Chapter 38

  Varosha’s golden, sand-bright facades caught the sun like a scatter of noon stars.

  As he neared the gate, bells shattered the long hush that had trailed him.

  “Someone’s coming!” A guard’s voice cracked, panic skittering along the wall as a cloaked figure stepped out of the heat-haze.

  River pushed back his hood. His own features surfaced—windburned, grim—and his eyes cut through the dust like water.

  For a heartbeat, nothing. Then the city shifted its weight. The bell clanged once more and cut off; runners spilled from the towers, orders snapping like a twig under foot.

  “Get Myra. Now.”

  Soldiers scrambled, but the gate stayed shut—no hands on the winch, no brave soul inching close. Time stretched thin. Above, a low thrum gathered, wings beating somewhere inside the sand-haze. River knew that sound; everyone in Varosha did.

  Myra arrived on Buteos.

  The dragon shouldered out of the glare and hit the earth with a thump that rattled the stones. Warmth rolled off him; sand sheeted away from slate-bright scales. The old woman on his neck ridge wore a grin that could have split mortar. She slid down with the ease of someone who’d been doing it longer than most guards had been alive, boots kissing the ground like a promise.

  She didn’t need to say a thing.

  River reached inward. Calira, I think they want proof we are who we say we are.

  You can’t do anything by yourself, can you? The tease was soft, fond.

  He almost laughed but didn’t. Fire and gold flickered through his veins; then Calira stepped out of him like light stepping out of a lantern. Not the small bird Myra had last seen—something larger now, edges bright, presence settled.

  Myra’s smile curled into something sharper. Surprise, yes, and the quick cataloging that had always made River feel both seen and measured. “Well,” she said, voice like warm stone, “that’ll do.”

  Buteos snorted, gusting sand across the road.

  ““Open the gate!” Myra snapped, not taking her eyes off them. She added, “Sorry, we have to be certain. Strange things have been happening since you left.”

  The winch squealed to life. And for the first time since Norvil, River let himself breathe with it.

  As they walked, the city pressed in—heat rolling off sandstone, grit lifting with every step. Lantern smoke and cumin from a vendor’s pot swirled together. Eyes followed him from windows and streets alike; whispers stitched across the road.

  “That’s him—River—”

  “Back from the sands—”

  Cheers and greetings burst loose in pockets, hands lifted, a few brave souls calling his name. Children ran alongside for a dozen paces, then fell back, wide-eyed. He didn’t linger on any of it, scanning faces instead, hunting for his friend—for his mentor. Kamir.

  Myra kept her voice low, words slipping under the noise. “Kamir’s in a dungeon… He should be back in a few days. The dungeons have been acting strangely. Something’s changed—he’s out investigating.”

  River swallowed. “Yeah… I might know something about that.”

  The words fell flat, laced with disappointment. Myra’s eyebrows climbed; for a heartbeat she stopped, boots sunk in the sand.

  “I’ll explain when we’re alone,” he said, and she nodded, moving again. “Let’s go to your house. No one’s used it since you left. I expect you have a lot to say.”

  He did. He wished he didn’t.

  Inside, the little kitchen he’d shared with his friends sat as they’d left it. A thick skin of dust lay over the table and stove, veiling the bowl by the sink, the stone mug Kamir always stole. The street’s clatter muffled to a hush; even the city’s heat felt gentler here. It looked abandoned, desolate in a way that pinched.

  He ran a palm across the table’s edge, cleared a dull stripe, and sat. Drew a breath. Then the story came: the true gods and the prison under Norvil; Lucius and the capture; the bond with Calira, hot gold and fire; the new mission—and, finally, why he was alone.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Dust hung in the kitchen light like stopped rain. Myra’s face was unreadable as she worked through it all—Norvil, the prison, Lucius, the bond. River couldn’t stand the stretch of seconds any longer. “So… what do you think?”

  She blinked, as if surprised he was still sitting in front of her. “I think…” The rest snagged in her throat; a dry cough, then: “It’s… interesting. It would explain what we’ve been experiencing.” Her gaze slid to the window, to the thin band of street beyond. “I think once Kamir comes back, you need to go to the temple again.”

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  Silence pooled. Then the words he hadn’t let himself hope for: “I think you did the right thing.”

  Warmth rose in his chest—quick, dangerous. He almost cried. From Myra, of all people—a woman who rationed approval like water in a siege—it meant more than he could carry comfortably. Something to hold onto when the old doubts came back. And they would.

  -

  He barely left the house by day. Easier to stay hidden, to let the shutters blunt the city’s questions and the cheerful hail of neighbors who didn’t know which names to avoid. When he did step out, it was at night. He and Calira took their old place on the sand beyond the last wall, backs to the cooling stones, the sky poured out above them—cold stars, slow arc of the temple’s wardlight, the distant, steady pulse of the dungeons underfoot. The air tasted of iron and cumin and old heat. They spoke little. Sometimes not at all. Just watching, letting the hush mend what it could.

  -

  Today was no different. He sat at the table, palms resting on the cool wood, guiding his essence through familiar loops—inhale, thread, anchor; exhale, release. Soulwork always sanded the edges off his nerves. The house was quiet enough to hear dust settle.

  The knock broke it—two quick taps, one heavier. He groaned, rose, and crossed the room, already bracing for an awkward chat with a neighbor or the sight of another child sprinting away the moment the door moved.

  He opened it—and stopped. There stood Kamir, brown skin and bald head catching a hard slice of sunlight, a rare grin cutting warm lines into his face. It looked wrong on him and perfect.

  River didn’t think; he launched forward, wrapping the man up. Air whooshed out of Kamir in a single, abused syllable. “Calm down—oof— you’re gonna hurt me.” He laughed when he said it, half-strangled between gasps for air. Calira’s warmth flared in River’s chest, answering the shock with something like relief.

  She appeared out of thin air, the small, red-haired girl River had come to recognize—and Kamir actually jumped, fear lurching through him before sense caught up.

  Calira’s mouth twitched as she tried not to smile. “Calm your tits, old man. It’s me. You remember the little phoenix you swooned over?”

  He stared, taking her in, measuring. “So it worked,” he said at last. “I had my doubts.”

  River nodded. “How far behind are you? Do you need catching up?” It felt good to be on the other side of that question. Once, it had always been him scrambling.

  Kamir flicked his hand, already turning. “Myra told me enough. I’d rather you spar with me. Show me if you’ve improved—or if I wasted my time.”

  River fell in beside him. The path hadn’t changed: the cracked steps, the sun-bleached yard, the low doorway that breathed cool air. The training room was exactly as memory kept it—racks along the wall, a riot of weapons; chalk circles scuffed into the packed sand; rough clay walls ghosted with old impacts; the faint smell of oil, leather, sweat.

  Kamir walked calmly to the rack, chose two swords, and tossed one. Not a practice reed—steel. River caught it; the weight bit into his palm, then settled as his fingers closed around the wrapped leather. He bent his knees, blade angled, breath finding the old rhythm Kamir had beaten into him.

  Kamir moved first. Not fast like Amalia—no blur, no show—but precise, slippery. He closed the distance in a loose zigzag, shoulders relaxed, feet whispering sideways. River slashed to meet him and cut nothing but heat; Kamir had already slid off-line, the air where he’d been still deciding to move.

  Gritting his teeth, River adjusted. He ducked under the returning cut, felt the draft of steel, and drove an elbow into Kamir’s forearm as it over-committed. The angle broke; River rode the momentum, caught Kamir’s wrist, and dragged the blade toward the older man’s back for a clean bind—

  —and lost him. Kamir didn’t so much vanish as flow, letting the pull carry him into a spin that unwound past River’s guard. A blink later, cool metal kissed River’s throat. Kamir held the blade there, steady as a plumb line.

  “Well done,” Kamir said, not even breathing hard. “Better than expected. If magic were allowed, you’d have had me.”

  River stepped back, lowering his blade. He knew his essence control outstripped Kamir’s, and yet steel-on-steel he’d still been outmaneuvered. Calira hummed in his chest—not comfort so much as a nudge. Again.

  Kamir’s voice carried as he dissected the exchange. “Lead foot gave you away. Overcommitted on the bind. You offered your shoulder.” A beat; then he crooked two fingers. “Now let’s see what you can do. Use anything you want.”

  They separated, sand whispering underfoot. This time River let the essence flow. His aura loosened and rose, a heat-mirage haloing his edges. He felt Kamir’s probes—needle-fine threads of power testing seams, tugging for a weak stitch. River was simply… more. Like trying to stop a waterfall with a stick.

  Kamir darted in with that sidewinding dance of his. River’s aura flared; the sand under Kamir’s next step slicked and mounded. For a heartbeat it looked like a stumble. Kamir only smiled and poured on speed.

  River answered in kind. Lightning coiled around his calves and forearms, a thin blue braid. The room sharpened. Kamir’s lunge came and it might as well have been announced—River slid the cut aside, sparks leaping when steel kissed steel. Every clash sang down his bones; his forearm went prickly-numb, but the aura took the edge off, dragging Kamir’s blade just slow enough for River to slip under it.

  Kamir’s expression tightened—ah, there it was. River pressed. Fire feathered along his sword, quick and close, while sharp lashes of water snapped at Kamir’s ankles, nudging his balance a half-inch at a time. Kamir gave ground without giving it up, weaving, refusing to break—he never broke.

  They circled a chalk ring to dust. River feinted high, while cutting low. Kamir parried, turned, nearly caught him on the return—nearly. The aura caught the tip, slowed it a breath, and River stepped through, shoulder to chest, blade to the outside, heat licking the guard.

  Kamir hit the sand on one knee, panting; sweat pearled across his brow. River held, then eased his blade away and—couldn’t help it—grinned.

  He had finally bested his teacher. The feeling was… not a word exactly. A rush that cracked open his ribs and let light in. Calira’s warmth flared in answer, bright and brief as a spark. “There you go,” she purred, “you showed the old fart.”

  Kamir chuckled, then his gaze hardened on River. “Well done. You’ve grown.”

  River nodded and offered a hand to the man on the sand. “Thanks.”

  Kamir took it and rose, brushing grit from his trousers. “I think it’s time to rest. Tomorrow, you’ll go to the temple again.”

  River had known it was coming. The word tomorrow settled on his shoulders like a cloak—heavy, fitting. The training room smelled of oil and dust and struck steel; chalk rings were scuffed to ghosts around their feet. Outside, evening leaned against the doorway, the light the color of cooled copper. Calira warmed his chest once, steady. He swallowed, met Kamir’s eye, and said, “I’ll be ready.”