Mother always told me that power blinds a person. That is can be either a blessing or a curse.
What she didn't tell me that often times, the two are the same.
--
For this year's first class at Ruxnorth Academy, it's abundantly clear that this year w...
Derald just shakes his head. He's not sure whether he likes or dislikes this new Lysabel Axelane.
Lysabel smirks at them, then stands, hands out, palms flat. Roots erupt from the ground, silent assassins of the earth. They wind themselves around the mens' legs and with a sharp flick of Lysabel's wrist, they hit the ground. Roots curl themselves around the men, so tight and unmovable that they can hardly flail around. Thin branches wrap loosely around their heads, enough so that they can breathe freely, but restricting them from screaming.
Vieva's eyebrows lift a fraction, the only evidence that she's impressed.
Lysabel waves a hand at them. "Go!"
Vieva leaps nimbly over the wide-eyed men, their eyes tracing her and Derald as they go. Derald winces lightly. "Sorry," he mouthes to them.
The guards mutter incoherently what seems to be some sort of profanity. It's probably better that he didn't hear.
Vieva slips inside the warehouse, with Derald close on her heels. Vieva takes his hand and pulls him along, not letting him stop to observe anything.
"We don't have time, Pellefard," she whispers to him. Derald hardly hears her; he's too focused on the feel of her hand inside of his. For all the advice he gives Owain about girls, he actually has no experience to back his words. The only time a girl's ever held his hand had been when his older sister had been scared, during one of the festival shows.
Mope about how pathetic you are later, Pellefard.
The warehouse is large and dark and gray, monotone and mind-numbing. The shelves are so high that he cannot even see the top. The artifacts are organized by letter, like Lysabel had said. Derald still can't figure out how she knows that, considering that her region of Hodwerry is the farthest from the Inventory. But he banishes that thought from his mind momentarily; he must focus on finding something, anything, to help send the Warlord back to where he deserves.
Derald and Vieva branch out, her taking the Founder section while he works in the W area. Derald squints, to no avail; it's darker than spilled ink, and the sparse moonlight isn't helping. But he can just barely make out the labels. His eyes scan each tome and box, running over the labels twice each.
Nothing.
Derald leans against the boxes in frustration. This section is probably smaller compared to the Runemore one. The Runemore brothers had been celebrities during their time and no doubt there will be a vast variety of artifacts from them.
Derald lopes from in between the shelves and goes to the R section, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. A small, dull pain swells in his head. His eyes ache from staring too long at the dark text.
I'm so calling in sick tomorrow.
Then, suddenly, a flare of light explodes from behind him. Fire curls in the air, bright and brilliant for a few seconds before fizzling into smoke. Derald pivots quickly, bolting in the direction of the flame. Vieva. Something must be wrong. Or maybe she found something.
Oh Founders, please let it be the second one.
Derald skids to where Vieva stands frozen, almost quivering. She doesn't look back as he approaches, rooted to the ground.
Derald looks in the direction in which Vieva stares, wide-eyed, peering into the billowing darkness.
"Vieva? What is it?" Derald keeps his voice low, forcing himself to sound brave and not terrified like he really is.
A dark laugh snakes around him, oddly familiar. "That was smart, my dear, to send up the warning light." A hulking figure swathed in black cloth emerges from the shadows. Fear and dread trickle down his back. He already knows who this man is.
Vieva seems to regain her wits, straightening with dignity beside him. "Why are you here, Cynem?"
The Warlord. Derald presses a hand again to his temple, feeling woozy. He's here. The very man they're trying to stop stands in front of them, practically oozing power and thunder from his pores. Already, with a short glance out the window, Derald can see angry clouds forming, bulbous and full.
The Warlord angles his head. "Such bravery, little one. I'm impressed."
Vieva remains silent. The Warlord turns his head to Derald, eerily owl-like.
"It's a very good plan, I have to admit. Sadly, it was destined to fail." The Warlord's face is hidden but Derald can hear the smile in his voice.
"Are you sure about that?" Vieva arches an eyebrow, all fears apparently having fled. Derald still can't find the words.
The Warlord studies her, then whirls around, taking an elongated box from the stack. He stomps through the wood, and it splinters easily beneath the heel. The Warlord bends and retrieves a sword, magnificent and regal. Vieva's breath catches beside him.
He's going to fight us.
Derald can feel his blood pumping faster and faster. He wouldn't do that. It isn't smart. Leaving the Inventory trashed is a bold, and stupid move.
He's the Warlord, for Founder's sake. What does he care?
Then he does the unthinkable- he tosses the sword to Vieva, who gasps lightly and fumbles to catch it properly.
The Warlord chuckles again. "What you and I are looking for will not be found here. You won't find it anywhere. You cannot defeat me."
"You just gave us your legendary sword," Vieva says slowly. "I wouldn't hold your breath."
Derald cocks his head, rethinking the Warlord's words. "What are you looking for?"
He's surprised at the lack of utter terror in his tone.
The Warlord rustles in his cloak.
"You will find out soon enough."
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>>AUTHOR'S NOTES:
ohmygod. this may be the longest chapter I've ever written. no kidding. anyways, i'm so glad that I'm past this chapter! i've been having a depressing lack of inspiration recently, but seeing how close i am to the finish line is getting me all hyped up!
