The dining hall was a vast, open space carved into the stone, its smooth walls adorned with intricate carvings of flowing vines and leaves. Warm light flickered from oil lanterns and carefully placed braziers, their flames casting soft, shifting shadows across the chamber. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted mushrooms, spiced tubers, and something faintly sweet that Rowen couldn’t identify.
Rowen and Illinca sat at a long, low table near the center of the hall, wearing the simple, flowing garments the Nythari had provided. The fabric, though unfamiliar in texture, was light and comfortable, dyed in earthy greens and browns that blended seamlessly with the surroundings. Around them, the Nythari moved gracefully, their fluid motions like part of a carefully choreographed dance. Conversations in their melodic language filled the air, the voices rising and falling like music.
Rowen glanced at Illinca, who was observing everything with a quiet intensity. “They’re… different,” Rowen murmured under her breath.
Illinca nodded slightly, her green eyes flicking toward a group of Nythari weaving garlands of pale flowers, their fingers deft and precise. “Not just different,” she whispered back. “Their entire way of life is… harmonious. Everything feels connected.”
Before Rowen could respond, Mweya approached their table, her rich brown fur catching the firelight. She carried herself with the same quiet authority as before, her amber eyes scanning the room before settling on Rowen and Illinca. With a slight bow of her head, she began to speak.
“Guests from the surface,” Mweya said, her voice warm and steady, though her accented tone carried an edge of formality. “You honor us with your presence. It is rare for the Nythari to host those from above.”
Rowen shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. “Thank you,” she said simply, her voice subdued.
Mweya’s lips curved into a faint smile. “The Grovekeeper will speak shortly. For now, eat and rest. You have endured much.”
Rowen nodded, glancing at the platter before her. The roasted mushrooms were golden and fragrant, their edges crisped to perfection. A bowl of spiced tubers steamed beside them, their earthy aroma mingling with the faint sweetness of a pale, syrupy drink.
As she took her first bite, Rowen couldn’t help but sigh. The flavors were rich and layered, far beyond anything she’d expected from an underground village. Illinca seemed equally appreciative, though her focus remained on observing the Nythari around them.
The room quieted as Nhamo stepped forward, his silvery fur catching the firelight like molten metal. The Grovekeeper’s presence was commanding, his movements deliberate as he took his place at the head of the hall.
“Brothers and sisters,” Nhamo began, his voice deep and resonant, carrying easily through the chamber. “Tonight, we welcome guests to our home. They come from the surface, a place distant from our own, and yet they have been brought to us by paths unseen.”
Rowen felt the weight of his words settle over her, a mix of reverence and curiosity rippling through the gathered Nythari. Nhamo’s gaze shifted to her and Illinca, his amber eyes sharp yet kind.
“You have journeyed far,” he continued, his tone softening slightly. “And your path ahead is fraught with peril. But for now, it is closed to you.”
Rowen frowned, her confusion mounting. “Closed?” she echoed, sitting straighter. “What do you mean?”
“The path to the surface,” Nhamo explained, his hands spreading in a calm, measured gesture, “is not always open. It is not simply a door to be unlocked. The spirits of the earth guard it, and they must be entreated to grant passage. This requires time and preparation.”
“How much time?” Illinca asked, her tone sharper than Rowen had expected.
Nhamo’s gaze shifted to her, his expression unchanging. “Several days. The ritual to commune with the spirits is not rushed, for they do not heed those who demand rather than ask.”
Rowen’s chest tightened. She exchanged a quick glance with Illinca, who was frowning deeply. “We can’t stay that long,” Rowen said, her voice rising with urgency. “People are depending on us.”
Nhamo inclined his head, his expression calm but firm. “And if you leave without the spirits’ favor, you will be lost to the endless depths of the Kuvv’ndrun. You cannot save anyone if you perish.”
A memory surfaced unbidden: the rushing river in the dark cavern, her hands slipping on wet stone, Illinca's desperate grip the only thing keeping her from being swept away. The helplessness of that moment burned in her chest—a different kind of heat from the ember that sometimes stirred within her. They had survived by luck, not skill. By chance, not preparation.
Her fingers unconsciously traced the edge of her wooden cup. The Nythari moved around her with purpose, each motion deliberate, each interaction carefully considered. They weren't just surviving; they were thriving in a world that would crush anyone unprepared.
The mission weighed on her—people suffering, waiting, depending on her return. But what good was she if she arrived broken or dead? Rowen's gaze drifted to Mweya, watching the Nythari's fluid movements. Something inside her shifted. Not surrender, but a different kind of resolve.
When the opportunity came, she would be ready.
Rowan’s head dipped slightly, and she let out a long breath. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “We’ll stay.”
“Good,” Nhamo said simply, his tone softening. “Use this time wisely. Prepare yourselves for the journey ahead. We will guide you as best we can.”
The room filled with soft applause, the Nythari’s delicate hands tapping against the stone table. Rowen sat back, her thoughts swirling even as the warmth of the firelight and the richness of the food lulled her into a brief moment of calm.
The feast had wound down, the last of the platters cleared as the hum of conversation softened into a comfortable murmur. Rowen sat back, her fingers absently tracing the edge of the simple wooden cup in her hands. The warmth of the meal still lingered, but her thoughts were far from the table. The weight of the mission ahead gnawed at her, an insistent reminder of the people depending on her.
Illinca, sitting beside her, broke the silence. “You’ve been quiet,” she said softly, her green eyes studying Rowen’s face.
Rowen gave a faint shrug, her gaze drifting toward the flickering lanterns hanging from the ceiling. “Just… thinking,” she muttered. “We’re stuck here, waiting on a ritual. It feels like a waste of time.”
Before Illinca could respond, Mweya approached their table, her graceful movements as silent as ever. She inclined her head politely. “Rowen, Illinca,” she greeted, her voice warm yet steady. “The Grovekeeper asked me to check on you.”
Rowen straightened slightly, her brow furrowing. “We’re fine,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly. “Just… figuring out what to do while we wait.”
Mweya’s sharp amber eyes lingered on Rowen for a moment, as though weighing her words. “Waiting does not mean doing nothing,” she said simply. “There are ways to use this time wisely.”
Rowen frowned. “What do you mean?”
Mweya stepped closer, her tone calm but deliberate. “You carry a fire within you, Rowen. I saw it when you first arrived. But fire without control burns indiscriminately. If you are to face the dangers of the Kuvv’ndrun, and beyond, you must learn to wield that fire with purpose.”
Rowen’s fingers tightened around the edge of the cup. “You mean fighting.”
Mweya nodded. “I mean balance. Precision. Strength guided by discipline. You have the will to act, but you lack the tools. If you wish, I can teach you the spear. It is a weapon of reach and finesse, well-suited to one with untapped potential.”
Rowen’s first instinct was to refuse. The thought of staying longer already sat uneasily with her, and training felt like a distraction from their true goal. “We don’t have time for this,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration. “Every day we spend here is another day those people are suffering.”
Mweya’s gaze didn’t waver. “And if you face their captors unprepared? Would your resolve be enough to save them, or would it lead only to your death?”
The bluntness of the words made Rowen flinch. She opened her mouth to argue, but the memory of the river and the cavern—the helplessness she’d felt—rose unbidden. She glanced at Illinca, who had been watching the exchange in silence.
Illinca finally spoke, her voice gentle but firm. “Rowen, we’re stuck here until the Nythari open the path to the surface. That gives us a few days. You might as well use them to learn something that could save your life—and theirs.”
Rowen let out a slow breath, her shoulders sagging slightly. She hated the truth in their words, hated the thought of sitting idle or feeling weak. Finally, she looked back at Mweya. “Fine,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll do it.”
Mweya inclined her head, her expression softening. “Good. We’ll begin at dawn.”
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With that, she turned and strode away, leaving Rowen to stare at the flickering lanterns overhead. Illinca placed a hand on her shoulder, her touch grounding. “You’ll thank her for this later,” she said softly.
Rowen didn’t reply. She simply stared into the firelight, her mind churning with unease and determination.
The training area was quiet except for the soft crackle of nearby braziers and the steady flow of the underground river. Rowen planted her feet in the dirt, the spear in her hands growing heavier with each passing moment. Sweat dripped from her forehead as she adjusted her grip, her muscles already aching from the repetitive drills.
Mweya circled her like a hawk, her sharp amber eyes catching every flaw in Rowen’s stance. “Feet wider. You need stability,” she said, tapping the butt of her spear against Rowen’s ankle. “If you lose balance, you lose everything.”
Rowen exhaled sharply and adjusted her footing. The spear felt awkward in her hands, its weight foreign, its balance elusive. She thrust forward, trying to mimic the fluid motion Mweya had demonstrated earlier.
“No,” Mweya said firmly, stepping closer. “You’re rushing. This isn’t about speed. Step, extend, retract—all in one controlled movement.”
Rowen gritted her teeth, her frustration building. “I’m trying.”
“Trying isn’t enough,” Mweya replied, her tone calm but unyielding. “Again.”
Rowen inhaled deeply and reset her stance, her legs trembling from the effort. She stepped forward, thrusting the spear with more focus this time. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt smoother.
Mweya nodded faintly. “Better. Now again. A hundred times.”
Rowen’s eyes widened. “A hundred?”
Mweya’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Discipline is forged through repetition. If you want the spear to feel like an extension of your body, you must train it into your bones. Begin.”
With a groan, Rowen complied, the spear slicing through the air as she moved through the drill. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she kept going, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Mweya corrected her form at intervals, her words sharp but encouraging.
“Your grip is too tight. Loosen it.”
“Extend fully. Don’t hold back.”
“Focus. Your mind must guide your body.”
By the time she finished the hundredth thrust, Rowen’s arms felt like lead, and her legs threatened to give out beneath her. She leaned on the spear for support, panting heavily.
As Rowen lowered her spear, chest heaving, Mweya stepped closer. Instead of another correction, she spoke softly, her amber eyes distant.
"A weapon is never just metal and wood," she said, her voice carrying a rhythm like the underground river. "It is an extension of intention. Like the roots that grow through stone, like water that finds its path through the smallest cracks—true power is not about force, but about understanding."
She touched the shaft of Rowen's spear, her fingers tracing its length. "Each movement has a purpose beyond its immediate action. You do not simply thrust—you create a path, you respond to the space around you."
Rowen frowned. "It feels impossible to be that precise."
Mweya's lips curved into the faintest smile. "First, you learn to guide yourself. The spear teaches discipline. Discipline teaches awareness. Awareness becomes mastery." Her gaze locked with Rowen's. "A skilled hunter does not fight the forest—they move within it."
Rowen nodded. “I...think I understand.”
Mweya smiled, her own spear held loosely at her side. “Good. Now we move to defense.”
Rowen groaned softly. “You’re serious?”
“Always,” Mweya replied, her expression unreadable. “A warrior who can attack but not defend is already dead.”
Rowen straightened reluctantly, gripping her spear tighter. “Fine. What do I do?”
Mweya raised her spear, pointing it toward Rowen. “Watch my movements. Anticipate. Use your weapon to deflect mine. Do not try to overpower—redirect.”
Before Rowen could ask for more instructions, Mweya lunged. The thrust was controlled but swift, aimed for Rowen’s midsection. Rowen barely managed to block it, the shaft of her spear vibrating from the impact.
“Again,” Mweya said, pulling back and striking again, this time at Rowen’s shoulder.
Rowen stumbled, her arms shaking as she deflected the blow. Mweya’s strikes came faster now, forcing Rowen to move her feet, to adjust her grip and angle with each attack. The rhythm was relentless, and every miss earned a sharp reprimand.
“Too slow. Focus.”
“Step back. Don’t let me corner you.”
“Your stance—fix it.”
Rowen’s frustration boiled over as she blocked another strike, her grip tightening on the spear. “I’m trying!”
“And you’re improving,” Mweya said, her tone firm but not unkind. “But not enough. Again.”
Hours passed. Rowen’s muscles screamed with exhaustion, her breaths ragged as she fought to keep up. The once-awkward spear began to feel more familiar in her hands, though her movements were still far from smooth. Sweat soaked her clothes, and her vision blurred with fatigue, but she refused to stop.
Finally, Mweya stepped back, lowering her spear. “You’re stubborn,” she said, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “That will serve you well.”
Rowen collapsed to one knee, gasping for air. “Are… we done?”
“Not yet,” Mweya replied, her tone sharpening. “Now, defend yourself.”
Rowen barely had time to react before Mweya lunged again, her strikes faster and more forceful than before. Rowen stumbled back, her arms trembling as she blocked and parried. Every movement felt heavier, her body dragging under the weight of exhaustion.
Then it happened.
As Mweya’s spear swept toward her side, Rowen’s legs gave out, and panic surged through her chest. The ember she had carried since the Chamber of Auryndar flared to life, spreading through her body in a wave of searing heat.
The world seemed to slow. Rowen’s grip on the spear steadied, her arms no longer heavy but alive with strength. She moved without thought, her body surging forward with speed and precision she hadn’t known was possible. Her spear met Mweya’s with a sharp crack, deflecting the strike effortlessly. She stepped into the motion, countering with a thrust that forced Mweya to retreat.
For a brief, shining moment, Rowen felt invincible. Every movement flowed seamlessly into the next, her strikes sharp, her blocks unshakable. Mweya’s amber eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable as she adjusted her stance to meet Rowen’s newfound strength.
The ember wasn't just warmth anymore. It was liquid lightning coursing through her veins, transforming each muscle fiber into something electric and alive. For those breathless moments, Rowen didn't just feel the power—she became the power.
Time stretched and compressed simultaneously. She could see every minute adjustment of Mweya's stance before the movement happened, could anticipate the trajectory of the spear with impossible clarity. Her body moved not by conscious thought, but by something deeper—a primal understanding that transcended training. Each strike felt like a conversation with something ancient, something that lived beneath her skin.
When the surge receded, it left behind a profound emptiness. Not just physical exhaustion, but a spiritual hollowness—as if something magnificent had momentarily possessed her and then deliberately withdrawn. The ember retreated to her chest, now feeling smaller, more contained. But changed. Waiting.
Her hands trembled, not from weakness, but from the lingering memory of that extraordinary connection. She understood now that this was more than a power. It was a relationship—one she was only beginning to comprehend.
Mweya lowered her weapon, stepping closer. “What was that?” she asked, her voice calm but edged with curiosity.
Rowen shook her head, her chest heaving. “I don’t… I don’t know. It felt like fire.”
Mweya studied her for a long moment before crouching beside her. “It is powerful,” she said softly. “But dangerous without control.”
Rowen nodded weakly, pressing a trembling hand to her chest, where the ember had settled back into its steady warmth. “It just… happened.”
Mweya placed a hand on Rowen’s shoulder, her grip firm but steady. “We will train. Control takes time. But for now, rest.”
Rowen allowed herself to be helped to her feet, leaning heavily on Mweya as they made their way back toward the village. Her body felt like it might collapse at any moment, but her mind churned with questions and a growing sense of unease. Whatever had awakened within her, it was clear she couldn’t ignore it.
Later that evening, Rowen made her way to the bathhouse, her body aching from the day’s training. The walk through the quiet village was slow and measured, every step a reminder of the hours she’d spent under Mweya’s watchful eye. When she reached the rounded stone building nestled by the river, the warmth of the steam wafting from its entrance was a welcome reprieve.
Inside, the air was thick with humidity, carrying the earthy scent of mineral-rich water. Soft lantern light flickered across the polished walls, and the bubbling of the hot spring filled the space with a soothing rhythm. Rowen slid into the pool with a sigh, the heat seeping into her muscles and easing the tension that had built up over the day. She leaned her head back against the smooth stone edge and closed her eyes, letting herself relax for the first time in what felt like days.
The faint sound of footsteps broke the stillness, and a moment later, Illinca’s familiar voice echoed softly through the chamber. “You look like you’ve been through a war.”
Rowen opened one eye, her lips curling into a wry smile. “Feels like it.”
Illinca stepped closer, her white fur shimmering faintly in the dim light. She set down a folded cloth and a small bowl filled with a paste that smelled of herbs and earth. “Here,” she said, crouching beside the pool. “The Nythari gave me this. They said it helps with sore muscles.”
Rowen arched an eyebrow but took the bowl without protest. She dipped her fingers into the paste and began rubbing it into her arms. The coolness of the herbs was an immediate contrast to the heat of the water, and the ache in her muscles began to ease almost at once. “Remind me to thank them,” she muttered.
Illinca chuckled and sat cross-legged on the stone beside the pool. “How was training?”
Rowen let out a long sigh, sinking lower into the water. “Hard. Mweya is relentless, but she knows her stuff. I’m terrible with the spear, though.”
Illinca tilted her head, her green eyes sharp with curiosity. “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
Rowen’s brow furrowed, her voice heavy with frustration. “I can’t get the movements right. It feels like my body isn’t listening to me. Mweya says it’ll come with practice, but…” She trailed off, her gaze distant.
“But?” Illinca prompted, her tone soft.
Rowen hesitated before speaking. “Something happened while we were training. It wasn’t just me getting better—I felt… different. Like there was this fire in me, and it made everything easier. Stronger. Faster. But it didn’t last. When it faded, I could barely stand.”
Illinca straightened, her ears twitching. “The fire. Like what you described from the Chamber of Auryndar?”
Rowen nodded slowly. “Yeah. But this time, it wasn’t just warmth in my chest—it spread through me, like I could do anything. And then it was gone, and I felt… hollow.”
Illinca frowned, her tail flicking thoughtfully behind her. “It sounds like his gift—or maybe something he awakened in you.”
Rowen shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what it is, or how to control it. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
Illinca was quiet for a moment, her tail flicking thoughtfully. "It's not just about the power," she said finally, her voice contemplative. "The way the Nythari move, the way they speak of their connection to this place—it's different from any magic I've seen."
Rowen raised an eyebrow, intriged. "Different how?"
Illinca's green eyes seemed to look inward. "With them, it's not about controlling something external. It's about understanding the connection—between yourself, the earth, the spirits." She paused, then added, "Your ember feels similar. Not a weapon to be wielded, but a relationship to be understood."
The insight hung in the air, making Rowen feel both more and less certain about the strange power growing within her. She let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Then we’ll figure it out together,” Illinca said firmly. “One step at a time.”
Rowen met her gaze, the tension in her chest easing slightly. “Thanks.”
Illinca smiled faintly and gestured toward the pool. “Finish relaxing. You’ll need it for whatever Mweya throws at you tomorrow.”
Rowen chuckled softly, sinking back into the water. “If I survive tomorrow, I’ll consider it a win.”
The two lapsed into a comfortable silence, the bubbling of the hot spring and the faint glow of lanterns creating a moment of calm amidst the chaos of their journey. For now, it was enough.