Feeling a bit lighter and more grounded after spending a day training and reflecting on his new affirmations, Alex figured he might as well pop into Elderpyre and see if Fawkes had returned. He might even spend some time with the other Aspirants. He still had no real desire to even lay eyes on Yuma after their quarrel the other night, of course. Still, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to put his newfound sense of self-improvement to the test.

  One moment, he was lying in his bed at the Happy Motel, pulling the casque down over his eyes. The next, he was back in the Sacred Training Grounds, the sharp night breeze cutting through him, making every hair on his body stand on end.

  He was a few hundred feet from where the Aspirants had set up camp. In fact, he could make out their silhouettes against the firelight as they sat around the crackling flames. His heart leaped. He could count five of them, plus the direwolf.

  Twin shadows took wing from the top of a tent, cutting through the darkness to meet him – Biggs and Wedge. As they closed in and landed on his shoulders, they flooded his mind with bursts of excitement through the mental link they shared,

  Two of the silhouettes rose, too – one canine, one feminine, both scanning the darkness, looking for him. He raised his good hand to wave at them. His left hand still throbbed with a dull ache, a constant reminder of why he’d chosen to spend these past few days away. Fyodor spotted him and charged, a direwolf-sized missile of russet fur and slobbery affection. Hunter braced for the impact, but his overeager canine companion still managed to knock him flat on his ass, then proceeded to lick his face with abandon, his bushy tail wagging furiously.

  “Yes, yes, I missed you too, you big, carcass-eating buffoon.”

  “So this is why the mutt has been sniffing around this spot all day,” called a familiar voice as the other silhouette drew closer. “It’s where you were when you last stepped out.”

  Fawkes grabbed hold of the overexcited Fyodor, pulling him off Hunter with a grunt, then extended a hand to help him to his feet. The direwolf, still bursting with energy, darted in circles around them, yapping.

  “Hey there, Fawkes.”

  “Hey there yourself.”

  They stood there for a moment, looking at each other, none sure what to say.

  “Everything alright in the Weald?” Hunter asked.

  “‘Alright’ is a relative word, ain’t it?” Fawkes replied, her tone wry. “We didn’t find a trace of what’s killing the folken, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I see.”

  "And you’ve been as careless as ever, I hear," she said, nodding toward his injured hand.

  “Don’t even get me started on that.”

  “Was it really an accident?”

  Hunter gazed towards the silhouettes that were huddled around the fire, eyes narrowing, then nodded.

  “Yes. Yuma’s an ass. But not that kind of an ass.”

  Fawkes raised an eyebrow.

  “Hadn’t pegged you for the forgiving and forgetting type.”

  “What can I say?” Hunter flashed a humorless smile. “Therapy works.”

  “Come, let’s go sit by the fire,” she said. “Let me take a look at that hand of yours.”

  “Uh… mind if we do that in private?”

  She watched him for a moment, trying to decipher his expression under faint starlight. After a brief hesitation, she gave a small nod.

  “Be it as you will.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me just yet, lad,” she said, and her smirk as she turned to leave was mirthless.

  At the camp, Hunter was welcomed with warmth. Even Yuma managed a greeting that, while definitely awkward, wasn’t entirely cold.

  “About time you showed up, lad,” said Elder Wroth with a toothy smile. “Fawkes here almost gave us the welting of a lifetime when she came around and didn’t find you. Come, join us by the fire.”

  Inago shifted over, patting the spot beside him as he made space for Hunter to sit.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Plenty of room here,” he said with a grin.

  Hunter took the seat, and Fawkes dropped down on his other side. Before either could settle in, Fyodor barreled forward, forcing his way between them, wagging his tail as he planted himself firmly at Hunter’s side, clearly pleased with his spot. Fawkes let out a sigh, but opted to say nothing.

  “How are you doing?” Inago asked Hunter. “How’s the hand?”

  “Eh, you know,” Hunter shrugged, trying not to act casual. “I’ll live. How are things here?”

  “Eh, you know,” Inago mirrored him. “A lot of training, a lot of sparring. Not a whole lot of sleeping.”

  “I heard that,” grumbled Elder Wroth.

  “The food could be better, too,” Yuma piped in, and Hunter couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. Probably a bit of both, judging by the sharp glance Tayen threw his way to shut him up. It was Inago’s mother who brought them food most days.

  “That’s about to change,” said Fawkes. “There haven’t been any attacks in some time, and we combed half the Weald and found no trace of whatever was behind them. Elder Rook reckons it’s safe for the folken to go hunting again.”

  “Thank the Ancestors,” said Inago, smiling. “One can only go so long without meat – isn’t that right, Fyodor?”

  The direwolf’s ears perked up at the sound of his name, and he wagged his tail. Besides Hunter and Fawkes, Inago was his favorite human, and for good reason. With both the Transient and the swordstress away, it fell to him to take care of the direwolf.

  “Is it really safe to go hunting again, though?” Tayen asked, her gaze shifting to Fawkes. “Is it even a good idea?”

  “There’s only one way to find out, girl,” Fawkes shrugged. “In any case, what you should do is focus on your training.”

  “Now that you’re back, sai, will you be the one teaching us?”

  “Well, Elder Fawkes will –” Wroth started to say, but Fawkes cut him short.

  “Yes, girl. Along with Elder Wroth, of course. But I will be overseeing parts of your training, starting tomorrow.”

  “Will Hunter join us, too?” Tayen asked, voicing the question that had been lingering in the minds of Inago, Yuma, and even Wroth. All eyes turned to Hunter, waiting for the answer.

  “I don’t see why he wouldn’t”, Fawkes said, her tone carrying a finality that silenced any further questions.

  Hunter bristled at that, the familiar frustration rising as Fawkes once again made decisions for him without asking. It grated on him, and deep down, he still felt he had a bone to pick with her. Instead of letting the irritation fester, however, he took a slow breath, reminding himself of his affirmations.

  He couldn’t expect Fawkes to change – he had to meet her where she stood, or not at all. For now, he was glad to just have her back, and that was enough.

  The group spent the next couple of hours around the fire, idly chatting about this and that, but there was little real warmth to be found in the conversation. Beneath the surface, unspoken tensions circled like vultures, casting a shadow over any real sense of companionship. One by one, Wroth and the other Aspirants excused themselves and turned in, leaving Hunter and Fawkes alone, Fyodor napping between them.

  For a while, nobody spoke. The only sounds were the steady crackling of the fire and the direwolf’s soft, contented snores.

  “Just to clarify,” Fawkes finally broke the heavy silence. “You do intent to continue training with the others, correct?”

  “Yeah,” said Hunter, and that was that.

  “Let me take a look at that hand.”

  Hunter sighed and pulled his left hand from the folds of his poncho, where he’d been keeping it hidden. Without a word, Fawkes leaned in and began to carefully undo the bindings, revealing the injury beneath. She examined the hand closely, her brow furrowing as she assessed the damage in the firelight.

  It had healed faster than Hunter had expected it to; the skin was smooth and unbroken, a testament to his Transient body’s powerful regeneration. Beneath that surface, though, the damage was clear. Fawkes felt the bones with her gloved hands, shattered and misaligned, twisted at unnatural angles. Her expression darkened as she shook her head slightly, her fingers tracing the jagged outlines of the breaks.

  “Grimnir’s beard, Hunter,” she muttered. “This looks bad.”

  “I know, right?" Hunter snarked. "Looks like I won’t be playing any Liszt on the piano anytime soon.”

  Fawkes frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line as she studied his hand in silence. Her gaze lingered, deep in thought, as if weighing her options carefully.

  “So…?” Hunter asked.

  “So what?”

  “I don’t know, I was hoping you had another dose of that Trollblood Salve or something.”

  “It wouldn’t do you much good,” she shook her head. “Trollblood Salve is mostly good for flesh wounds, and even then, it takes time to work. On normal people, at least.”

  “Ah, shitsnacks. You pulling a rabbit out of a hat and magically fixing everything was my best bet,” Hunter said, a half-hearted grin barely hiding his frustration. “I’m not really crazy about the other options.”

  “What are the other options?”

  “I was thinking I could go ask Arjen for help. Or go back to Lormenheere and ask the Great Spirit there for a boon. Worst comes to worst, I kick the bucket and come back good as new anyway.”

  “No,” Fawkes shook her head. “The bear godling is unpredictable. That spirit patron of yours is a better choice – but still not a good one, mind you. You should face him, sooner or later, yes, but you’re still ill-prepared. As for the third option, the kicking of the bucket… I will not even dignify it with an answer.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “Even if Trollblood Salve won’t do,” Fawkes flashed him a strained smirk, “this old maid’s hat’s still deep and full of rabbits. I might be able to pull something worthwhile out of it.”

  She reached into her left sleeve and pulled out a weathered, leather-bound tome – an act that was, of course, entirely impossible, unless she had access to some kind of extra-dimensional storage space. Which, knowing Fawkes, she probably did.

  “This is the logbook of Ghorval of the Lodge,” she explained, “a lodgeman who was lost to the world when I was still but a lass. Reiner recovered it from his final resting place a few months ago. I hadn’t had the chance to decode much, but the old man had a knack for alchymistry and the healing arts. I am positive there’s something in here we could use.”

  “How long do you think that would take?”

  “A day?” she shrugged. “Two at most. Ghorval was known for his elixirs, not his ciphers.”

  That was a relief. Hunter could wait two days. Two days were nothing.

  “Don’t get your hopes up yet, though,” Fawkes warned him. “The kind of remedy an injury like that needs… well, it’s not the sort you take with a spoonful of honey, Hunter.”

  “Meaning?” Hunter raised an eyebrow?

  “Meaning, you better go get some rest,” said Fawkes, already thumbing the ledger. “Because come tomorrow, you’re learning how to cycle your Essence.”

  Enjoyed this chapter?

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

  Your support means the world!