Stormbringer dreamwalker.., p.2
Stormbringer (Dreamwalker Book 1), page 2
The corner of his mouth curled upward, partly in amusement, partly in distaste. “Come on,” he said, helping me off the cot. “Let’s get you changed.”
***
We took the elevator to the upper floors, which housed all manner of exclusive rooms and event spaces accessible only by Spectrum champions. Decadent lounges, luxurious spas, and even a private suite were among the many indulgences offered to Spectrum’s elite. Having ascended to the rank of champion back in spring, the novelty hadn’t yet worn off for me. I wasn’t sure if it ever would; this world, with all its prestige and opulence, represented the pinnacle of my success. I had been gunning for this since I was a pre-teen, and I had earned every inch of it.
All that was left was to conquer the Invocation.
The elevator doors opened, and Micah led me down the sprawling corridor of private suites, each one labeled with a golden plaque bearing its respective champion’s name. I recognized many of them—after all, we faced each other fairly often in the arena—but others were unfamiliar, likely recently ascended. There was never any shortage of fresh blood at Spectrum.
Upon reaching my suite, Micah flashed his ID to the reader and granted us access, shutting the door behind us. Judging by the faint scent of lemon cleaner permeating the room, housekeeping had recently paid a visit. I shrugged out of my dirty jacket and hung it up on the rack just inside the door, making a beeline for my duffel bag. I snatched it up from the living area and retreated to the bathroom.
Gods, did I look a mess. Griff’s onslaught had ruined not only my clothes but my hair, as well. The long, dark strands fell past my shoulders, frizzed and floured with dust. Tiny scrapes nicked my face where debris had struck. I spent several moments dusting myself off before relocating into the shower.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom fresh and fragrant, dressed in my change of clothes. Micah was installed on the couch in front of the television, rewatching my recent match. Loath as I was to join him—I was bracing myself for more of his criticism—I set aside my duffel of soiled gear and dropped onto the cushion next to him, heaving an exhausted sigh.
“Watch the gut,” Micah warned me without taking his eyes off the screen. His sunglasses were parked atop his head. After a moment, he reached over to his right and grabbed a cold bottle of lemon water, which he passed to me.
“Thanks,” I said, cracking open the bottle and drinking greedily.
Micah gestured to the screen. “Tell me what you would’ve done differently,” he instructed me.
I watched myself charge Griff and alight on his shield, fistfuls of lightning at the ready. Two seconds later, his stone spire sent me flying, and I cringed, feeling the echo of pain in my bruised gut.
Sullenly, I answered, “I would’ve thrown a spear at that shield the moment he had it up.”
“It was a great tactic, but don’t expect the same outcome every time. What else?”
“I’d have had a spear waiting for him when he lowered his guard. That, or I’d have scoped him out from the air.”
“It’s always good form to put distance between yourself and your opponent, but try not to rely too heavily on staying airborne. The longer you’re up there, the less energy you have to expend on a finishing blow. As for the spear, waiting for him to lower his guard would’ve likely ended with you smeared across the field. Never give him a chance to cast out of your line of sight.” He muted the television. “Any other ideas?”
I gave that some thought, then shrugged. “Blind pressure? Force him to lower his guard through area effect?”
“Now that would’ve been the most ideal strategy,” Micah said. “Shake up his footing, keep him moving—anything to stop him from casting. I know how tempting it is to deviate from your training, but that training is what’s going to carry you through the Invocation.”
I rose to my feet, carrying my water to the windows, which offered a wide and unobstructed view of the arena far below. From this high up, Spectrum looked like a jewel, a shell of candy red and midnight blue enclosing ten thousand seats. Only a third of those seats were currently occupied, but the stadium would reach full capacity for the Invocation.
The thought sent a nervous thrill circuiting through me. The Invocation was reserved only for the best of the best; it was the most competitive series of fights Spectrum offered and culminated in its most extraordinary rewards, including a sizable cash bonus of a hundred grand. Only champions were permitted to compete, which meant this would be my first attempt since joining Spectrum three years ago.
“You think I can do it, then?” I asked Micah, watching the groundskeepers tidy the field in preparation for the next preliminary match. “You think I can smoke the finals and the Invocation?”
“I know you can,” he answered. “As long as you stick to your training and keep the showmanship to a minimum, your chances are good. Really good.” He switched off the television. “How many more practice sessions do you think you can manage before your final?”
“Three, maybe?”
“That should be enough. Hard to say who you might be up against.”
I turned as he peeled himself off the couch. “As long as it’s not another Earth,” I said. “Or a Flame. I’d like to come out of a match relatively clean for once.”
“Sometimes I wonder whether you chose the wrong career,” Micah remarked. “Are you ready to go?”
“I guess so.”
I retrieved my duffel and strode to the door, tossing the empty water bottle in a bin on my way out. Micah locked up behind us and then dropped his sunglasses back over his eyes. The walk back to the elevator was swift, though we encountered another champion—one I didn’t recognize—on our way there. He must have been fairly new, for he bobbed his head in greeting at us without stopping to interrogate me. Veteran champions, it seemed, were always eager to confront their competitors with thinly veiled criticisms.
As the elevator slowed to a stop on the ground floor, Micah stepped forward, a bastion ready to part a crowd. The doors slid open on the massive stadium lobby, a confluence of competitors and spectators alike. Here, patrons and media outlets flocked in plagues, hoping to glimpse their favorite competitors or nab a few candid photos. Fortunately, our section of the lobby was enclosed behind a crowd control barrier and patrolled by security guards—measures that were installed a few years back following several instances of harassment.
Even now, as Micah escorted me to an adjacent elevator, a few dozen patrons, journalists, and cameramen congregated behind the barrier, phones and mics at the ready. In shrill and brash voices, they called me by title, begging for autographs, photos, and quick interviews. Darren Powell, my publicist, had always advised me to pay heed to these people, even if only briefly. “The best thing you can do for your fans is to notice them,” he had told me a couple seasons back.
And so I approached the barrier with a pleasant smile and indulged several of my fans while Micah played the role of bouncer, disentangling me when some of them got too clingy. Micah himself was even asked for a photo, though he politely declined and offered an autograph instead. The journalists were the worst of the bunch; they attempted to snipe me with cutting remarks about my ‘near miss,’ as they called it. These, I ignored entirely.
When Micah decided I had had enough—three minutes, tops—he gently detached me from the ravenous masses and guided me back to the elevators. I offered one last wave to the onlookers before the doors closed around us.
“Those fucking vultures,” I muttered.
“They’re only going to get worse the closer we get to the Invocation,” Micah replied, knowing full well I meant the journalists, not the fans. “All we can do is ignore them. As much as I hate saying it, leave the publicity to Darren.”
The elevator dumped us out at the lower level of the employee parking garage. We picked our way through rows of cars before arriving at Micah’s. It was a sporty little thing, a nine-year-old relic of his younger days. Like him, the car was more understated than flashy, with a metallic blue coat and a velvety black interior trimmed with silver. The seats and carpets smelled like cedar with an underlying note of cigarette smoke.
After all the times I’d ridden in this car over the years, it felt like a second home, comfortable and familiar. I settled into the bucket seat and stuffed the duffel bag in the footwell.
The engine purred to life. Micah sat for a moment, hands at rest on the bottom of the steering wheel. He propped his sunglasses momentarily on the crown of his head and spoke at the windshield.
“You did good today,” he said. “You bounced back and used your opponent’s defenses against him. I should give you more credit for that. I just… I don’t want to see you fail before you even reach the Invocation.”
“I won’t fail,” I assured him. “I was taught by the best.”
He glanced askance at me. In the darkness of the car, his eyes looked almost black as opposed to their usual copper. “I didn’t take you for an ass kisser,” he said, amused, and he pulled out of our parking spot, dropping his sunglasses back into place.
2
BENEATH HIS WING
It was almost sunset when Micah dropped me off at my apartment with a bag of takeout from Farina Fresca and a reminder to ice my healing contusion. I made the trek up to my door burdened like a pack mule and settled in for a night of relaxation.
Highland Court was a high-rise apartment building nestled in the business district near downtown. I had moved in shortly after ascending to the rank of champion, delighted to have finally been able to afford the rent. Prior to that, I had lived uptown with Micah in his quietly wealthy neighborhood—an offer he made me when we met. Convenient as the arrangement was during my formative years, it had always been my dream to live in a luxury apartment of my own, one with a breathtaking view of Eth Nalore and Mount Fenra, our local stratovolcano.
I was halfway through my meal when my phone buzzed out a notification. Dread compounded in my gut as I remembered Darren’s insistence on calling me later. But when I glanced at the screen, I saw not his name, but my sister’s, accompanied by a brief message: Just saw your match. Are you okay?
Gahera was the only family member with whom I kept in regular contact after I left home. Growing up, we were inseparable, the two youngest scions of House Taranis eager to escape our parents’ oppressive and unrealistic expectations. Now, we were both making our own ways in the world, unlike my brother Cathaire, who, as the firstborn child, wholeheartedly embraced the life our parents projected onto him.
I’m fine, just bruised, I texted back to Gahera, picking at the remnants of a flatbread. Then, forestalling additional probing questions, I added, Resting for a few days. Outside my window, the setting sun gilded neighboring high-rises and the stout, pale body of Mount Fenra on the horizon. Halfway through autumn, snow had already capped its peak.
Oh, good, she wrote. We should have tea soon, or lunch. I have some things I need to work on this week, but maybe after your next match? Can’t believe you’re in the finals!
Have more faith in me, sister dearest, I teased. Let me know when you’re free.
For the next three days, per doctor’s orders, I took things easy, icing my bruised gut in brief intervals while watching recordings of my most recent matches. Even after seven years of training with Micah, he still insisted I review my fights in this manner. It’d keep me sharp, he said, and help me identify my weaknesses. By now, I had squared away most of my flaws—or so I believed—but with the final preliminary match looming around the corner, I found myself glued to the television screen, dissecting every movement my digital self made.
When I wasn’t doing that, I was browsing articles for updates on the Invocation, frequently checking the names of all the finalists. To my surprise, one finalist was a Bloodcaster; only a handful of Bloodcasters existed across the ranks at Spectrum, partly because of cultural prejudice and partly because their magic was more difficult to observe at a distance. Spectrum officials made a point of ensuring competitors didn’t kill each other on the field by installing referees and spotters at each match. Since Bloodcasting was a surreptitious school of magic, performed beneath a subject’s skin, Bloodcasters were often winnowed out through stricter requirements such as additional licenses and training.
All this, and a Bloodcaster still made it to the preliminary finals. Millan de Cora. I was impressed.
On the evening of the third day, Micah sent me a text claiming he’d reserved one of the fields at Spectrum Park for the following morning. I was relieved to finally get back into training after idling for so long. I craved action.
And so, on the morning of the fourth day, I sprang out of my bed at six in the morning and ushered myself into the bathroom. I changed into my training gear, inhaled a protein shake, tied my hair back, and was out the door twenty minutes later with my duffel slung over my shoulder.
Micah was waiting for me out front, engine purring, wipers ticking a slow metronome over the windshield. I slid into the passenger’s seat.
“How’s the gut?” Micah asked me in lieu of a greeting.
“Good as new. I’m glad to be out of the damn house. I was getting restless.”
“Nobody said you had to confine yourself to your apartment,” Micah said, amused.
“And here I thought I’d behave for once.”
Micah glanced at me knowingly as he pulled away from the curb. My nerves were as obvious to him as the freckles on my face. Mercifully, he let the subject drop.
Eth Nalore bustled with the energy of working folk. It was drizzling, but only a small percentage of pedestrians carried umbrellas, and they were all likely foreigners. Levanoris wasn’t exactly a country known for endless sunshine; visitors had a hard time adapting to that, especially if they came from sunnier climes like those of Skaara and Ethura. With the frequent rainfall, however, came a temperate climate that suited me perfectly. I despised sun and swelter.
On a massive lot behind Spectrum Stadium sat Spectrum Park, one of few caster training sites in Eth Nalore. I began training here with Micah the day I officially became a rookie. The facility was built to withstand magical wear and tear, and it catered to each school of magic, allowing rising and existing champions to hone their skills in both interior and exterior environments. No one but Spectrum competitors and their coaches were allowed access.
Micah parked in a small garage adjacent to the main building and retrieved his own duffel bag from the backseat. Together, we walked the short distance to the building and checked in at a desk in the lobby. Echoed here was Spectrum’s bold color scheme, candy red and midnight blue intertwined with light gray and black. Enlarged photos of celebrity casters offered moral support from every wall.
Micah ushered me down the hall toward the outdoor practice fields. “Is there anything in particular you want to focus on today?” he asked.
“Target practice,” I answered after a moment’s thought. “And area effect.”
He nodded, holding the door open for me at the end of the corridor. We stepped out onto a gravel path and proceeded toward our reserved field. Walls, easily twenty feet high, kept our activities relatively private from the outside world. Here, it was just me and Micah and the drizzle collecting on our hair and coats—though we could hear other casters training in the adjacent fields.
Micah shed his jacket and jeans, revealing his lightweight training gear underneath, and tied his hair back into a tiny ponytail. I set down my bag on the nearest bench and warmed up with the usual breathing and circulation exercises, which Micah insisted on before every session. In fact, he joined me in moments, letting the static run freely through his veins.
I enjoyed our training sessions, if only for the opportunity to cast alongside Micah, who had a rigid no-magic policy outside of Spectrum. He was too afraid of being arrested, too afraid mundanes or Caster Enforcement agents would jump him at the first sign of sparks. I had watched countless recordings of Micah’s old matches over the years, but they never held a candle to the real thing. Here, I got to witness the Shockhunter in action.
Micah set up small targets across the field, dozens of yards away from where I stood. It was a standard exercise for honing precision; he usually had me strike the targets with a lightning bolt, ball, or spear—a feat that increased in difficulty the farther away I was from a target. I worked magic into my palms and set off at a run, nailing each target while on the move. We repeated this exercise multiple times from increasing distances until I finally missed one. Then, Micah set them back in order and instructed me to strike them from the air. I wheeled above the field, trusting my power to keep me aloft, and smote one target after the other. Let the bolt follow your eyes, as Micah had taught me.
Once satisfied, we switched gears to area effect casting, where I practiced various ways to strike the targets without a clear line of sight. I rarely hit the target directly, but that wasn’t the point of the exercise. I alternated between utilizing wind and lightning, calling down bolts from the sky or buffeting the targets with wild gusts. Every unique application of casting I could think of, I attempted.
After a quick break, during which I chugged half a bottle of lemon water, I faced off against Micah directly. In the arena, dueling another Stormcaster often felt like twice the competition as we vied for the right to claim dominion over our element. Who wielded the storm to its full extent? Who lived it, breathed it, embodied it?
Dueling Micah, however, felt like dueling a god. He was my maker, after all. He had reached down from the heavens and taken me beneath his wing so that he might pass down his ancient wisdom. Shockhunter, they called him, in honor of the lightning spears he so expertly conjured. To be on the receiving end of one of those spears was a blessing as much as it was a curse.
At this point in my training, I was well-equipped to evade most of what Micah threw at me. He was relentless, his speed and precision honed from two decades of competitive casting, but I was young and fit and determined to prove myself worthy in the face of the greatest challenge of my career. I pushed myself to my limits, forced him to give ground. I suspected he was holding back, though, as he was never keen on risking injury before an upcoming match.
