As Agneyastra's eyes fluttered open, she found herself bathed in the soft, golden light of the morning sun streaming through her window. Stretching her arms above her head, she gracefully rose from her bed, the silken sheets cascading behind her like a waterfall of dreams.
The room around her was a symphony of colors, filled with rich tapestries and intricate carvings. Her closet stood before her like a treasure trove, bursting with custom-made dresses in every hue imaginable. With a delicate hand, she selected a gown the color of freshly bloomed roses, its fabric whispering as she slipped it over her slender frame.
In front of the ornate mirror, Agneyastra's reflection gazed back at her, her eyes filled with a quiet determination. She reached for a satin ribbon, a shimmering pink to match her gown, intending to tie it into her flowing locks. But as she struggled with the intricate bow, her fingers fumbling in the delicate strands of her hair, she couldn't help but smile at the simple challenge before her.
With a quiet laugh, she met her own gaze in the mirror, a spark of mischief dancing in her eyes. A soft, almost hesitant knock reverberates through the wooden door of Agneyastra's bedroom. The door creaks open, revealing Pyla standing in the threshold, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and curiosity. Agneyastra stands before the ornate mirror, her long, fiery locks tangled and unruly as she attempts to corral them into a simple updo.
Pyla moves closer to Agneyastra, the soft fabric of her robes rustling gently with each step. Her presence is both comforting and steadfast as she reaches out a hand towards Agneyastra's hair, a silent offer of assistance hanging in the air between them, her hair turns back black.
“Let me help you,” Pyla murmurs, her voice a soothing melody in the otherwise still room. Agneyastra turns to meet Pyla's gaze in the mirror, a flicker of gratitude and vulnerability dancing in her eyes. The bond between them is unspoken but palpable, a connection that transcends words and actions.
As Pyla's gentle hands begin to deftly weave Agneyastra's locks into a beautiful and intricate braid,
Pyla's delicate fingers deftly weaved through Agneyastra's ebony locks, guiding them into an intricate braid. The air was filled with the scent of wildflowers and magic as the two women stood in the clearing, their bond palpable even to the ancient trees that surrounded them.
In that moment, Ramil strode by, his eyes catching the tender exchange between his mother and Agneyastra. A fleeting smile crossed his lips before his curiosity got the better of him. “Didn't your own mother show you these basic girly things?” Ramil's voice cut through the tranquility of the scene, his words tinged with a mixture of amusement and genuine inquiry.
Agneyastra stood before the ornate mirror, its surface reflecting her intense gaze back at Ramil. The flickering sunlight danced across her features, casting shadows that seemed to echo the depth of her sorrow. “My mother died before I was born,” she uttered, her voice laced with a haunting mixture of pain and longing.
Turning away from the mirror, Agneyastra's eyes met Pyla's, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. “Thank you for assisting me,” she spoke softly, a faint trace of gratitude tugging at the corners of her lips. Agneyastra left the mirror behind and made her way to the bath beside her room. As she closed the door behind her.
Ramil's voice boomed through the hallway, echoing off the stone walls of the castle. “That is my bathroom, I need to get ready for training,” he shouted, his frustration evident in every word.
Pyla stood firm, her eyes narrowing as she blocked Ramil's path to the bathroom. Her voice was calm but firm as she spoke. “What has gotten into you? Apologize to her now,” she demanded, her gaze unwavering.
As Ramil took a step closer to the bathroom, Pyla leaned towards the door, a silent warning in her stance. “I will be waiting downstairs for you,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. With a pointed gesture, Pyla then exited the room, leaving Ramil standing there, staring at the closed bathroom door.
Ramil's hand hesitated on the wooden door, his knuckles barely making a sound as they brushed against the weathered surface. With a gentle push, he eased the door open, revealing the dimly lit room beyond. Agneyastra, her once vibrant aura now muted, sat huddled on the cold stone floor, her slender frame trembling with silent sobs.
As their eyes met, Agneyastra's tear-streaked face turned away, seeking solace in the shadows that danced along the walls. The flickering candlelight cast an ethereal glow upon her features, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbones and the shimmering silver of her tears. “Leave me alone,” her voice, raw with emotion, whispered into the stillness of the room like a fragile melody.
Ramil lowered himself to the floor beside Agneyastra, his eyes filled with remorse. With a gentle touch, he picked up a tissue from the marble counter, offering it to her as a peace offering. The soft glow of the bathroom lights illuminated the tension between them as they sat in a fragile silence. Slowly, Ramil's voice filled the space, sincere and regretful. “I am sorry about my harsh remarks,” he murmured.
Agneyastra straightened the folds of her flowing dress, her eyes blazing with defiance as Ramil stood up, his expression unreadable. Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she spoke, “Fine, know that I only excel in the art of beheading demons and culinary. All thanks to the peculiar teachings of my stepfather.”
Ramil's eyes sparkled with a mixture of admiration and envy. “That is cool,” Ramil murmured, his voice tinged with longing. “My father will not even let me train with a sword until I am 15.”
Agneyastra emerged from the bathroom, “But you turn 15 in a few weeks,” Agneyastra said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Until I moved here, I had never worn a dress or styled my hair like this. It's been a revelation to spend time with your Mother, she has taught me so much about myself and things that I never knew.”
Ramil's voice trembled as he uttered, “My mother always wanted a daughter, now she has one.” he closed the bathroom door.
Agneyastra descended the stairs and found Pyla sitting on the couch, meticulously sewing a shirt. As she sat beside her, she couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. “I am sorry if my presence here causes any inconvenience,” she began, “I am almost fully recovered now. I can find another place to stay.”
Pyla's embrace enveloped Agneyastra, words of reassurance whispered softly, “This is your home as well. Ramil will adapt.”
***
As the door to the bathroom creaked open, Ramil emerged into his bedroom with determination etched on his face, he donned his training outfit. Descending the creaky wooden stairs, the sounds of muffled laughter reached his ears. Intrigued, he followed the sound to the living room, where he found his mother, her eyes sparkling with mirth, and Agneyastra engaged in a lively conversation.
The sun shined in cast a warm glow over the room, illuminating the intricate tapestries adorning the walls. The air was filled with the faint scent of incense, adding to the mystical atmosphere of the sorceress's presence.
Ramil approached the pair, their laughter fading as they turned to acknowledge him. His mother's eyes softened with affection, while Agneyastra regarded him with a knowing twinkle in her eye. “Mother,” Ramil said, his voice filled with a mix of reverence and familiarity, breaking the momentary silence that had settled over the room.
Pyla's expression softened, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. She turned fully towards her son, her gaze piercing through his soul. Her voice, like the whisper of the wind through the leaves, carried a thousand unspoken truths as she asked, “What do you need?”
With a furrowed brow, Ramil's voice cut through the air like a gentle breeze, carrying his question to them. “Did Sandra show up?”
Agneyastra's heart raced as the knock echoed through the room. With a quick glance at Ramil and Pyla, she stood up, excitement and trepidation mingling in her chest. “Can I answer the door?” she asked. Agneyastra raced towards the front door, Ramil's urgent footsteps echoed behind her, closing in fast. Before she could reach safety, he caught up to her, his hand gripping her arm with a strength that made her wince.
Reacting purely on instinct, Agneyastra twisted her body and grabbed Ramil's wrist in a swift motion, using his own momentum against him. With a forceful flick of her arm, she sent him crashing to the floor with a resounding thud. The shock of her own actions left her breathless, a mixture of adrenaline and guilt washing over her.
As Ramil lay sprawled on the ground, Agneyastra stood frozen, her hand covering her trembling lips. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears. “Ramil,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with regret, “I am sorry.” But the apology hung in the air, a fragile bridge between them in the midst of chaos and uncertainty.
As Agneyastra knelt beside Ramil, her silver hair cascading like a waterfall around her, she reached out to offer her assistance. But before her fingertips could brush against his arm, Ramil recoiled, a flicker of fear flashing in his eyes. His voice was sharp and laden with a mix of anguish and defiance as he uttered the words, “Don't touch me.”
Pyla's eyes widened as she reached Ramil and Agneyastra, at the sight before her. The air crackled with an unspoken tension as she took in the scene the room Pyla's voice trembled slightly as she spoke, her words echoing off the walls like a whisper carried on the wind. “What happened over here?” she asked, her eyes darting between Ramil and Agneyastra, searching for answers in their unreadable expressions.
Ramil slowly stands, his eyes ablaze with a fierce intensity as he locks his gaze onto Agneyastra. The tension in the air crackles like lightning as he speaks, his words cutting through the silence like a sword. “She attacked me, that’s what happened,” Ramil's voice reverberates with a mixture of anger and betrayal. “You are too busy molding her into the daughter you always wanted, you fail to see the darkness that lurks within her,” he accuses, his tone a whirlwind of emotions - frustration, resentment, and fear.
As Marudeva stepped out from his office, the heavy oak door creaked open to reveal a mysterious figure cloaked in shadows. The man's face was completely hidden beneath the hood of his cloak, casting an aura of intrigue and uncertainty. With a commanding tone, Marudeva beckoned, “Ramil and Agneyastra, follow me now!”
Ramil and Agneyastra strode down the, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The air was thick with tension as they approached Marudeva's office, the flickering torches casting eerie shadows across the intricate tapestries that adorned the walls.
Pushing open the heavy oak door, they entered the dimly lit chamber where Marudeva stood, his silhouette outlined against the faint glow of the fireplace. Next to him, a mysterious figure cloaked in shadows conversed in hushed tones.
Ramil closed the door behind them, the latch clicking softly in the stillness of the room. As he took a step closer to his father, the flickering flames danced across his determined features, casting an ethereal light upon his face.
“Father,” Ramil began, his voice tinged with urgency, “she flipped on my back.” His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, as Marudeva's gaze turned towards him, a flicker of concern glinting in his eyes.
Agneyastra stood tall and proud, her piercing gaze locking onto Marudeva and Ramil. The flickering torchlight casting shadows on her determined face, she spoke with a sense of urgency and resolve.
“This is why I must depart,” Agneyastra declared, her voice tinged with a hint of sorrow. “If I can find my way back to Abiectio town, I shall trouble you no longer. I would rather dwell in the depths of the underworld with my father Rufus than burden you with my presence any further.”
As the cloak man approached, his figure shrouded in darkness. His voice was deep and commanding, sending shivers through the air around her. With a gentle touch, he lifted Agneyastra's chin, his eyes piercing into hers with an intensity that made her feel exposed and vulnerable.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“You have your father's eyes,” he spoke softly, his words lingering in the stillness of the moment. “And too much of his spirit,” he continued, his tone filled with a mix of admiration and warning. Agneyastra held her breath, unsure of what was to come next.
“You will remain and learn how to live properly,” the cloak man declared, his words carrying a weight of authority that left no room for argument.
Ramil's eyes blazed with a fierce intensity as he advanced towards his father, his voice low and sharp as he spoke. “I don’t want her here, send her away father.”
Marudeva continued, his gaze unwavering. “Ramil and Agneyastra, both of you will learn how to coexist under this roof,” he declared.
Ramil stood before his father, with a solemn expression etched upon his face. “Yes, father,” he murmured.
As he turned leaving the office with Agneyastra fell into step behind him, her emerald eyes aglow with unspoken wisdom. “I hope you have a good day at training,” she whispered, her words carrying a hint of both concern and encouragement.
Ramil's eyes darted across room, settling on the figure of his mother engaged in conversation with Emathion. A flicker of annoyance crossed Ramil's features as he huffed, “Whatever, Emathion, let's go.”
Emathion's voice quivered as he posed the question, “What about Sandra?”
Ramil's words hung in the air, heavy with disappointment, “obviously she not coming today.”. Emathion and Ramil embraced their mother, their bond unbreakable. Ramil's gaze pierced Agneyastra, a silent challenge, before the brothers departed, leaving behind a tension that lingered in the empty space.
***
The mid-morning mist clung to the towering trees of the forest as Moriko stood with her eyes closed, her fingertips gently pressed against the rough bark of a grand oak. “Hear me, green forest,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the soft rustle of leaves overhead. But the forest remained silent, the only response was the gentle sway of branches in the breeze. Frustration gnawed at Moriko as she kicked at the dirt beneath her feet, a cloud of dust rising up around her. Suddenly, her foot caught on a root hidden in the earth, and she stumbled, falling to her knees with a thud. As she lay sprawled on the ground, her heart racing, a familiar voice echoed in her mind.
“Are you okay?” Emathion's voice, a sense of comfort to Moriko. She closed her eyes, feeling the presence of her mysterious companion even though he was nowhere to be seen.
Moriko lifted her gaze, the sunlight filtering through the dense canopy above, painting patterns of light and shadow on the forest floor. With a furrowed brow, she spoke softly, the words carrying a hint of doubt and frustration. “I am not good at using my powers.”
“When my father wields his Ash powers, his voice is unwavering, commanding. It's a sight to behold.” His voice trailed off as he remembered the awe-inspiring display of strength.
Moriko let out a sigh and sank down onto the lush grass, the cool blades tickling her skin. Looking up at the shifting leaves overhead, she couldn't help but feel a sense of inadequacy. “That's a shocker,” she muttered.
Emathion's laughter echoed, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. “I'm just trying to lend a hand here so that I can return to my studies on the intricate workings of the heart.”
Moriko's brow furrowed in frustration. “I seek knowledge of a different kind today.”
Emathion's voice softened, “envision yourself wielding your power,” he advised gently, his voice carrying a sense of wisdom beyond his years. “I must return to my class now, but we shall continue this discussion later.”
Moriko's voice fades to a whisper as she utters, “Okay, thanks.” Her mind falls silent as she moves toward a towering tree, its ancient roots reaching deep into the earth.
Moriko stood in the heart of the forest, surrounded by towering trees that whispered secrets of old. Her fingertips brushed against the rough bark of an ancient oak as she closed her eyes, her mind reaching out to the mystical energies that flowed through the verdant woodland.
“Green forest created a bracelet, so I use the trees,” Moriko whispered, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to blend with the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. She waited, her heart beating in anticipation, her connection with the natural world deepening with each passing moment.
But as she opened her eyes, a wave of disappointment washed over her as nothing happened. The forest remained still, Moriko sank to the ground, her gaze drifting upwards to the canopy above, where sunlight filtered through the dense foliage, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor.
When the rustling of leaves and cracking of branches in the dense forest around her. With a jolt, she sat up, her eyes wide with alarm. Through the vibrant green foliage emerged a towering figure, its form blending seamlessly with the ancient trees.
The Brucie, a mythical being of the forest, approached Moriko, as It reached down and picked up an ancient arrow, the wood weathered, and the tip dulled from years of disuse. With a slow, deliberate movement, the Brucie held the arrow out to Moriko, a silent message conveyed through its gaze. Caught between fear and curiosity, Moriko stood her ground, her breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps.
Moriko held up her trembling hands in a plea for mercy. “Please don't hurt me,” she whispered, her voice barely hearable over the rustling of the leaves in the enchanted forest. With eyes squeezed shut, she braced herself for the impending strike.
The Brucie remained silent as he held the sharp arrow dangerously close to Moriko's quivering form. In a swift and deliberate motion, he reached out and cut a couple of strands of her long, dark hair, the blade grazing her skin ever so slightly.
Moriko's eyes flutter open, drawn to the sight of the peculiar Brucie with hair made of vines and tree bark. With deft movements, the Brucie weaves the elements of nature together, forming a delicate bracelet that seems to shimmer with an ethereal light. As the last knot is tied, the Brucie gently places the bracelet on Moriko's outstretched wrist, the cool touch of the materials sending a shiver down her spine.
Moriko as she gazes at the intricate design, each twist and turn telling a silent story of the forest from which it was born. The bracelet seems to pulse with a hidden power, a connection to the ancient magic that flows through the veins of the forest. With a nod of farewell, the enigmatic Brucie turns and disappears into the depths of the forest, leaving Moriko standing alone.
Moriko gazed at her bracelet, as Brucie's silhouette faded into the dense forest, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Retrieving her weathered notebook from a sack propped against a moss-covered tree, Moriko wandered through the towering trees, their branches whispering secrets in the wind. With a furrowed brow, she whispered to herself, “Where should I start?”
Moriko stood at the edge of the forest, her hand reaching out to touch the rough bark of the ancient tree before her. As her fingers made contact, a soft green light emanated from her bracelet, matching the intricate symbol etched into the tree trunk. With a sense of anticipation tingling in her veins, Moriko stepped forward and crossed the threshold into another realm.
The air around her seemed to hum with magic, and the familiar sights of the forest she knew so well transformed into something altogether different. The trees towered over her, their leaves shimmering with an otherworldly glow, casting a soft, ethereal light over the landscape. The ground beneath her feet felt alive, pulsing with energy as if it held secrets waiting to be uncovered.
As Moriko ventured deeper into this enchanted realm, she heard a cacophony of strange sounds echoing in the distance. A loud vroom and honking horns pierced the tranquil air, drawing her towards a clearing where a metal railing marked the boundary between the small forest and a bustling city beyond.
Her eyes widened in awe as she beheld a sight unlike anything she had ever seen. Metal beasts with wheels roared past, their sleek forms glinting in the sunlight. People rushed about, their faces masked with expressions of determination and urgency, a stark contrast to the serene tranquility of the forest.
Caught off guard by the sudden intrusion of the modern world into this fantastical realm, Moriko's heart raced as a figure clad in blue and white approached on a gleaming motorcycle. The sharp sound of the engine cut through the peaceful symphony of the forest, signaling danger. With a swift turn, Moriko bolted back towards the safety of the enchanted tree, her heart pounding in her chest. As she reached out and pressed her hand against the glowing symbol once more, a sense of relief washed over her as the familiar warmth of her own realm enveloped her. Breathing heavily, Moriko turned to look back at the portal she had just crossed, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.
***
In the grand halls of the Water Kingdom palace, the morning sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting a colorful mosaic on the marble floors. Evain emerged from her lavishly decorated bathroom, clad in supple leather armor that hugged her figure, a stark contrast to the delicate gowns she was accustomed to wearing. Grasping the sword resting on her dresser, she twirled it with practiced ease, the blade glinting in the soft light.
As Evain gazed at her reflection in the ornate mirror, her eyes sparkled with a mix of determination and excitement. “I can't believe it's my first day of training,” she whispered to herself, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Just then, the heavy wooden door creaked open, and the regal figure of The Queen swept into the room, her presence commanding attention. Behind her, Marius, followed with a concerned furrow in his brow. “Mother, leave her alone,” he interjected, his voice filled with both protectiveness and exasperation.
The Queen's voice echoed through the bedroom, filled with an icy authority that sent shivers down Evain's spine. As the Princess lowered her sword, the Queen's piercing gaze bore into her, filled with a mix of anger and disappointment. “How dare you go behind my back and ask your father to learn how to fight? You are a Princess, not a soldier,” the Queen's words cut through the tense silence like a sharp blade.
Evain's eyes blazed with defiance as she locked gazes with her mother, her voice dripping with bitterness as she spoke, “Because of you, I am worthless as a Princess.”
The Queen glides gracefully closer to Evain. Marius, tall and imposing, steps protectively in front of his brother, his eyes locked with the Queen's piercing gaze. “Father only granted us an hour to dine before you must retreat to the confines of your cell,” Marius announces. As the Queen glided gracefully out of the room, Marius trailed behind her like a shadow.
Evain emerged from her bedroom, each step brought her closer to the unknown, her determination burning bright within her. The soft glow of flickering torches cast dancing shadows on the walls, guiding her way down the labyrinthine hallway. The intricate tapestries that adorned the walls seemed to whisper ancient secrets as she passed, their embroidered figures coming to life in the dim light. Evain's hand trailed lightly along the cool stone, a shiver of anticipation running down her spine.
Finally, she reached the bottom of the palace, where the echoing sound of clashing swords and grunts of exertion filled the air. The training grounds of the Water Kingdom soldiers stretched before her, a symphony of movement and discipline. Each warrior moved with fluid grace, the glint of their armor catching the soft light.
General Speckle stood amidst the training grounds, surrounded by a group of new recruits, each one eager to prove themselves. His piercing gaze scanned the crowd until it settled on a young woman with fiery determination in her eyes. “Come line up, Princess. We are just about to start,” Speckle beckoned with a wave of his hand, his voice authoritative yet encouraging.
Evain, the young woman, strode forward confidently, a gleaming sword gripped firmly in her hand. However, her bravado was swiftly challenged by Speckle's firm command. “No weapons, until you can master hand-to-hand combat,” Speckle stated firmly, his tone brooking no argument.
With a nod of understanding, Evain reluctantly leaned her sword against the wall, its metal blade reflecting the sunlight. Resigned but determined, she lined up with the other recruits, her fists clenched in readiness for the challenges that lay ahead.
Evain stood in the training room, surrounded by fellow warriors. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat and determination. His eyes fixed on the dummy in front of him, its sand-filled form taunting her to unleash his strength.
Beside her, Speckle, a seasoned fighter, spoke with authority. “Ball up your fists,” he instructed, his voice firm and commanding. With a swift motion, Speckle demonstrated the movement, his knuckles connecting with the dummy in a sharp thud.
The training room was filled with the sound of fists pounding against the wooden dummies. Evain watched the other soldier trainees with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, her eyes rolling as she observed their repetitive actions.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to her own dummy, its rugged form standing before her like a silent challenge. With a look of determination, she clenched her fists and struck out with all her might. But the impact was not what she had anticipated – instead of a solid blow, her punch met with resistance, causing her to stumble backwards as the dummy remained unmoved.
A collective burst of laughter erupted from the other soldiers, their amusement echoing across the training grounds. Evain felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, but she refused to let it show on her face.
Evain rose to her feet, her eyes scanning the group of mocking soldiers around her. With a determined nod, she squared her shoulders and met Speckle's intense gaze. His voice cut through the laughter, commanding and unwavering.
“Shut up! Get back to training!” Speckle's words reverberated in the training room, silencing the jeers of the soldiers. His eyes bore into Evain's, a mix of disappointment and expectation.
Beside her, Speckle pointed to the worn dummy at the center of the clearing. Its straw-filled body stood as a silent challenge, a reminder of her previous failures. “Again,” Speckle's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. The weight of his expectation hung heavy in the air, driving Evain to take a deep breath and focus on the task ahead.
Evain's fists collided with the worn dummy, echoing through the space like distant thunder. With each strike, she poured her frustration and determination into the blows, her knuckles stinging with the effort. But despite her best efforts, she stumbled and fell to the ground, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Desperate and weary, Evain reached out towards Speckle, her mentor and trainer. But before she could grasp his assistance, he cruelly smacked her hand away, his eyes cold and unyielding. “Get yourself up and do it again,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the heavy air like a sharp blade.
With a heavy sigh, Speckle pointed to the door, a silent threat lingering in the gesture. “Or, leave,” he said, his tone firm and unrelenting.
Under the watchful eye of Speckle, Evain's fists trembled with determination as she stared down at the dummy lying on the floor. With a defiant “No!” escaping her lips, she rose to her feet, her movements tentative at first. As she delivered her first punch, her body faltered, but she persevered, gradually finding her balance and rhythm.
With each successive strike, Evain's blows grew stronger, fueled by a newfound resolve that seemed to surge through her veins. Speckle observed her progress keenly, his gaze shifting between Evain and the other trainees who mirrored her movements.
“Again!” Speckle's command echoed through the training grounds, igniting a synchronized flurry of punches from all the trainees. In perfect unison, Evain and the soldier trainees unleashed a symphony of strikes upon their respective dummies, the sound of impact reverberating through the air like a battle hymn.