PROLOGUE
The student had just finished lunch and was on his way to Practical Defense when he caught a glint of shining metal coming right at his head.
The student, barely a man at twenty one years of age, ducked just in time as the axehead of Torvald, a fellow Knight of the Silver Moon, buried itself in the wooden post behind him. If it was any other person he would stand there, trying to pry his vicious battleaxe out of the post, but Torvald was the second in command for a reason. He ditched the weapon and while the student readied his legs to spring away, the bigger man caught him in a lung-destroying punch to the stomach. The student wheezed, before using a split second to gain his bearings and answering with an uppercut. The punch connected under Torvald's jaw, and he reeled, chips of teeth flying out in the same direction as his pivoting head.
The student’s boots steadied, then picked up speed as he sprinted down the hallway towards the dorms.
“You’re dead!” Torvald choked as he tried to collect himself, leaning against the wall. The burly man, barely fitting in his blue uniform due to his muscle mass, tried to stand up but was still too disoriented. “No one leaves the Knights and lives!”
He had to get away. From The Knights, Dorian, Torvald…anyone associated with the shadow society that had held the academy in an iron fist for years would want him dead. He knew their secrets, he could identify them. But first he just had to get away.
The student stopped at the corner in the dorms, just before the hallway that led to his small room. The hallway wasn’t lit yet, as the noonday sun gently flowed into the space, giving it just enough light to walk by. He carefully leaned his head around the corner, prying to see if the coast was clear.
He should have known better. Dorian must have spread the word already, as two heavily armed Knights stood at his doorway. The student cursed, then pulled his head back around the corner. The only thing that could even be construed as a weapon that he had on hand was a dining knife, his beloved dueling saber was sitting in a box under his bed. It might as well have been a million miles away.
The student’s mind was spinning, he was quickly running out of time and didn’t know what to do. He tried to remember his instructors, and what they taught about times when all hope seemed lost.
“The final holdouts of the Battle of Yontin Planes, when surrounded on all sides by the Lizardmen of Freed’s Marsh, used their enemies’ hubris against them.” Professor Sansen lectured during the First Year Morwellian History class. “This caused so much infighting that the holdouts were able to escape the blockade and get to safety.”
The Knights are about as savage as the Lizardmen, the student thought. But are taught to reign in their hubris. But there had to be a breaking point. They won’t expect me at their headquarters when they’re actively trying to kill me.
The student laid out of the plan in his head, then organized it for efficiency. The campus at Grenfield Academy was an enormous cluster of smaller castles on a low mountaintop, linked together with massive archways and elevator systems that led between the castles, the training areas at ground level, and underground storage. If he could get to the Knights of the Silver Moon’s headquarters, which had taken over a large chunk of some forgotten underground storage, he could cause a scene then they would all hopefully forget about him and come to stop it. They treasured the organization more than anything, and Dorian would stop at nothing to protect it.
Stopping to listen before taking off, he still hadn’t heard Torvald. The man was a brute, but could be stealthy if he had to. Dorian had taught the ones he trusted the forbidden Tenth Combat Stance to ensure that they could. If Torvald had been pursuing the student, he must have lost him.
The student, slinking through narrow passages, went the long way back to the mess hall and into the kitchens. It had quieted at this point; lunch was over and he figured there was some time before dinner preparations would begin. He carefully made his way to the cold storage, which was packed with casks, vegetables, fruit, and meat. In the corner was what he was looking for: a carboy of grain alcohol. The kitchen staff used it to clean the floors but were known to imbibe on occasion, but it looks like they may have to go without for a while.
Suddenly, a noise. The main kitchen door burst open, and Rikter Moss, one of the line cooks, came walking through.
“I told you, I haven’t seen the guy since he left after lunch,” the cook drawled, talking to someone behind him. “What did he do, anyway?”
Torvald trudged up behind Rikter, holding his jaw while still maintaining a threatening posture.
“It’s none of your business,” the brute answered with arrogance.
Rikter balked. “If it’s none of my business, why are you here in my kitchen, threatening me?” He demanded.
Torvald looked at the man like he was a drooling toddler. “Because you serve food, you idiot. You know who Gideon associates with. He’s not stupid enough to come back to the mess for dinner, but you can still send a message to the ones close to him.”
Rikter turned his head, eyeing the threatening man. “What kind of message…?”
Torvald pulled a small glass vial from his book bag and placed it in the cook’s palm. Rikter’s jaw dropped at the audacity.
“Are you serious? If a bunch of recruits get poisoned, I’m as good as dead. They’ll know it came from the kitchens. Find someone else to do your dirty work.”
Gideon paled. He knew what happened to anyone who told a Knight of the Silver moon “no”. He did his best to steady his breathing, so he wouldn’t be heard.
Torvald’s demeanor changed. He took back the vial from Rikter, stepped behind him, grabbed his neck and slammed his head into the counter in front of him. The cook groaned and almost collapsed, but Torvald hoisted him up by his underarms and slumped him onto the countertop like a bag of potatoes.
Rikter coughed, blood spurting onto a cutting board as Torvald sauntered to a rack of knives, just to the left of the door that led into cold storage. He perused the selection, like a student in the library picking out which book to read next, then settled on a heavy meat cleaver. Rikter, who had an encyclopedic knowledge of every inch of the kitchen, whimpered and closed his eyes, too terrified to move. Torvald returned to the cook, placing one hand on his back, wielding the cleaver in the other. He leaned in close.
“Rikter… You may be just a dumb cook, but you know better than that”, Torvald chided. “So I’ll give you another chance to answer correctly. But every time you don’t, you’re going to have one less finger to spoon out oatmeal with. Understand?”
The cook nodded, his adrenaline making his head shake even more.
“Good,” Torvald cooed. “Now, let’s try again. If I give you this vial back, will you use it to poison Gideon Eldridge’s associates, so that everyone will know that aiding or abetting him is a death sentence?”
Rikter nodded.
Torvald grabbed the cook’s wrist, and slammed it down onto the cutting board. Rikter’s eyes went wide and he struggled, but Torvald had an iron grip. He brought the cleaver down and it stuck into the wood an inch from the cook’s trembling thumb. He then let go, and began to leave the kitchen.
“I’m glad we understand each other,” he said, before leaving the vial on the counter. The brute took a step back, mockingly sneered at the cook, then left the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
The slam of the door made Rikter jump, before collapsing to the floor, holding his wrist. Tears flowed down his face as he began to hyperventilate, looking around. The pots and pans in the kitchen hung innocently, beaten up from years of use, but still spotless. Torvald was right, he was just a dumb cook, he thought. But he was proud of his job. At least, he was. Now, it seemed like the Knights controlled the school, and people like Rikter were being shoved aside.
Gideon, still kneeling in the cold storage, continued to not move. However, even in cold storage, constantly gripping onto a glass bottle for dear life made his fingers sweat, and one of them slipped against the bottle with a light squeak. The student winced, hoping that he wasn’t heard.
Rikter stopped, mid sniffle. His head jerked towards the door to the cold storage, which he just then realized was open. He knew that when he left after breakfast cleanup half an hour before, he had closed it. The cook shot his arm up to the counter, frantically feeling around before finding the handle to the cleaver, then pulled it down and held it to his chest.
Gathering up what little courage he had left, Rikter stood up on shaky legs and called out.
“I already agreed to do what he said, come out and make your threats, then leave me alone!” he cried, pointing the shaking cleaver towards where Gideon was hiding.
The student grimaced. He knew Rikter well, knew that he was a good man who just wanted to work in peace. He hated what the Knights were doing and hated himself for being so blind to it for so long. If the cook was really planning on poisoning his allies and friends, he couldn’t let it happen.
He stood up, the glass bottle of alcohol still in his arms, and walked through the storage doorway.
“Hi, Rikter,” Gideon greeted morosely, plodding a few steps forward before stopping just outside of cleaver range.
The cook blanched, then his shoulders calmed slightly. He chuckled ironically upon seeing Gideon.
“Huh…of course it was you in there,” Rikter muttered. “Now you know what they’re doing.”
Gideon nodded. “He attacked me in the hallway just after lunch.”
Rikter gave a quick burst of panicked laughter, before putting his fingers through his dark hair to get them out of his face. “So that’s what happened to his jaw, good one. I’d give you a drink for that, but it seems like you’ve already helped yourself in that regard,” he said, gesturing to the bottle.
“I’m gonna burn their little clubhouse to the ground,” Gideon replied. “It’s the only way to get them to stop hunting me for a minute. I’ll escape through the delivery corridor.”
“Why are you telling me this?” the cook asked. “I just told Torvald that I would poison your friends.”
Gideon shook his head. “I know you won’t. You’re a good man, and you care too much.”
Rikter looked at the vial on the counter, picked it up, then uncorked it and poured it down the sink.
“You’re right,” he said. “The Knights may be assholes, but if the poison goes missing, they can’t punish me too harshly for it.”
Gideon smiled, his eyes still greatly saddened.
Rikter motioned to the cupboards along the wall, before placing the cleaver back down on the counter. “If you’re escaping, grab some supplies, but don’t weigh yourself down. If anyone asks, I’ll say you threatened me.”
Gideon put down the bottle, then hurried to fill a small food sack that had been laying nearby. It was lined with wax to prevent spoilage, which was much better than his book bag for keeping food. Meanwhile, Rikter made his way to the door, slowly opening it and peering outside before shutting and locking it.
“What did you do, anyway?” he prodded.
Gideon’s mind was in flight mode and the question didn’t register. “Huh?” he replied absent-mindedly as he stuffed some carrots into the bag.
“They Knights want to kill you. Did you accidentally kill one of them in training or something?” Rikter questioned.
The student stopped. “Yes, nine of them, actually. But that’s not the problem.”
Rikter stared, shocked. “You killed nine Knights of the Silver Moon and that’s NOT the reason they want you dead?” he asked incredulously.
Gideon finished loading up the bag and turned to the cook.
“The Knights value strength above all else. If you’re weak enough to die in battle against a brother, the person who does the killing faces no penalty; they just tell the school administration that the death was due to a training accident. What DOES warrant a death penalty is taking the oath to stay in for life, learning secrets, then wanting to get out.”
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Rikter looked worried, and nodded. “Secrets worth killing for…” he muttered.
Gideon latched the bag to his belt. “Dorian demands perfection. Someone leaving shatters his little reality and he doesn’t like it, so he culls anyone who dares. But I can’t go along with what he’s planning, the scope of damage it would cause is catastrophic.”
He picked up the bottle of alcohol, then made his way to the door, unlocking it. The cook wiped the blood from his face.
“I’m sorry you have to run,” he lamented. “This place is your home. It’s my home too. Is there anything I can do to help?”
The student stopped in the doorway, turning to the cook.
“It’s about to get nasty,” he said flatly. “Get somewhere safe, and if anyone asks, I told you nothing.”
“I will”, the cook replied, the feeling of hope starting to lighten his chest.
But the door was shut, and Gideon was already gone.
CHAPTER 1
Axeton Bridges had been listening to the old man tell his stories for a few hours now, the sun was coming through his kitchen window as Brey Gunderson stood there, preparing a cup of tea that Axeton told him wasn’t necessary. Brey had requested the priest’s services earlier that day, and he had put off coming out here for a reason. But the old man was family, just like everyone else in Avandale, so Axeton always listened.
The priest, a tall man of about thirty years, took the cup and absent-mindedly plopped in a few sugar cubes and stirred it as the old man began another tale. It was mid-afternoon in the small cottage just outside of the village. The farmer and the priest were both grateful that the summer had finally seemed to give way to the fall, as for the past few months that time of day would have been too warm to comfortably sit inside for long. The cup in the priest’s hand was worn, passed down for generations. An ancient golden band barely clinging to life after repeated washings rimmed the outside near the top of each cup. Axeton took a sip while sitting rigidly in a chair, hoping that this visit wouldn’t take all day, but wasn't terribly optimistic about that wish.
The old man, around seventy years old, had tanned and worn skin from working outdoors. His fingertips were especially calloused, as he used them to initiate his Gift to produce crops. He, unlike Axeton, sat back comfortably in his favorite rocking chair under the kitchen window.
“Father Axeton”, the old man perked up as he pointed his rough finger at the priest. “Have you heard of the Battle of Sapphire River?”
Axeton groaned inwardly. The “battle” he was talking about happened thirty years ago, down the road. A bandit was being chased out of the village carrying his stolen payload in tow when he hit the river, and got his boot stuck between two rocks in the riverbed. The townspeople stood at the shore, pelting him with fruit until he managed to free himself and shrink into the forest nearby. For years afterward, it was a massive sense of pride among those who participated, claiming their missiles were the ones to actually hit the thief.
When Axeton had stumbled upon the village ten years ago, he was told about this battle within 45 minutes of unpacking his things at the inn. The innkeeper, Vergassen, told him of his father’s bravery during the riverside pelting.
“I ran to the larder and grabbed an onion”, the old man started excitedly, eager to tell his part of the legendary tale. Axeton put his hand up.
“Brey, I would love to listen to your story, but you asked me to come help you. What’s the problem?” Axeton pleaded.
Brey sat for a moment, slight confusion on his face. He began chewing on his lower lip, which was slightly stained from years of pipe tobacco.
“Do you remember what the problem was?” Axeton prodded.
Brey furrowed a shaggy eyebrow and nodded. “Yes,” he murmured. “Follow me”.
The old man led Axeton behind the house, to the large garden he had been sustaining for years. Brey had a Flora Gift and could control plants; provided he was left with enough glory to use it. His house was on the outskirts of the village, so it hampered his Gift considerably, but that was the only place with enough room for his crops. The pair stopped at the well.
“So, I was pulling the bucket up you see,” Brey started, dramatically reenacting the motion with his sunburnt arms. “And I think I dropped my spectacles in the well. I was bent over, and I heard a splash. Could you see if they’re down there, please?”
Axetons’ Gift was Sight. A pretty mundane one, it had helped him find his parents in the crowded village square growing up, and made Hide and Seek a lot easier, but it wasn’t as flashy as Fauna Gifts or even Elemental. Those were rare. Up until he left for the Academy, Axeton had met maybe two dozen Fauna and half as many Elemental. There’s a multitude of potential Gifts, like his father’s Discernment, but ones with potential use in combat were prized. They were destined for great things. Axeton, it seemed, was destined to find lost spectacles.
Axeton walked closer to the well, taking a cursory glance into the damp darkness. It was pretty deep; even with a Flora Gift, plants can’t be controlled if they don’t get water.
The priest took a step back, rolling his head to increase blood flow to his head and eyes. His Sight Gift required a very intense focus, which would leave him disoriented if used for too long. As his head went around, he noticed a glint at the top of Brey’s pocket. He closed his eyes, so he wouldn’t use glory accidentally.
“Brey…” Axeton asked dejectedly.
“Yes?” the old man replied.
“What’s in your pocket?”
The old man looked at Axeton quizzically, then patted the front of his brown wool vest for a moment then immediately lit up.
“There they are!” he smiled that grandpa's smile he was known for. “Thank you, it took so long to have these made. Wait.” He patted his other pocket, opposite of the spectacles’ hiding place.
“I…appear to have lost my pouch of Sunblossom seeds,” his tone turning from relieved to upset at the drop of a hat. “If they’re going to be ready for the festival in a few days, I need to get them in the ground today!”
The old man huffed, then took a step forward and looked down the well. “Maybe that was the splash I heard; can you please look?” he pleaded.
Axeton nodded. The Avara Festival, celebrating the harvest brought to the village by the goddess, was the main event of the year, and happened every year just before the winter cold. There were a few people who would sell Sunblossoms in town, but none were as radiant as Brey’s. His Gift made them larger and brighter, and when the children walked through the main street holding them on the festival day, it would fill everyone there with immense pride. Axeton began his Sight ritual again, because if anything was worth using Glory for, it was this.
And nothing happened.
The priest tried it again, nothing. Normally, his vision would tunnel and the item he was looking for would be in a magnified view in front of him, rimmed with gold. All he saw was the dark well’s damp interior.
He frowned, motioning to Brey, who was standing behind him expectantly. “Is your Gift working right now?” he asked in a serious tone.
The normally jovial old man saw Axeton’s concern and without hesitation, knelt down and stuck his hands into the earth, burying the tips of his fingers. He closed his eyes and felt around the dirt in silence, as if reaching out to his garden, his face twisted with concern.
He pulled his fingers out and dusted them off on his pant leg, which was worn in that exact spot.
“No…it’s not even late in the day. We can’t be out of glory yet, can we?” Brey pondered with a slight worry.
Axeton shook his head. “We shouldn’t be. The tailor’s son finally left for Grenfield last week, so him and his Strength Gift showboating stopped sucking the Bell’s glory supply dry. I’d better get back into town and check it out”.
Axeton had warned him of Grenfield. The Knights of the Silver Dawn had hopefully disbanded, but it was still a dangerous place to learn.
Brey gave the priest a sack of vegetables as payment for the trip as he headed back into town. It was thirty minutes away by foot, and he always used the commute as a way to clear his thoughts; letting them wander as his boots steadily crunched on the makeshift gravel road. Remembering how he had stumbled into the village, he had almost missed it; the signs from the road were worn and covered in branches. He had been walking for days trying to find somewhere he could rest, and hopefully ditch his pursuers.
10 years prior
It was dusk, and Gideon Eldridge had been on the run for weeks. Exhausted, starving, and sore, he noticed a pinprick of light once he turned from the main road. He had been giving villages and towns a wide berth on purpose, in hopes to prevent being ambushed somehow, but he had to stop here and at least get his bearings. The man was in good shape, but being on the road for so long without the appropriate gear and supplies was taking its toll. His nerves were shot from constantly being on the lookout for enemies and dangerous animals.
Making his way to the light, which had become even more bright in the contrast of the approaching night, Gideon’s eyes swept the surroundings. He briefly used his Gift of Sight to check for any potential enemies hiding along the overgrown trail, but he was so far away from the power source, his family’s Destined Object, that it wasn’t much better than his regular vision. The small road that branched off the main highway was wildly overgrown, as if telling travelers that if they don’t know what’s past these ancient trees, then it’s none of their business and to keep moving.
Not exactly welcoming, Gideon thought.
Gideon approached the building, which based on the size, was some kind of tavern. Smoke lightly chugged from the chimney on one side, while a set of worn stairs led to a rustic door on the other. There was what appeared to be an outside-accessible basement, the door of which wasn’t even locked. The road became much more manicured past the building, which told Gideon that at the very least, there were a few houses further down. Pressing his ears to the solid oak door, the only sounds were standard for such a place; talking, laughing, knives scraping against pewter plates.
Suddenly, with Gideon’s ear still against the door, it opened. He continued squatting there, the door swinging away from his head, as a scruffy patron stopped his exit and looked at him dubiously. The man looked to be quite a bit older than Gideon, who was only twenty one at the time, but still appeared to be able to handle himself if push came to shove. He stood for a moment, his jacket slung over his left arm, before nodding at Gideon and pushing past him. The student watched as the man turned, and continued down the road past the tavern.
At least the people here aren’t hostile to outsiders, he thought. He stepped inside.
The inside of the tavern was moderately lit, the fireplace at the opposite side of the main room playing the role of bigger brother to the small candles and lanterns spread throughout. It smelled earthy inside, but not moldy. Gideon had been to dockside taverns, where he realized ten seconds after stepping in that they were not the place for him, but this tavern was not the case. The musty yet somehow welcoming smell, he discovered, was emitting from the patrons. A majority of them seemed to be in the business of farm work, and based on the time of day, they just finished that work and came in for a pint.
Gideon tried his best to nonchalantly walk to a table, while keeping an eye out for anyone who might do him harm. Nobody was acting suspiciously, other than the occasional tavern goer taking a quick glance at the newcomer before returning to their drinks or food. The traveler approached a table against the wall, slung off his bag, then gratefully rested on the surprisingly comfortable wooden chair.
He sat for a moment, putting his head back against the wall, feeling the precious heat from the fire. His rusty brown hair, which was very much overdue for a wash, gave a slight cushion to the back of his head. Gideon opened his eyes, and met the gaze of a stuffed deer that was mounted high on the wall across from him. He brought his head down, and the space vacant just a moment ago was now occupied by an older woman in a worn cloth apron, sturdy patches pockmarking the once vibrant floral yellow fabric. Her gray hair was tied in a bun, but little wisps had escaped during the dinner time rush, and were framing her delicate, yet wizened face. She looked at him, her hands on her hips.
“What can I get you?”, she asked, almost certain that she knew the answer already.
The student blinked. He cleared his throat, since it has been a while since he has spoken to another human being.
“Uh…I’ll have a plate of meat and potatoes, and something sweet to drink, please,” he muttered.
Her expression seemed to indicate that she knew that exact order was coming, but the “please” caught her by surprise. She looked him up and down, at least, what was visible from behind the small table.
“You got something to pay with?” she asked. Gideon noticed her slight drawl.
“Oh…yeah, hold on,” he answered. He fumbled with the tiny leather purse he kept strapped to his belt. It was somewhat buried as he sat, under his heavy jacket. After a moment, he summoned a few copper Rad, which he placed gently onto the tabletop. He hoped this was enough.
“I’ll bring that out in a bit”, she said curtly, picking up the coins and walking towards the bar, relaying the request to a man who was probably the innkeeper, who then absentmindedly went into a back room.
While waiting for the food and drink, Gideon took stock and let his guard down for the first time in days. He was ahead of his pursuers, and if worse came to worse, the other people in here would provide a distraction and he could slip through the back, he thought. No new injuries, insect bites or infected cuts thankfully. His food sack was empty, outside of a few berries he had found the day before. He was cautious about trying them because he wasn’t sure if they were poisonous, and he didn’t have time to sit around letting the poison work its way out of his system. Some coins, a small dining knife, a few pairs of badly worn socks (courtesy of an unattended clothes line), and a small amulet of Avara on a chain was all he had left. The student grieved the loss of his dueling saber back in his bunk, and its absence from his side continued to unnerve him, especially in a new place like this one. He sorted these items onto the table in front of him, then pulled off his jacket, as the fire nearby was going strong and he was starting to sweat.
As he was inspecting the coat for any undesirables, the woman came back with a pewter plate of baked gork and a tall mug of roastberry wine. It had barely touched the table when Gideon attacked the meat voraciously, but still carefully enough to avoid the bones. The seasoning was plain, but it was hot and probably not full of parasites, so it was good enough for him at the moment. The woman grimaced at his sloppy display, then blinked as her eyes wandered to the table. Her eyes widened, the creases around them pulled up with her smile as she seemed to be overcome with relief.
“Oh, father I didn’t realize you’d get here so soon…and in such a rough condition. I take it you had some troubles along your journey to get here,” she spouted suddenly.
Gideon stopped mid gulp, almost choking, before quickly washing away the blockage with some of the wine.
“Uh…excuse me?” he questioned.
The woman pointed excitedly at the amulet on the table, then at Gideon’s chest. “You’re the new priest we had requested six months ago from Grenfield. We had hoped for a follower of Avara, but they said recruits of that faith were rare and it would take a while to find someone and train them. Your tunic is pretty worn but I could tell that’s where you just came from. So exciting!”
He blinked. Her story made sense…Avara was a minor deity of peace and rebirth, and not very popular in the major cities that fed recruits to Grenfield. They preferred gods of wealth, strength, and fortune. He himself was partial to Merik, the god of balanced combat. The city’s’ disconnect from the farming community made Avara worship seem…quaint. His mother had given him the amulet a long time ago, since she grew up in a village like this one and wanted him to have a token of his heritage. He had never actually worn the thing, but the day he had to escape Grenfield, it must have somehow found its way into his bag. Maybe the gods don’t hate him after all.
Gideon’s tunic was what recruits wore; He had left in the middle of the afternoon and didn’t have time to change into something more rugged for the road. In retrospect, he thought, he should have been better prepared. He should have known that Dorian’s threats weren’t just hot air.
The student put on his best, straight-backed posture and tone of voice as he addressed her again. I could lay low in the place for a while, he thought. I have to run with this. He felt naked without it, but his sword would just be another thing he’d have to lie about.
“Ahem…yes, you are correct. I apologize for the delay,” he said, dramatically attempting to brush some unknown stain from his tunic’s lapel. “I heard that your village was in desperate need of spiritual guidance, so I came immediately. Almost missed the road here but thanks to Avara I felt drawn to this place and made the right turn!”
The woman cupped her hands, holding them to her chest as she breathed out, relaxing. Then gave him a quizzical look.
“Wait… they said there were no recruits who followed Avara at that time,” she asked cautiously.
Time to kick the blame down the road, he thought.
“Who did you speak to when you contacted the college?,” Gideon asked, fingers stroking his beard as he pretended to be mildly indignant.
She thought for a moment. “Uh…I think it was a higher-up registrar…Dolin?”
He shook his head. “That figures. See, I tend to stay in the library most days, and the people in charge of Grenfield don’t really think much of Avara or her followers, as you can understand, I’m sure.”
She nodded knowingly, and Axeton tried to conceal his wince. He hated lying because he didn’t like keeping track of everything, but this seemed like a win-win situation for both parties involved.
“So, they probably just forgot I was even there,” he continued. “I was in the library and saw a list of requests, and immediately set off. I didn’t even finish reading the letter, I left so quickly.”
He raised his arms, showcasing the meager items on the table before him. “Unfortunately, my haste left me a bit underprepared for the journey,” he said in an uneasy chuckle.
The woman sat down across the table from him and patted the top of Axeton’s hand. “Well thank Avara you came. We’ll get you set up in the church right away and you can get started on preparing the Day of Prayer sermon, I’ll fetch Baron Estes in the morning. Tonight, you can rest and clean up here. Do you need anything?” She asked urgently.
Gideon sat marveling, thinking this could actually work. He wracked his mind, trying to think of any loose ends or holes in his story
.
“No,” he said, in the most gracious tone he could muster. “However…”
He leaned in close. She did the same, a slight concern on her face.
“When I left I…this is embarrassing…I may have owed some students a considerable amount of money. I grew up poor, and had to borrow to afford books, tuition, and whatnot. So if anyone from the college comes, please tell them you haven’t seen him or any other students. Understand?” he pleaded.
The woman nodded grimly and whispered. “We all know what it’s like, don’t worry. You’ll be safe here.”
Then he felt the connection. Gideon’s Destined Object, tied to him since birth, let go and a new one took its place. He felt the rush of glory open up, a stark contrast to the diminishing glory he had been feeling since he went further and further away from home. He had to find out what and exactly where it was, but it would have to wait until he got his bearings in this new place. Feeling safe for the first time in years probably triggered it, he thought, but the Object nearby must be powerful…Gideon was able to feel a lot of souls tied to it. The village of Avandale was hiding something.
“One more thing,” the woman asked, as the student pondered this turn of events.
He snapped out of it. “Yes, my child?” he responded.
“Your name,” she replied. “What was your name? Mine is Molly Vergassen, my husband and I own this tavern.”
He stupidly hadn’t thought of that. He couldn’t use the one his parents had given him; anyone related to the Knights would eventually track him down.
Well, the thought. If I’m going to be a priest of Avara, maybe it’s time for a rebirth.
“Axeton,” he answered, remembering how Torvald’s axe almost ended his life that day at Grenfield. The old him died that day, anyway.
“Well, Father Axeton,” Molly smiled. “Let me be the first to welcome you to our little town. We don’t have much, but we work hard and take care of each other. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here, and find so much to be thankful for.”
The new priest raised his mug, smiling back at the kindly tavern owner’s wife. “I already have.”