Chapter 16
A Man Walked, or Stumbled
> In the ember's glow, a promise broke;
>
> Silver singing, throat to choke...
>
> — The Ballad of the Bladesong
The morning of the Strength games, Godfrey was tearing through the forest, running wind-sprints with a single-minded intensity. He pushed himself to maintain top speed despite the treacherous, uneven terrain beneath his feet, forcing his body to adapt to the shifting roots and loose soil. Each leap and bound was calculated, his muscles burning as he demanded more and more from them, determined to squeeze out every ounce of speed he could muster.
Godfrey’s breath came in ragged rhythmic hums as he wove through the trees, his mind focused on the precision of his steps and the beat of his heart. He knew that every second counted—every heartbeat, every breath was a chance to push further, to become stronger. The Strength games weren’t just a competition; they were his opportunity to prove himself, to show the village and the Empire beyond that he was more than just another farm boy from Oakvale.
Hawker had set up a series of targets along Godfrey's path, strategically positioned to test his reflexes and precision. As Godfrey sprinted through the forest, he caught sight of the first target—a burlap sack stuffed with straw, hanging from a low branch. Without breaking stride, he drew his longsword in a fluid motion, the blade slicing cleanly through the sack as he passed.
The next target appeared just ahead, a wooden post with a bundle of sticks tied to it, meant to mimic an opponent’s weapon. Godfrey adjusted his grip, his muscles tightening as he swung the longsword in a powerful arc. The blade met the bundle with a satisfying crack, splintering the wood and sending debris flying, but his momentum didn’t falter.
The final target loomed high in the canopy, nearly out of sight. Godfrey knew this one would require more than just speed and precision—it would demand the full extent of his Control.
As he sprinted toward the base of the tree, he began to strengthen his legs, channeling energy into his muscles. He concentrated, reallocating mass away from his muscles and into his tendons, transforming them into coiled springs ready to launch him skyward. At the same time, he forced his body to off-gas as much water vapor as possible from his pores, lightening himself even further.
As Godfrey launched himself into the air, the water vapor he forced from his body appeared as a fine mist that trailed behind him, swirling like ethereal tendrils in his wake. The mist clung to the air, catching the light filtering through the trees, creating an almost otherworldly aura around him.
His blade flashed as he struck the target—a burlap-wrapped stone wedged between branches—with a precise, slicing motion. Godfrey’s landing was just as controlled as his leap. His enhanced tendons absorbed the impact, allowing him to land lightly, barely breaking his stride.
Without missing a beat, Godfrey reached behind his left hip, where several vials of whitefire were stashed. He uncorked one with his teeth and downed the thick, chalky liquid in a single gulp. The energy coursed through him immediately, replenishing some of what he had expelled.
His body, now lighter and recharged, continued the sprint through the forest, every movement precise and powerful. The hum building in Godfrey’s throat seemed to envelop him, urging him forward. The Strength games were just ahead, and he intended to be undeniable.
XXX
In the early afternoon, Godfrey waded into the river once more, the freezing water washing away the grime and sweat from his intense morning training. He let the current swirl around him, steam rising from his body. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the forest, and the water sparkled as it danced around him.
As he rinsed his hair, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching. He turned, already knowing who it would be. Elara stood at the riverbank, watching him with a small, almost sheepish smile.
Godfrey chuckled, pushing his wet hair out of his face. "You know, Elara, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s becoming a habit for you to walk up on me while I’m bathing."
Elara’s smile widened slightly, though there was a tension in her eyes. "Maybe I just like catching you off guard."
Godfrey grinned. "Well, mission accomplished." He took a step closer to the bank, the water lapping at his waist. "What brings you here this time? More secrets to unveil? Or just here to keep me on my toes? I can barely feel them, anyway, so if you don’t mind, turn your back so I can get out."
Elara rolled her eyes but obliged, turning away with a huff. "You’d think by now you’d be used to it."
"Maybe," Godfrey replied, pulling himself out of the river and quickly reaching for his clothes. "But I’d rather not get too comfortable with you sneaking up on me. Keeps life interesting."
The humor of the moment faded as Elara’s expression turned serious. "It's time," she said quietly, her tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.
Godfrey’s smile disappeared, replaced by a tightness in his chest as the reality of what they were about to do settled over him. He nodded, his voice steady but subdued. "Let’s go over the plan, then."
Elara gestured for him to follow her, and they moved deeper into the forest, away from the prying eyes and ears of the village.
XXX
Elara and Godfrey moved with silent precision through the dimly lit corridors of the Magistrate's office, their footsteps barely making a sound against the worn wooden floors. The distant hum of festivities filled the air, a stark contrast to the tense quiet within the building. Most of the guards had joined the celebrations in the market square, leaving the office nearly deserted—nearly, but not entirely.
They reached the heavy oak door that led to the vault, where a lone guard sat, engrossed in his dinner. Thankfully, the man was not one Godfrey recognized, and must have been a relatively new member of the village regulars. The man tore into his bread and cheese, completely unaware of the two figures hidden in the shadows just beyond his sight.
Elara stood by a narrow window, her gaze locked on the guard with an unnerving intensity. She had been staring at him for what felt like an eternity, her eyes never wavering. Godfrey, standing close beside her, felt a growing unease in the pit of his stomach. The silence was stretching too long, the tension building in the confined space. He shifted his weight, trying to keep his breathing steady, but the anticipation was beginning to fray his nerves.
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“Elara,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, “What’s taking so long?”
She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes narrowing as if she were deciphering something unseen. Godfrey could almost feel the gears turning in her mind, the calculations and thoughts racing behind her steady gaze. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Elara’s lips moved in the faintest of whispers, her words almost lost in the stillness.
“He’s... more complex than I anticipated,” she admitted, her tone a mix of frustration and focus. “Give me a moment longer.”
Just as Godfrey’s nerves threatened to overtake him, the guard finished his meal with a loud, satisfied burp. He leaned back in his chair, stretching with a groan as he twisted to crack his back. The movement brought him around just enough to catch sight of the two intruders standing in the shadows.
The guard’s eyes widened in shock, his expression quickly morphing into one of terror as he recognized the figures before him. He jerked in his seat, the chair tipping dangerously backward. With a yelp, the guard lost his balance and crashed to the floor, the clatter echoing through the empty halls.
Godfrey’s heart leapt into his throat. He reached for his dagger instinctively, but Elara was already moving. In a flash, she was over the guard, her hand outstretched as she muttered something under her breath, her voice low and commanding. The guard, still tangled in the legs of his overturned chair, looked up at her in horror, his mouth opening to shout—
But before he could make a sound, his eyes went blank, and his body stiffened unnaturally. With a slow, mechanical motion, he scrambled to his feet, standing at rigid attention, his gaze fixed forward and unseeing. It was as if the guard had become a puppet, his strings now pulled by Elara’s will.
Godfrey stared at the scene, a chill running down his spine. The guard was now little more than a statue, obedient and docile.
Elara’s gaze narrowed as she turned back to the guard, her voice a low and commanding intonation of varying pitches and tenors. The air seemed to warp around Godfrey’s ears as he heard the sound. “Help us load the taxes into these bags.” Elara dumped an empty pair of saddlebags at the guard’s feet.
The guard, still under her influence, nodded stiffly. “I don’t have the keys to the vault,” he said, his voice monotone and devoid of emotion.
Frustration flickered across Elara’s face, and she stepped closer to the guard, her tone sharpening. “Open the door,” she ordered, her modulated voice edged with impatience.
As the guard approached the door, he eyed it warily, realizing that the traditional way wasn’t going to work. With a sudden, savage determination, he hurled himself against the doorframe, the force of the impact echoing through the small chamber.
Godfrey watched in shock as the guard, under the influence of Elara’s power, continued to batter the door. His muscles strained, veins bulging in his neck as he slammed his shoulder into the wood again and again. The heavy iron hinges groaned under the assault, metal creaking and wood splintering. Finally, with a deafening crack, the hinges gave way, and the door tore free from its frame, clattering to the stone floor with a thunderous crash.
As the guard stood up, blood began to pool around his ruined shoulder and shattered hands. His face contorted in pain and confusion as he glanced at the doorframe he had just torn apart. The influence of Elara’s power slipped away like mist, leaving him fully aware of the horrific damage he had inflicted upon himself.
The guard’s eyes widened in terror, and he let out a scream, a sound that tore through the room and sent a chill down Godfrey’s spine. With his left hand, trembling from shock, the guard fumbled for his weapon, finally managing to pull it free from its scabbard, though his grip was weak and awkward.
"Kill him!" Elara screamed, her voice a mix of desperation and panic. But Godfrey hesitated, his sword arm frozen, his mind reeling from the weight of what she was asking him to do.
In that moment of hesitation, a guttural, distorted sound erupted in his mind, a noise that twisted and warped his perception. The room seemed to pulse and bend, the edges of his vision blurring and darkening. The sound grew louder, overwhelming his thoughts, pushing everything else aside until there was nothing but that horrible, consuming noise.
Then, darkness.
When Godfrey's vision returned, he found himself standing over the guard’s lifeless body. His sword was in his hand, dripping with blood. The metallic scent of it filled the air, sharp and nauseating. He stared down at the corpse.
His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The guard's lifeless eyes stared back at him, reflecting nothing but the dim light of the chamber. Godfrey's hands shook, and he felt a cold, hollow sensation in his gut..
When Godfrey looked up, his heart sank further as he realized that Elara was gone. The chest of silver was smashed apart, and the room was empty except for the guard’s lifeless body and the wreckage of the door. A cold dread filled his chest—she had left him there, alone, with blood on his hands.
Panic surged through him. He had to get out of there, had to get away before anyone discovered what had happened. He scrambled to his feet, his hands still trembling as he sheathed his bloodied sword. Without another thought, he bolted from the office, his mind racing as he tried to piece together what he would do next.
As he rushed out into the early evening, his heart pounding in his chest, he didn't notice the figure standing in the shadows of a nearby building. The figure watched him intently, the dark armor they wore blending into the night. Cold eyes followed Godfrey’s every move as he fled toward the river.
XXX
Hawker returned to the family table, his expression tense. “I’ve searched everywhere, and there’s something happening at the Magistrate’s office.”
John glanced at the gathering crowd. “Well, he better show up soon. The competition is about to begin, and I see an Imperial recruiter deep in conversation with Master Wren.”
Tarlow’s eyes suddenly focused on a distant point, and he leaned forward. “Wait, I see him,” he said, his voice a mix of relief and tension. “He’s over there, standing with the other boys receiving the order of bouts.”
Everyone at the table turned to follow Tarlow’s gaze. Sure enough, Godfrey was standing among the other competitors, his expression calm, though there was a hint of something deeper in his eyes—something only those who knew him well could discern.
Hawker let out a slow breath. “At least he’s here,” he muttered, but the worry didn’t leave his voice. “But something’s off. Keep your eyes open.”
The family exchanged glances, each of them sensing that whatever Godfrey had been up to before arriving, it wasn’t good.
XXX
Liam watched as Godfrey received his first opponent. Clive Warren, a timberworker’s son from up-country who planned on giving his piece and earning an induction into the Imperial Army. That was a similar story to most of the surrounding boys. While working in the forests of Southern Brella wasn’t dangerous work for the most part, it could certainly be less attractive to a young man than the prospect of adventure.
Liam understood that drive. He had recently accepted an apprenticeship in a town between Oakvale and Westport called Greybridge; apparently it was a famous town because of some battle a long time ago. He had almost three silver saved from his wages, and planned to start his own business, eventually. Far from here.
As he watched Godfrey prepare for the bout, Liam couldn’t help but reflect on his own life in Oakvale. For years, he had thought he might one day settle down with Elara, imagining a future where they might build something together. But those hopes had crumbled as he came to realize that Elara was not like other people. She was... something else entirely. Too sharp, too driven, too cold. Even if she could feel like other people, which he doubted, she would never feel anything for a simple man like him.
With that realization, Liam had decided to move on, to leave Oakvale and its tangled web of dreams and disappointments behind. Greybridge would be a fresh start, a place where he could forge his own path, free from the shadows of those he had once admired—or feared.
As Godfrey and Clive walked to the dueling ring, Liam realized he also couldn’t help but feel sorry for the timberworker’s son. He hoped the man could live with the forest for a while longer.