrying away. Crosus just smirked, leaning in, brown eyes gleaming wickedly. “Turns out, tipping well gets you special treatment.” He leaned back again, laughing, and slapped the table with a thunderous palm. “Who knew, huh?”

Every soul in Talvera, Riin thought, amused. But he just shared in the man’s laughter, enjoying the luxury of being away from the palace. Of not having to second-guess every move he made. Soon, he had a drink in his hand, and before he knew it, half of it had already vanished. “I can see why you would come to a place like this,” Riin remarked loudly, fighting to raise his voice over the din. He glanced around, noticing a large number of watchful eyes flicking back and forth towards their table. “Being champion has made you well-sought.”

“Hey now - three time champion,” Crosus corrected, then chuckled. “The first time wasn’t nearly this rewarding. That said, they’re not all looking at me either. What you did out there?” He huffed, nodding to himself. “That was impressive.”

Riin just stared at his hands, wrapped firmly around his drink. It hadn’t felt impressive. He took another long, deep pull to delay responding. He could remember the moment so clearly, as though it had happened that morning instead of over a turn ago. When he’d seen Crosus land that blow… when Adiran had gone down and couldn’t get up again… he’d just...

“It was panic,” Riin said suddenly. He looked up at Crosus, mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “Not something I would call impressive.”

“Maybe,” the man agreed slowly, then shrugged. “Not sure your princeling would feel the same way, though.” Hesitating, Crosus sat back a little, taking a moment to regard Riin carefully. “I, ah... take it there’s no hard feelings about all of that?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Crosus barked a laugh. “True enough.” Then he jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “But you wouldn’t be the first person I’ve gone drinking with to tried to kill me after. Got my eye on you, Kyriin.”

A smile tugged at Riin’s lips. “I take it those men are no longer with us?”

“Who said anything about men?”

Riin grinned as Crosus bellowed a laugh, raising his flagon in makeshift salute. “Ahh... all the same,” he continued after draining another full mug’s worth of dark ale and setting it down with a thud, “wanted to thank you for what you did. Saving the princeling’s life.”

That was enough to stop Riin mid-drink. He lowered his flagon, eyes fixed questioningly on Crosus. “Thank me? Why?” 

What did Crosus have to thank him for? As far as he knew, he’d done nothing to help the man. In truth, he’d barely even acknowledged him, when he’d leapt the barrier and rushed the arena. The most he’d done was shove him aside, sending him sprawling in the sand. In truth, all he remembered clearly from that moment was Adiran, lying there, suffocating inside his crushed plate... 

“I know why people watch that tournament. The Red Fury...” Crosus' voice was softer, stirring Riin from his thoughts. The man’s mouth twisted, expression grim. “Everyone in that crowd wanted blood. Especially the ones who would never admit it. Must make them feel better about themselves, to watch good men die before their time. Your princeling…” Sighing, Crosus reached up, running a hand down his face. “I’ve killed plenty, Kyriin. Right bastards, most of them. But taking that young man’s life for a crowd? For sport?” Grunting, he just shook his head. “No. I have enough people looking at me like I’m no better than a wild beast. Don’t want to start believing it myself. I never meant for it to go that far.”

Stunned into silence for a moment, all Riin could do was look at the man - really look at him. The boisterous personality, the bellowing laugh, the tangle of dark hair that framed his face. For all of his strength, deep down, Crosus doubted himself. Who he was. What people thought of him. What he thought of himself.

It was something Riin understood all too well. 

“Adir---” Riin caught himself quickly, “Prince Adiran knew the risks, Crosus. A fight is a fight, and it would be foolish to treat it as anything else. Even if I had not been able to…” Shei-tar’s gaze, the thought alone was enough to turn his stomach. He cleared his throat roughly. “The prince does not resent you. In truth, you might be one of the few men he actually respects.” He caught Crosus’ gaze. Held it. “As for me... I saw you by his side.”

Another memory, clear as day, flashed behind Riin’s eyes. It was of Crosus, crouched beside Adiran, a lone shape in the middle of the arena. It was of the crowd, roaring their shock, their approval, their delight at the blow that had flung Adiran, bodily, over and past the red-marked ring. It was of Crosus’ large hands, frantic but ineffective, tugging at the suffocating prince’s ruined plate...

Crosus just raised his brows. “You did, did you?” When Riin met his gaze and nodded, he gave another low grunt. “Huh. You know, most folk thought I was trying to finish him off. Already had three offer to buy me a drink for it.”

For whatever reason, that shocked Riin. “What?” He rose half-way out of his chair, heat and anger rising like a storm beneath his skin. “Who? Show me.”

“Easy,” Crosus said, voice concerned. He rested a large hand on Riin’s shoulder, urging him to sit down. “Relax. It’s nothing personal against your prince. Just their small way of spitting in the eye of that shit they call a King.”

Somehow, that didn’t comfort Riin. The indignation he felt on Adiran’s behalf rose like bile up the back of his throat. But at the same time... he supposed he could empathise. He’d like nothing more than to spit in the King’s eye himself, if he knew no one else would have to suffer for it.

Slowly, he complied with Crosus’ request, sitting back down, catching his flagon as the northerner slid it back towards him. He took another drink, still bitter. Still sure he hated the idea of people wishing harm on Adiran just to hurt his father. “The prince,” was all he said after a moment, feeling strangely tired. Simply correcting Crosus was easier than acknowledging the rest of what he’d just said. “Adiran is the prince, not my prince.”

If he’d bothered to look up from his ale, Riin would have seen Crosus raise a dark brow at that. Would have seen the way he smirked slightly and shook his head. Instead, the only thing Riin caught was his final, amiable shrug.

“As you say,” Crosus replied. Then he sent for another round. 

[stonebreakerseries]

Day 5: Beloved + “Unacceptable, try again.”

Another piece for @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober, also incorporating the Day 5 #Fictober20 prompt. This one was, ah... a fair bit harder to merge. But I did my best!

This piece is set about 10 years prior to the events in Stonebreaker, focusing on the aftermath of the War of Chains (I might include it as a flashback or an interlude between parts - I have yet to decide).

                       -------------------------------------------------------

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction) Character(s): Dassian Varo, Alessia Torvul, Faldoran Crestus, Hemlan.

                       ---------------------------------------------------------

The pale stone walls of the war room seemed too bright that morning. Garish, pristine, uncompromising. Perhaps it was fitting, given the group that currently crowded around the replica map. The undulating landscape of central Peiora was crafted with minute and painstaking detail, spanning from Talvera all the way to the Bleakwood. It used to be the map that encompassed all of the Allied Kingdoms. Now Valcreta, the City of Artifice, stood like a stain at the southwestern corner. A reminder of their failure.

Breathing out, Dassian Varo, War King of Signea, High King of the Allied Kingdoms, found himself staring at that spot. One of the mapmakers had painted the area gold, the colour used to denote Khathi Empire territory. It was recently done; the paint was still tacky, its damp gleam visible in the mid-morning light.

Where had we gone so wrong?

Of course, Dassian knew. He knew when the decree had been passed, though he had been too much of a fool to admit it. The idea of it - freedom for the bondsmen throughout the Allied Kingdoms - had been something he had supported for years. Decades, even, though perhaps he had been less vocal in his youth. Less self-assured. Less powerful. 

Divider’s Own, what he would give, now, for even half the confidence he used to have.

Deep down, Dassian had known it wasn’t truly about freedom. It never had been. But his doubts at the time had simply been outweighed by his belief that, sometimes, intentions didn’t matter. What mattered was the result. It was hard to imagine that any man or woman, when freed from their chains, would care about whether it was done for the ‘right’ reason. All that mattered was that it had happened. Their lives were now their own, to do with as they pleased.

Or, at least, that had been the ideal, sold to them just under two years ago. It had been the start of Felling, when High King Leoric had called a meeting of the rulers. He remembered it vividly - the trees had just started to change, soft leaves turning crisp, red bleeding into green... 

“Your Majesty?”

Stirring, Dassian blinked and tore his gaze from the map. Crowded around the table stood his closest advisors. They were the only people, so soon after ascending to the throne, that he was willing to trust.

To his right stood Faldoran Crestus, his well-cared sword eternally strapped to his side. Dressed in a thick doublet, the courtly attire was barely able to contain his powerful form; an incongruity that only emphasised the man’s obvious discomfort. Recently promoted to Marshal, he was now expected to attend all meetings pertaining to Signea and her defense - a fact that, upon its discovery, had twisted his scarred face into a perpetual frown. They did not always agree on matters, but Faldoran was the only man Dassian could have chosen for such a vital position. The only man he trusted to replace him. 

Next to Faldoran, a wooden writing board resting along her forearm, was Alessia Torvul, the former king’s Cipher. The woman, with pale Talveran skin and copper hair, was a handful of years his senior, and carried each of them with pride. She met Dassian’s gaze without a moment’s hesitation, green eyes calm. Knowing. Encouraging. Most had assumed he would not trust her, given her proximity to King Leoric and his family. They had assumed he would petition other Cipher families for a replacement. 

They had assumed wrong. 

Finally, a short man stood on Dassian’s left, his brown hair thinning, his stomach straining against a dark leather belt. As though sensing Dassian’s thoughts on him, he cleared his throat. “Ah, if you please, your Majesty. With Valcreta being... u-um… well, I how should I put this---”

---“Unacceptable,” Dassian snapped, dark eyes flashing dangerously as they cut across to the man. “Try again.” 

Hemlan stiffened, mouth dropping open in shock. Dassian had expected that response from him. He’d always been spineless. But Alessia’s frown, scalding him with disapproval from halfway across the room, was his cue that he had genuinely misstepped. 

Stop it. You need these people on your side. All of them.

Sighing, Dassian leaned forward, pressing his hands to the lacquered edge of the table. “I apologise, Hemlan. Please, just... say what you mean.” Divider, he was tired. It didn’t seem to matter how much he slept. Not that he slept well, alone in a room large enough to house an entire platoon. “King Leoric may have ruled by platitudes, but I have no patience for them.”

Even as the words left his lips, Dassian winced, wishing he could take them back. There he went again. It was never wise to disparage a fallen monarch; certainly not before his funeral had even taken place. This meeting was a mistake. He should have waited another day. Divider, he was almost too exhausted to even feel ashamed of himself. 

Almost. 

“This has been… a trying campaign, your Majesty. A few improprieties behind closed doors are to be expected.” To his surprise, the timidity in Hemlan’s voice had all but vanished, even after the undeserved reprimand. By the time Dassian looked back at the man, his entire demeanour had already shifted. He stood straighter now, pale gaze regarding the map, the thumb of his right hand hooked into his belt. Bemused, Dassian sent a questioning look to Alessia, who simply shrugged, a faint smile tinging her lips. 

I see. 

He’d always wondered how a man like Hemlan had found his way into a position as coveted as Court Advisor. In truth, he was only even present at Alessia’s insistence. Whenever he had spoken to Hemlan in the past, the man had been a stuttering mess, barely making eye contact, frustrating him with his sweating and apologising and bumbling until…

Dassian froze.

… until he had told Hemlan whatever he wanted to know, just to make him leave.

“If I may,” Hemlan continued, tugging Dassian from his quiet revelation, “it is important that we discuss the potential of a Khathi assault. With Valcreta now a viable waypoint for their army and their knowledge of our weakened forces, the threat is greater now than it has been since the conception of the Allied Kingdoms.”

The Allied Kingdoms. Their formation had been a defensive maneuver, spurred by King Leoric at the beginning of this reign. That had to have been, what… twenty years ago? More?

Where had the time gone?

“Have the armies patrol the western border,” Dassian said. “I trust we still have the numbers for that?”

Faldoran nodded, arms folded, the heavy shelf of his brow almost casting a shadow over his eyes. “We do. But I wouldn’t waste any soldiers down by Tel Shival.” He leaned forward, tapping a gloved finger on the swath of blue directly east of their current location. “The Pale’s still swollen from the thaw up north, so all those feeders running into the marsh will be full to bursting.” He shook his head, straightening. “No - there’s no fear of an army getting through that way. Not at this time of year.”

It was true enough. Even their own army had been forced to swing north, bypassing the Crossroads, adding a full two-turns to their journey. In any other circumstance, ten days would have felt like nothing. But among exhausted soldiers, wounded, hungry, battle-worn…

Alessia shifted her footing. “If I may? It would still be beneficial to build more outposts along the southern outskirts. If nothing else, we will find ourselves better positioned once the weather changes.” She glanced at Faldoran, who just grunted, then returned her attention to Dassian. “If we cannot spare soldiers for the task, I imagine there are a number among the recently liberated seeking paid work.”

“Yes. Good. See it done.” As Dassian replied, he noticed that Alessia was actually transcribing the discussion, her quill scratching away over the parchment with her usual ruthless efficiency. Of course. This is all official, now. 

However, more importantly, Alessia had raised a valid point. In Dassian’s opinion - one he shared with many - the handling of the bondsmen had been one of Leoric’s greatest failings. Of all the kingdoms who had implemented the decree, the High King himself had taken the most indolent approach. He had simply declared the owning and trading of bondsmen a criminal offense, signed a few papers, and considered the matter resolved. Even back then, he had already been fixated on the war with Valcreta - the war he knew was coming. He’d lost sight of his own citizens at the very moment they needed him most.

Of course, many of the former bondsmen were resourceful. Some grouped together, forming their own communities in the kingdom’s outskirts. Some stayed put, joining the more welcoming towns and cities where they had grown up or lived out a good portion of their lives. Some returned to their homelands, seeking families that may or may not still be waiting for them. But others? Others struggled, without property, without work, without support, cut off from their pasts, uncertain of the futures. 

The rest just left Signea entirely, once they realised the extent to which the King had forgotten them. 

To some, High King Leoric was beloved. To others, his shortcomings were simply too great and too many to overlook. Dassian had yet to decide in which camp he intended to raise his own flag.

Closing his eyes, he bowed his head and drew a deep, slow breath. He could feel the concerned gazes of his closed council on him, but chose to ignore them for the moment, collecting himself, gathering his thoughts. After all, Alessia and Faldoran had seen him in far worse states than this - recently, too. 

And Hemlan? 

Well, Hemlan seemed willing and able to adapt to whatever he needed, whenever he needed it. He had yet to decide if that was incredibly useful, or incredibly terrifying.

“Tell me,” Dassian said suddenly, “what are the people saying?”

At first, silence met his question. Alessia shifted, rolling back her shoulders, but seemed hesitant to respond. Even Faldoran somehow managed to look even more uncomfortable, his mouth drawn into a tense line.

That left Hemlan.

“It is… mixed, your Majesty,” the portly man began, clasping his hands behind his back. He kept his blue eyes fixed on the map, as though he somehow knew the last thing Dassian wanted was his scrutiny. “The sudden retreat from Valcreta was a surprise to many. Soldiers, common folk, and nobility alike.”

“Damn right it was,” Faldoran agreed, crossing his arms. “Had my work cut out for me, explaining that one to the soldiers. Reckon I got through to most of the ones that mattered, but…” He shrugged. “There’s always going to be mutterings. Just the way it goes.”

Dassian nodded stiffly. Of course he knew that. But still, somehow, he just wished he could make them see. Make them understand that it had to be done. 

“Some call you a hero,” Hemlan continued, unfazed by the interruption. “Being named War King on the field of battle gained you favour among the more military-minded, as well as a number of noble families. But, as with all things, even the most valuable coin has two sides. Others call you a coward, some even going so far as to raise questions about the legitimacy of your ascension.”

“What?” Dassian stood up straight at that, alarmed. Not at the accusations of cowardice - he had expected those. Prepared for them. But the idea that he had somehow cheated his way to the throne? “There were witnesses present - several, high and low ranking alike. They have all made statements. On what grounds are they questioning it?”

“Unfounded grounds, your Majesty,” Hemlan replied quickly. “I apologise if I caused undue alarm. The accusations are not enough to pose any real threat, nor are they bold enough to outright denounce you...” He paused. Looking up, Hemlan studied Dassian’s face for a moment, gauging something. Then, he sucked in a breath, and added, “... yet. Right now, the war is still fresh, as is the memory of your coronation. It is important we continue to monitor these rumours, but at present, that is all they are.”

A cold feeling settled at the center of his chest. “At present,” Dassian repeated quietly. Divider...

Expression softening, Hemlan simply nodded. “At present, your Majesty.”

“We will be vigilant,” Alessia added, voice firm. “If the talk ever becomes serious enough to threaten your life or the stability of the kingdom, we will convene and act accordingly.” 

Dassian nodded distractedly, then paused, realising something. She had stopped writing, leaving this part of their conversation off the official record. 

So it’s that much of a concern, then.

“Very well,” he said after a moment. “Hemlan, report to me every second turn. I don’t want to find myself blindsided by any of this.” He shifted his gaze to Faldoran. “Marshal Crestus, meet with me this evening. We will discuss the fortification of the border in more detail then. For now, you are both dismissed.”

The two men nodded and took their leave, Faldoran snapping a sharp salute, Hemlan bowing low. That left him and Alessia, standing at opposite sides of the large map. Slowly, calmly, she went about organising her affairs, capping the small vial of ink, dabbing the tip of her quill against a piece of sponge inlaid in her writing board. 

Dassian just watched her, silent, and waited for the inevitable.

“You can’t solve every problem in the kingdom on your first day, Dassian.” She glanced up, green eyes seeming to pierce right through him. They always did. “It will take many Kings - High, War, whatever you like - to fix the mistakes of the past twenty years. Even then, new ones will only rise to take their place.”

“Then what would you have me do?” he demanded. She had stood by him when so many had refused; believed him on the battlefield when his own men had started to doubt. Practically committed treason with him. He owed her more than he dared admit, but sometimes she drove him halfway mad. “Should I do nothing? Delegate my duties to others, like Leoric did? I can’t do that, Alessia. I’m not that kind of man.”

As he expected - as he feared - the Cipher just sighed. She didn’t seem disappointed. Not even angry or bitter. In fact, she almost seemed to have been expecting his exact response. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d written it down before he’d even said it. “Then it is something you will just have to learn, Dassian, whether you want to or not. That, and many other things.” She shook her head and stepped away from the map, angling towards the door. “Despite the way it is portrayed in the history books, ruling a kingdom is never done alone. The crown is a symbol. It is a kind of power, yes, but it is not absolute. You need to surround yourself with people. The right people.”

She began to walk out, shoes whispering over the floor tiles. “I’m not alone,” Dassian said as she passed by him, voice low, gaze averted. “I have you, don’t I? And Faldoran. Hemlan.”

Alessia paused. Just for a breath. “You do,” she said. “But we are not enough.”

With that, she bowed and left, her floor-length dress shifting gently with each step. Soon, the War King found himself alone once more, the light streaming in through the high windows suddenly too bright. Too damning, laying bare all of his flaws. There were certainly enough of them.

Rest, he thought, leaning his weight against the table, not quite trusting his legs to hold him. I just need to rest. 

Then I can worry about fixing everything else in this damn kingdom.

[stonebreakerseries]

Day 4: Ambush + “That didn’t stop you before”

Another piece for @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober, also incorporating the Day 4 #Fictober20 prompt.

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction) Characters: Delver & Sylda Warnings: Language

             ____________________________

Where in the Divider’s name could she have run off to?

Muttering darkly, Delver peered down another alley, shook his head, and continued onward, boots scuffing against the dust and grit that coated Yelen’s streets. When he’d left Sylda, she’d been half-dead at best, barely able to move, her body a mess of hastily bandaged injuries and deeper, less visible pains. It wasn’t that he blamed her for taking off the second his back was turned; all things considered, it was fair enough. Waking up to a complete stranger eating soup beside her bed - especially a man from the Allied Kingdoms - would be alarming at the best of times. But particularly for a young woman who had spent her previous waking moments hanging by the neck in the gallows courtyard. How she had managed to get out of bed, yet alone sneak out the second storey window, was nothing short of baffling.

Or it would have been, if he hadn’t already witnessed her do far stranger things.

Whoever she was - whatever she was - he needed to find her. Apparently, convincing her to uproot her entire life and travel the length of the continent alone with him was going to be difficult.

Who knew.

Alleys and side streets drifted past as Delver continued his nighttime hunt, the middle moon, Rhana, kind enough to bathe the streets in her pale blue glow. Part of Delver knew what he was doing was foolish. His innkeeper, after some creative haggling that left Delver short an iron drem and his belt knife, had offered vague directions towards a section of the city infamous for housing thieves and cutthroats. Apparently, it was an area civilians knew to avoid, especially after dark. Which just happened to be the exact place a runaway thief like Sylda was likely to go. 

Of course, that meant Delver had to follow, and despite it being a well-lit evening, he couldn’t keep his gaze from snapping towards every faint movement in the corner of his vision. This particular tangle of streets would make the perfect site for an ambush.

It was going to be a long night. 

What if she’d collapsed in an alley, somewhere? Divider, he hoped not. Burnout was a severe risk among thaumists - even highly trained ones. If she pushed herself too hard too soon, it could be enough to succeed where the gallows had failed.

After his wanderings along the main road bore no fruit, Delver sucked in a breath, shoved aside his self-preservation instinct, and began to search the side streets. The even narrower alleys, swathed in a near impenetrable darkness, could wait until he was truly desperate.

Of course, as he was quick to discover, even the side streets held their dangers.

“Well, what’ve we got here? You’re a long way from home.”

Delver came to a sharp halt as a voice carried up the street behind him. Turning, he found himself approached by two figures, one as tall as he was, the other about a half-head shorter. They ambled almost casually, which seemed an odd tactic for a robbery. Or a murder. That or he posed so little threat that they were happy to take things slow. 

How thoughtful.

“Easy,” Delver said, swapping to the local dialect, hoping its might earn him some kind of favour. He raised his hands, proving he was unarmed, although he doubted it made much difference. “I’m looking for a friend, not for trouble,”

As expected, the tall one snorted. “Right.” He gestured to his partner. “He your friend?”

Delver blinked. “No?”

“What about me?”

“Ah, no.”

“Well...” The shorter one smiled and drew a knife from his belt. “Then I guess you’ve got trouble.”

Great. Thieves and fucking comedians to boot. He must truly be the unluckiest man alive.

Sighing, Delver lowered his hands. “I guess I do.” He made a show of stretching his back, using the movement to quickly scan the nearby alleys. There didn’t seem to be any more movement. The two of them must have been running as a pair, probably on the way back from an unsuccessful hunt somewhere else in the city. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to just leave me alone?”

The tall one shrugged. “You could try. Most folks do.”

“I take it that didn’t stop you before?”

“Nope.”

Delver sniffed. “Fair enough.” He went to put his hands in his pockets, only to find a second knife being thrust menacingly towards him. Jaw tight, he froze, then returned his hands to their former position. “Listen - I’m only here because I’m looking for a woman.”

“Yeah? Ain’t we all.”

“No, not like… her name is Syldana.”

There was a pause. The pair shared a glance, brows raised, their knives still raised threateningly. “Hey, wait,” said the taller one slowly. His dark gaze drifted back to Delver. “You the one that bought her off the rope?”

Realistically, telling the truth could go one of two ways. Luckily, Delver had always been a gambling man. “I am,” he replied, raising his chin, doing his best to look more important than he was.

Again, the two shared a look. Then, the smaller one grinned, crooked teeth flashing. 

“Well, you’ve got more coin than brains, dontcha?”

Exhaling, Delver closed his eyes. Of course it went the wrong way.

The taller one stepped forward this time, boots crunching, advancing until he was almost within arm’s reach. “It’s our lucky day, Raoul. C’mon. Let’s clean his pockets.”

Well, there was no helping it. Shoulders stiff, hands still raised, Delver waited as the man started patting down his sides, hunting for hidden pockets, jewellery, treasures sewn into the lining. His knife hovered menacingly by Delver’s throat at first, so close that when he swallowed, he could feel the steel brushing against his skin. But the man was distracted, busy running a rough hand down the side of Delver’s leg. The knife wavered… pressed closer for a moment… started to dip away…

The second he had an opening, Delver swung, cracking the man across the temple with his elbow. He went down with a shocked yelp, red dust springing up around him. The knife skidded from his hand, but Delver was already moving, dancing out of his reach and away from his partner, who appeared to still be processing what had just happened.

“Krom!” the short one cried eventually, then turned a hateful glare on Delver. “You bastard - get back here!”

“Alright, alright. Just take it easy.” Delver continued retreating, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. Reaching back, he slid a wooden rod from his waistband, its twelve inch length concealed beneath his loose shirt. Just as well Krom hadn’t gotten too handsy, or he would have easily found it. With a jerk of the wrist, Delver extended the weapon to the side, doubling its length, then twisted to lock it in place. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Krom was already getting to his feet and Raoul had seemingly regained his addled wits. “How about we all just walk away?” Delver pressed, eyes flicking between the pair. “No one has to get hurt.”

Their response was simple enough.

Grunting, Delver ducked to the side, the sound of Raoul’s dagger whipping past his ear barely registering as he swung the rod, striking the shorter man across the back. The thief grunted, the momentum of his overeager lunge sending him stumbling past, buying Delver a few seconds to plan his next move. 

Or it would have, if there weren’t two of them.

A low grunt gave Krom away, but only barely. Heart lurching, Delver whipped around, his movement unnaturally fast. As he spun, something inside him burned away, the sensation sending a shiver of discomfort racing through his body. Still, he managed to slap Krom’s fist aside and follow through, ramming the end of the rod into his gut. It’s been too long since I did this, Delver thought, breathing hard, hands trembling slightly as he backed away from his assailants. He’d grown too reliant on the anchor fastened to his wrist; too willing to use its reserve of thaumic essence than tap into his own. Now the disc was empty - possibly even broken. He was on his own.

The rod, handy though it was, wasn’t doing the damage he needed. Even with its unnaturally hardened wood, the two thieves just weren’t staying down. He was starting to think the obscene amount he paid for it in Tel Shival might have been a mistake. However, before Delver had time to dwell on his poor financial decisions, he found himself accosted once more.

One knife, one fist, two angry men. Delver wasn’t a fighter. Not really. As Krom swung a punch at his stomach, Raoul darted forward, slashing at him from the side. He could only hope to stop one of them, so he swung the rod towards the dagger, barely catching it before it sunk into his shoulder. That left him open to Krom, and he acted on sheer reflex. Concentrating, sucking in a breath, Delver reached for the hum that resonated inside his body. Then, without the time or practice necessary for any finesse, he dragged it all to one spot at the center of his torso. 

Krom’s fist connected.

And the bones in his hand shattered.

The man’s scream was enough to curdle Delver’s blood. Cradling his hand, at least three fingers bent at jarringly unnatural angles, Krom stumbled away, tears pricking his eyes, a string of panicked curses bubbling from his lips. “Y-Y-You! You rat-bloody-bastard!” He groaned loudly, sounding almost nauseous as he curled over his ruined hand. “K-King’s eyes as m... my fucking witness... I’ll kill you!”

Normally, Delver would have had a snarky remark for that. You’ll have to catch me first. Tell The Errant King I said hello. Try aiming a little higher next time. But instead, he found himself also staggering, heart pounding, head spinning. Almost immediately after Krom’s fist connected with his stomach, the area briefly hard enough to rival stone, Delver had lost his concentration. What remained of his essence suddenly dispersed, like a cloud collapsing under its own weight into a fine mist. He could barely feel its hum now. It was weak. Very weak.

I need to get out of here.

Sweating, Delver backpedaled, stumbled on a broken cobble, and barely caught himself against a nearby wall. His arms were shaking something terrible, the rod in his grasp wavering laughably as he brandished it between himself and the advancing Raoul. “Last chance,” he rasped, blinking, fighting to clear his vision. And to think he’d been worried about Sylda pushing herself too hard. Divider’s Own, he was a fool. If he burned out now, that was it. He was a dead man.

“Y-You’re one of those freaks,” Raoul spat. He was shaking too, although for a very different reason. “A fucking aberration's what you are!”

On a regular day, Delver would have been impressed that Raoul even knew such a long word. But as it was, he could barely keep his feet under him, familiar shivers starting to tingle across his skin. That damn girl, he thought, an irrational anger washing over him as his remaining attacker warily advanced. She just couldn’t stay put for one night. Couldn’t even do me that one fucking favour after I---

“Raoul - stop!”

Suddenly, there was another body in front of him. Short. Brown haired. Familiar.

Delver stared, speechless. He must be dreaming. Or dead. Or both.

With a knife in each hand, Sylda jabbed one towards Raoul, who had halted mid-step, eyes wide. She was still injured, the bandages around her wrists, stomach, and throat all stained brown from old blood.

But she was there. Awake. Alive. 

“Enough,” Sylda continued, her voice surprisingly firm. Far stronger than it had been just a few hours ago. “He’s with me.”

“Ahh…” Raoul glanced back at Krom, who was clearly the leader of the pair. Unfortunately, he found him barely conscious, slumped against the wall of a boarded up building. No help there. Slowly, he turned back to reassess the situation for himself. An aberration and a miracle, both apparently on the same side.

What would he do...

“He’s your friend, is he Sylda?” Clearing his throat, Raoul’s eyes flicked to Delver. “Why, ah… why didn’t you say so?”

Delver blinked. He almost argued, then realised that this was his way out. 

“Must’ve slipped my mind.” He shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry?”

Huffing, Raoul rolled his eyes. Despite his over-performance, it was no small relief when he sheathed his knife and took a step away. “Gotta keep a better eye on your friends, girl. Nearly killed this one. He doesn’t belong here.”

Sylda just nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.” There was a pause. “Uh… what happened to Krom?”

The man in question had started whimpering, rocking slightly, hand curled against his chest.

“He punched a wall,” Delver said hurriedly, then shot a meaningful look at Raoul. The other man, clearly looking for someone to follow, nodded.

“Oh, yeah. Got a mean temper, he does. Really shouldn’t let it get the better of him like this.”

Sylda glanced back, and Delver nodded sagely. 

While it was pretty obvious that Sylda wasn’t buying their composite lie, it didn’t really matter. Sighing, she lowered her blades and shook her head. “Fine. You’d better get him back to the nest. Davros has been asking about you two.”

Raoul stiffened. “He has? Did he say...”

Dizzy and about one sharp turn away from throwing up on his shoes, Delver let the rest of the conversation wash past him, focusing on his breathing, willing his body to comply. With the threat apparently over, he twisted the rod, the two halves sliding back into themselves. By the time he’d managed to stow it away again, Raoul and Krom were already limping away down one of the nearby alleys, their forms vanishing into the heavy dark.

“You’ve...” Delver coughed, throat painfully dry. Another fun side-effect. “You’ve got some timing.”

Sylda just exhaled, clearly as relieved as he was. She turned, regarding him for a moment; his clammy skin, his shaking hands, his over-reliance on the wall. Then she reached up, fingertips brushing over the bandage he’d wrapped carefully around her neck earlier that day. As she did, her expression softened.

“Guess I could say the same about you, huh?” Slowly, she moved closer, concern tinging her round face. “Are you okay?”

Delver grunted, offering a conciliatory nod. As much as he’d been cursing her just a few moments ago, he had to admit, she had practically saved his life. Which meant…

“I suppose this makes us even.” Delver chuckled weakly, tipping his head back against the crumbling stone, closing his eyes. Just for a moment. “A life for a life. Pretty fair trade, if you ask me.”

Sylda hummed, and the pair lapsed into a strange, heavy silence. They both knew it wasn’t the same. Not really. What Delver had done - reckless and archaic and irrational - went a little beyond intervening in an alleyway brawl. When he’d saved her life, she’d been a stranger. A murderer hanging for her crime before a crowd of thousands.

But, as it turned out, they were both willing to ignore that fact. At least for now.

“Come on,” Sylda said softly, her voice coaxing Delver’s eyes to open once more. Blurry at the edges, she held out her arm - an offer of support. It was a gesture of peace, even if only temporary. “We’d better get out of here. I’ve... got some questions.”

Nodding, pulling in one last steadying breath, Delver didn’t even have to swallow his pride for once. He just accepted the offer.

[stonebreakerseries]

Day3: Youth + “You did this?”

Day 3 of @oc-growth-and-development​​’s OC-tober challenge and the @fictober-event​!

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction) Characters: Tellene & Re’an

If the knock at her door had been any more timid, Tellene might have mistaken it for a trick of the wind. Well, it’s about time. Huffing, she reached down, sliding the key around her wrist into a small hole in her desk. With a twist, the door at the far side of the room clicked open. “Come in,” she said, taking a brief moment to check the state of her robes, making sure the red lapel lay flat and creaseless. Appearances were important business in Tel Shival. Almost as important as one’s skill, although the two seemed closer in competition now than they used to be. It was difficult to stand out in a place so overflowing with talent. Both the Allied Kingdoms and Khathi Empire only ever sent their best, and even then, most were turned away.

Luckily, Tellene, First of the Weavers, never had a problem making a name for herself.

It had been quite some time since she last dealt with an accolt. Being the youngest and least capable among their ranks, Tellene never had the patience to hold their hands as they trembled their way through basic glyphstrings. In fact, it was a testament to her dislike of instructing that she only spent a year as a Leirah before seeking - and gaining - a place among the Maesars. Now, Tellene folded her hands in front of her and fixed her narrowed gaze on the door as it tentatively inched open.

Oh Divider’s Own...

“Quickly, accolt. My time is precious. I will not have it wasted.” 

That seemed to do the trick. By the drawing of her next breath, a nervous youth stood in her study, the door swinging shut behind him, his hands worrying the white sash around his waist. Like many from the western-most regions of the Empire, Re’an was slight in stature, his grey-brown skin reminding Tellene of the ashewoods that bordered her childhood home. While his entry record placed him at nineteen, he looked at least three years younger, with wide brown eyes and an almost frenetic disposition. Although, she conceded that could be circumstantial, given her reputation. Not to worry. The rigours of study and the intellectual warren of academia would age him soon enough.

However, and most interestingly, this young man had already found a way to stand out from the herd.

“M-Maeser Tellene,” Re’an stammered. Then, like a panicked afterthought, he raised two fingers to his throat and bowed his head reverently. Or it would have been reverent, if he didn’t appear moments away from fainting. “I, um… y-you sent for me?”

Tellene arched a brow. Rather than state the obvious, she simply cleared her throat and raised a small bundle of papers, bound together by a red string. Holding them aloft for Re’an to see, it was hard not to feel a little sympathy as the colour drained from his skin. “You did this?” she asked. 

Funny, how simple questions rarely received simple answers.

“No,” he replied immediately, almost instinctively, then hesitated. “I mean, I-I’m not… I’m not sure if… I don’t---”

---“Let me make this easier,” Tellene interjected. She flipped the papers over and inspected the cover page. “Is your name Re’an?”

He cringed, but nodded, some of the nervous energy bleeding out as he resigned himself to his fate. “Yes, Maesar.”

“And you are a third year accolt?”

“Yes, Maesar.”

“And you recently sat an exam for Leirah Sonoval’s class on...” She glanced at the paper again, barely concealing a frown. “Thaumic Rhetoric: A History of Dissent?”

What in the Divider’s name were they teaching these days?

With her opinions carefully hidden behind painfully endured etiquette training, Tellene simply returned her attention to Re’an. Again, he nodded, apparently having lost the ability to use his voice. Sighing, Tellene was about to press on, but an errant thought stopped her in her tracks. This could be an interesting moment to gauge his mettle. In fact, with what she intended, she would be remiss not to seize such an organic opportunity.

“I imagine,” she continued slowly, setting the papers down and turning to the first page, “you have some theories as to why you are here?”

To her surprise, Re’an didn’t hesitate, equivocate, or attempt any other twist of rhetoric he had so clearly studied. 

“I cheated.”

Good. So, he was reasonably honest, despite evidence to the contrary. That or he was clever enough to know that lying would serve him poorly. Either way, Tellene approved. If nothing else, it showed he could assess a situation quickly and with some accuracy, even while shaking hard enough she swore she could hear his bones clicking together. 

Folding her hands on her desk, Tellene flicked her gaze to the wooden chair at the side of the room, nestled between stacks of books. Hesitantly, Re’an followed her silent instruction, picking it up and carrying it over. Once he set it down, he stood awkwardly by its side, unsure of how to proceed. I love that my reputation still precedes me, Tellene thought, before making an acquiescing motion.

“Sit, and tell me exactly how you cheated.”

Even though Re’an perched on its edge, chair seemed to swallow him, his arms drawn close, heel bouncing agitatedly against the carpeted floor. But then, much to her surprise, his brown eyes flicked up, meeting her gaze. Holding it. 

Interesting. 

“You don’t already know?”

A faint smile threatened the corner of Tellene’s lips. She fended it off. “It is clear to anyone with a set of eyes that you copied entire sentences - sometimes paragraphs - from a variety of seminal texts.” She leaned forward, chair creaking slightly beneath her. “I asked how you did it, in an exam hall, under the watchful eye of three supervising Leirah. And do not lie to me. This is important.”

Re’an shifted, wiping his palms on his robes. It was though his skin was too tight and he wanted nothing more than to be rid of it. “I, ah…” The words stuck like glue to the back of his throat. “I... have a bane, Maesar.”

Tellene regarded him flatly. “A bane.” With a suffering sigh, she reached up, massaging her forehead with her fingertips. Unfortunately, it took time to overcome a youth spent surrounded by misinformed superstition; nonsense like banes and knacks and the old gods. It was yet another process she lacked patience for. “Oh, very well. What kind of bane, then?”

Clearly sensing her irritation - mostly because she never bothered to conceal it - Re’an refused to meet her gaze, chin down, fists pressed to the tops of his thighs. “I-I remember things well. Too well. Mostly things I read, like words, pictures, symbols...” He pulled in a breath, then mustered the courage to look up again. “Maeser Tellene, I read every text Leirah Sonoval set, then a few more outside the curriculum. The Maeser Librarian recommended some papers as well, and I read those too. Exams, they… they make me nervous. It gets hard to think, so I always over-prepare.”

“Many accolts feel the same way, and compensate similarly.” She tapped his paper with her nail, the sound sharp, ringing through the room. “That does not explain what you did here.”

Re’an hesitated. “I know what I need to say, most of the time. But when I start changing the words it just…” He wrinkled his nose, and Tellene saw an old frustration in the expression. This was not a recent struggle for him. “It just doesn’t sound right anymore. It’s like the way it was written the first time was how it was meant to go, and when I change it, something always gets lost. This time, when I saw the question, I panicked. So I just took the parts of what I read that seemed relevant and wrote them down. I didn’t even think about---”

Tellene held up a finger, silencing Re’an mid-sentence. “I did not ask for excuses. You are not here to beg forgiveness.”

The comment seemed to surprise him. “I’m not?” A genuine look of confusion swept across his face, followed closely by an even more surprising emotion. One that straightened his spine and brightened his eyes with something alarmingly familiar. “Then... why am I here?”

Curiosity.

Tellene leaned back in her chair, folding her hands over her stomach. “I have met many thaumists with incredible memories. In truth, as a Maesar Weaver, I consider myself among them. But even in the best of circumstances, none of us can transcribe entire passages of relevant information - from multiple resources - with perfect accuracy. Not the way you have. It is highly unusual.”

Some of the young man’s self-consciousness returned. “Yeah, I know.” He caught himself, stiffening. “Ah, I mean: yes, Maesar Tellene.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “How long have you been in Tel Shival, Re’an?”

“Three years.”

“Do you lack ambition?”

He blinked, startled. “No? Maesar, I---”

---“Then why have you hidden this skill for so long?”

Still rattled by her previous question, he answered this one with far less hesitation, hands shaking. “Because I didn’t want people treating me like I’m---”

Tellene raised her brows as Re’an bit off his sentence, his jaw physically clenching from the strain of it. “Like an anomaly?” she offered. Re’an huffed, a rueful smile tinging his lips that made him appear much closer to his age. Maybe even a little older.

“That is a... nicer way of putting it than I’m used to, Maesar.”

Ah. There it is. He had been hurt before. Treated like an oddity at best, an aberration at worst. She would have to tread more carefully than she thought. “Re’an,” she said, and her tone pulled him out of his mind and back into the room. “You are aware that what you are capable of is in no way a ‘bane’, are you not?” 

“I…” He looked down. “Yes, Maesar.”

Not so honest, then.

As much as Tellene lacked patience for most accolts, this one tugged at her. It spurred something almost protective; an instinct she thought she had fed to the sharks years ago. Perhaps being faced by a unique mind, still young enough to doubt its own capacity, had struck a chord she thought severed. Or perhaps she had simply uncovered some long-buried empathy.

Either way, she had made her decision.

“Cheating on a final exam is grounds for severe censure, depending on the Leirah. You are aware of this?”

Re’an squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, Maesar.”

“And you are aware, being in your third year, that any censures on your record will severely jeopardise your opportunities when selecting a discipline?”

He sounded almost feverish. Defeated. “Yes, Maesar.” He swallowed tightly. “I… I want to apologise. I made a mistake. I will accept whatever punishment Leirah Sonoval sees fit.”

“Leirah Sonoval would have you expelled.”

Wide brown eyes fixed on her, horrified. ”He---what?” Re’an bolted to his feet, breaths coming in short bursts. It was as though he was unsure of whether to stay, run, or faint. “Maesar, please, I won’t do it again - I swear I won’t. It was one time - the only one in the three years I’ve been here. I can retake the exam, a harder one even, I don’t care. I’ll do anything, but please, please…”

Part of Tellene thought this moment would be somehow satisfying. It was an important moment - one she could not avoid if she was to make sure she got what she needed. But instead, as she watched Re’an blink back tears, frantic and terrified, all she felt was pity. Maybe even guilt.

Divider, what was happening to her lately? She was losing her touch. It was a good thing she rarely left her studies, or maintaining her reputation would be significantly more difficult.

“What discipline did you plan to join, Re’an?”

The change of subject - possibly even her change in tone - managed to shake him from his panic. Somewhat. “I… I couldn’t decide between the Augists and the Weavers.”

For the first time, Tellene allowed a smile to tinge her lips. “Well... perhaps I can help you reach a decision.”

This time, when he looked at her, there was no more fear. No more self-consciousness. No more dread. There was simply hope, pure and reckless. 

“Y-You would let me join the Weavers?” Re’an swiped his eyes hurriedly with his sleeve, clearly embarrassed. “But Leirah Sonoval---”

---“Has no power over a Maesar’s charge.” She met his gaze. “I will allow him to assign you some texts on academic ethics to appease his wounded pride, but should you accept, that will be the end of the matter.” She paused, then added, “Provided you do not do it again.” Unless instructed.

She gave him a moment to let her offer sink in. It was an extremely rare thing for an accolt to be taken on as a charge, yet alone by a Maesar. In her twelve years as First of the Weavers, Tellene had never even considered taking a charge. Even from among the Leirah, who had petitioned her incessantly for a good ten of them. It was too much work for too little return. Too much like mentoring, which she had gone to great lengths to avoid.

Yet... here she was.

“You won’t regret this,” Re’an said suddenly, as though reading her mind. He seemed to have collected himself, and while he still trembled, there was something else about him now. Something charged and determined, if not to prove himself, then to prove others wrong. That was good - he would have to do a lot of that. No one takes kindly to someone pulling ahead of the pack. Divider, he reminded her of another man she knew. All he needed was red hair and about ten times the stubbornness. “Maesar Tellene,” Re’an continued, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

At that, Tellene snorted, arching a brow. “If you think you will be thanking me for this, you clearly have not been paying attention. I suspect your dormmates have already reallocated your bed and said their farewells to their fallen friend.” When Re’an actually smiled, Tellene struggled against the urge to immediately scare it away. No, that would not do - not if he was to be her charge for the foreseeable future. She could not bear timidity for any length of time. “You will meet me here every morning, directly after first meal. I am beginning your lessons in advanced glyphwork early.”

Re’an nodded frantically, swept along by the moment and all of its promise. 

Then he stopped.

“Um... Maesar?”

“Yes?”

“I have Leirah Pelona’s class after first meal tomorrow.”

“I see.” Tellene leaned back, chair creaking beneath her weight. “Have you read the works of Djenovir?

“Yes, Maesar.”

“And you can recite them?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have already completed the class.” With that, she turned the key in her desk, and the door on the far side of the room clicked open. “Don’t be late.”

[stonebreakerseries]

Day 2: Mercy + “That’s the easy part”

Day 2 of @oc-growth-and-development​’s OC-tober challenge and the @fictober-event​. Another successful merging of the two prompts, which I think paired rather well today!

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction) Characters: Sylda & Valesha Warnings: descriptions of blood, language

“Act natural. We’re being followed.”

Sylda’s spine stiffened, her shoulders rising, her grip on the leather-wrapped bundle tightening as she clutched it to her chest. “What?” she breathed. She didn’t dare speak louder than a whisper, ears straining, hairs rising on the back of her neck and arms. On either side, the walls of the buildings rose two storeys high, their crumbling stone and sun-bleached wood giving the alley a ghostly, forgotten appearance. It was unsettling at the best of times, yet alone in the middle of the night. “Val, you’d better not be messing with me. This isn’t funn--” 

Beside her, Valesha continued her ambling stroll, one hand buried in her pocket, the other swinging casually by her side. Lanky, with knife-cropped hair and a face full of sharp angles, most readily mistook her for a young man. Wandering about after dark in her loose shirt and trousers only enhanced the effect. While Valesha’s posture gave nothing away, it was the look she shot, dark but burning like hot coals, that silenced Sylda mid-sentence.

“Shut up,” Val hissed. The hand in her pocket shifted slightly, adjusting its grip on something. “Behind us. Left side.” The silver light from Anayh, the smallest but brightest moon, cut the alley at an angle, illuminating the taller woman’s head and shoulder. “Just keep walking.”

Mustering the faintest of nods, Sylda did as she was told, continuing forward, heart stammering. Her arms and legs seemed to vibrate, palms sweating as nervous energy coursed through her. The awkward bundle pressed to her chest suddenly felt uncomfortably heavy. Uncomfortably obvious, like a beacon to every thief and cut-purse looking for an easy mark.

Gods above and below, why did we have to take the alleys? 

It wasn’t their territory. The Copper Hawks owned the rooftops - everyone knew that. It made for risky travel and easy escapes, the two often balancing each other out among their less skilled members, but serving the veterans well. But some jobs didn’t lend themselves to running along ridges and leaping between eaves. This time, it was the weight of the parcel and the delicacy of its contents. One wrong step on a rooftop, and the entire job would have been for nothing. She didn’t even want to imagine Davros’ face if that happened. No, Sylda was not going back to the nest empty-handed. Not again.

Never again.

“Drop!”

Valesha’s voice was a whip, cracking through the alley. Immediately, Sylda threw herself forward, twisting mid-air to keep the satchel skyward. Her back struck the broken cobbles, a shock of pain ringing from her spine to her teeth as she clutched their prize to her chest, both arms wrapped over it like a scaly creshek guarding its egg. Inside, she felt something creak slightly, but nothing seemed to to crack of splinter. Maybe it was true what everyone said, and The Errant Queen really was watching over her.

Or maybe the goddess was just biding her time.

Even as Sylda fell, Valesha was moving. She spun, heel grinding against the ground, her hand a blur as it snapped from her pocket and sent something bright and curved whistling into the dark side of the alley. Sounds pierced the thrum in Sylda’s ears; a yelp of shock, a wet wheeze, boots scrabbling frantically over dust and stone. Valesha, now facing into the alley, already had the tip of another talon jutting from between her thumb and forefinger, arm poised for a second throw. Sylda used to fall asleep to the sound of her practicing, the thud of the curved metal biting into wood strangely comforting as she hit her mark over and over again.

This time was no exception.

As Valesha positioned herself in the center of the alley, Sylda pushed herself further towards the street, careful not to lose grip on the leather-wrapped bundle. Distance is your friend, girl. Find it. Strike from it. Flee towards it. Just past Val, two shapes were moving, one stumbling out of a side alley, the other hanging back, hesitant to follow. As one of the figures - a man with stringing black hair and a close-cropped beard - spilled into the light, he fell to his knees, hands groping at the side of his neck. Throat tight, Sylda could only watch as he tugged - once, twice, three times - the warning on her tongue unable to make it past her bloodless lips. 

Don’t. Don’t try to pull it out.

On the fourth try, he succeeded. Val’s talon ripped free, the hook halfway up its length tearing through flesh, taking a chunk of his neck with it. The silver light made the blood appear black as it sprayed then pulsed in hideous gouts from the wound. The man, panicking, tried to stem the flow, but his hands were clumsy and shaking. It was over in seconds. With a final judder, fingers straining, eyes wide with shock, he slumped to the side. Limp. Lifeless.

There was still one more.

“Last chance, little rat.” Valesha’s voice was colder than the steel at her fingertips. She had never been a warm person, but something about her, half-washed in moonlight, a corpse framed by the stance of her legs, sent a shiver across Sylda’s skin. “Run back home before I change my mind.”

The sound of footsteps fading into the distance was Sylda’s only clue that their second tail had taken Valesha’s sage advice and fled. Breathing hard, she slowly struggled to her feet as Val knelt beside the dead body, hands patting along his limbs, hunting for hidden pockets, pieces of paper, something to sell. By the time Sylda was standing again, her breathing leveling out, Valesha had returned empty-handed, a sour look pinching her narrow face. “Fucker could have at least had some sicets on him,” she muttered, then held up her bloody talon. “Look at this shit. By the time we get back, it’ll be all dried on. I’ll be stuck for hours scratching it off.”

It was a little hard to feel sympathetic, all things considered. Luckily, Val never wanted anyone’s sympathy, yet alone Sylda’s. Muttering darkly, the woman shook it once, scattering tiny droplets on the alley wall, then shoved it back in her pocket. Lovely.

As Valesha beckoned her over to check the parcel, Sylda found her eyes drifting back to the corpse. She’d thought he was an old man, at first. The way he moved seemed stilted, like the grind had set itself deep in his bones. But up close, she could see she was wrong. Lying in a pool of black, his skin was still smooth, his hands dirty and stained but unmistakably youthful. If she had to guess, she might have placed him in his mid-twenties. Certainly no more than thirty dry seasons.

And now, he was dead.

She supposed it wasn’t so bad. Most barely made it halfway before meeting similarly ugly fates.

“Sylda?” Valesha’s voice tugged her attention away from the body. She was frowning, her dark brows angled sharply down as she readjusted the bundle’s leather wrapping. “What’s the matter with you? You’re acting like you’ve never seen blood before.”

Of course she had. As much as any of the others. Probably almost as much as Val, who had been in this business from the day she could walk. But, strangely, it wasn’t the dead man that had her so unsettled.

“You let the other one go.”

Val stepped back, jaw tightening, expression closing off. “So? Got a problem with that?”

They started walking again, faster than before, not wanting to linger. Even though most of the grey coats patrolling the streets turned a blind eye to murders among thieves, it was still never a good idea to be caught with a fresh body. You never knew when one of them might actually feel like doing their job. Swallowing, Sylda hurried to keep pace, Val’s long legs leaving her scampering.

“I just… didn’t expect it, that’s all.”

“Yeah? Why not.”

This was dangerous territory. Sylda had to choose her next words carefully unless she wanted to be sleeping alone for a turn or two. “It’s just… you always say that if you’re going to make a kill, you’ve gotta do it once and do it right. Mercy just seems…”

Sylda trailed off, knowing she was toeing a very fine line. Luckily, Valesha seemed strangely willing to continue the thread. “It seems like taking the easy way out.”

Feeling a little sheepish, Sylda just nodded. It wasn’t that she thought mercy was weak. It as just... unusual, given who they were. What they did.

“C’mon, Sylda.” Val shook her head sharply. It was clear she was still on edge, all senses on the look-out for trouble. “Killing some idiot in a back alley? That’s the easy part. That sorry bastard didn’t stand a chance. But knowing when to let them go…” Pausing to check their surroundings, the pair exited onto the street, crossing quickly before slipping into an even narrower alley on the other side. “Mercy’s a lot harder,” Val continued, finishing her thought as they made a left, then a sharp right, losing themselves in Yelen’s tangled warren.

In a way, Sylda supposed what she said made sense. Death was just death. Letting someone live had a lot more uncertainty involved.

“I guess he might be a problem, in the future.”

Val nodded. “He could be.”

Sylda glanced across, regarding her partner for a moment. The moon was higher now, and the shadows rushed to full the hollows of Val’s cheeks, making her appear unusually gaunt.

“But you don’t think he will, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why?” She adjusted her grip on the package, arms starting to ache now that the nervous energy had worn off. “I just don’t get it. How can you know something like that?”

“I never know. I just… get a feeling, sometimes.” As their surroundings grew more and more rundown, they slipped under a section of broken wall, only a few feet between its crumbling base and the dust-covered ground. Val paused on the other side to take the bundle from Sylda, allowing her to navigate the tight space. “This one tonight? He was just a fucking kid. Couldn’t have seen more than ten or eleven dry seasons.” She shrugged and, to Sylda’s quiet dismay, passed the bundle back once she was through the gap. Turning, thrusting her hand back in her pocket, Val led the through the abandoned building’s ground floor. “I guess I just ask myself: will killing this person make my life easier? If the answer is ‘no’, then...”

She shrugged, the gesture seeming to suggest the conversation was over.

Unfortunately, Sylda had always been good at ignoring those kinds of cues.

“What if he comes looking for you?”

Val scoffed, the sound echoing around the broken building. “Then he’s an idiot and I’ll go ahead and finish him off. But I really don’t see that happening. Do you?”

If he was as young as Val claimed, Sylda supposed she had a point. Besides, the kid hadn’t exactly caused them any trouble. Gods, he didn’t even bother trying to help his companion as he bled out in the alley. Knowing the way of the streets, there probably wasn’t any kind of bond between them. Just necessity. A set of eyes to watch your back, and report back if you die. Such was the way of things.

They walked in silence for a time, both women lost in their own thoughts. Sylda’s were split between her own doubts and the ache in her arms, but Val seemed unusually troubled. Her hand shifted in her pocket rhythmically, and Sylda could imagine the motion of her fingertips as they traced the talon’s wicked edge. One wrong move, and she’d be adding her own blood to the mix. She liked to play those sorts of games; test herself in strange, unsettling ways. Inevitably, she would slip up, then spend the rest of the evening glaring sullenly at her bandaged fingers.

Nope. Not on my watch.

“Well,” Sylda said, rolling her shoulders as they finally reached the last stretch of their journey, “I guess one good thing came of letting that kid go.”

“Oh yeah?” It was nice to hear a bit of humour back in Val’s voice. Her dark brown eyes flicked across. “And what’s that?”

A playful smile spreading across her face, Sylda nudged her with an elbow. “You don’t have to spend the night scratching blood off two talons.”

Rolling her eyes, Val groaned. But she slid her hand out of her pocket, reached across, and draped her arm over Sylda’s shoulders, so she figured her tasteless comment had been worth it.

“Wow. Morbid,” Val said. Then she grinned, and immediately set Sylda’s heart into an energetic flutter. “That’s why I like you.”

[stonebreakerseries]

Day 1: Sunrise + “no, come back!”

I couldn’t decide between doing OCtober (created by @oc-growth-and-development​) and Fictober (@fictober-event) , so I have decided to make this even harder by attempting to combine the two prompts as often as possible. Why? Who knows. Maybe I’m a sucker for punishment. But here we go...

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction) Character(s): Adiran & Riin

Adiran rarely remembered his dreams. Only flickers here and there, flitting behind his eyelids in those short moments after waking. As a child, this had bothered him more than he cared to admit, especially because the tighter he tried to cling to them, the faster they slipped between his fingers. Eventually, as he got older, he stopped trying. There were enough frustrations in his life without needlessly adding another.

But lately, things had started to change. At first he dismissed it as an abnormality. Then it happened again, and another time after that. He didn’t have the dream every night, but when he did, it was the same. The same place. Same time. Same people.

It began as it always did, with a sunrise.

Adiran opened his eyes and found himself somewhere south of Vetrose, where the splinterpines grew thick and dark, rolling like a landbound ocean as far as the eye could see. Adiran stood on an unusually tall hill that lay just outside the reach of the trees, as though the forest had wandered to its base, gauged the rise of its slope, and chosen to loiter at the bottom. Luckily for Adiran, he was already at the top, and spared the grueling climb. That was fine - most things in dreams didn’t make proper sense. 

Like the fact that Riin was already there, waiting for him.

“You made it.” The Kyriin didn’t turn. He simply stood, hands clasped loosely behind his back, shoulders relaxed. The way he always stood when he was thinking. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Always the same conversation. Every night.

“Neither was I.” Adiran said his lines as though they were brand new and moved up beside Riin, the featureless wind toying with the ends of his hair. “But then I pictured you standing up here all alone and the guilt nearly killed me.”

Riin laughed, the sound bright and startled. It took them both by surprise every time. Glancing across, Riin’s amber eyes caught the light dancing off the Pale’s glassy surface. Adiran had never seen the water so still. A raindrop could shatter it to pieces. “Well, I’m glad our eight years of friendship earned me a proper goodbye.” Riin hesitated, smile wavering as he turned his gaze back towards the sea that separated Talvera from the other kingdoms. “My time here went so much faster than I expected…” 

Before Adiran had a chance to speak, Riin caught himself and shook his head. Sighing, he reached across, laying a firm hand on Adiran’s shoulder. When he turned, his expression was approving but guarded, studying him the way an artist might admire a rival’s masterpiece. Adiran supposed that was fair enough. It was no secret that Riin felt no love for the Talveran royal family. Ten years was a long time to put up with their cold kind of selfishness. Some of that disapproval had to have bled across to Adiran, even if he hadn’t meant it to.

“Riin.” Swallowing, Adiran took a step back, and Riin’s hand slid from his shoulder. “Listen, I just came here to say…”

He hesitated. What did he always say? Goodbye? Safe travels? Divider guide you? The words usually came to Adrian each night, scripted and simple, but for the first time he actually found himself grasping. It was as though an invisible shackle around his mind had been loosened, granting him a rare moment of lucidity. Of freedom. This was important - it had to be. Surely he should be trying to use this moment in some way.

But for what?

“Adiran?” Riin, also off-script now, tilted his head to the side, a look of confusion and hurt flickering across his face. “What is it?”

It was a painfully familiar look. I’ve been responsible for it too often, Adiran realised, chest strangely tight. How many times have I made him doubt himself?

The thought - and all of its guilt - brought with it something new. A new word. Something unprecedented. Something that surprised Adiran even as it left his lips.

“Stay.”

In the span of a breath, the dreamscape shifted. The sound of the Pale suddenly flooded in, as though the water was lapping at the base of the hill rather than miles to the west. A low thrumming echoed in Adiran’s ears, distant and impossible to discern. Drums? Marching soldiers? A heartbeat?

Divider’s Own - what had he just said?

Stay.

Had he lost his fucking mind?

Everything in Adiran told him to run. To scoff and mock Riin for taking him seriously. To throw himself off the hill and beg his mind to just wake him up when he hit the ground. Just as his thought truly began to spiral, Adiran paused, a vital detail struggling to the surface. This was a dream. His dream. So, technically, it could be about anything he wanted. Anything he desired. The revelation was almost enough to make him laugh. What was he so afraid of?

“No.” 

The word arrived like a fist to the gut. Stunned, Adiran looked up to find Riin suddenly on the far side of the hill. His expression had changed. Hardened. It was closed off now, the way it was at court, where he was treated like a decoration; a strange spectacle to be ogled and prodded. It was the same look he had when the King had first assigned him to Adiran; the failure of the family. It was anger. Disappointment. Frustration. Betrayal.

No... this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

“What?” Anger rose in Adiran now, bitter and indignant, forcing aside his panic. This was his dream, damn it. Was he really supposed to believe that, even in his own fucking mind, nothing ever went his way? “That’s it? Just ‘no’?”

Riin’s face was barely visible, now. When did he get so far away?

“This was always going to end, Adiran. I have to go back.” Riin shook his head. “You know this already. Why are you acting so surprised?”

“But I---”

---”Adiran.” Riin’s voice was like a thunderclap, unnaturally loud, stunning Adiran into silence, making him flinch. “Stop. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Despite the harshness of the words - despite the dagger twisting in his gut - Adiran knew Riin was right. Of course he was going to leave - he’d said it time and time again. It was like he was making sure Adiran never forgot. Maybe, deep down, Riin really did hate him as much as the rest of his family. Maybe he couldn’t wait to be rid of him for good.

Or maybe he was just trying to prepare him for the inevitable.

Despite the dream, despite knowing the only answers he could ever get were born from his own mind, Adiran found himself moving forward - walking at first, then running, bare feet pounding against the packed earth. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but when Riin continued shrinking into the distance, he that wasn’t it. “No, come back!” he called, but now Riin was so far and the sound of the Pale so loud, there was no chance he would hear him. “Wait!”

It was no use. Just like in every other dream, Riin was gone, swallowed by the blazing sunrise. He should have been used to it. But… no. This was different. This was the first time Adiran had actually told him to stay. The first time he had chased after him. Breathing hard, heart thumping, Adiran’s steps gradually slowed until he came to a complete halt, the wind whipping at his clothes, the ground beneath his feet suddenly stretching to eternity on all sides. The forest was gone. The sky. The sunset. Riin.

He was alone again.

This part of the dream happened every time, and every time it left him hollow and lost, like a spirit waiting for The Wanderer to guide them to the afterlife. But this time there was something else. A second truth that hurt so much more because it shattered the one delusion he had actually allowed himself to believe. The one thing that made him feel just a little less powerless; like he might actually have a say in what the future held.

But he didn’t. Riin, the only person he’d ever called friend, was going to leave.

No matter what he did.

No matter what he finally found the courage to say.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

“Wait… are you braiding my hair?”, “I bet I’m strong enough to pick you up.” or “I didn’t know you were the cuddling type.” for the soft asks! Alternatively, “Next time I’ll hit you like I mean it.” or “You almost knocked me over!” for the rough asks! Whichever you're feeling more. :D

“I bet I’m strong enough to pick you up.”

It would have been nice if Kyri had at least entertained the idea. Even just for a moment. Divider, it would have been nice if any of Delver’s ungrateful companions had responded with even mild acceptance of the fact that he possessed some measure of physical strength. 

Instead, they laughed.

“Delver, you nearly died that one time you had to carry me.” Sylda endlessly delighted in bringing up ‘that one time’ whenever it was even remotely relevant. Sometimes even when it wasn’t. Now there she was, walking beside him and grinning so hard her cheeks must hurt. “You didn’t even have to take me far!”

“Hey, I told you I pulled a muscle.” Delver gestured pointedly to his side. “Right here, remember? That’s the only reason I---”

---“Kyri also has a head’s height on Sylda,” Taelan interjected, as though he hadn’t even heard Delver’s feeble defense. Now if that wasn’t a wound to the ego, Delver didn’t know what was. The younger man barely spoke a damned word to him, but this was when he decided to offer his wisdom? Bitter though he was, Delver supposed it was a gain. Sure, it would be nice if Tael didn’t exercise his new-found confidence by dragging Delver’s pride over the gravel, but beggars can’t be choosers. A comment at his expense was still worlds better than the old hate and fear.

Grunting, Delver folded his arms, fixing his gaze on the woman spearheading their motley group. She never broke stride - not until the midday break. Entire conversations could arrive and pass without even a word of input from the Kyriin. It drove Delver mad, not knowing what it was that pushed her so ceaselessly forward. “Hey, Kyri,” he called. He’d drag her into the conversation whether she liked it or not. “Back me up here - we’ve sparred before. I held my own, didn’t I?”

Still walking, Kyri glanced back, brow arched, and delivered the precise response Delver had hoped she wouldn’t. 

“You could not pick me up, Delver.” 

To Delver’s right, Sylda snorted - she didn’t even try to hide it. Even Taelan was smiling slightly. Probably only because he thought no one was looking. “You’re all traitors,” Delver declared. The note of finality in his voice was unmistakable. “You don’t deserve me.”

“Aw, c’mon...” Sylda nudged him with her elbow, then laughed as Delver haughtily turned his face away. “Okay, okay! I think you could do it. I mean, if you really had to. Like, if it was life or death and the world was ending and we were out of all other options and---” 

---”You just could have just stopped at the first part, you know.”

“I could have... but would you have believed me?”

Well shit, she had him there. Delver considered, then shrugged. “I could learn to dip my toes in ignorance’s blissful waters every once in a while.”

Sylda, rightfully, scoffed. “Uh huh. Sure. And I could run off a cliff’s edge and fly to Talvera.”

Suddenly, Kyri stopped, turned, and fixed the trio with a look that could freeze an arrow mid-flight. They all came to an abrupt halt in the middle of nowhere. The dusty road seemed to stretch endlessly to either side; back the way they came, forward into where they needed to go. Kyri’s eyes burned amber in the morning light. 

“You are strong enough to do it. Yes? Satisfied? Now will you stop this...” Frustrated, Kyri’s brow pinched. Delver knew that look well. More often than not, he was the sole source of its inspiration.

“... Bickering?” Sylda offered after a hesitant pause, and Kyri accepted the suggestion begrudgingly, repeating the word to commit it to memory. She had many patterns, Delver was starting to realise. A thousand things to notice, and a thousand more than slipped by unseen. Most of them were vaguely terrifying.

“Well, you heard her. That settles that.” Smiling, choosing to be self-satisfied, Delver allowed himself a moment to bask in the rare victory. “I could pick her up.”

He felt Kyri’s eyes flick to him before he even had a chance to see it happen. It was like knowing a marksman’s arrow was trained on your skull. 

“You could not pick me up.”

Now, it was Delver’s turn to feel confused. And a little betrayed. “I.... but... why not?”

Three steps carried the Kyriin the short distance back to the group, and two more brought her almost face to face with Delver. Her eyes locked on his, and for a moment, he was convinced she might hit him or kiss him and he wasn’t sure which one would shock him the most.

Instead, she spoke. “Why do you think?”

While he took a theatrical moment to consider, Delver didn’t actually need to think about it. He knew the answer already.

“You wouldn’t let me,” he said.

The corner of Kyri’s mouth quirked up slightly, and something in her posture relaxed. Maybe even approved.

“I would not let you,” she confirmed.