For the first time in weeks, I entered the Angra-Fyr Village. As ever, the atmosphere was unwelcoming. Guard, warrior, and villager alike began whispering the moment I entered, but I ignored them all. Instead I walked straight to my destination with no detours. Though I had hunted the phoenix alone (in every way that mattered), and was proficient in a number of channeling disciplines, I knew I was not the most proficient weaponsmith in the village. Not to mention, I still had other obligations here. And so, as long as I was here, I may as well ensure this time did not go to waste.
Of course, my reputation in the village was poor. I had to…‘encourage’ the villagers to help me by offering them materials and meats I had hunted as I did my errands. Then I turned my attention to one final errand, one I had been putting off for as long as possible.
Ensuring that my family had not yet died of starvation.
Our home was closer to the outskirts of the village. I was thankful for this, as there were far fewer prying eyes, begging to be poked out of their sockets. The scent of cooking food greeted me as I approached. I peered in through a doorway, to find my mother cooking meat on a clay stove. Perhaps this was one of her good days.
She turned to me. I remembered little about my father, not even what he looked like. Most of my appearance had been inherited from my mother. Like me, she was tall and thin, pale skin emphasized by long dark hair, gathered up in a low ponytail to keep it out of her face. Her eyes were a dark brown, near black. But while I simmered with a rage not-unlike an inferno, she was cold. As though the breath had been sucked from her body, leaving behind a disinterested corpse. Lacking compassion or even passion, she let her life be ruled by pragmatism. Her skin was sallow, her form gaunter than anyone else in the village, no matter how much prey I left with her. Her eyes seemed to stare straight ahead, always watching some distant vision I wasn’t privy to.
“Talon,” she acknowledged.
“Mother,” I said, though there was little warmth in the word.
“You should stay for dinner. Harrier will want to speak with you. If you’re finally done dragging your feet about your Weaponsrite, then your Initiation will be soon.”
My face twisted into a scowl. “...Where is Kite?”
“Off playing somewhere,” she said flippantly. She didn’t know—no, she hadn’t cared to pay attention. For all she cared, he could be off on the moon.
“Will you be joining us?” she asked again, as though I’d never brought up her youngest son. “If you’re done dragging your feet about your Weaponsrite, I’m sure he’ll be eager to begin preparing for your Initiation.”
“Assuming he stays around me for that long.”
“If he’s enough of a coward to let a thirteen year old brat scare him, then he’ll learn a valuable lesson about how fearsome I can be.”
I chose to start ignoring her. Thankfully, she made no attempt to press the topic further. I stomped into the village, my skin crawling in the way it always did when I needed to spend time for her or my Uncle Harrier. Two boys quickly drew my attention, with the way they laughed and talked, clearly referring to me. They were older than me, looking to be about eighteen, their bodies bulkier and faces dusted with stubble. Despite their age, I didn’t regard them as threats of any kind, as their pale skin was smooth and distinctly lacking in scars. I stomped in their direction, darkening the atmosphere as I did.
“You two. Where is Kite,” I demanded coldly.
Nervous laughter passed between them. They were trying to mask their anxiety with false bravado and confidence.
“Well, if it isn’t Harrier’s little monster,” one crooned. “What does the fiendspawn want now?”
The other let out a breathy laugh. “What a freak. I heard the Fiend didn’t even kill Asha, I bet afterwards he just realized how weak and usele—”
I dropped to the ground and swept his legs out from under him, smoke trailing from my leg as I channeled the gods’ magic. He crumpled to the ground with a squeal, then shrieked as I sliced my hunting knife across his chest. His red tunic was stained with darker liquid which dripped down on the dark earth. His friend watched me with wide eyes, sweat trickling down his brow.
I fixed my eyes on his friend, who had finally dropped the aggravating act. “Where is my brother,” I asked slowly, as though he were a fool.
“H-he went into the Deep Forest. Some nonsense about his Weaponsrite!” he babbled, pointing with a trembling finger.
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The brat’s equally fool friend would be fine, though that tongue of his would do him no favors. My knife had cut enough to hurt, but not enough to even scar, provided he treated it properly. Perhaps the brute should be thanking me; a coward like him would earn no proper badges of honor in combat. I got off of the prone body, and marched out of the village, ignoring the eddies of whispers that followed in my wake.
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Once, my mother had been ambitious and animated. The pressure she placed on me had always been too much, but she had whispered to me her delusions of future greatness, trapped me in a story I believed I could live out the way she wanted to. Cold reality had stripped away these delusions, and left us both broken and bitter.
Young as he was, Kite had not yet outgrown his delusions. He was a ten-year-old who thought he was strong enough to defeat the Sun Fiend. And with the reputation of our family, of course keeping him from killing himself fell to me. I gambled that he’d at least be smart or cowardly enough not to venture too deep into the Deep Woods, and was fortunately proven correct. It wasn’t long before I caught sight of the brat.
I had been told before, when we were both younger, that Kite looked like a smaller version of me. We had the same dark hair and dark eyes. But now that we were older, our differences had grown more and more apparent. Kite had allowed his spikier hair to grow out more, and still held a sparkle of innocence in his eyes—one that tended to blind them to reality. Upon spotting him, I strode towards him and roughly grabbed his shoulder.
“T-talon?” he gasped. “Big brother, you’re hurting me…”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I slammed his back against a tree trunk. His mouth opened and closed, a fish out of water. “Well?” I growled.
“I-i…I wanted to surprise you… I-i wanted to be a warrior, like you, s-so I found…!” He held up the thing in his hands. I squinted at it.
A grasswurm. Thought to be a much weaker, smaller, and stupider descendant of the Sun Fiend’s draconic children, it was a common choice for boys on a Weaponsrite, who usually turned its venomous fangs into daggers. This one looked like a juvenile—entirely too small and weak to be useful.
I curled my lip. “You want to be a warrior?”
He nodded eagerly. “Yeah! You’re so strong and cool, brother! I wanted to be just like you, and help you out when we fight against the Greshans with the rest of the tribe, and then Mama will be proud of us and—”
“So what are you going to do if someone does, Kite?” I easily yanked the grasswurm from his hands. He made a noise of confusion and tried to grab it back, but I held it high above his head. Then, with one hand, I crushed its skull in my fist.
The grasswurm’s useless corpse fell at Kite’s feet.
“Humans can’t use magic without hurting themselves. That’s why we call on the gods for their magic, and call it channeling. That’s why we turn the corpses of magical beasts into weapons.” I leaned over my younger brother and sneered. “But not all disciplines of magic are created equal, Kite. The goddess can’t save you if she takes too long to respond. And your weapon won’t save you if it’s snatched from your hands.”
“I…if those things won’t save me…then I’ll fight with my own fists!” Kite said.
“And if those hands are too weak and useless?” I kicked him in the stomach. He yelped, and fell to his knees. “A weapon is only useful if you know how to use it, or else you’ll hurt yourself with it. It’s only strong if it’s well-made, otherwise it will just break in your grasp.”
Kite dragged himself back to his feet. Tears were already gathering in his eyes as he gave me a determined glare. Even without his attempt at a battle cry, his movements were clear as day. I could have easily dodged the blow, used his momentum to throw him hard on the ground. But instead, I took the punch.
Weak. My clothes were made as durable as leather armor, with a few well-placed rune stitches. But against this brat, I didn’t even need them.
I punched my younger brother in the face. He shrieked again, and stumbled backwards. Small hands flew to his face, and came away speckled with blood.
He tried to punch me again with his shaking fist. Now I dodged. Of course, he put too much weight in his blow, and was easy to topple over. I planted a foot on his back.
“You’re weak and stupid. You will get yourself killed. Or worse—the Greshans will drag you off to their Rite of Sunset. And then where will you be?”
“Then! Then teach me to be strong!” Kite cried out. “Teach me to be strong like you! Show me a super-punch, o-or the strongest way of channeling! I’ll learn!”
“Don’t be fucking stupid. And don’t ask me to waste my time like that, brother.” I stepped off him. “Now get up. Mother should be done with dinner by now.”
When I was young, I tried to learn as much as I could about dozens of different kinds of channeling. I hoped some mystical, ‘ultimate form’ would reveal itself to me. One capable of killing gods. Every method the village used, I begged to learn. Each one they would teach me. Sewing, cooking, archery, martial arts…
Eventually I came to realize there was no such thing as an ‘ultimate magic’. Each type of channeling had its strengths and its weaknesses. Only by growing adept at all the most useful could I become one who overcame any enemy, divine and the fiendish alike.
Only by mastering every form of combat and channeling I could, by proving myself a monster to match any other, could I someday kill the Sun Fiend.
As he grew, Kite became less and less like the younger me. He didn’t want strength or vengeance. He had no desire to surpass the gods. What he wanted was attention. Someday, his attempts at getting it would lead to his death; probably the day after my patience for his antics wore thin.
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Yesterday, that Greshan brat had prattled on and on during our evening meal. He could out-babble the River Ter itself.
At my family’s table, there was only silence as we ate. Something I should have been long used to. I wondered why I couldn’t stop thinking about that Greshan’s incessant chatter.