23. Death & Rebirth (Patreon)

It took him half an hour to extricate himself.

At first Hu was ready to chain him down to a chair, slap a ladle in his hand, and force him to brew until he’d finished squeezing every last Lira out of Dorian; after a slew of excuses and placations—he was still an apprentice, still a beginner in regards to cauldron-brewing, still lacked experience and training, among other cold ‘realities’—Hu’s hotheaded frenzy cooled down. He came to his senses enough to let Dorian return home.

But not before he demanded Dorian return tomorrow at the same time, at which point he promised to saddle Dorian with all the brewing he could handle.

“Boy,” breathed Hu, flashing his yellow-toothed smile, “You are going to make me—err, that is, us—very rich!”

That was a whole ‘nother headache. He sighed ruefully. In his efforts, he’d incidentally transgressed a useful rule of his: never make yourself too useful, lest you be saddled with ever more work.

He’d wriggle his way out of Hu’s grasp later; at least he got his lab access for now, with a side of alchemy autonomy to boot. This opened up another world of possibilities.

If only he was free to explore all of them. He cringed as flashes of Hu’s massive recipe bookshelf came to mind. To skirt being forced to brew half of them he might have to reduce Hu’s assessment of his competence a smidge. Maybe blow up a cauldron or two.

Now it was late, the mellow sun was trudging beyond the horizon, and most everyone was enjoying dry, stringy rations indoors. As he walked back to his tent, though, a noise disturbed the calm quiet of the dusk. It was a fitful, hacking, low groan of a sound, like a beached whale slowly dying; Dorian stilled. It came from behind a hill to his left.

Naturally, Dorian went to investigate.

What he came across wasn’t so different from his mental image.

It was Kuruk. He knelt in the sand, his massive back shuddering, and that low keening left him again. To his right was a steel cage as big as his torso, and in it perched a small cadre of starcrows; they were made of purple and black and twinkling white, like they were spawn of Ylterra’s very night sky. In flight they’d blend in like brushstrokes on the tapestry of the night.

These must be the crows. Fascinating. Visually it was almost comical to see them side-by-side; Kuruk could crush each of them with two fingers; with an awkward fall he’d commit genocide.

They all chittered softly, crowding up to the side of the cage. Kuruk’s turned over to them, mumbling, and unlatched the door.

Curiously, though, none fled. Instead they looked up at him reluctantly. One trilled a sad note; Dorian heard in the sound a question.

“No, Pink-Eyes,” he said. Another trilled the same. “No, Fuzzy.” He shook the cage lightly, trying to dislodge them; flapping, a few tumbled out.

“You need to go,” he said, his deep voice trembling. “It’s not safe for you anymore.”

Still they stared at him, imploring. The rest of the nest, a batch of a half-dozen in all, were now collected in the sand. “Shoo,” growled Kuruk, waving his meaty hand. “Fly off. Listen to Peaches. She’s got the best direction of you lot. Seek the water. The Sinkholes. You will find them.”

Dorian knew he should go. It was probably a very good idea to go. But the scene tickled at him too much; can they understand him? Really?

They seemed, at least, to have gotten the gist of Kuruk’s intent.

One of them, the leader, it seemed, tapped Kuruk’s palm with its beak. A goodbye of sorts. Then, one by one, they each turned away and took to the sky.

Kuruk sniffed and a strangled gasp left his throat.

Dorian was faintly bemused.

Then Kuruk’s frame shifted to one side and he saw the mound in the sand. The collection of bones, arranged in a ring. The stone, a crude facsimile of a tombstone, at the center, engraved with the indistinct outline of a feather. Not a tomb for a human but a bird.

At the center, Kuruk had lit a small stick of incense. Now, as he pressed his head to it, the new angle presented Dorian a clear view of his arms. They’d only barely scabbed over; fresh slashes of red ran along them.

Dorian put two, two, and two together and stilled. Ah. So his father’s threats weren’t idle after all…

The moaning grew louder; Kuruk wiped at his nose. Tears streaked down his cheeks. All of a sudden Dorian felt rather awkward.

As slowly and carefully as he could, he started to step away.

Which was, of course, when Kuruk’s head whipped around like a hawk’s, and two red-rimmed eyes found Dorian’s in an instant.

Crud.

For a moment they just looked at each other.

The first emotion to cross Kuruk’s face was embarrassment. His face was flushed with it. He stood upright, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of a hand. He was still raw with grief; he stank of it.

Then something hotter took its place.

“You,” he growled. His face crunched in, twisting demonically.

“Me,” said Dorian affably. “Fancy seeing you here. I, ah, seem to have stumbled on a private affair. My condolences! I’ll leave you to it—“

“YOU!”

“Me,” said Dorian again, this time resignedly. Drat. This is going to become a real thing, isn’t it? I should’ve left when I had the chance…

As Kuruk stood his whole body seemed to bloat, inflating. His fists clenched into two giant meat-clubs. He looked like he didn’t know what to say. Or maybe he was too choked up to speak.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he wheezed. His eyes were bloodshot.

“Right...” Dorian started slowly edging away. Then Kuruk’s face reddened a shade further as a thought came to him.

“You—you—lied to me,” Kuruk spat. “You were pretending. All that time you were pretending to me. You made me look a fool!”

His eyes flashed madly. “You said that wench fancied me.”

“Did I?” Dorian scratched his head. He grinned his most placating grin. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding! Let’s talk it out, yea? No need for—“

“You made me look stupid! Slow!” yelled Kuruk. He took two menacing steps forward. “In front of my father!”

He stabbed a finger at the grave. “He—he—“ A strangled noise. “This is all your fault,” Kuruk snarled.

Dorian held up two palms guilelessly. Somehow he sensed he’d lost this battle before he’d even started to speak. He gave it another stab. “Hey, isn’t the emotionally mature thing to do to not blame the closest and easiest target? Your da seems like a prick. He was the one who did the deed, right?”

He winced. “Ah, sorry for your loss. But don’t take it out on me.”

That... didn’t help.

Kuruk was a volcano on the verge of eruption; a guttural wail came out from deep in him. Swearing, Dorian tensed and took a step back, settling into a fighting posture. Could he take Kuruk head-on? The boy was a physical and doubtless his endurance was leaps beyond Hento’s, but something told Dorian he wasn’t the most shrewd tactician.

Then, weirdly, Kuruk huffed out, and it was like all of his rage leaked out of him.

He glanced back to the tomb. “Not now. Not here,” he said. His voice was shattered into a thousand pieces, cracking on every word. His gaze drifted listlessly. “Leave, freak. I… will not punish you tonight.”

“You got it, big man,” said Dorian the way a trainer might speak to a spooked lion. He backed up slowly. “I’m leaving. I’m leaving.”

Kuruk gulped. His chest heaved with every breath. “Don’t think this is over.”

“Hm?”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

Dorian stilled. “Pardon?”

“You aren’t right,” growled Kuruk, eyes narrowing. “Something changed. You’re different. Ever since two days ago. Now they say you got Heaven talent, like the Chief. Then they say you got to be Master Hu’s apprentice. Then the Ugoc Clan attacked. You did something. It is not natural.”

Dorian wasn’t surprised he’d get this reaction eventually. What was surprising was who it came from.

“What do you mean?” he said evenly. He kept his eyes wide, curious.

“You made a deal with a devil,” rumbled Kuruk. It was a statement, not a question. He blinked fast as he looked down to Dorian, and for a second Dorian saw in those black pupils an emotion near dread. “Leave!” He yelled.

So Dorian did, frowning as he went.

***

Nothing would come of it. Probably. At least, not anything immediate. Dorian filed the encounter away into a back cabinet of his mind. There was always unrest when a new star rose too fast or shone too bight; something told him this wasn’t the last he’d hear of this. Doubtless some Chosen and trainees had their jealous grievances too. He’d deal with it if it came; soon, the power disparity would render them beneath his notice anyways.

As he neared his tent, he sensed a new aura emanating from within.

The nature of bloodlines was that they altered one’s qi; with this came bloodline-exclusive [Techniques], [Perks], and physique benefits. This bloodline was a mystery.

That’s what made it intriguing.

Then he walked through the tent flaps to find Kaya literally on fire.

They weren’t real fires but qi-fires; they flickered translucent as ghosts in the light. But the heat emanating from them did feel quite real. The fear of being burnt alive was probably quite real too.

She ran around screaming; she knocked over a jar, sloshed water all over her, and rolled around on the sand until the fires were snuffed out.

Her hair was singed. Her clothes sported long black burns. She smelled like she’d been smoked on a grill.

Coughing up a lung, she crawled up to her feet.

Dorian cocked his head. “Um. You okay, sis?”

She threw him a thumbs-up. “Just—testing—it out,” she got out between fits of coughs. “Control—issues.”

Likely it was just a matter of control. As she patted herself down, Dorian took stock of the aura changes; wild, fluctuating, fierce and primal. It spiked like a heartbeat, untamed. It’d take some time before she could cease burning herself, probably. It’d take some more before she could wield it reliably in combat.

Nope. Still no clue what it is. He was leaning toward a boar species now, but all sorts of Spirit Beasts dabbled in fire.

The other annoyance of not knowing the species was that they had no manuals to guide them; Kaya would need to make her own techniques and blaze her own trail.

With his help, it might be a blessing in disguise.

Then he took a closer look at her, and his eyes widened a fraction.

At first he hadn’t noticed on account of the smoke and the flames and the rolling, but there were clear differences to her now. Her features had all been sharpened up—slightly, but noticeably; if he ran a finger down her jawline he might cut himself. Where mere hours before she’d been lightly muscled and lithe, new muscles lined her lanky frame. Now she looked less like a princess than an Amazon.

“Impressed, are ya?” she said with a catlike grin. “Come on out.” She stalked by him out the door-flaps, stretching her arms. “Lemme show you something. You haven’t seen anything yet.”