Dawn it was. The sky had just begun to turn grey from the depthless dark, the first colours of orange and gold illuminated the horizon as the sun was about to crawl higher on the firmament, with the first rays of light already peeking above the eastern mountains. Vardille stood still on the shore of Ghynal, toying with a pebble in one hand. Soon, the water would glisten in the morning light, shimmering as the last of the mist above its surface would dissipate in the warmth. He hurled the pebble, arm moving at his waist. He felt weirdly satisfied watching as it rippled across the water.

Vardille reached for his armour, unstrapping it. He let it fall onto the ground, stones and pebbles crunching. He pulled his long-sleeved leather coat over his shoulders, then took off his shirt. Chill morning air bit against his naked skin; he moved his shoulders to get his blood flow. Then he unbuckled his sword, pulled off both of his boots, loosened his belt, and got rid of his pants and underwear. He carefully lifted the pile with the scabbard and put it on a rock by the lake and tied up his hair. Breathing in a couple before bracing himself, he walked into the freezing lake, feeling the small stones stabbing at his feet with every step.

His body quivered the instant he stepped into the water. First he stopped when it swallowed his ankle; then again when it reached his knees. He tensed all his muscles as he commanded his body to carry on—but soon stopped again when the water would rise to his waist. Cold shook his body, but Vardille only sighed, deep. His fingers softly played on the surface of the water. He watched the gentle waves in his wake, around his body; the lake was clear as glass, he saw his toes with ease, curling in the cold. He had carefully gone around Ghynal and was on the side opposite the camp, so he did not need to use the part the citizens had already washed their dirt into the night before.

Nostalgia rushed at him in waves. Ice baths, as they had called it in the Order, had been a common practice to start the day. A little discomfort to bear; but bearing it made the mind at ease, called it in a tranquil state Vardille so desperately needed now.

True, though, he thought as he watched his hands trembling, I may have got unused to this practice. Uncle would laugh me at the face.

If he lived, that is.

‘That’s quite the view, vinedresser.’

Vardille, shunning all thoughts from his mind to do what would follow, quickly crouched, going underwater with only his head out of the lake. He slowly turned, fighting against the urge to stand again when he felt the stinging cold embracing his entire upper body, arms, chest, back, neck. Mjelgralah stood at the bank, hands on her hip, smiling.

The woman dared smile.

‘Have you been following me?’ Vardille asked with lips just above the water, making sure resentment was clear in his tone.

‘I may have. You did not check in to me yesterday. I found out you survived the dragon because Draggan let me know.’ She frowned. ‘When he brought the head of the beast along. He told me, “Nice job.” What have you—’

‘And so what, you watched me the whole night?’ Vardille interrupted the girl.

‘I heard someone fumbling among the tents in the morning, I decided to check it. I’d barely slept anyway.’

Vardille’s leg cramped; he groaned and knelt in the shallow water.

‘I am feeling quite uncomfortable now,’ Vardille muttered, surprised by his own honesty. ‘I don’t like engaging in fights naked.’

‘Do you have experience in that?’

Vardille remained silent, he struggled to massage his thigh. The wound was sealed, but it hurt nonetheless, and the cramp was not about to cease either.

‘All right, I see. It’s only fair if we have equal chances.’

Vardille’s eyes went wide open when Mjelgralah took off her fur coat and reached for her boots. She looked up, eyes narrow.

‘Perhaps if you turned, vinedresser.’

Vardille quickly averted his eyes, twitching his upper body. Focusing awkwardly on the bluebreast flying over the middle of the lake, he endeavoured to ignore the noises of buckles loosening, clothes flopping, and naked feet treading on pebbles. Then came the gentle splashes of water, the sound deepening with each step the chief took. Vardille felt the ripples she made flickering around him as a louder splash came practically from behind his back.

As the waves and the noise of the water died out around them, unfamiliar serenity fell upon Vardille. The bluebreast landed on a pile of driftwood floating a dozen feet away from them, its chirping only emphasising the peaceful silence instead of shattering it. Vardille cautiously brought water to his face, rubbing it all over.

‘How are you not freezing …’ he muttered. Mjelgralah’s voice bore a hint of joy from behind his back.

‘Stop complaining, it’s mild at worst. If you want to swim in a lake in Velardhar, you need to open a hole in the ice first.’

‘Is there anything green in your homeland at all?’

‘The southern regions are more-or-less green. Or brown. And muddy. Don’t expect to find much colour north of the Teeth. My clan resides in the Far-North, not so far from Winter’s Crown. You can imagine. There are lots of fjords, islets, and peninsulas, and I do find them beautiful, but …’ A faint splash. ‘There is a place we call the Plain. It’s an ever-growing ice field. There’s nothing but ice and fog. Quite unsettling.’

‘The way you speak I would assume you like Amrith.’

‘That’s a bit of a stretch, vinedresser. But truth be told, I love your weird trees. All those colours. They are interesting because they are … new. I rarely leave home.’ Another small splash. ‘Well. I never have.’

Vardille remained silent. The notion of “home” had long been ceased to exist in his vocabulary; the last time he could call a place such had been of times with the Order. Their hideout in Remdath, their keep. He forced himself to drown these thoughts—times of the past should not be let to corrupt the present.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

‘How many of the kingdoms have you been to?’ asked Mjelgralah quietly.

‘Many.’ It seemed the chief’s questions would target uncomfortable subjects. Vardille knew he could opt for avoiding the answers, lying outright, since continuing to tell her half-truths was an option hardly viable after the girl saw him fight using the style of the Lotus. But even though he was kneeling, he floated in the water, and the quasi weightlessness resonated with his soul. He wanted to be forthright this time. ‘The Twin kingdoms of Dath and Andoriel. I’ve been in Anlorn a couple of times, and once I had to visit Neryl.’

‘A nice score for a simple vinedresser.’

‘I’m no vinedresser,’ Vardille whispered. ‘I’m Vardille Reylynn, first captain of the Amrithean Royal Crownguard.’

The bluebreast stopped its serenade and flew away. Vardille could feel Mjelgralah was holding her breath, but he did not continue. If she asks, I’ll answer. He braced himself for what was coming. Mjelgralah would ask him what they had done on the slopes of the Ghatra, inevitably figuring out that quite possibly they were the reason those demons were after them, and then—

‘Not only that,’ the chief whispered after what seemed an eternity. ‘You are a Shadow. A knight of the Black Lotus,’ she prompted. It was not a question.

The serene silence of the lake changed; it was a different silence now, heavy, uncomfortable. Vardille had prepared for this question before, but he had never actually played out the conversation in his head.

‘I am not. At least,’ Vardille sighed, ‘not anymore.’ He turned his head, cautious. Mjelgralah sat in the water a little more than three feet apart, facing away, her auburn hair tied up, revealing a blue tattoo on the back of her neck. It was a symbol Vardille could not decipher; likely to be some Nordic runes. He stretched his arm to his side, above the water, slowly. ‘Look.’

Mjelgralah, as slow as he had been, turned her head, looking at his arm.

‘That’s an impressive arm, but I’m not sure what you want to show me.’

‘Exactly. You can’t see my veins. I was knight only by title. I haven’t been … anointed. There’re no gemstones in my body.’ Vardille pulled his arm back, under the water, and sank into silence.

Mjelgralah did not let him do so, her head still turned.

‘But you own that sword.’

‘I do.’

‘How was it? The first time?’

Vardille peeked behind his back. The girl stared at the morning sky, azure now in the sun’s glorious rays.

‘Easier than I thought,’ Vardille answered, knowing what the chief’s question was. He owned that sword because he earned it. In the Order of the Black Lotus, swords were earned through but one way.

Mjelgralah slowly nodded; that was a nod of complete resignation. Her shoulders slumped and she sank even deeper under the water, chin touching the surface.

‘I aspire to be Warchief one day,’ she whispered. Vardille panicked when he saw tears welling up in her eyes. ‘The Warchief of Velardhar is to manage all warring campaigns, both internal and external. I have never … I had never … killed a person before that night in the town. How could I order others to do it after knowing what it feels like?’

‘Those were demons, not humans—’

‘That’s just not the point,’ Mjelgralah shook her head. She looked Vardille in the eye over her shoulder, a drop of tear now leaving a trail on her face. ‘Does it get any easier?’

Vardille blinked. He was the last person to console another human being. He sighed and turned to face Mjelgralah with his whole body.

‘It does. And it’s wrong. But this is how our world is. Behemoths crawl the lands, destroying cities, tearing apart women and children. And yet there will always be humans who’ll slay each other.’ He swallowed. ‘If you are to be Warchief, you may stop this. You may bring upon a future in which your people are not seen as evil or inhumane. You may wield that power wisely. Break the wheel if you’re suffocating among the practices and traditions of your kin. Bring forth the change you want to see. It is no sin to break with traditions for the sake of a higher purpose.’

It took a real exertion for Vardille to keep a straight face, not to let his voice tremble. Lies, lies, lies!

Mjelgralah snuffed, dabbed her face with her hands, then sighed and turned away from Vardille.

‘Thank you, vinedresser. For telling me the truth. And thank you for … this. I’m just not convinced I can carry this burden for long.’

Vardille sighed. Then, an idea popped into his mind, and he slowly stretched his arm under the water.

‘Well,’ he began in a voice as serious as he could manage. ‘There is … a practice used in the Order for situations we cannot handle by ourselves.’

Mjelgralah lifted her head in curiosity, turning her face sideways, eyes still red from crying. ‘I’m not sure I need your black practices, vinedresser.’

‘It’s not for the faint of heart.’ Vardille lowered his voice and kept his hand just below the surface of the water. ‘The first time they introduced me to it, I almost fainted.’

‘Come on, vinedresser, stop teasing and spit it out.’

‘Much obliged.’

He swung his hand, gaining momentum, and at the last moment he brought his hand up, pouring a large wave of water into Mjelgralah’s neck.

The girl squealed, instinctively jerking up her hands. Amid the wake of the water’s haze, she mimicked Vardille’s move with both hands; tremendous amount of water washed over the man.

‘You’ve ruined my hair!’

‘I think we’re even,’ laughed Vardille as he combed his wet hair back from his face with his fingers.

‘We’re even when I say so!’

Mjelgralah splattered water into his face again. Before Vardille could launch a counterattack, the girl lay onto the surface of the water and began swimming away, towards the middle of the lake.

‘Second is to break down the other’s tent!’ she shouted, swinging great lengths with her arms. Vardille smiled. This was a challenge he took gladly.

A tingling sensation ran through his body when he caught a glance of Mjelgralah’s naked legs and back, appearing from the water while she swam—or when the chief splashed at him with both hands, forgetting to keep her chest under the water for a moment. Vardille shattered the thoughts and feelings inside him, easily, as if he wielded the chief’s war hammer. He did not see Mjelgralah that way. He felt their connection was to be different than that of the flesh. To spot these bare moments was primal instinct, as natural as the sun’s waking and setting every day, and as such, he had learnt to extenuate—or completely disregard—these instincts.

He sprang forward, giving as much effort into swimming as he could manage.

Vardille was glad Mjelgralah had seemingly accepted him. Even if she had connected all of it along the way. It felt better to live without lies.

But he was also glad that the girl did not ask why he had left the Order. How could he possibly explain that he failed to do the very same thing he advised her? That he wanted to make the Order a better place and failed miserably?

That he killed Grandmaster Reylynn?