Zima sits on leather upholstery, elbows on her knees, hand in hand twisting. There's a restless look in her eyes as she gazes at the small table in front of her, but she slowly raises her head, and it shifts to an ounce of relief. Leaning to the backrest, her hands fall to her lap.
"It took you two quite long to arrive," she comments, lightly, yet Plamen hears the steely tone of unease under the carefree attitude she tries to sell.
"Flamey here wouldn't wake up," Vid says, pointing at Plamen, and takes a seat on her right. The recliner is a big thing, made for at least three people to sit without their elbows knocking against.
The scowl Plamen shoots at Vid doesn't deter the other Heir in smiling at his own joke. Zima laughs and it's a soft, ringing sound breaking the accumulated tension.
An unbidden thought crosses Plamen's mind, Is this how friendship looks like?
He has never had friends. Acquaintances, yes. Caretakers, yes. Mentor, yes. Friends, no. He is the odd man out, has been for as long as he can remember.
The Zmajeva Zvijezda townsfolk don't take lightly to those who break their carefully preserved tradition. It is a sure fact that the young dragonlings cannot access the magic locked inside them until they reach a certain age - around 9 -11 years old when the body grows sturdy enough for the first breath of power escaping its hold.
Yet, there was Plamen, only five at the time, his fire burning like a shining star among smothered candles. It made adults alarmed, fearful of what that meant for the whole race to the point they tried to accuse a toddler of treason, of being Nužda's spy, Izdajnik.
Ah, quite fond memories, he thinks with exasperated sarcasm. Those nonphysical wounds may have closed a long time ago, but he still bears the scars. And those scars, he's always thought, made him stronger. He isn't sure why he feels warmer after seeing Vid and Zima here with him and it boggles his mind because why? What changed?
Ignoring the confusing questions piling up, Plamen takes stock of their situation: Three Champions; everyone knew there would be three except for the Champions themselves...but what's next?
He doesn't know. They don't know, all three of them don't know.
The sound of hinges creaking brings him out of his internal discussion. He's always hated getting worked up and not being able to come up with answers to his own questions.
Yana enters the room with a sure step and a smile on her face. She's wearing her brightest armor. A silver chest plate gleams in the light as she turns to close the door, ending just under her stomach where chainmail made of minuscule, bronze-colored rings takes over. One would think of it weird - the chest consists of ribs whereas the stomach area isn't protected - however, the chainmail is one of the sturdiest types out there, and he knows for a fact that Yana only wears a breastplate because it looks cool or something, underneath the mail sits solid, offering protection even when cold metal of the plate fails.
She is one of the Armsguard, high enough in the chain of command that she's mostly only called in when they have a problem they can't easily solve.
"Yana!"
He doesn't mean to do it, but his teacher's name slips over his lips unconsciously, breathily, and he realizes he feels safer, more at peace now that Yana's here. She's always made him feel safe.
She smiles at him, this time it's soft and tender. "Hey, kiddo. I've never congratulated you in person. Good work out there! You really did it."
He feels his cheeks warming up, but he ignores it. "What are you doing here?" he asks.
"Explaining your options."
So they have options--
The door opens once more and it's someone he doesn't really want to see. Zlatan enters the room as if he owns it, his expression smug and toxic, his body language screaming of excitement.
Plamen shifts in his spot, sneaking glances at Vid and Zima. Shit! Do I go and sit with them to offer support? Or do I keep standing to look strong? He isn't sure. The game of wits has never been his strongest virtue. For all the wisdom Yana has departed to him, he's never really experienced this much serious situation to really know what to do.
Yana takes a seat on the most extravagant chair in the room, ignoring Zlatan long enough to earn a vicious glare sent in her direction. Only then, she reacts to his presence. "I see you're fashionably late, as always."
"I'm never late," Zlatan says in that cold tone of his.
"And yet, I was here before you," she reminds him with a sharp grin forming on her scarred face.
Plamen could feel the tension in the room growing fuller, stiffer, and feels the hives breaking over his skin from the chilling magic charging the air with pure pressure. Zlatan's scowl is equally unnerving.
But then all of it stops like it's never even been there in the first place.
Zlatan approaches another chair, this one less elaborate in its wooden frame than the one Yana occupies, though nonetheless equally garnished with padded, soft-green textile and embedded semiprecious stones.
Once he sits, the atmosphere again changes abruptly, and he sits on it like a king would, self-assured and pretentious.
"Now that we're all here, let's start," Yana drones. Then she looks squarely at Plamen. "Take a seat, sweetie."
He obeys without the usual complaints at being addressed by the ridiculously mushy term of endearment because there's a hidden command lacing those soft words. He sits down between Zima and Vid and tries to breathe through the once again forming tension.
"Now then..." Yana stops to take a deep breath. "You three have passed the Grand Test of Power, meaning that we once again have the chance of breaking the curse. It's more complicated than you think." She pauses to glance at Zlatan, an odd expression flickering on her face, and then she hums, looking back at them. "The last time there were examinees who managed to pass the test happened roughly 20 years ago. Zlatan and I were among them."
Zima takes a hissing breath at that. Plamen would bet his face looked as if he were struck by a thunder...and the only one not reacting is Vid. And on Vid's face, he sees a hardened expression bordering on anger and pure hatred.
He must have telegraphed his silent inquiry because in the next moment Vid shifts his dual-colored eyes on him and his face softens, though only just so, and he admits, "I kinda knew that. Even though father has never explicitly told me, I knew." He doesn't look at Plamen anymore, sadness settling over him like a heavy cloak. "Why would he always try to push me to work harder than I could? Or why would he be so disappointed when I couldn't be successful in mastering every little bit I'd been made to learn? If not for trying to keep the mantle of Champion inside the family..." Vid concludes, trailing off.
Zlatan snorts, making three Champions jump in their seats. "You've never shown enough promise, yet you're here, sitting as the Champion, so quit with the unnecessary lamenting."
A snarl curling the corner of his lip, Vid shoots back, "You've never asked me what I want!" but then he pales when he sees Zlatan shooting to his feet, anger visible in the man's amber eyes.
Zlatan doesn't even manage to take a step before there's a blade made of pure fire under his chin. "Knock it off, goldilocks," Yana tells him, purposely prickling the skin of his neck when he doesn't heed her words. A slow trickle of blood seeping to his shirt does the trick and he sits back, toning the magic down, and a nasty smile forms on his face. "Finally, my son's found some backbone. What a lucky day it is."
Yana huffs, canceling her spell, and follows his example. "Regardless of Zlatan's questionable parenting skills," she says, earning another glare from the said man, "We have more important things to discuss, like Unnaturals."
"Unnaturals?" Plamen repeats, the word foreign on his tongue.
"Yes," Yana replies. "The Goddess Nužda's army of unnatural creatures. Before we have Champions she can't act, but once the Champions are declared...you can guess."
This time it's Zlatan who takes over the explanation. "We call them Unnaturals because it's the easiest way to describe them. They are strong and vicious, their magical power is strong, worthy of being on one goddess' beck and call. Their mission is to destroy the Champions so you'll be their main target, but they don't care who they come across and attack everyone."
"You forgot to mention that they're ugly as hell," Yana pips in chattily.
If one could burst into flames from simple glaring, Yana would have already been roasted. It must be Zlatan's favorite pastime to send scowls in her direction. Plamen isn't surprised she has always tried to avoid places where Zlatan could be found.
"Anyway," Zlatan continues. "We have lots to do, and not enough time. You three will stay in the castle for now. Don't answer anyone's questions, don't separate for longer periods, and if someone starts bothering you just flare up your magic like this." Then, he proceeds to show them a sequence of powerful flairs, almost like a melody and very similar to the usual sequence to call upon Armsguard, it flows through the room. "One of us will be there immediately."
There's a cold expression on Yana's face which makes Plamen think the two former Champions are keeping secrets from them.
"Who would bother us?" Plamen asks after all three of the young Dragon Heirs managed to produce the magic sequence right. "And why?"
Zlatan looks like he's on verge of cursing.
"Because not everyone will be happy once the Unnaturals attack," Yana answers. "There are many of our comrades who think this kind of life is enough."
So, our own people could betray us. Plamen doesn't like the thought of that.
"Don't worry about it," Zlatan says with a certain tone of patronizing annoyance, one that doesn't sit well with Plamen. "We'll deal with Elders."
One could hear a pin dropping in another room after that. All the pieces of information fall in their rightful place. Plamen had thought things couldn't get worse. Oh, how wrong he was.
Elders... There's no dragon alive who wants to deal with the Elders. Yet it seems they will have to.