Chapter 6

A Body of Water and Bone

> As I sat across from the Emperor, I found myself pondering the man before me—legend made flesh, yet one who savored the simple pleasure of composing music. Still, I cannot shake the feeling that the melodies laid before me today are meant for more than mere entertainment.

>

> — Interviews with the Emperor

Godfrey stood on one leg atop a narrow pole, his body perfectly balanced despite the precarious perch. He pushed his hearing to the limits of his ability, straining to detect even the faintest sound of movement. The rustle of leaves, the subtle shift in the air—he listened for any hint of where the next blow would come from. His eyes were closed and his Focus sharp as he sang a soft, staccato tune in short, measured breaths.

"One step, two step, sway with the breeze," he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips. "Left foot, right foot, bend at the knees."

He could feel every shift in his weight, every subtle adjustment needed to maintain his balance as he teetered some fourteen feet above the ground.

Around him, Hawker and Tarlow moved with deliberate intent, their hands full of half-rotten apples. They circled Godfrey like wolves testing their prey, throwing the fruit at him with surprising speed and accuracy. Godfrey’s connection with his body, honed over the years, allowed him to anticipate some of the throws, but not all.

Lean back, roll forward—" SPLAT. An apple caught him on the shoulder, cutting off his lyrics and making him wobble. He quickly shifted his weight, trying to regain his balance.

"Feel the earth turn," he muttered, trying to find the rhythm again. He centered himself and continued his awkward acrobatics. But another apple clipped his thigh, sending a jolt through him, nearly knocking him off the pole.

"Hold fast, breathe deep, feel the fire—" SPLAT. Another hit, this time to his side, and he gritted his teeth, feeling the stinging impact and the wet, sloppy apple slide down his tunic. The scent of crushed apples hung heavy in the air now, mixing with the chill nip of the early autumn wind.

Godfrey's focus wavered for a moment, his mind flickering between frustration and determination. His song faltered, the rhythm slipping as he fought to regain his balance. He could hear Tarlow's amused chuckle from somewhere behind him.

"Godfrey," Tarlow called out, giggling, "What do you think your ‘core’ problem is here? Don’t you think the village girls will find you more ‘a-peel-ing’ if you weren’t absolutely drenched in rotten fruit?”

Godfrey groaned inwardly, unsure of what was more painful—the impact of the apples or the relentless barrage of Tarlow’s puns. Thankfully, Tarlow was running out of jokes; he was clearly scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Godfrey steadied himself, taking a deep breath as he tried to push Tarlow’s words out of his mind and center his Focus. He managed to dodge the next few apples, feeling a small surge of satisfaction as they sailed past him, splattering harmlessly on the ground. But just as he began to find his rhythm, his Focused hearing picked up a subtle shift—Hawker’s distinct movement, followed by the unmistakable sound of three apples slicing through the air, each thrown in rapid succession. Godfrey realized the staggered formation would force him into an impossible choice: if he dodged any two, he would inevitably either lose his balance and fall, or be struck by the third.

As Godfrey realized his predicament, a burst of inspiration struck him. With no time to lose, he pivoted sharply on his right foot, using the momentum to swing his left leg out wide in a controlled arc as his upper body twisted to avoid the first two apples. Then, he jerked his right foot and performed a low spin, and at the same time exerted Control over the most free-moving part of his body.

His blood.

As nearly a gallon of his blood surged into his left leg, it acted as a counterweight, keeping him balanced as he spun gracefully on the pole. He landed upright with surprising ease, his body steady despite the rapid movement. Opening his eyes, he grinned at the sight of Hawker and Tarlow staring up at him in shock, mouths agape.

But before he could savor the moment, Godfrey’s vision began to tunnel, the edges darkening rapidly until everything went black, and he lost consciousness.

XXX

As Godfrey came to moments later, he felt the rough yet reassuring grip of Hawker’s hands on his shoulders. His vision slowly cleared, revealing the older man’s weathered face hovering above him, etched with a mixture of concern and strain. Godfrey blinked, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He realized he was no longer on the pole but lying on the ground, the cool earth beneath him and the faint scent of crushed apples lingering in the air.

He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced him to pause. Hawker's grip tightened slightly, keeping him steady. As the haze lifted, Godfrey became aware of how much he had changed over the past year and a half. He had grown taller, now nearly towering over the villagers he once looked up to. His auburn hair, once a wild, unruly mess that constantly fell into his eyes, was now cropped close around his ears, with just enough length on top to give him a rugged, almost mature appearance.

He could feel the difference in his body too—the wiry frame of his youth had filled out with muscle, hard-earned from relentless training. His shoulders were broader, his chest more defined, and his arms carried the strength that came from countless hours spent perfecting his swordsmanship. Yet, despite these changes, he felt strangely vulnerable in this moment, having just lost consciousness in the middle of training.

"You're heavier than you used to be," Hawker muttered, his voice laced with both amusement and a hint of pain as they both stood. Godfrey noticed the older man wince slightly as he straightened up, clearly having exerted some Control to catch Godfrey before he hit the ground and was feeling the backlash.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Godfrey rubbed his temple, the remnants of dizziness still lingering as he pieced together what had happened. "I must have forced too much blood away from my brain too quickly," he muttered, the realization settling in.

Hawker grunted, a sound that was equal parts acknowledgment and disapproval. His curiosity about how Godfrey had managed the maneuver seemed satisfied, but his expression quickly shifted to one of sternness. "Solid idea in theory," he began, his voice gruff, "but reckless in practice. Blood’s the easiest thing to manipulate in your body, sure. But you shoved so much of it to your leg, and then went and tried to straighten up—of course you passed out."

Tarlow, who had been watching the whole scene unfold, could hardly contain his excitement. He clapped his hands together, a wide grin spreading across his face. "That spin, Godfrey! Absolutely beautiful! A true dance of balance and creativity. I've never seen anything like it!" His eyes sparkled with genuine admiration. "You’ve got a natural flair, lad. That was artistry in motion."

Godfrey, still dazed, attempted to deadpan, "Well, I guess the apple doesn’t fall far…from the… the pole—but I sure did!"

Tarlow's grin faltered, and he looked at Godfrey with a mix of genuine disappointment and disbelief. "Godfrey," he sighed, shaking his head slowly, "I’ve seen you do some reckless things before, but that… that pun? That was far worse than nearly cracking your skull open." He pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly more upset about the botched joke than the dangerous fall. "You’ve got to do better than that, lad."

With a final shake of his head, Tarlow turned and walked away, muttering something about lost causes and wasted potential. Hawker, still holding onto a faint trace of concern, glanced down at Godfrey. "Be more mindful of potential backlash, boy. Control is all about give and take. Push too far, and it’ll push right back, harder than you can handle."

He paused, his gaze softening for just a moment. "Training’s done for today. But don’t think you’re off the hook. Be back at my cabin by dusk, and make sure you run around the village twice before you get there. And, Godfrey," he added, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "if your sword was as dull as your jokes, you’d never hurt a fly. Clean it up."

Godfrey sat there, still catching his breath, a bemused expression on his face as he watched Hawker stride away. He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, shaking his head slightly, muttering. “It wasn’t that bad,” Godfrey lied.

XXX

Elara's gaze flickered over the vellum pages scattered across the rickety table she had coerced Godfrey into dragging into the cramped, subterranean chamber she had claimed as her own. The space, hidden beneath the earth in the shadowed woods west of her family’s home, had become her sanctuary—a place where the prying eyes and insufferable noise of her household couldn’t reach her. Ever since that fateful day last year when she and Godfrey had uncovered this forgotten room, sealed and waiting for centuries, she had transformed it into her private study. A promise of secrecy had been wrung from Godfrey’s lips, ensuring that this place—and her ambitions—remained hers alone.

Her thoughts drifted to her family, and she clenched her jaw in frustration. The suffocating attention of her parents, the ceaseless bickering and brutish behavior of her brothers—it was all beneath her. Her brothers, wild and unruly, seemed to revel in their baseness, their lives consumed by mindless indulgence. They were like animals, thoughtless and crude, their antics celebrated by their mother as if such barbarism were the pinnacle of boyhood. Guests in the house were subjected to this circus, and yet her mother did nothing to curb it, because the unreasonable actions of male children were somehow expected, no, celebrated.

Elara sighed. She should not let the actions of base creatures affect her countenance. She was Elara Windermere, after all, at least until the bards gave her a new title.

She shook herself and returned to her work.

The ancient texts spread before her, their pages remarkably well-preserved despite the centuries that must have passed. Unlike the decayed remnants in the antechamber, these vellum sheets were pristine, the finest she had ever seen, with threads of shimmering metal woven into the fabric of the parchment. The first time she had devoted her full attention to these books, it was the immaculate state of the pages that had captivated her, standing in stark contrast to the relics outside this chamber.

The metal threads had intrigued her from the beginning. Their purpose had eluded her for months, a mystery woven into the very fabric of the texts she now studied. But today—today she believed she was close to unraveling their secret.

Elara leaned closer to the vellum pages, her eyes narrowing as she traced the elegant script with her finger. The text was dense, the language archaic, yet it was the inscription on the wall that had first captured her attention when they had initially uncovered the chamber. At the time, the inscription had seemed like an impenetrable riddle, its meaning obscured by layers of forgotten syntax and obscure references. But as the weeks passed, and she immersed herself in the ancient texts, pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

Master Bertie and the Magistrate’s building both boasted relatively impressive collections of books for the size of the village. Elara was constantly surprised at the lack of security on such wealth every time she broke into either establishment to study. That is to say, Elara had a decent understanding of linguistics. The characters on the metal inscription were unlike any she had encountered before, each one a complex swirl of curves and sharp angles, etched deep into the wall. Further, the symbols flowed into one another, making any one identifiable character have seemingly infinite permutations. Combine this with the fact that she had a finite amount of characters in the language to work with; the writing on the wall, which was about 32 lines of text, and that same language when it appeared in the ancient books.

For months, the words had taunted her, their meaning slipping through her grasp like sand. But Elara was nothing if not persistent. She had taken rubbings of the inscription, carefully copying the strange characters onto parchment, and spent countless hours cross-referencing them with the texts she had found in the chamber.

It was her discovery, last month, that now changed everything.

When Elara shifted her focus from the individual characters to the overall structure of the inscription, a subtle pattern began to reveal itself. Every few lines, the script repeated certain symbols in a rhythmic sequence, almost like a refrain in an ancient ballad. The discovery sent a shiver down her spine. Intrigued, she had started to tap her fingers lightly against the cold stone wall, following the beat of the words as if they were a melody waiting to be uncovered. The cadence was unmistakable, with each line concluding in a similar phoneme, creating a rhythm that resonated deep within her. It was as if the inscription itself was singing, its ancient melody hidden within the repetitive structure and rhyming cadence of the symbols. The realization struck her like a bolt of lightning—this was no ordinary text.

The inscription on the wall was a song.

Elara had made the connection instantly, but it wasn’t about the text alone. She couldn’t brute-force her way through the remaining mysteries, but she knew exactly who had formed a peculiar bond with the metal. The thought brought a sly smile to her lips. It seemed she would have to call upon a certain someone again.

She wondered what Godfrey was up to this evening.