Page 2 of Unseen Eye
But I often felt like an outsider, watching other children head off to school while I remained in the woods. Normal kids went to classes, made friends, and shared laughter. I convinced Kendry to let me attend once, hoping for a taste of that life. For half a day, I felt a flicker of excitement. But it quickly extinguished as whispers filled the air—comments about my violet eyes and why I lived alone in the woods. They called me “Witch Eyes,” a label that stung more than I cared to admit.
I braved it for a week, forcing a smile for Kendry when he asked about my day. But one evening, after a particularly cruelday, I came home in tears and told him everything. He listened quietly before finally speaking. “It’s a harsh lesson in how cruel people can be, Eva. Not everyone understands what’s different.” His words sank deep, a stark reminder of my isolation.
As I grew older, I began to see the wisdom in Kendry’s lessons. The world outside was darker than I once believed, especially with reports of people vanishing from nearby villages in the dead of night. I realized that knowing how to wield a sword wasn’t just about being different—it was about survival. I may not fit in with the other kids, but those skills could be my lifeline in a world that didn’t seem to want me.
As I step outside, I pause to take in the familiar comfort of our cottage. The two-story structure, with its weathered stone and timber, looks almost like it’s part of the forest, nestled just at its edge. It’s a cozy place, vines creeping up the walls, flowers blooming in bursts of color around the entrance—all thanks to Kendry, of course. The thatched roof and the constant curl of smoke from the chimney hint at the warmth inside, whether from his bustling kitchen or the backroom workshop, where he spends hours concocting remedies.
I glance toward the workshop, a place thick with the smells of dried plants and fresh herbs. As a child, I used to dart around the room, dodging herbs hanging from the ceiling and peeking at the jars on his shelves, each labeled with his careful script. He’d even hold gatherings, sharing his knowledge with other remedy makers
Around the corner lies Kendry’s herb garden, a lush blend of lavender, rosemary, chamomile, and all sorts of strange plants. There’s a small path winding through it, leading to the bench where he sometimes sits, lost in thought. Beyond the garden, the forest stretches out like a second home, a place I spent childhood afternoons climbing trees and testing Kendry’s patience.
Pulling me away from my thoughts, Kendry says, “Remember,Eva,” as he hands me a pair of daggers, “it’s not about the size of the weapon, but how you wield it.” I don’t wait for him to instruct me before I turn around and take aim at a target he placed in the tree. Hitting the target, I can’t help but smile at my accomplishment. “Again,” Kendry instructs, clearly not as impressed as I am.
We continue this exercise for a while before switching to a sword. Despite my semi-petite frame, I consider myself adept with a sword and borderline lethal with daggers. Kendry has taught me to use my size to my advantage, emphasizing agility and quick reflexes. “You’re like a nymph, Eva,” he says with a rare smile. “Quick, clever, and always one step ahead.”
“I think you’ve officially spent too much time reading your folklore,” I counter quickly. Kendry laughs, who knows all too well the countless hours he has spent absorbed in those stories. Constantly sharing them with me over the years, their haunting images often bleeding into my nightmares.
I was just a child when Kendry first told me the legend of Valtris and the great betrayal. Valtris, the god of war and strength, protected the prosperous city of Ardu, blessing it with abundance so long as its people followed his laws. For centuries, the city flourished under his divine protection, its wealth and splendor known far beyond its borders. But like all great tales, greed crept in. The rulers of Ardu, hungry for more power, broke their sacred pact with Valtris, turning to forbidden means in their quest for dominance.
The story tells in chilling detail how Valtris unleashed his fury upon the city. The minor gods who had sided with Ardu’s rulers were the first to face his wrath. Earthquakes shattered the streets, and violent storms tore through the skies. For days, the land shook with Valtris’s rage, much like the plagues of ancient lore. But worse was yet to come—Valtris summoned the Drakos from the depths, a beast with fiery breath and immense strength,sent to purge the city of its treachery. Side by side with Valtris, the Drakos laid waste to the armies of the gods who had dared to defy him.
Buildings crumbled, fires blazed out of control, and the once-thriving city was reduced to ashes. Those who had betrayed Valtris were destroyed, while the loyal few were spared, marked with a symbol on their necks that proclaimed their allegiance. Only they, blessed by the god’s mercy, were left standing when the flames finally died. Afterward, he withdrew his protection from the city, leaving it as a warning for future generations.
To this day, this story has a way of creeping into my dreams, turning them into nightmares from which I wake in a cold sweat as I am constantly swallowed by the Drakos’ fire. Unable to save any of the victims being burned alive by the fire.
“Focus,” Kendry scolds, knocking the practice sword clean out of my hands. Gritting my teeth, I adjust my stance and ready myself as we start again. The dull thud of our training blades fills the air, each relentless strike pushing me until my muscles burn and sweat trickles down my brow. Kendry has no qualms about sending me sprawling on the ground, and today he’s doing it plenty—my head’s too full to keep up.
When I hit the ground after yet another failed block, I take a moment to catch my breath and throw out the question that’s been gnawing at me since this morning. “Have you ever heard of a man with a crown of bones and a serpent tongue?”
He stops mid-swing, his face momentarily slipping from its usual stoic mask. “Your dream?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
I nod, watching him carefully, hoping he’ll finally give me something real.
But instead, he sighs and shakes his head. “Some dreams carry meaning,” he says, evading my question.
“Right. Just like you evade every question about my parents.”I snap, getting to my feet and brushing myself off. “What’s next? You’ll tell me he’s just a figment of my imagination, like you did with the last dream?”
Kendry gives me that look—the one that’s part amusement, part warning. “Some things aren’t as simple as they seem, Eva. And not every question has an answer you’d want to hear.”
I cross my arms, unwilling to let it drop. “Then tell me why we train like this every day. What am I preparing for, exactly?”
Kendry sighs, clearly trying to rein in his patience. “It’s not about preparing for any one thing, Eva. Think about the people who have gone missing around here—if they’d known how to defend themselves, maybe they’d still be here. Or maybe your parents…” I look away, but hear the weight in his words. This training, relentless as it is, isn’t without purpose.
I swallow hard, the familiar pang of wanting answers flaring up again. It’s a line he won’t cross, a truth he’s unwilling to share.
“So, I’m supposed to keep training for some vague ‘maybe’?” I mutter under my breath as I start to walk away.
“Find your center, Eva,” he calls after me, the usual close to our conversations when they start drifting somewhere he doesn’t want them to go. “In battle, and in life.”
“Got it, Kendry,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, heading back to the cottage to get cleaned up before my shift at the bookstore. But the truth sticks with me like a thorn. If no one’s willing to tell me what I’m preparing for, how am I supposed to find the answers?
Chapter Two
As I step out of my bedroom, freshly changed, I find Kendry in the kitchen, calmly assembling a quick breakfast of bread and cheese. He doesn’t acknowledge my outburst from earlier, and I settle into my usual seat at the worn wooden table, reaching for a sprig of rosemary nearby.
Kendry sets a plate in front of me, glancing at the herb in my hand as I absentmindedly strip off its leaves. The scent fills the room, a familiar comfort in our quiet morning ritual. After a few bites, he finally speaks, his tone careful. “You want to talk about it?”
I don’t ask what “it” is. The look he gives me says enough: last night’s dream, this morning’s frustration, the questions I don’t dare ask.
