On Death's Honor

Chapter 41: No Such Thing As Bad Manners

He wasn't a master at dream-stepping, but he knew the practice when he saw it. She was there. The girl that had been brainwashed all those years ago - only, she wasn't a girl, anymore.

And she had been in trouble.

She was supposed to be dead.

The man grinded his jaw, mindlessly avoiding the people that crowded the streets. It had been a few months since that particular dream, the weather cold when it was now far below freezing than not. He hadn't had any dreams of her, since - but then again, he wouldn't. That hadn't been his dream, to begin with.

No, he had been pulled into hers by a spirit desperately trying to save her. That much, at least, he could piece together. That, and she had been in Durn, of all places. Did that mean her fellow people were finally turning on the Circle, and were prepping her for execution? Or did she often have dreams about her homeland?

So many questions, with no answers to solve for them. For all he knew, she may already be dead, seeing as he hadn't seen her again. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. All this time, he'd lived with the turmoil that she was more than likely dead. He saw the break in her the moment her sister died. A person like that usually did not survive a life of battling monsters - not when they would be too focused on fighting themselves.

He should report the dream. He knew he should. Casters may work with the Reftin Circle every now and then, but they most certainly were not trusted enough to be sharing minds with one another.

But he wouldn't. Not until he was sure.

He rounded the corner to the home he shared with his brother and nephew - gods, the boy. Another reason he couldn't simply report it. Him reporting it would surely bring them together if she was alive, and if she saw him . . .

"Gods smite me," he muttered sourly beneath his breath. "You think too much, Beamol."

He almost missed the hidden magical sensors, entirely, when he went to open his door - judging from the way the magic within him jolted, they had been tampered with. Expertly, he noticed, and any lesser Caster than he would have overlooked it, entirely. He paused.

A fellow Caster, perhaps, attempting to test his level of security? Whoever tampered with his seals was smart enough to put them back, smart enough to be able to sense them and nullify them long enough to get through the door without seeing them altogether.

Not any simple thief, if that was the case. Beamol breathed heavily through his nose. Maybe it was the boy up to his tricks, again. Nonetheless, he prepared himself for a fight, far more annoyed that he had yet another task to add to his evening than he was concerned. They didn't own much of value, nor did he have secrets any could easily discover within his home.

Silently, he opened the door, feeling the familiar, invisible click within his hand that allowed it to open.

Upon entry, Beamol detected nothing out of the ordinary. The stairs to his right were empty, the paintings on the wall undisturbed. The small open area in front of him felt just as voided of life. He prodded himself for the Source that ran through his blood, expanding it around him, checking for another living organism-

There. Through the door at the far left, where he maintained a small library.

Odd. What would someone want to do with dusty old books? Cautiously, he moved forward, outstretching his fingers at his side in preparation to fight. He had one thing most other Casters did not: the ability to cast spells without speaking. Even if this was a simple prank done by his fellow peers, he had no qualms invoking his ire on them.

With a gentle flick of his hand, he urged the door open. Then, with a breath he didn't realize he was holding, he rounded the post, saw a figure sitting down in one of the three chairs to his left, and raised his arm in preparation to force their body still.

. . . Only to suddenly find himself frozen, instead.

What in the world?

Then he saw it: three simple runes drawn in powder on the armrest the figure sat at, glowing a soft blue. A small fire crackled in the hearth on the far wall, casting more shadows than not. Or was it a result of whatever strange magic the figure wielded?

"Well," the figure laughed duly. "I am glad you didn't decide to smite me."

A woman, Beamol thought. She wore a long, dark cloak with a hood over her head, but Beamol didn't need to see her appearance to know that whoever this woman was, she was dangerous.

Still frozen stiff, his limbs suspended awkwardly, Beamol watched the woman raise a pale hand to scratch the runes away.

"Your bookshelves wouldn't have appreciated it, otherwise," she finished, and Beamol stumbled forward with pent-up momentum. She continued to sit there, watching the fire, not at all concerned that she had just insulted one of the most powerful Casters in Norvalia.

"Who are you?" Beamol demanded, glancing around for any other tricky runes. He spotted something that might have directed more powerful spells to his books, as the woman had suggested, at her feet, but nothing else. Then, when she didn't respond, he curled his lip. "You have three seconds-"

The woman sighed, pulling down her hood.

"Beamol, it's me," she said softly as she rose to her feet to face him. "We need to talk."

". . . Erlan?"

~1579 Words ~

Ah, so I know I already did one today, but I had this entire scene stuck in my head all night 😅 So I wanted to get it out.

I will like to say, again, as this is very much a first draft (I am SO not looking forward to see how many names I messed up 😒) things are likely to change. I was torn between stepping into Wrenva's past and revealing who she is versus leaving a chunk of it out until later, so I'm just messing around with the strings at the moment.

With that being said, I'm still working on Hida's and Erlan's story, but I am probably going to reorganize where some of their scenes come in to give the story a greater impact. So if you get a chapter earlier in the book, that's why. Anyways. That's all for now.

Have a good day!