Page 85 of The Dragonrider and the Void
The hatchling didn’t offer any sign of disagreement. Its cream-white eyes followed Venrick as the group gathered their packs and weapons. There was an intelligence in that gaze that unsettled him.
Their path led deeper into the Everburning Forest, away from the established trails that might be watched by the King’s forces. Quinthara and Ingamar followed from above, remaining close to the canopy to avoid detection by patrolling dragons.
“It will take us two days to reach Astral City,” Yarla said as they walked. “If we maintain this pace.”
“And if we don’t encounter trouble,” Venrick added, adjusting the blue brismil sword he’d strapped on his back.
The forest grew denser as they traveled, the trees older and more massive. This central region of the Everburning Forest was less frequently touched by the firestorms, allowing growth to come in thicker than the forest closer to Astral City. The mottled light created a shifting pattern on the forest floor, golden patches intermingled with deep shadows.
By midday, they reached a wide, slow-moving river. Its clear waters reflected the canopy above. Here, they paused to rest and eat. Hardin took the opportunity to continue his practice with the magic he and Quinthara shared.
“Try forming it into shapes this time,” Yarla suggested, sitting cross-legged on a flat stone as she observed. “Start simple. Try a sphere, a cube, a pyramid.”
Hardin nodded, standing at the river’s edge with his sleeves rolled up. He extended his hands, and this time the waterresponded more readily, rising in a smooth column before his palms. With careful concentration, he shaped it into a wobbling sphere.
“Think of it as a tune,” Venrick offered. “Find the harmony between your will and the water’s nature.”
The sphere stabilized, becoming perfectly round as Hardin adjusted his approach. Pride flashed across his face, quickly replaced with deeper concentration as he attempted to reshape it into a cube. The corners proved challenging. The water wanted to return to its natural rounded state.
“It resists hard angles,” Hardin observed.
“Water always seeks the path of least resistance,” Yarla explained. “In combat, you can use that to your advantage. Rather than forcing it into unnatural forms, guide it along paths it naturally wants to follow. With time and training, your control will grow, and you can use water from anything around you. The air, the ground, even?—”
“Our enemies?” Hardin asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Which is what makes this power so formidable. You could draw the water out of living creatures, but at a great cost to your mental fortitude. What that kind of thing does to someone, in here,” she said pointing to her head, then her heart, “isn’t something to treat lightly. If you were ever to do such a thing, it could change you and your dragon forever.”
As they continued their journey through the afternoon, Venrick felt a growing awareness of Ingamar’s presence. The dragon periodically landed near their path, seemingly to rest, but always with his golden eyes fixed on Venrick. There was a question in that gaze, or an expectation.
During one such stop, Venrick approached Ingamar cautiously. The dragon made no move to retreat, watching as Venrick drew closer.
“What is it you’re trying to tell me?” Venrick asked quietly, standing before the dragon that had been his mentor’s most loyal companion.
Ingamar lowered his head, bringing his snout close to Venrick’s chest where traces of the corruption were still present. A soft rumble emanated from the dragon’s throat, vibrating through Venrick’s body.
Something flickered at the edge of Venrick’s consciousness. It wasn’t a word exactly, but an impression. A sense of recognition, as if Ingamar saw something in him that Venrick himself couldn’t yet perceive.
“It’s the corruption, isn’t it?” Venrick ventured. “It changed something in me.”
The dragon’s eyes blinked slowly, neither confirming nor denying. But the intensity of his gaze only deepened.
“He’s been watching you since we arrived at camp,” Hardin said, approaching carefully. “Quinthara thinks he’s interested in you.”
“Interested how?” Venrick asked.
Hardin shrugged. “Dragons communicate differently with each other than they do with us. She doesn’t have words for it exactly, just that he sees something in you that matters.”
The moment was interrupted by a low whistle from one of their scouts. The warning signal caused them all to freeze. In a breath, the group’s focus snapped to attention as hands moved to weapons and keen eyes scanned the forest around them.
Through the trees ahead, armored figures moved in formation. Knights of the Vermillion Keep, their red capes visible even in the dappled forest light. A patrol, at least a dozen strong, directly in their path.
“Back,” Yarla whispered, gesturing for the group to retreat into the denser underbrush.
Ingamar melted into the forest with surprising stealth for his size, while Quinthara took to the air, using the canopy for cover. The rebel band withdrew silently, years of forest survival training evident in their movements.
Once safely hidden, Venrick assessed their options. “We can’t go back,” he said. “And a detour would cost us precious time.”
“We could wait for them to pass,” one of the rebels suggested.
