The essence wars an envi.., p.9
The Essence Wars--An Envious God, page 9
Stormer had mentioned they’d been in Jonika for two days, just long enough to unsettle the locals. Tomorrow, they would leave for the southern fort, a day ahead of her own departure to Gusia.
Her pulse quickened. She adjusted course, her boots scuffing softly against the cobblestones as she fell in behind them. Tugging her cloak lower, she steadied her breath. Braegor kept pace, his golden coat earning occasional glances, but Maerwyn gave no reason for suspicion. Just another traveler moving through the streets.
The soldiers moved with quiet certainty, their armor clinking softly as they passed through the bustling main streets. They left the markets behind, weaving through the alleys of the working-class district. Here, the colorful banners gave way to modest homes, their walls stained with salt from the coastal air. Braegor’s nails tapped faintly against the stones as they turned onto a quieter lane, forcing Maerwyn to pull him back further to avoid detection.
It wasn’t easy. Braegor’s size made subtlety impossible, his ears twitching at the faint clink of armor. Maerwyn moved deliberately, keeping to the shadows, breath steady, eyes locked on the soldiers ahead. They never turned, never hesitated. Their path was direct, their purpose absolute.
She followed them in silence, her steps folded into the hush of crumbling walls and old stone. The alley bent toward the town’s edge, where the air thickened with a briny weight, tinged with mud and the bite of salt-worn rope. At the edge of the floodplain, the soldiers halted. A lone cottage stood before them, its sagging thatch and weathered wood worn by time and salt, its windows dark, unreadable.
The cottage was unremarkable. And yet, they had come here for a reason.
She slipped into the shadowed alcove of a cottage on the opposite side of the road, pressing her back against rough stone. From here, she had a clear line of sight across the muddy path to the standalone dwelling on the right, where the Chancellor’s Guard had gathered.
A low exchange followed, voices muffled but unmistakably tense. Moments later, the cottage door creaked open, revealing a man in his fifties, his face weathered from years beneath the sun. Though Maerwyn couldn’t make out the words, his body language spoke volumes. He shook his head sharply, one hand lifting in a pleading gesture.
Then it turned violent.
One soldier grabbed the farmhand by the front of his tunic, yanking him from the doorway as though he weighed nothing. The others shoved past him, disappearing inside. The man stumbled, his protests rising in volume.
‘Hey! You can’t just—’
The soldier holding him didn’t let him finish. A brutal shove sent him sprawling into the street, landing with a stomach-turning thud. Mud splattered up his arms as he gasped, stunned.
Maerwyn’s grip tightened on Braegor as the dog tensed, his ears flicking back at the commotion. Her other hand slid instinctively to her short sword, fingers wrapping around the hilt like a lifeline. But she forced herself to stay still, her breath held tight in her chest.
The door slammed open again.
Two soldiers emerged, and in the hand of one gleamed a dagger, its blade unmistakably forged from Syllanian metal. Even in the dim light, its edge shimmered, so sharp it seemed to hum with latent danger.
The farmhand saw it too. His anger boiled over into desperation.
‘That’s mine!’ he shouted, scrambling to his knees, his voice hoarse with rage. ‘My grandfather used that to defend your bloody lands before you lot could wipe your own arses! Give it back!’
The soldier holding the dagger let out a short, amused snort. He looked down at the man with haughty disdain.
‘Your grandfather isn’t here, old man. And you’re not about to defend anything. Not my lands.’
Then he kicked him.
The boot struck the farmhand square in the chest, full force. A hollow wheeze escaped him as he was flung backward, landing hard in the mud. He curled in on himself, hands clutching his ribs as a strangled cry tore from his throat.
Braegor growled low in his chest. Maerwyn’s muscles coiled, her instincts screaming to act, yet she held still. The soldiers were coming her way. Her heart pounded as she pressed herself against the cold stone, forcing her breath steady.
She couldn’t stay here. If they saw her crouched in the alcove, half-hidden in the dark, she would look exactly like what she was—someone watching them. Her throat tightened, breath catching as the weight of exposure pressed closer. She had to move, though not blindly. Not yet. Every instinct urged her to act; the wrong step, however, would ruin everything. She forced herself to think. To wait for the moment. Then she moved.
With no other choice, she tugged at Braegor’s collar, pulling him into motion. Her limbs moved too quickly, her gait rigid with urgency. She forced herself to slow, to smooth each step, to loosen the tautness in her joints. But it was already slipping. The rhythm had gone. Something unnatural had crept into her body, a stiffness she couldn’t quite shake. And if she could feel it, then so could they.
She pulled her cloak lower, the fabric suddenly heavy and close around her shoulders. Her stride stiffened beneath the weight of it, each step more unnatural than the last. She parted her lips, reaching for some idle remark to soften the moment.
‘Come on, boy,’ she muttered.
The mistake hit her like ice water.
She hadn’t said his name, but it didn’t matter. Braegor wasn’t just some nameless hound. His size and presence alone made him unmistakable.
Behind her, the steady rhythm of boots faltered. A shift in movement. A break in step.
Maerwyn’s pulse hammered. Keep walking. Don’t look back.
The weight of their eyes settled on her spine.
A heartbeat stretched into an eternity before one of them called out.
‘Hey! You there!’
The voice was sharp, commanding.
Her breath hitched. She kept her pace steady, feigning obliviousness. Perhaps if she just kept walking, they would let her go.
‘Oi!’ the voice barked again, louder this time. ‘Stop!’
Her stomach fluttered with nerves. There was no way out now. She would have to continue as if nothing had happened. The footsteps behind her quickened, each one louder than the last, pressing in with the weight of something closing fast. The air shifted behind her, tight and heavy.
A hand clamped onto her shoulder firmly. Instinct took control. She spun, the cloak sweeping around her in a trained arc, her stance shifting into the practiced rhythm of defense. Braegor reacted instantly. A low, menacing growl rumbled through his chest as he stepped forward, his massive form rigid with tension. His lips curled, flashing sharp teeth.
The soldier tensed as he saw her face and stepped back almost instantly. Her breath caught as the features settled into focus, a shape she recognized but hadn’t expected. The realization rose slowly, heavy and undeniable, and her expression shifted in a way that carried more than surprise.
‘Maerwyn?’
Recognition flickered across his face before his lips twisted into a smirk. He glanced at Braegor warily before his gaze locked back onto hers.
‘The God of Speed herself,’ he mused, voice thick with mock amusement. ‘Are you following my men? Spying?’
Her mind reeled, piecing together the familiar features, the cocky smirk. A man she had trained alongside at the Citadel of Aliztar. A man who had just violently assaulted a farmhand and stolen a dagger.
She exhaled, disbelief lacing her voice.
‘Brennar?’
She placed a steadying hand on Braegor’s broad back, her fingers brushing through his fur as she calmed him. His growling quieted, but his amber eyes remained locked on Brennar, unwavering.
‘Brennar “the Painless”?’ Her voice was low, edged with disbelief. ‘By Anselis, what are you doing assaulting some poor farmhand? Is this what you’ve been reduced to?’
His smirk widened, his grip on her shoulder loosening slightly. ‘Reduced to?’ he echoed. ‘This is duty, Maerwyn. You wouldn’t understand.’
She scoffed, searching his face for some remnant of the man she once knew. They had called him Brennar ‘the Painless’ at the Citadel of Aliztar, a name spoken with no shortage of admiration. He had been a force of nature in training, his ability to endure pain unnatural, terrifying even. She had seen him stand through bruises, burns, strikes designed to break even hardened warriors. That same resilience had made him fearless as well as reckless. His rise through the ranks had been swift, his future bright.
Now he stood before her, hollowed out, his confidence curdled into something colder.
‘So this is what duty looks like to you?’ she said, voice sharp. ‘Beating farmers and stealing family heirlooms? If this is what you’ve become, Brennar, I’m not sure I want to understand.’
His smirk held firm, though a flicker passed behind his eyes, gone almost before she could register it.
‘You always had a habit of sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,’ he mused, his tone too casual. ‘Still trying to save the world, are you?’
‘And you’re still trying to impress the wrong people,’ she shot back. ‘I don’t remember you being anyone’s lackey.’
His expression darkened, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his head slightly, his gaze flicking to the side.
She followed it.
Another soldier stepped forward, larger than Brennar, his hand resting on the hilt of his longsword. His voice was a deep bellow, commanding and dismissive.
‘Move along, girl, and take that mutt with you.’
Maerwyn bristled at the insult, her grip tightening on Braegor’s leather strap collar. But Brennar raised a hand, his smirk firmly in place.
‘This is no girl, and no mutt, Rhydian,’ he said, his tone dripping with mock reverence. ‘This is Maerwyn, the God of Speed, and Braegor. You should bow in such a presence.’
Rhydian snorted, unimpressed. His fingers flexed against the hilt of his sword, though he made no move to draw it.
‘I know of you,’ he said, eyes locking onto Maerwyn. ‘I bow to the Chancellor and no one else. Least of all you.’
His voice was flat, decisive, his attention shifting to Brennar.
‘Now move, Brennar.’
Brennar lingered a moment, his smirk unwavering. But something in his posture shifted, a change so subtle it might have gone unnoticed. A flicker of hesitation.
Maerwyn caught it.
‘Brennar,’ she mouthed, the name slipping from her lips in a near whisper. Disbelief laced through it, unbidden.
He only smiled, his amusement a mask she could no longer read.
Then, without another word, he turned.
The soldiers resumed their march, their boots grinding against the gravel as they moved away. The shining Syllanian dagger now lay stowed in a small leather bag slung across one soldier’s back, its presence an unspoken weight in Maerwyn’s mind.
Brennar didn’t glance back.
Maerwyn stood motionless, her pulse still thrumming with lingering fury. Beside her, Braegor gave a faint growl, his amber eyes tracking the retreating figures with unbroken focus.
She knelt, her fingers slipping into the familiar warmth of his coat. The gesture steadied them both.
Maerwyn crouched beside Braegor, fingers threading through his coat as his growl faded. She didn’t speak at first. Just watched the alley where the soldiers had vanished, her jaw clenched. Something gnawed at her, a quiet weight she couldn’t shake.
The farmhand limped back through the mud, bent with pain, until his door closed behind him with no defiance, only silence.
She rose slowly, her voice low. ‘We’ll figure it out, boy. Whatever this is, it’s wrong.’
Her gaze lingered a moment longer. Then she turned away, her steps steady, her mind already chasing the questions that refused to let her go.
Later that evening, Maerwyn moved about the quieter-than-usual inn, lending a hand as the night wore on. The bar remained lively, with ale flowing freely and the hum of laughter and song filling the space; yet the edge of chaos that usually marked such nights was missing.
Maerwyn kept her hands moving, wiping the counter and stacking cups, while the weight of the day gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. Her mother had waved off every concern. The soldiers. The stolen dagger. Even the farmhand in the mud.
‘Just be here, Maerwyn. One more day. Then you leave.’
But she couldn’t let it go.
The memory clung too tightly. The laughter. The limp. The glint of Syllanian steel.
Then the door creaked open.
She didn’t turn. Not right away. Something in the room had shifted. The rhythm faltered. Voices dipped.
She looked up.
A hooded figure stepped inside, pausing just long enough for their eyes to meet.
Or did they?
The firelight caught on his cheek. Familiar. Purposeful. Then he turned away and slipped into the night.
Maerwyn stood frozen, heart quickening.
Was it Brennar?
Her pulse quickened, but he didn’t linger. His dark gaze flicked over her, unreadable, before he turned and slipped back into the night.
It was enough.
Enough to set her pulse racing, enough to stir her curiosity.
‘Watch Braegor,’ she told her mother abruptly, shrugging on her cloak.
She stepped into the night, the warmth of the inn traded for the crisp hush of Jonika. The musk of ale clung to her cloak, mixing with the salt-laced breeze winding through the streets. The door groaned shut behind her, cutting off the hum of conversation, muffling the fading laughter. Beyond its glow, the town had softened into stillness, the streets emptier, quieter. Shadows stretched long across damp cobblestones, and the echoes of distant footfalls came sporadic, swallowed quickly by the alleyways.
She pulled her cloak closer. The town held its breath, silent and listening. Then something moved.
A figure, half-obscured in the wavering lantern glow, slipped from the main road. A brief flicker of a cloak, a shift of shadow, and then it was gone, vanishing down a side alley.
Her pulse quickened.
She moved, swift and soundless, her boots whispering against the stone as she veered off the path.
The alley constricted around her, walls narrowing with damp grit and salt-slick stone. Moisture clung to the timber, carrying the sharp bite of smoke and brine that caught in the throat and settled on the skin. High above, banners snapped against their wooden beams, their flapping irregular, filling the silence in sharp bursts like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
She slowed, every nerve wired, breath steady but controlled. This wasn’t hesitation. It was instinct, finely tuned.
‘Brennar?’ Her voice barely reached past the narrow walls.
Nothing.
She took another step, the dark pressing tighter, thick with something unspoken. Her fingers twitched at her sides. Something was off.
Then it happened.
A hand, swift as a striking viper, shot from the shadows, fingers outstretched, reaching—
Maerwyn moved before the thought could catch up.
She twisted low, the movement sharp, driven by survival. Her elbow drove up, fast and brutal, slamming into ribs. The impact should have staggered him. It didn’t.
A second strike came instantly. Heavy fists, swinging down—
She dropped, rolling, the blow cutting through the space where her head had been. Her back hit cold stone, but she was already moving, legs snapping out in a vicious scissor motion. She caught his knees and hooked him backward, driving his legs out from under him and slamming him hard onto the ground. The muffled thud of his landing vanished into the night. Maerwyn was on him in a breath, straddling his chest, her fist already rising.
Then came the faint murmur of laughter. Low and amused, it slipped through the dark like a child’s chuckle twisted by memory. The sound struck something deep, coiling tight and cold in her chest. This wasn’t a stumble. She hadn’t been lured. She had walked straight into one of his games.
‘You can’t hurt me, Maerwyn,’ the voice murmured, smooth and too knowing. ‘But you could always beat me.’
Her breath caught. Brennar.
Her knuckles tightened on his tunic. She should strike. Should finish it. But then she really looked at him. Of course. Brennar. Reckless, ridiculous, probably love-sick, and clearly not a threat. Heart slamming against her ribs, she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and let her hand drop.
‘You fool,’ she hissed. ‘I could have killed you.’
He grinned up at her, utterly unfazed despite his position. ‘No, you wouldn’t have. You know it. I know it.’ He shifted slightly, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. ‘Look, get off me. We should talk. Somewhere quiet.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Talk about what?’
His grin faded, replaced by something far more serious. He glanced toward the alley’s mouth, lowering his voice. ‘I shouldn’t even be here. We leave tomorrow. But I had to see you.’
They walked together into the shadows of a quiet garden, where damp soil pressed up from the roots and blossoms stirred softly in the still air. Overhead, the gnarled branches of an ancient oak stretched out like skeletal arms, blotting out the faint light of Nyx. The town’s distant hum faded, leaving only the whisper of the sea breeze as it rustled through the hedges.
Maerwyn stopped first, lowering herself onto a stone bench. She tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, seeking comfort from a growing chill in the night air. Brennar leaned casually against the oak’s massive trunk, his dark eyes glinting in the shadows.
‘Tell me,’ she said, her voice low yet sharp. ‘What is your “duty” here, Brennar?’
His lips curled into a smirk. ‘It’s simple enough,’ he replied, his tone too casual. ‘We’re here to retrieve the Syllanian metal. All of it.’
She frowned. ‘All of it?’
‘Weapons, tools, anything forged from it,’ he said with a shrug, as if it were of no consequence. ‘None of it stays here. Tomorrow, we head to the fort. By the end of the week, Verdathisa will be clean.’
