RHYS TORLIN IS ON THE MOVE. With only his wits and ideals, he infiltrates Synketros in hopes of unlocking the secret to its soldiers' loyalty. When a plan goes awry and found friends putting themselves into trouble to save him, Rhys must choose betw...
By some unforeseen security measures, Rhys' magic was now out of reach.
It's fine. He could work with that. But a nagging feeling at the back of his head told him he's extremely crippled without access to the only thing he knew how to do better than an average varichria. A glance at the walls. Close-quarter combat was next to impossible. A sword wouldn't do well in these corridors. Daggers, maybe? But their scope was so little Rhys would end up being mobbed too soon. Flying out would be tricky too.
All in all, he felt like a butterfly trapped in a menagerie.
If the Sovereign was watching his every move since entering, she must be having a laugh of a lifetime at his cluelessness.
The corridor stretched on for forever. Rhys lost his sense of time inside this secret hideout in the mountain. He might as well be walking for a week and wouldn't have realized it. Which was worse—getting captured or getting trapped in a hallway that never ended?
Metal clanged against its kind, coloring the unseen horizon. It was enough to seize Rhys' attention and flood relief into his magic-deprived veins. His footsteps quickened, and with every muffled thud on the carpeted floor, he grew closer to the source of the noise. The lights, if possible, burned brighter the deeper he tore forward.
Eventually, the ceiling and walls widened into a wide cavern. It was smaller than the lobby, but it was sizable enough to contain at least fifty people. All of them were engaged in a mock-fight which Rhys could only attribute to a practice session. He stuck to the walls to avoid being seen as someone who had just walked in. The lights and the shadows bleeding from his feet weren't helping. Sooner or later, someone's going to notice him. Worse, they'd invite him for a quick spar. He'd rather not be forced to bust out his sword, not when he couldn't even access it.
He narrowed his eyes to filter most of the amber glow. Grunts followed by the sharp clash of metal floated above the field. His gaze followed the movements of the warriors, each one lost to the ferocity of their match. Flip, slash, dodge, feint. It didn't take long for him to notice these people used the same maneuvers over and over without breaking strides. That's...strange.
Two more entrances led off to more obscure parts of the training hall. Metal rungs and stairs bled off the cavern's walls. On it were people differently-dressed than everyone Rhys had encountered so far. Instead of tunics and trousers, they wore fitted pants, short-sleeved vests, and had light armor over their breasts and knees. In the few minutes Rhys observed them, they moved from the metal rungs and disappeared into the entrance. They didn't return.
What was that?
He moved to follow, his mind running through all of the factors he had to make sure of in order to slip undetected. Then, he realized without magic, he wouldn't be able to copy the deserters' armor. Bummer. Just as he was about to step into the training hall, a roaring buzz ripped through the cavern, seizing his muscles to a stop.
As if the noise was a signal for something, all the fighting dropped. Rhys opened his mouth in quiet shock, watching the sea of people ambled as one towards him. No one appeared to notice him as they brushed into his personal space. Without much of a choice and in fear of being choked to death by the crowd, he peeled off the wall and blended into the current.
Every once in a while, he looked behind him and resolved to follow those armored people to whatever hovel they disappeared to.
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