Chapter 21: Ilena

The mountains were kinder now.

The biting cold of winter had melted into the crisp, clear air of spring, the chill replaced by a gentle warmth that seeped into the soil and gave life to the pass. Around Seeker’s camp, wildflowers pushed through the thawed ground, their colors splashed across the green in defiant celebration. Birds called from the jagged cliffs, their songs rising with the laughter of children running between tents.

The camp thrived.

Jara’s gift made it so. With a quiet determination, she had coaxed the earth to yield more than it should. Fields of fruit and vegetables now bordered the camp, unnatural in their abundance yet natural in their taste. Hunters returned not with scraps, but with hauls of game. Even the trees bent to her will, their fruit ripening out of season. The freed slaves, hardened by their struggles, worked tirelessly, their gratitude toward her evident in every smile, every shared meal.

The mood was strange for what had once been an army. There was no barked anger, no bitterness. There were weapons and training, yes, but there was also laughter.

Seeker walked the perimeter of the camp, his boots crunching softly against the gravel strewn paths. To his right, a cluster of former gladiators drilled a group of trainees. Their shouts rang out with precision as spears thrust forward in unison, shields locking together like the scales of a dragon.

“Too high, Donal,” Gale called, pacing the line, his knives flashing faintly in the sunlight. “Again. If I see that opening, so will the enemy.”

Donal grunted, adjusting his stance. Gale smirked faintly, nodding approval before moving on.

Further along, a group of element wielders trained under Illara’s sharp eye. Fire danced along one trainee’s hands, flickering but controlled, while frost coiled around another’s spear in a shimmering haze. Illara walked among them, her own sword wreathed in flames as she demonstrated an arcane flourish.

“Don’t fight the power,” she said, her voice cutting through the hum of training. “Guide it. You’re the riverbank, not the river. Let it flow.”

A child’s laughter caught Seeker’s attention. He turned to see a group of children weaving between the tents, their games carrying a carefree joy that felt foreign after months of war. He allowed himself a faint smile before continuing on.

The graves lay on a quiet rise overlooking the camp, marked by simple wooden markers that swayed faintly in the breeze. Harken’s was one of them, a slab of dark wood carved with careful hands, its surface etched with words Liora had chosen herself.

Seeker stood beside her now, the two of them silent for a long moment.

“He’d be happy,” Liora said softly, breaking the quiet. Her voice carried a note of something between sadness and peace. “To see this. To see them like this. Free. Alive.”

Seeker didn’t respond immediately. His shadowed gaze remained fixed on the grave, the storm inside him quiet but ever present.

“He’d have complained,” Seeker said finally, a faint, humorless smile touching his lips. “About the lack of ale. About the drills. About me.”

Liora chuckled, a sound that carried more warmth than sorrow. “He would’ve. And then he’d have picked up a spear and made them all look like fools.”

Seeker nodded, his expression softening, though his voice remained low. “He deserved to see it.”

“So did you,” Liora replied, her frost tipped spear resting lightly against her shoulder.

In the distance, Count Davir stood at the edge of his own camp, his expression twisted in displeasure. From here, he could see Seeker’s thriving camp, the former slaves laughing, training, living, unshackled in every sense of the word.

He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. The stormbearer had been under his thumb, a tool to wield, a means to an end. And now? Now he was untouchable. A noble.

The Archduke’s delay had only deepened Davir’s frustration. Orders no longer flowed from him to Seeker’s unit, and his attempts to assert control were met with polite refusal or cold indifference.

“They’re not even part of the army anymore,” he muttered to one of his aides, his voice a low growl. “Not bound by command, not under my authority. The Archduke delays, and the bastard builds himself a kingdom here.”

The aide nodded cautiously, though her gaze flicked nervously toward Seeker’s camp.

The Count’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. “We’ll see how long this little paradise lasts.”

Back at the camp, Seeker descended from the graveside, Liora walking quietly at his side. The laughter of children grew louder, mingling with the hum of training and the scent of roasted meat.

He paused at the center of the camp, his storm-lit eyes sweeping over the people he had fought to free. Their faces were lined with weariness, but there was light there too. Hope. Strength.

“We’ve done well,” Liora said softly, watching him.

Seeker nodded, though his expression remained distant. “We’ve survived.”

“And have something worth surviving for,” Liora added.

Seeker didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on the horizon, where the Archduke’s arrival loomed, a shadow stretching toward their fragile peace.

The soft hum of wings broke the silence. Faye drifted lazily through the air, her shimmering light a stark contrast to the storm that flickered faintly in Seeker’s eyes. She didn’t speak at first, merely gliding in slow circles before sitting on his shoulder.

Her tiny frame leaned against his neck, her head resting against the curve of his jaw. She exhaled softly, her breath as light as the spring breeze.

“They’re coming,” she said, her voice quiet, lilting, but carrying the weight of something unspoken.

Seeker’s jaw tightened, the faint crackle of stormlight flickering along his knuckles. “I know.”

“But him, too,” she added, her words soft, deliberate.

The storm inside him stirred, restless. Seeker’s eyes darkened, his shadowed gaze hardening as he stared toward the unseen horizon.

Faye lifted her head slightly, her wings brushing against his ear. “Don’t let fury consume you,” she murmured, her tone light but edged with warning. “Guide it. Be smart about it.”

Seeker’s brow furrowed, his dark eyes flickering faintly. “Smart won’t change what’s coming.”

“No,” Faye said, settling back against him, her voice softer now. “But fury without purpose will change nothing. Not for you, not for them.”

Her gaze swept briefly over the camp below, where laughter still echoed and children darted between tents. “You have something here. Don’t tear it down before it can stand.”

For a long moment, Seeker said nothing. His storm light dimmed slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing by the smallest fraction.

“I’ll guide it,” he said finally, his voice low but steady.

Faye smiled faintly, her wings fluttering as she nestled closer. “Good,” she said, her tone lighter now, almost teasing. “Smart suits you.”

Seeker huffed softly, the closest thing to a laugh he’d allowed himself in days. Small moon it is, for now. He thought. His gaze lingered on the horizon for a moment longer before he turned away, the storm inside him quiet.

The grand hall of Torvald was alive with celebration. The long tables groaned under the weight of food and drink, roasted meats, fragrant loaves of bread, bowls of steaming stew, and golden goblets filled to the brim with wine. The banners of the Archduke and Count Davir hung side by side, their colors vibrant against the stone walls. The air was thick with the clamor of laughter, boasts, and the clinking of goblets raised in triumph.

At the head of the room, the Archduke sat in a gilded chair, his presence commanding, his eyes shadowed. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and his broad shoulders carried the weight of a victory he had not personally fought to win.

Beside him, Count Davir leaned forward, his face flushed with wine and pride as he recounted the “glory” of their triumph to anyone who would listen.

“And then,” the Count said, his voice carrying above the din, “our combined forces broke the Elven line. The cowards turned and ran, their banners trampled beneath our boots!” He raised his goblet high, basking in the cheers of his audience.

The Archduke’s mouth twitched into a faint smile, though his eyes remained distant, scanning the room with calculated disinterest.

The hall was alive with the clamor of celebration. Torches burned brightly along the walls, their light flickering against the banners of victory hung high above. Nobles and soldiers alike raised goblets in triumph, their laughter and cheers mingling with the music of a dozen minstrels. Platters of roasted meats, spiced fruits, and flagons of rich wine adorned the tables, the air thick with the scent of indulgence.

Seeker sat at a table near the back, flanked by his people. Liora and Jara spoke quietly beside him, their expressions guarded despite the laughter and clamor filling the hall. Liora’s frost-tipped spear leaned against the edge of the table, its presence a silent reminder of the battles that had brought them here. Jara, ever calm, toyed with a piece of bread, her sharp eyes flicking over the crowd like a mother hawk watching over her brood.

Across from them, Marlen’s laughter rang out, loud and unrestrained. His voice carried above the din as he recounted some story that seemed to grow more exaggerated with each retelling. He punctuated the tale with wild gestures, his hands briefly igniting with faint embers for dramatic effect.

“..and then I said, ‘You think that’s fire? Let me show you how a real blaze starts!’” Marlen roared, slapping the table with enough force to rattle the goblets.

Beside him, Sarra sat with her usual icy demeanor, her bow slung across her back, its frost-etched grip visible even in the dim light. She leaned toward Gale, whispering something too quiet for anyone else to hear. Whatever she said made Gale smirk, his knife idly spinning between his fingers as he responded with equal brevity.

Taren slouched at the far end of the table, his focus entirely on the goblet of wine in his hand. His dark eyes were distant, his expression unreadable as he swirled the drink lazily before taking another long sip.

Despite the contrasting moods of those around him, Seeker remained still, his presence quiet but heavy, like the calm before a storm. The laughter and revelry of the hall seemed to dull at the edges, the undercurrent of tension thickening wherever his shadow fell.

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Across the room, the Duke sat in his high-backed chair, his ornate robes and silver-gilded tunic marking him as a man of immense status. But his face betrayed his displeasure. His sharp eyes, once so accustomed to watching champions bleed for his amusement in the arena, now lingered on Seeker with a mix of resentment and loss.

“The stormbearer,” he muttered under his breath, his hand tightening on the goblet. The words carried bitterness. Once, the arena had been his dominion, its fighters his instruments of control and spectacle. Now, it was gone, and in its place was this man, a slave no longer, sitting among nobles, commanding armies, and carrying the burden of a storm.

Beside the Duke sat Magus Arven, his lean frame stiff with unease. His long, bony fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of his chair, and his sharp eyes never wavered from Seeker. The faint shimmer of mana clung to his fingertips, barely visible in the torchlight.

“He should not be here,” Arven murmured, his voice low and edged with disdain.

The Duke didn’t look at him. “And yet, here he sits,” he replied, his tone bitter.

Seeker felt the weight of their stares, though he didn’t acknowledge them. He spoke quietly with Liora and Jara, his voice steady despite the tumult around him.

“They’re watching you,” Liora murmured, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of her goblet.

“They always are,” Seeker replied, his tone even.

The hall quieted as Venn rose from his seat, the scrape of his chair against the stone floor drawing all eyes. His presence, as always, was deliberate, measured. The emissary’s pale gaze swept the room before settling on the Archduke, his lips curving into a faint, respectful smile.

“Your Grace,” Venn began, his voice carrying over the muted clamor of the feast. “We are here to celebrate a victory hard won, and the bonds forged in fire and blood. But I rise not merely as your ally in this war, but as your friend of many years.”

The Archduke inclined his head, his expression one of careful neutrality, though his sharp eyes glinted with interest. “Speak, Venn. You have the floor.”

Venn straightened, his hands clasped behind his back. “Your Grace, I have long sought to secure a future for my daughter. A future where strength and kindness might protect her in a world that often scorns such things.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Seeker, seated at the back of the hall, before returning to the Archduke.

“Seeker has agreed to this union,” Venn continued, his voice steady, though its weight grew with every word. “His only request for a dowry was not land or riches but justice. And so, I come before you now, asking for justice to be rendered.”

The hall stirred with whispers, nobles leaning toward one another with wide eyes and murmured speculation.

“Justice?” the Archduke echoed, his tone sharp, though curiosity laced his words.

“Yes,” Venn replied. He turned his gaze toward the Duke, seated at the Archduke’s right, and then to the hooded magus at his side. “Justice for the Seeker’s past, for the crimes that bind him still.”

The Duke stiffened, his jaw tightening, but his magus remained still, his eyes narrowing beneath his hood.

“I ask that your Grace invoke his right as lord of this land,” Venn said, his voice growing stronger. “Order the Duke’s magus to face Seeker in trial by combat. Let the gods and magic decide who is at fault.”

The hall erupted into murmurs, the tension rising like smoke in the air. The Archduke leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the armrest. His gaze swept the room, lingering on the Duke, the magus, and finally, Seeker.

“An interesting request,” the Archduke said slowly, his voice carrying above the noise. “And one not without merit. But I wonder, Duke Ardin, what you think of this.”

The Duke rose, his movements deliberate and slow. His face betrayed nothing, but the edge in his voice cut through the hall like a blade.

“If this slave,” the Duke said, his tone dripping with disdain, “believes himself worthy of facing my magus, so be it. But I have conditions.”

The Archduke gestured for him to continue, his expression unreadable.

“If the slave falls,” the Duke said, his voice growing louder, “all of former gladiators shall become my property again. They will fight in the Arena, as they were meant to. And the freed slaves? They will return to the Count of Torvald, where they belong.”

The Count’s face lit with glee, his goblet raised in silent toast to the prospect.

The hall grew quiet, all eyes turning to the Archduke. After a long pause, he nodded. “Accepted.”

Seeker rose then, his movements calm but deliberate, the stormlight flickering faintly in his shadowed gaze. His voice was steady, but it carried a weight that silenced the murmurs in the hall.

“If that is the price of my defeat,” Seeker said, his gaze locking on the Archduke, “then I ask the same of my victory.”

The Archduke’s brow arched, but he said nothing, waiting for Seeker to continue.

“If I win,” Seeker said, his voice unyielding, “all the slaves who came here under your banner, and the Duke’s, shall be freed. They will become mine, to protect and to lead.”

The hall erupted into chaos, gasps and shouts of outrage and disbelief echoing off the stone walls. The Archduke raised his hand, silencing them with a single motion.

“Interesting,” the Archduke said slowly, his sharp eyes narrowing as they fixed on Seeker. After a long, tense moment, he nodded. “Accepted.”

The decision was made. The hall erupted into activity, servants and soldiers rushing to clear the courtyard for the coming duel. Nobles jostled for position, eager to witness the spectacle.

The Duke’s magus rose, his hood falling back to reveal his angular face, his sharp eyes gleaming with malice. He moved with predatory grace, his robes shimmering faintly with imbued mana.

Seeker stood in silence as his people gathered around him. Liora placed a hand on his shoulder, her grip firm but steady.

“You’re ready for this,” she said quietly.

Seeker didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on the courtyard beyond, where he will give her finally rest she deserves.

The crowd began to move, a tide of bodies flowing toward the keep’s courtyard. The feast was forgotten, the air heavy with anticipation.

The courtyard hummed with tension, the crowd pressed shoulder to shoulder along the edges of the makeshift arena. Torches cast flickering light across the space, their glow broken by the jagged shadows of banners hanging limp in the still spring air. The Archduke sat above it all, his face impassive but his sharp eyes unblinking as they watched the scene below.

At the center of the courtyard stood the Duke’s magus, his robes shimmering with intricate warding glyphs that pulsed faintly with mana. His armor, a masterpiece of elven craftsmanship and human wealth, bore runes that flared in sequence as he flexed his fingers, testing the flow of power through his body. Around his neck hung a cluster of mana stones, their soft glow betraying the immense reserves of energy they held.

The magus radiated confidence, his movements precise, his expression one of disdainful amusement. He extended a hand, a faint trail of smoke curling upward as power coalesced in his palm.

Seeker stood opposite him, a stark contrast in battered armor that bore the scars of countless battles. His spear lay strapped across his back, untouched, and his hands hung loosely at his sides. He made no move, no preparation. He simply stood, watching the magus with dark eyes that flickered faintly with stormlight.

The magus’s lips curled into a sneer. “That’s it? No words? No fire? Just silence?” He took a step forward, his voice rising so the crowd could hear. “Do you think quiet will save you? It didn’t save her.”

The words struck like a lash.

“She was stupid,” the magus said, his voice dripping with contempt. “That little farm girl. What was her name? Ilna? Irra? It doesn’t matter. She thought she could keep cave hidden, that she could shield you from what you are.”

Seeker’s eyes darkened, though he didn’t move.

“She begged,” the magus continued, his grin widening. “Begged for her life, for yours. And for what? To die screaming on her knees while her little hovel and her parents burned to ash.”

The crowd murmured, a ripple of unease passing through them.

“I was merciful,” the magus said with mock gravity. “A quick end. Painless, really, compared to what she deserved.” He chuckled. “Will you beg, too? Or do you think your storm will save you?”

The magus didn’t wait for an answer. With a sharp motion, he raised both hands, and the courtyard erupted in a cascade of power.

Flames roared to life, swirling into serpents of fire that coiled and struck toward Seeker. Ice spears formed in an instant, razor-sharp and deadly, flying toward their target with impossible precision.

The ground trembled, fissures spreading outward as the magus’s power bent the very earth beneath their feet. The air grew thick with the oppressive weight of unleashed magic, the courtyard barely containing the devastation as other mages in the crowd scrambled to raise barriers, struggling to hold the chaos within its bounds.

When the storm of power finally settled, the courtyard was a ruin. The ground was scorched and cracked, and the air reeked of ozone and burnt stone.

And Seeker stood unmoved.

Not a scratch marred his armor. Not a single hair was out of place. He didn’t even appear to have shifted his stance.

The magus froze, his confident grin faltering.

Seeker’s head tilted slightly, his storm-lit eyes narrowing. Then he moved.

To the crowd, it was barely a blur, a flash of motion that carried him across the ruined courtyard faster than the eye could follow. Before the magus could react, Seeker’s bare hand plunged forward, shattering every ward in its path with a deafening crackle of lightning.

The magus gasped as Seeker’s arm tore through his enchanted armor as if it were parchment, his hand punching through the man’s chest and emerging from his back.

Seeker’s fingers clenched around something warm, something beating.

The magus’s mouth opened, a wet, strangled sound escaping him as his wide, disbelieving eyes met Seeker’s.

“Ilena, her name was Ilena.” Seeker said, his voice low, steady, and terrible.

With one brutal motion, Seeker pulled the magus’s heart free, holding it aloft. Blood dripped from his fingers as he shoved the heart into the magus’s gaping mouth.

A crack of thunder followed, lightning coursing through Seeker’s body and into the magus. The man screamed, a sound that echoed through the courtyard and beyond, before his form disintegrated into ash, scattering on the faint spring breeze.

The courtyard was silent, save for the crackle of lingering energy. The crowd stood frozen, their faces pale, their breaths held as if the very air had been stolen from their lungs.

Seeker turned, his storm-lit gaze sweeping over the nobles, the soldiers, the Archduke himself. Lightning still flickered faintly along his hands, a warning unspoken.

Liora stepped forward, her frost-tipped spear catching the faint light of the torches. She glanced at Seeker, then turned to Venn, her voice calm and polite.

“Lord Venn,” she said, her tone unflinching, “would you be so kind as to show me where the slaves are? The free members of Seeker’s unit deserve to know their new place among us.”

The silence broke, whispers rippling through the crowd as Venn stepped forward, his face pale but composed. He nodded.

“Of course,” he said, his voice tight but steady. “This way.”

As the crowd began to stir, the storm within Seeker faded, the faint glow in his eyes dimming as he turned toward his people. The battle was over, but the war, theirs and his, was only just beginning.

---

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the mountain pass. The air, heavy with the scent of pine and thawed earth, buzzed with the quiet murmur of preparation. Seeker’s unit stood at the edge of the camp, their numbers swollen by the newly freed slaves who had been given to him after the duel.

The newcomers were a ragged lot, their clothes threadbare and their faces hollow with the weight of years spent in chains. But they were fed now, their bellies full for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime. Their eyes, once dull, glimmered faintly with something fragile but unmistakable, hope.

Seeker stood at the front of the gathering, his dark gaze scanning the horizon. Beside him, Liora adjusted her spear, the frost along its edge catching the morning light. Jara moved through the ranks with quiet efficiency, her calming presence steadying those who wavered.

Behind them, Illara leaned casually against her horse, her flame-red hair catching the breeze. She watched the group with a faint smirk, her eyes sharp despite her easy posture.

Venn, standing at her side, looked wearier than he had during the feast. His pale face bore the shadows of sleepless nights, and his breath came slower now, as though the weight of his years and his curse pressed harder with every passing day.

“It’s best if you leave soon,” Venn said, his voice low but clear. His gaze lingered on the road that wound southward, disappearing into the trees. “The Archduke won’t take kindly to losing his slaves. He might already be considering how to regain what he’s lost.”

Seeker nodded once, his expression unreadable.

Illara snorted softly, her lips quirking into a grin. “You did manage to fall quite spectacularly from his good graces, Venn. I almost admire the speed of it.”

Venn allowed himself a faint smile. “Sometimes falling is necessary,” he said. “Especially when the alternative is standing in a place you no longer belong.”

Illara tilted her head, her grin widening. “Poetic. But it does leave me in a bind, you know. I was counting on you to help me snag a storm wielding husband.” She winked at Seeker, her tone playful. “Now I’ll have to find another one. They’re not exactly common.”

Seeker raised an eyebrow, but didn’t respond.

Illara’s grin softened as she looked back at Venn. “I’ll take care of u,” she said, her voice quieter now, touched with an unexpected tenderness. “For the short time u have left.”

Venn inclined his head, gratitude flickering briefly in his pale eyes.

As the group prepared to move, Venn stepped closer to Seeker, his gaze thoughtful. “There are two routes south. One will take you through the lowlands, faster, but more exposed. The other winds through the eastern ridges. Slower, but safer.”

Seeker’s eyes flicked toward the horizon, the faint crackle of stormlight shimmering at his fingertips. He didn’t hesitate. “The path through Aelondor.”

Venn’s brow furrowed, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “Aelondor is an Elven town. You’d be marching straight through their lands, their people.”

Illara’s smirk disappeared, her eyes narrowing. “You’re taking your unit to Aelondor? Are you mad?

Seeker turned to them, his shadowed gaze steady. “We’re not running anymore. Not from them, not from anyone.”

The quiet confidence in his voice silenced them both.

Venn glanced at Illara, whose expression flickered between disbelief and reluctant admiration. “The Elves will massacre you.” Venn said softly.

“They will try to,” Seeker replied. He turned back toward his unit, his voice rising just enough to carry to the edges of the group. “March.”

The unit began to move, their footsteps merging into a steady rhythm. The new arrivals, still awkward in their freedom, followed the veterans’ lead, their uncertainty softened by the quiet strength of the group around them.

Venn and Illara watched as the column wound its way toward the forest, the towering trees of Aelondor looming in the distance like silent sentinels.

Illara shook her head, a faint laugh escaping her. “He really is mad.”

“Perhaps,” Venn murmured, his eyes narrowing as Seeker disappeared into the treeline. “Or perhaps he’s something else entirely.”

The forest seemed to darken as the last of the unit vanished into its shadow, the faint crackle of distant stormlight lingering like a whispered promise.

And so, they marched, not just southward, but into the unknown, where storms were bound to follow.