The road to the Top was barely usable. Felor suspected it might have been well-traveled in the past, but now weeds plagued the dirt, and rocks and boulders stood in his way, hoping for him to trip. The trees were so dense he could barely see fifteen feet beyond the road; the leaves overhead caught the rays of the sun, shading the world below and tinting everything in purple.
Felor remembered a time when he had trouble navigating it, but now, his body memorized the correct steps, moving before he could even think of what to do next. A step between two angled rocks, a hop over a patch of tall grass where a hidden hole lay... He considered it a dance, and Felor found himself caught in its moves. He was moving in a rhythm when his foot hit a stone step.
The rest of the way wasn’t as perilous; the only remaining obstacles were cracks and chips in the stone, and long strands of pink moss crawling here and there, ready for Felor to slip on if he wasn’t careful. As he climbed higher on the steps, he could hear the morning bustle of the neighboring village. Ascending above the treetops, the purple tint receded, revealing the weathered gray of the stone. Felor felt his skin tingle as the sun kissed his face, while the wind grew rougher with each step, making his brown tunic flutter wildly in the gusts.
Despite the winter chills, Felor was sweating by the time he reached the peak. The Top was a small plateau, about thirty feet across, crowned with lush grass and highlights of red-orange-yellow poppy flowers that danced like flames in the wind. Across from Felor, at the far end of the Top, stood a lone Kiiritan tree; one of its branches was missing, and Felor’s hand—the one holding Blossom—seemed to warm as he noticed the stump. Wedged in the dirt at the tree’s base was a green wooden sword, weathered with chips and pockmarked with holes on a surface that had once been smoothed to perfection. Etched on one side of the blade was “Grassweaver,” and on the other, “Folaria.”
Save for the foliage and wildlife, the Top was empty; she wasn’t there. Of course she isn’t here. What else were you expecting? Felor said to himself. With a sigh, he made his way to the edge, settling upon an exposed root of the Kiiritan tree, and absorbed the warm coldness of the winter’s sunrise. Below him, a hundred feet down, a sea of purple-leaved trees rippled, and spots of Nameless Villages stood like islands. Miles north of the Top, a much larger mountain towered over the valley, its peak shrouded in morning mist. Beyond it lay the Highblood towns and cities, and the emerald ocean leading to the sister isles of his own Xylovar: Drakonis, Azura, and Thallan. Raena had once told him of the trees with bark and leaves of every hue imaginable that lived in the lands beyond the mountain—whose name he always forgot—and Felor imagined standing at its peak, gazing at the undulating rainbow below.
Yet, he had no choice but to stay confined to this side of the mountain; his purple prison. Felor had a clear view of the Nameless Village closest to the Top. Despite the time, it was stirring with life: the market bustled with activity as people bartered, bargained, and sometimes stole food, while children darted through the streets and disappeared into alleyways between wooden structures. Across the square, a girl of his age leaped for joy outside the Writ’s building. Felor squinted against the brightening sun, studying her closely.
The girl danced, swinging her wooden sword with an undisciplined flair—like a child without care. Her parents stood behind her, cheering and clapping her on. Then it struck him; that was her Eshara. Likely no more than an hour before, she entered the Writ’s building with her parents, where she spoke the Unelan name of her blade to the Writ. In return, the Writ provided her parents with two written scripts: one in Unelan and the other in the corresponding Ilfrit, describing the Unelan text—never a direct translation, gods forbid a Lowblood learn any Ilfrit. Afterward, her parents etched the two names onto the blade, though they couldn’t read either script or understand the meaning of the Ilfrit.
Today marked the beginning of the Tournament of the Isles. It was Xylovar’s turn to host the event, and the Nameless Villages were bustling with preparations for the journey to the land beyond the mountain where the tournament would take place. As if on cue, dozens of horse-drawn wagons rolled into the square. They were uncanny; made of some white metal, though the wagons had the shape, texture, and cut of wood. Painted on their sides in gold was the royal starred wreath of the Unelan Kingdom. The Unelan Kingdom. These were wagons chartered by the crown itself to transport Lowbloods to the tournament; participants and spectators alike. While the Unelan Kingdom didn’t distinguish between Highbloods and Lowbloods, the traditions of the Ilfrin Archipelago persisted.
Felor grew bitter. He was no Highblood. Nor was he even a Lowblood: humans deemed lesser by those who pranced on the land beyond the mountain. To everyone else, he was merely a “thing,” an “unclaimed boy,” an “abandoned,” a “disgrace,” a Kalthorin. Felor had no clue what that meant, but he heard the way Lowbloods say it; calling him a word they also did not understand. Their voices were like venom, spitting with enough hatred to poison a flower, if flowers had ears.
Yet, in what way was he different from the children beyond the mountain, or the girl with her new Eshara? He shared the same raven-black hair and sky-blue eyes as every other Ilfrinian in the Archipelago. He could cut the girl’s arm that held her Eshara, and it would bleed the same crimson that ran within himself. So how was he any different? So what if he never knew or had a father?
He should have been in those wagons. He should have been the one with an Eshara. He should have been among the many competing in the tournament. He had bled; he had cried, and he had trained through blizzards sent from the gods. He deserved to compete. According to Unelan decree, status should not have mattered, and they should have allowed him to compete at the tournament. It was those damn Highbloods, Lowbloods, and everyone else on these Isles who made sure he couldn’t get an Eshara, who made sure he remembered what he was: a Kalthorin—the gods damn Unelan decree.
His rage burned deep inside him, the flames a solid black. Felor felt the heat tingling his body, his skin seemingly rumbling with a tumultuous rhythm. He would use these flames, of course. He always used these flames, but this time they were too intense, too hot and too wild to use properly. He let out a deep sigh, trying to forget about the tournament, the Eshara—everything. Yet, he couldn’t let it all go. His rage still burned.
Felor tended to his flames like a farmer, wetting the spots that were too dry. You’re a Kalthorin, and nothing can change that. He worked his rage like a stonemason, chiseling away at rough impurities to shape something desirable. You can cut anyone, and they will bleed just like the ugliest Kalthorin. He manipulated his darkness like a painter, mixing and changing colors where needed. Kalthorin do not fight in tournaments. Yet Felor found he couldn’t alter the flame’s color; it didn’t make sense—it wasn’t fair. He left the fire burning, dark yet contained. The rumble on his skin persisted, but it was soft and steady, like a cat’s purr.
Felor gripped Blossom with both hands and leveled her in front of him.
As he had done in the darkness of the cave, Felor stepped forward with his left foot and slashed diagonally upwards in an arc. His blade whooshed as it cut through the air.
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The Blossom Unfolds.
He brought his blade down towards the right side of his body. Pivoting on his left foot, he swung out with his right foot, bringing the blade with him in a horizontal sweep.
The Sweeping Petal.
Stepping forward with his right foot, Felor thrust his sword straight ahead. The taller grass around him fluttered at the speed of his strike.
The Flower’s Thorn.
Felor shifted his weight back onto his left foot and raised his sword diagonally. He imagined an enemy’s blade raining down, blocked by his own.
The Stem.
Suddenly, he made a flourished sidestep to his right, bringing his sword in to parry and move past an imaginary opponent.
The Blossom Drifts in the Wind.
Planting his right foot into the ground, Felor brought the blade up before slashing it down, focusing the force through the edge.
The Petal Descends.
Felor spun on the ball of his right foot, the wetness of the grass making it easier to accelerate, and brought his sword around in a wide arc to clear space.
The Blossom Spins.
These were the Seven Foundations of Felor’s Petal Style Sword Art. They served as a basis for many other moves that would come to him as he fought. Felor moved based on how he felt, letting his emotions carry him like a petal in the wind. The Foundations instilled discipline during his training while also ensuring he maintained his fluid style in the heat of battle—if battle were to come.
With his body honed from thousands of training sessions before, Felor hardly broke a sweat as he finished running through his Foundations. However, his flame still raged within him, and his skin felt like it was rippling with the intensity of lightning strikes. Felor sensed something deeper than the flames and rage; it was urging him to do something, to use the heat and ripples to...
“By the mercy of the gods, is that Felor the Ferocious?”
The sound of a voice as soft as silk and as sweet as honey doused the flames of his rage, sending that mysterious urging deeper into the depths of his body until its presence was no longer felt.
Felor turned towards the sound and saw her. Her black hair, tied into a meticulous braid, hung over her shoulders, a few strands loose from her climb up. Twined within the braid was a blue thread, zigzagging back and forth until it reached the end. A few strands of hair fell in front of her face, framing her wide eyes the same color as the blue moon just a few days prior. A black silk cloak draped over her body, held in place by a metallic-blue clasp depicting a crown above a mountain. The gusts of wind teased at her cloak, revealing glimpses of the blue tunic beneath.
“L-Lady Cyraena,” Felor murmured, bending into a bow so deep it would’ve made any Highblood smile. Except she didn’t smile.
“Save it, Felor. Or should I say Felor the Foolish?“ Cyraena snapped. “Where in seven hells have you been?”
Felor’s heart dropped. He had been so absorbed in making Blossom that he never even thought to mention it to Raena. The last time he saw her was six nights ago, the night before the blue moon.
Cyraena glanced at the empty space where a branch might have been in the Kiiritan tree behind him, and then at the sword he held in his hands. “I thought as much,” she said.
Her face softened, her pink lips forming a frown. The sight of it tore Felor’s heart in two.
“I was here during the blue moon,” she whispered. “You missed your own birthday.”
The intense flame Felor had felt minutes earlier was gone, not even a wisp remaining. He couldn’t meet her eyes and instead gazed at a poppy swaying near his feet.
“Raena... I’m sorry,” he managed to say.
“Enough,” she replied. Felor felt her silk cloak brush his arm as she walked past him and settled onto the exposed root he had sat on before. He stood for a while, watching her braid flutter in the wind, her cloak swaying to the left with each gust. Though draped in black, she was a bright star against the sea of purple beneath them.
Raena tapped the wood next to her to gesture for Felor, stripping him out of his daze. Reluctantly, he settled down beside her. For a while, they shared no words; only the rustling of leaves above them and the grass behind them teased their silence. Felor watched the villagers beneath scramble into white caravans, their mouths screaming words of excitement, but he could not hear them.
Not wanting the silence to linger any longer, Felor asked, “How’d you know I’d be here?”
Raena’s eyes shot up, glaring at him with none of her usual warmth. “Are you serious, Felor?”
Felor let out a weak smile as he met her gaze. “You’re right,” he said sheepishly. “But we always meet under the light of the moon. It can’t be a coincidence we ran into each other at sunrise...”
Raena moved closer, the loose strands of her hair tickling his face; they smelled of mint. Felor’s face reddened as he tried to turn away, but Raena held his head in place, forcing him to look at her. “I’ve been here every day,” she said sternly. “But yes, it was a bit of a coincidence.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “The night after the blue moon, your birthday, you weren’t here either. I’ve just been alternating between day and night since then.”
She released his face and turned towards the purple ocean below. “You practically live here, you know. I was bound to run into you, eventually.”
Every day... Felor thought. His heart burned with guilt, but he couldn’t find the words to say in response, so silence consumed them again. After a while, Raena shook her head and let out a deep sigh.
“No matter,” she said, her tone brighter than before. She turned to him, her lips spreading into a wide grin. “Happy birthday, Felor.”
It was too much for him, and he felt his eyes grow wet. “Thanks,” he croaked.
“So,” Raena said, standing up. “You made a sword. Why?”
Felor felt embarrassed. His reasons for making Blossom seemed so childish, but he wasn’t about to lie after already disappointing her. “I thought that if I made one, it would be worth some recognition, and they’d let me bear an Eshara. Stupid, I know.”
“Kalthorin don’t bear an Eshara,” she answered immediately. “They would never even give you a chance to hold one. You should know that by now.”
Felor dropped his gaze. It hurt. She was right—he knew she was right—but it still hurt. Kalthorin don’t have an Eshara; that’s just how it was. It was time for him to grow up.
“But I’m not like the ‘they’ you speak of,” Raena said with such warmth Felor forgot it was winter. “And, gods damn the Kalthorin. Who is to say what you can or cannot have? Give me your sword.”
Felor was at a loss for words. He shook his head, “It’s just a sword, there’s no-“
“Felor, do you want to compete at the Tournament of the Isles?”
He scoffed, “It doesn’t matter what I want, I ca-“
“Do you want to compete?”
Raena stared at him, and although she still smiled, he could tell she was dead serious. Felor weighed her question carefully. Memories flooded back: nights alone in that cave, in the woods bordering Nameless Villages, cast out and beaten for being a Kalthorin. He remembered a Highblood girl of fourteen on an expedition to his side of the mountain. She found that boy in tears outside that cave where his mother lay beaten half to death. He remembered how she took him to the Top, teaching him the moves along the way. Standing up there, wind tousling his hair, drying his tears, he felt a little less alone. She had been there.
“Yes. I want to. More than anything. Ever since the day you told me of Lowbloods winning and earning a spot in the Unelan Schools.”
Cyraena’s smile grew wider, and her eyes sparkled like sapphires under the sun. “I know. You have always talked about it.” Then she reached out her hand.
“Give me your sword.”