After the morning exercises, Ihra had gone looking for Jasper. She had found him just in time to see him slipping out of the temple with the curvy Djinn, clearly headed for the hot springs. She hadn’t let him go in peace, knowing that he planned to interrogate the woman - although Ihra had a sneaking suspicion that the interrogation might not be as one-sided, or as strictly professional, as he expected. Laylah clearly had designs on her friend, but truthfully, Ihra didn’t think it would be the worst thing if he succumbed. Sometimes a little stress release was exactly what the doctor had ordered.
But with Jasper occupied, she found herself at odds and ends. Unlike Jasper, she was not a member of the cult, merely a guest in the temple. The vast majority of the members had disappeared after the morning exercise, and the few that she did see walking around the grounds largely ignored her besides occasionally tossing a friendly nod in her direction. Thus, left with nothing to do, she found herself aimlessly wandering around the temple until, to her surprise, she came across a small library.
The library wasn’t much to talk about, a single room barely larger than the many empty bedrooms that filled the temple's silent grounds, but the room was used to its fullest potential - every inch of the walls, from floor to ceiling, was stacked high with books. The library had a small desk that perhaps housed a clerk but it was abandoned. Seeing no guards to stop her, Ihra decided to browse through the books, driven more by idle curiosity than anything else.
But her interest grew sharper when she discovered a small section on magic. Despite having successfully completed Lady Kaksû’s trial, she hadn’t figured out how to fully activate her class. She had read and reread Aphora’s book on runes, but still had no idea how to carve the runes onto her body as her class required. Aphora's book didn't even mention the possibility. But the temple library, small though it was, did have one book on runic magic. A new one.
Ihra felt a little guilty as she pulled the book off the shelves; she had the sneaking suspicion that if the clerk was here to man the desk she would not be welcome to browse the library. But she didn't let it stop here. After all, she reasoned, if they really cared that much, they should have set security. They had no one to blame but themselves.
But her rationalizations didn't stop her from leaving the library as soon as she had snatched up the volume, not wanting to read it there and risk the clerk returning. She found a secluded nook in the colonnade, tucked out of sight of the library, and curled up with the book. She flipped through the early chapters quickly, skimming through the pages disinterestedly. It was all stuff she knew already: musings about the origins of the power that field the runes, a list of known runes that spanned several pages, and rituals for basic healing ceremonies and combat spells. But the book changed halfway through as a second title page appeared. Fifty Years Amongst the Huedar: A New Runic Language.
The Huedar? Ihra wrinkled her brow, struggling to remember why the name seemed familiar. Curious, she flipped the page over.
The meaning of the name came rushing back to her as she scanned the introduction. The Fey that the Empire usually dealt with were ruled by the hostile Ya’ari, the ruling clan that had initiated the devastating Fey wars. But it had long been believed that there was another powerful Fey faction, the Huedar, rivals of the Ya’ari who dwelt in the depths of the uncharted south. The empire had even tried - and failed - to reach them during the Fey wars in hopes that the Huedar would prove an ally. But if the author of this book were to believe, the Huedar were very real. A Djinn who had once belonged to Nahrēmah’s cult, the scribe claimed to have found himself in Huedar territory after a portal ritual had malfunctioned.
It is an incredible claim, but not an entirely unbelievable tale, Ihra mused. Portal rituals had a reputation for being expensive and unreliable, not exactly a winning combination unless you were daring or desperate. But as she thumbed through the book, her doubts begin to slip away.
Page after page was filled with runes and rituals she’d never seen, an entirely new script that resembled the one she’d learned from Aphora but was different enough to make its decipherment difficult. If the author was a fraud, he’d put a considerable amount of time and effort into it.
And then she found a section on runic enhancements.
Some of the Huedars’ classes incorporate runic magic directly into their body. While the runes thus employed sacrifice a portion of their strength, unable to match the power of a properly prepared battle ritual, what they lose in strength is made up for in flexibility. No longer forced to rely on long, complicated rituals, a Huedar runic warrior is able to deploy weaker versions of the runes in direct combat.
The runes are indirectly inscribed on the flesh of the warrior. Most runic warriors I have observed have runes tattooed on them, usually just two at a time, although more powerful warriors may eventually be covered in them. Others employ a different process, using acid to scar the skin into the desired pattern. These warriors claim the scarring produces more powerful effects, although the priests I am staying with have assured me that these claims are baseless.
The most important part of the process, as far as I can determine, is the use of modified runes. The priests would not teach me the runes used by the runic warriors, but after years of observation, I have succeeded in recording some of them and the effects they appear to produce. All attempts to replicate their power on my own body, however, have been unsuccessful; perhaps a suitable class is required in order to activate them.
What followed was two pages filled with runes. Smaller and less complicated than those used in most rituals, their swirls and whorls were quite unlike the runes she already knew. Yet another script? Ihra wondered.
But it was worth a try, she decided. She pulled her notebook out of her bag of holding, jotting down the runes and their description as quickly as possible until the echo of footsteps rang down the hall. Acting quickly, she stuffed the two books into her bag, leaning back against the wall with a studied casualness.
Her shoulders knotted up in tension as a familiar face came into view. Abnu. The giant oaf may have done no harm in the end, but he had certainly tried to hurt Jasper, a deed she could not easily forgive. Suddenly wary, Ihra straightened up in her seat, mentally preparing herself to spring into motion at the slightest sign of trouble.
But the Djinn only flashed her a friendly smile, bowing his head slightly as he came to a stop before her.
“Lady Ihra?” He spoke nothing but her name, but she could hear the question trailing off at the end.
She responded reluctantly. “Yes?”
The Djinn smiled broadly, apparently taking her response as an invitation to sit down beside her. Suffocating a sigh, Ihra squeezed over to accommodate the massive warrior.
“I was just...wondering if the rumors were true?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Rumors? What rumors?”
The giant shifted easily in his seat, leaning back against the cool sandstone wall. “The whole temple has been abuzz with talk since you and Jasper arrived. Qatlah swore she saw a member of the royal guard with you when you first came into the city, Jasper is clearly some sort of young mage prodigy, and then there’s your horns - err, antlers,” he corrected himself. “Surely, you must be an elf. Everyone’s saying Jasper must be a prince and you his elven betrothed.”
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Ihra didn’t bother to hide her sigh this time, rolling her eyes. Not this again. Why does everyone assume a guy and a girl can’t just be friends?
“You know, Abnu, there are really only two types of rumors - rumors that are nothing more than the fantasies of idle minds and rumors that have an element of truth to them but will never be confirmed because the subject of those rumors wish to keep their private lives private. In either case, rumors aren't worth spreading.”
Abnu grinned back at her, his enthusiasm seemingly unaffected by her obvious irritation. “Okay, okay,” he relented. “But tell me one thing at least - you are an elf, aren’t you? One of Yarha’s kin?”
Even if Ihra felt inclined to answer his question - and she didn’t - she wasn’t sure if she could. Before meeting Jasper, the answer would have been easy - hell, she never would have been asked the question in the first place. Her parents and brother were certainly no elves and neither was she. But the void had changed her, altered her in ways she still didn't understand, but one thing seemed clear. The mark it had left on her soul had somehow activated her elven lineage. The antlers were the most troubling evidence of this.
Ihra had certainly been born a Corsythian, but Corsythians didn’t have antlers. Even the Celestians, who prided themselves on millennia of intermarriage with the elves of Yammaqom and enjoyed a plenitude of boons to their lifespan and power still didn’t grow antlers. It just didn’t happen.
Which left her facing an uncomfortable truth - Ihra simply didn’t know what she was anymore. She was certainly an elf in appearance, possibly after her class change equal to one in power too, but not in culture. Would the elves accept her as one of them, or was she trapped between identities, neither one nor the other? Ihra was saved from having to answer Abnu’s question as someone else appeared in the corridor.
The tension in her shoulders eased as she saw the old woman making her way toward them. The Keeper’s silver hair paired well with her almost wine-colored skin, and her simple white robe was gathered at her waist beside her sword. Strong and thick, the simple falchion was a warrior’s weapon, focused on overwhelming strength.
The Keeper smiled gently. “Ihra? I was wondering if you wished to join me for maqta in my office.” Ihra recognized the term after a second, remembering the sickeningly sweet beverage the Moon-kissed had served them.
“Um, I guess?”
But Abnu reached out, grabbing her wrist gently but firmly. His friendly exuberance was replaced by a sudden seriousness. “Actually, Keeper Hayil, Ihra and I were just about to begin a friendly duel. The challenge was already issued and accepted, which as you know, must be carried out.”
Ihra opened her mouth to object to Abnu's bald-faced lied, but her mouth closed with the words yet unspoken. For just a split second - but that was all it had taken - the old woman’s friendly mien had flickered. Anger - pure, unfettered rage - surged through the Keeper's eyes before the tempest was smoothed away. Something isn't right with her, she suddenly realized.
“I’m sure you can fight your duel later, Abnu.” Lady Hayil's words were stiff, but Abnu shook his head obstinately. “Surely, you know better than that, Keeper - our code of conduct must be rigorously upheld. I’m sure you can have tea with Ihra on a different day.”
An awkward silence stretched between the three as the Keeper hesitated, no easy rebuttal leaping to her lips. Turning heel, the old women took a few steps down the corridor as if she was departing.
Before her class change, Ihra would never have seen the blow coming. Stats could decay with old age, but the woman, even if she had lost a step, was still a monster. Ihra barely managed to react, her head only sliding a few inches to the left as she started to fling herself off the seat. It was just enough. The falchion whistled past her ear, the thick sword propelled by so much power that the blade buried itself into the soft, sandstone walls.
The Keeper didn’t even struggle to remove her weapon, yanking the sword back out with casual ease as she launched a slash straight toward Ihra. She desperately fumbled to draw Aphora’s misericorde, but the Keeper's blow was blocked by another. With a roar, Abnu knocked the falchion’s swing off its trajectory, his clawed fist smashing straight into the old woman’s chest.
The force of his strike was truly prodigious, knocking the Keeper off her feet. She was flung several feet down the corridor, landing with a thud as the falchion fell out of her hands, spinning across the stone pavement out of her reach.
Abnu leapt toward her, swinging his fists straight toward her head. An audible crack rang down the halls as the paving stones crumbled beneath the weight of his blow, but the Keeper had already rolled out of his way. Nor did the loss of her weapon faze her. As she sprung to her feet, she drew another falchion out of her bag, surging forward to deliver a powerful thrust. Somehow, Abnu managed to intercept the blade. Closing his monstrous hand around it, the two fought for control of the weapon, although the blood dripping on the floor told Ihra his struggle came at a price.
Dropping the misericorde, she drew her bow, firing an arrow straight at the Keeper’s head. Another falchion appeared in her left hand as, with a flick of her wrist, the old woman deflected the arrow. But the moment of inattention was enough to give Abnu an opening, his clawed hand raking across her face. The pain seemed to give her strength, though. Her weapon surged forward again, the sharp tip plunging into Abnu’s shoulder. He roared in rage, his grip slipping off the Keeper. Ignoring the Djinn, she flickered forward, her blade dancing in a wide arc as it swung straight toward Ihra’s neck.
Ihra tried to throw herself backward, but this time it wasn’t enough. The tip of the Keeper’s blade sliced through the soft tissues of her throat. She landed on the floor hard, her strength rapidly ebbing as an eruption of blood gushed from her ruptured arteries.
And then her new skill activated.
A tremor convulsed her body, her back arching wildly as she thrashed on the floor. And then she was standing up again, the wounds in her neck healed. Well, not standing up exactly. Utterly disoriented, Ihra stamped her hooves - wait, hooves? - against the ground as an angry snort echoed down the hall.
The Keeper, taken aback by the unexpected transformation, hesitated for just a second. Rearing up on her hind legs, Ihra lashed out. Her hooves, unlike a natural deer, were forged from sharp iron with rows of cruel barbs protruding along the side. The hooves smashed into the old woman, shredding her leather armor as if it were made of wax paper.
But adventurers did not make it to old age by being incompetent. The Keeper's momentary hesitation was overridden as her reflexes kicked in to save her. She slid to the side, avoiding the worst of Ihra’s blow, and lined up her own strike as the awkward deer struggled to pivot. She had, however, forgotten about Abnu. Her strike never landed as the Djinn giant tackled her to the ground, roaring with rage. His body seemed stuck in a partial transformation, large clumps of shaggy, striped fur clinging to his form, his clawed hands now closer to paws.
Somehow the Keeper, despite the many blows she had taken, found the strength to toss the half-transformed giant off her, staggering to her feet, as she reached into her bag again. But she never got the chance to draw the falchion she was searching for as Ihra took the opening Abnu had gift her. The hexing hind charged across the narrow corridor, hitting the woman like a runaway freight train. Ihra slammed the Keeper against the wall, her iron antlers skewering the woman's rib cage and, with her internal organs utterly shredded, the Keeper breathed her last.
Ihra tried to pull back, to remove herself from the corpse attached to her, but she couldn’t move. Her head was somehow stuck to the wall. Panicking, the deer begin to thrash violently until a giant paw patted it gently on the back. “Calm down. Calm down. Your antlers are stuck in the wall, but I’ll get them out.” The voice was deep and guttural, the words difficult to understand, but the soothing tone and gentle patting broke through the deer's panicked instincts, bringing Ihra back to her mind. It took some effort, but he managed to pry her loose.
The two looked at each other awkwardly, a deer and a partially transformed tiger standing over the shattered corpse of the temple’s priestess. Ihra wanted to speak, wanted to know why Abnu had helped her, but her mouth simply couldn’t form the words, and she had no idea how to transform back, only dimly recalling that the skill was perhaps on a timer.
The deer’s ears pricked up as the heavy clatter of steps echoed down the corridor. She broadened her stance, prepared to charge the new threat when a familiar face came into view. Jasper.