After the storm a slice.., p.3
After the Storm: A Slice of Life Fantasy Adventure, page 3
The bite of straw and the smell of sawdust made a passable pillow, and the loaf Lulu left sat on the table like a friendly watchman. I told myself the worst was behind me, set Ashwaker’s case against the wall, and closed my eyes.
The dream took me fast.
I stood on the ridge above Karnspire again. Ash covered the sky so thick no star could break through. Bones covered the slope—ribs, femurs, jaw hinges stacked like driftwood. Every socket held a violet ember, and every ember pointed at me.
I backed up into something tall. It was Camling, but not the man I knew. His body was stitched together with vine and wire, chest cracked open, a violet gem lodged where his heart should be. He opened his mouth: no sound, just a hot wind that smelled like a butcher’s barrel. When I reached for him, his skin peeled away, and the violet gem dropped into my palms. It burned. I tried to let go, but my fingers fused shut.
Drums rolled. The bone tide below surged. Skeletons marched elbow-to-elbow, crowned by rotting wolf and stag skulls. Dead archers raised bows strung with gut. Each arrowhead glinted like a shard of my own phylactery. Behind them, Zaroth Karn strode out of the smoke, whole again, purple robes billowing. The two halves we left in the mud had knitted together, and green fire bled from the seam down his chest.
“Stormtouched,” he croaked, his voice everywhere at once. “You thought we were finished.” He grinned widely and spread his thin arms.
Lightning cracked overhead. I felt the charge build in my bones, a fever crawling up the spine. I flung both hands forward to call the storm, but no rune pattern formed. The violet gem muted me. Electricity kept climbing with nowhere to go. Skin split. Light poured out.
Karn laughed. He lifted one skeletal hand and snapped. The archers loosed. A black-feathered cloud rose, blotted everything, and I heard the hiss of arrows punching meat. Bodies I knew—Brina, Galen, the kids in the orchard, Lulu in her flour-spattered dress—drooped on invisible hooks. I screamed, but thunder swallowed the sound.
Then Karn spoke again, softer, closer. “Retire if you like, Stormtouched. But true power never dies. It only bides its time.”
He shoved two fingers into the wound at his breast. He hauled out a shard of brittle violet crystal, the size of my thumb, and flicked it at me. It spun end over end, hit my sternum, and sank. The heat in my chest hit white.
The dream shattered.
I bolted upright, air knifing into my lungs. The room was pitch black except for the glow seeping from my own skin; the magic I had fired off in my dream. Lines of blue light traced every scar on my forearms. Sparks crawled across my knuckles and arced between my thumbs and index fingers. The straw mattress smoked.
“Easy,” I muttered, voice raw. “Stand down.”
Static popped. The little shelf above the cot rattled. I swung my legs off the edge and planted bare feet on the cool planks. My heels buzzed like tuning forks. One more pulse and I’d have torched the place.
Ground it.
Camling’s first lesson. I pictured a copper rod drilled straight from crown to heel, venting into deep soil. I pulled a breath through my teeth and forced it down that rod. Lightning hissed, looking for exit paths, and the glow dimmed. Ozone clung to the air, sharp enough to sting my nose, but the straw no longer smoked.
I rubbed the heel of my hand over my sternum, half expecting to feel Karn’s shard lodged there. Skin, sweat, heartbeat—normal. No crystal. No hole. I was awake.
Rain pattered on the roof, slow, gentle. The chestnuts outside swished. Normal sounds, but my pulse still rattled like a snare drum.
I rose, shivering, grabbed the tin pitcher from the washstand, and poured cold water over my forearms. Steam rose where drops hit the last embers of charge. I watched until even that thin mist stopped.
The room smelled of damp wood and faint citrus—Lulu’s bread. I walked to the table, tore off a hunk, and chewed to kill the taste of bile.
Karn is dead. I killed him.
I pushed the words into my consciousness, trying to make them carry weight again. The dream, though—his voice—had sounded too real.
True power never dies. It only bides its time.
I flexed my fingers. No spark replied. Still, the skin held a low tremor, like metal remembering magnetism.
I caught my reflection in the black windowpane. Silver eyes rimmed in red, hair plastered to my forehead. I looked like the first hour after a siege, not like a man who just moved into a quiet farmhouse.
“Get over it,” I told the reflection in the glass. “Clean the place. Fix the oven. Patch the roof. Let the past rot.”
The reflection didn’t answer.
I set the bread down, moved back to the cot, and pulled the blanket around my shoulders like a cloak. No way I’d sleep again tonight, but lying horizontal felt smarter than pacing a hole in the floor.
Dawn would hit in a few hours. With luck, the rain would quit, and I could find where the leak started. Work always burned nervous charge better than any charm.
I lay there, eyes open, listening to the rain gang up on the shingles and the slow tick of water off the eaves. Hands in the blanket, no glow. Every so often a finger twitched, but nothing sparked.
The house stayed intact. The storm inside me, for now, stayed leashed.
Chapter 4
Morning sun met me halfway down the lane, and my head still buzzed from the midnight lightning fit. I pulled the collar of my coat tight, hoping the fresh air would scrub the last bit of sting out of my nerves, then followed the sound of chatter toward the market glade.
Aerenvale didn’t run a real market square; it was more of a grassy oval dotted with carts and fold-up tables. Bright awnings flapped overhead, and somebody’s pan flute fought the clack of a carpenter’s mallet. The whole place smelled like pears, sawdust, and warm yeast. It was peaceful.
I tucked my hands in my pockets and took a slow lap, nodding at early risers who kept one eye on me and the other on their wares.
Lulu spotted me before I spotted her. She stuck her head out of a bread stall, blonde hair tied up in a messy knot, and waved a wooden spoon as if she might smack me from twenty yards away. I returned the salute, and she went back to her customers.
Near the far edge of the glade, I found a stall dressed in deep green canvas. Bundles of dried herbs hung from twine, labels in graceful high-elf script: frost-mint, blue yarrow, ash-bloom. Small glass vials caught sunlight and tossed pale colors across a simple pine counter.
Behind it stood a vision of classic elven beauty.
While Lulu had something ditzy and bubbly, this woman had something noble and motherly. She was taller than Lulu by half a head, slim but curved in all the right ways. She wore a soft linen dress the color of fresh cream, but silks and jewelry would have suited her better.
The sharp angles of her noble face wore pride and composure unconsciously, and I could tell that she was a high elf, not a wood elf like most here, including Lulu. Her long ginger hair fell loose except for one thin silver streak that tucked behind a pointed ear. She was too young for that streak to have come from old age, and I wondered what the story behind it was. Sometimes, magic and alchemy had strange feedback effects.
By now, I had been looking long enough for her to take notice. Her pale green eyes locked on me, sharp and calm at once. They seemed to intensify, as if she liked what she was looking at.
“Ah,” she hummed, “Aerenvale’s latest acquisition. The general, slayer of Zaroth Karn, is it not so?”
I smiled and nodded. “The same, I’m afraid.”
“You’re walking like you just came from the field of battle,” she said, voice low and smooth.
“Bad dream,” I answered truthfully. Without really noticing, I had walked over to her stall. There was a magnetic quality to her.
She gave a gentle smile that pushed a dimple into her cheek. “The scourge of all veterans. Hold still.” She leaned over the counter and caught my wrist with cool fingers. I felt the pulse of spellweaving—a checkup spell, a simple diagnostic. She released me before I could decide whether to protest. “Mana irregular, heart pace fast. Fatigue more than anything.”
“Accurate. What’s the bill?”
She laughed. “I am not like the city healers, General. The first consult’s free.”
“Please, call me Liam.”
One corner of her perfectly shaped mouth turned up in a half-smile. “Already?”
“Already.”
“Then I am Eleya. It is quite the pleasure to meet you, Liam. We all owe you much, and it seems to me your heart is noble because you remain humble.”
I swallowed. That was a lot more direct than I was used to. “I, uh, never really got into the whole boasting thing.”
“I see.” With another smile, she turned, reached under the table, and came back with a clay cup. Steam rolled out, carrying the bite of mint and something sweet I couldn’t place. “Sip. Hawthorn, lavender, mint, and two drops of calm oil. A little honey for the taste.”
I took the cup. The drink tasted like summer grass with a honey kick. One swallow loosened my shoulders. “Strong mix.”
“Gentle dose,” she corrected. “If I’d brewed it strong, you’d start jumping on my counter, and I’m not wrestling a six-foot war mage.” Her eyes took on a naughty sparkle. “At least, not in public.”
I swallowed. Direct, like Lulu. Was this something of elven women? I had fought alongside plenty of elven men, and they weren’t like this at all.
Maybe it had something to do with the scarcity of males? Best to convey intentions before someone else moves in?
Either way, I kind of liked it.
Her eyes flicked over the burn scars peeking from my cuffs. “Those are from the war?”
“Yeah,” I said. No point hiding it.
Her eyebrow lifted as other customers hovered closer.
“Best be on my way,” I said, making room at the stall.
“Oh no,” she said. “Come, sit. Drink. I’ll help these others, and then I wish to speak with you some more if you can spare the time.”
“Sure,” I said, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m not in a rush. Not anymore, at least.”
I perched on the stool. Eleya started bundling herbs into small packets for the other customers, a pair of elderly elves who paid in copper coins. I watched her work: hands steady. Fingertips brushed across each bundle like she blessed the leaves. Her dress tightened across her hips as she shifted and, Gods help me, I noticed.
When the customers left, she braced both palms on the counter and leaned forward. The move pushed her neckline just enough to draw my eyes lower to an expanse of milky white, smooth cleavage before I caught myself. She noticed anyway, lips curving.
“Tell me about the dream,” she said.
“Undead, old enemies, usual greatest-hits nightmare.” I finished the tea, heat settling in my gut. “Karn showed up and talked trash. When I woke up, I was apparently in the process of unconsciously setting the place on fire.”
She chuckled at the casual tone. “Well, the lich is gone, but necrotic echoes hang around longer than anyone likes.” She reached into a small cedar box, pulled a sprig of bronze-leafed herb, and slipped it into my empty cup. “Steep that in warm water tonight and keep it by your bedside. Earths the nerves.”
“I’ll try it. Thanks.” I looked her up and down, and she didn’t seem to mind. “So, have you been in Aerenvale long?”
She grinned. “Noticed I’m no native?”
I nodded. “Guilty.”
“You’ve a good eye for elven lineage, then. I’ve been here for three years. I came with a field hospital, stayed when the Elder Council begged me to keep the locals alive.” She tapped her index finger on the counter. “I quite like it here. Aerenvale’s older than most know. This whole valley hums with quiet magic. I… I actually believe high elves may have once lived here. Long ago.”
“I felt a clean flow at the border stone.” I thought of the marker and the ping of healthy arcana under my palm when I first arrived. “Haven’t felt raw ley like that in years.”
She nodded, pleased. “The old wards still breathe.” Her pretty eyes widened. “Oh, and speaking of old, I have something odd in my garden that you might like! A half-buried stone slab, carved on both faces. I tried a gentle reveal spell, but I lack the power.”
“Can I look at it?”
“That’s why I brought it up.” She leaned closer, her scent a mix of rain-wet thyme and some floral note I couldn’t name. “I’m not far from you, in a small house of pale wood with a large plot at the western edge of town. You’ll see the fruit espaliers along a trellis fence first.”
“When should I come by?”
She grinned. “Already the storm-eye’s heart aches for adventure!” she said theatrically, but with a slightly admonishing tone. “Find some rest first! Those stones are not going anywhere. Perhaps we can talk some more before we unearth the mysteries of Aerenvale together.”
“That’s rich,” I said with a grin. “Dangle a mystery in front of me, then pull back!”
She laughed, a soft belly laugh that drew a few glances from nearby stalls. “I like to tease a little.” Her pale green eyes were half-lidded as they went over me.
“I bet you do,” I said.
A bell clanged across the glade, signaling mid-morning and interrupting the flirting. More shoppers filtered in—families, apprentices, one dwarf trader haggling over copper wire. Eleya grabbed a stack of parchment leaflets and started weighing packets as regulars made their way over.
I stood, rolled my shoulders. The tea had smoothed the edge off the night shake. “What do I owe?”
“Just tell me if the dream eases,” she said as she turned and bent over to gather some herbs, giving me an enjoyable view. “If it does, you owe me dinner.” She shot me a sly grin over her shoulder as she worked.
“You have a deal.” I touched two fingers to my brow in a casual salute and stepped into the churn of the market.
As I passed Lulu’s stall, she called out to me. “Buy anything useful, Mister General, sir?”
“Herbs,” I called back. “For calm.”
She wagged her spoon. “Yeah, you might need a whole keg of ‘em.”
I grinned, tucked Eleya’s sprig into my coat pocket, and made for the tool cart on the far side of the glade. Roof work waited, and life felt almost normal—if you squinted.
The sun angled low by the time I hit the gate. The chestnuts threw a lazy patchwork of shadow across the yard, just enough shade to cool my neck. I dropped the coil of rope and the new patch-tar can I’d picked up at the tool cart, then unlatched the door.
Inside, the house smelled like warm wood and Lulu’s bread with the orange peels. Light streaked through the south windows, cutting across the dust I’d raised earlier with the broom. It felt good—lived-in, not abandoned.
I propped Ashwaker’s case against the table and stood there a long moment, thumb on the latch. The staff inside buzzed at the edge of my sense, the way a hound pricks up when the hunt’s still fresh. Even shut away, the focus crystal tugged at me, hungry for charge.
“Not today,” I told it. “You get a nap.”
First order of business: find the old travel trunk Camling used for season blankets. I walked the hall, boots thudding. The storage room door stuck partway. I leaned in and shoved once. The hinge gave a metal groan, then the door swung wide.
The trunk sat under the back window, cedar and brass, lid warped but solid. A spider the size of a copper coin skittered off when I dragged it into the center of the room. I flipped the latch and pushed the lid up. Dust puffed. Inside, spare quilts, a cracked lantern, two brass candlesticks wrapped in linen. No mildew, thank the Gods.
I carried the quilts to the cot, shook them out, then returned for the real cargo. Unbuckling the case, I lifted Ashwaker free. Even through leather gloves, the staff hummed at my palms, the elemental core quick to remember fight mode. I planted the butt on the plank floor and looked it over.
The mage-steel spiral still held soot from Karnspire. I hadn’t cleaned it earlier. With an oil rag, I wiped the metal until purple-black alloy glinted. Light bounced off shallow dents near the handgrip—scars from half a dozen sieges. Each dent flashed an ugly memory. I forced my shoulders to drop, turning the rag slow, not rushing the job.
When the steel showed a clean shine, I reached the crystal cage. I twisted it half a turn and pulled the crystal out. Thumb-sized, violet heart, edges still humming. I held it up. Sunset light caught inside, throwing a shard of purple across the wall.
The crystal went into a padded tin that once held tea. I folded a strip of linen over it, tied the tin shut, and set it deep in the trunk’s left corner. Ashwaker followed, laid flat, focus end away from me.
Next was the armor.
It hung on a peg by the front hearth. I brought each piece back: cloak first, then cuirass, bracers, greaves, boots. The gorget got its own spot. Wyvern-hide straps still smelled faintly of ozone where Brina’s last shield flare had splashed them. I checked buckles, looked for fraying, then stacked the set in neat order around the staff.
The cloak was last. Purple wool, battle-unit crest stitched low on the back. I held it up. The lower edge carried two ragged slices—arrow cuts. I found the matching scar on my ribs under the shirt. I touched the cloth, then folded it clean and set it over the staff and the set of armor like a blanket over a sleeping dog.
Lid closed. Brass latch clicked home. I followed up with some simple magic—or, well, simple for me—that would make it hard to break into the chest and make sure I’d get a ping if someone tried.
I sat on the trunk just for the weight of it, palms braced on the wood. Through the window, children shouted on the green. A flute tried to keep up with them. Same tune I’d heard in the market earlier. Normal civilians doing normal things. No scouts, no watch horns, no funeral drums.
I thought of Lulu handing me hot bread, eyes laughing as if war memories were bedtime fables. I thought of Eleya reading my pulse, dead calm, talking about buried stones and flirting with me. Nobody here eyed me with fear. They treated me like a neighbor who happened to lug pretty hardware.
