At the Altar of Dragons

Session 32 | Chapter 1

Nearly thirty minutes pass before Alba and the others randomly commenting through our mental connection stops. Something is clearly happening with them–it’s not good, but they are alive and I need to be here. By the time the last shouted comment of, “Fuck you!” comes through my mind and the telepathic bond ends, my patience is a hair trigger away from failing me.

My eyes flutter open and I look up into the stone face of Lendys, thinking somehow that even though it's a statue, with his physical body incapacitated in a pool merely twenty paces away, that a simple artistic likeness of him will calm me. After an extended moment of holding his gaze, my shoulders relax slightly and my legs loosen, falling closer to the floor. A smile plays at the corner of my lips and my eyes fall closed once more.

Conviction.

Despite the lack of incense, the lack of a natural setting, and Lendys’ draconic form not wrapped around my back supporting me, I fall into a meditation. The flow of energy hums with each inhale and exhalation of breath. The room around me fades away and time loses its grip on me.

After a while–I’m unsure how long–I’m pulled from my meditation once more. Not by a voice in my head, but the pitter-patter sounds of footsteps in the room with me. Markus doesn’t strike me as the type to pitter-patter around his own dojo, so reluctantly, and incredibly annoyed, I open my eyes and turn to look over my shoulder.

A young elven man with raven black hair stands behind me, looking around the room with wild curiosity. His smile is wide, his violet eyes bright as his gaze turns toward the statues. He wears dark purple robes, trimmed with white, gray and blue accents. His presence irritates me, but despite the glare I’m leveling at him, he continues looking around the space in wonder.

A moment later, I growl, barely leashing my anger, “I think you’re lost.”

Turning his attention to me, he grins brightly. “I-I don’t think I’m lost,” he stammers.

“I think you are,” I speak quietly and clearly, fighting to hold onto the last remnants of the humming energy from the meditation before it evaporates. “This is a closed session.”

“Why?” he chirps, reminding me oddly of an actual raven in this moment.

I roll my eyes, turning my body so I’m not looking over my shoulder anymore and I firmly say, “I don’t owe you a reason.”

He’s unfazed as he glances down to something in his hand. “Okay, um, Layna’s here right?”

Narrowing my eyes, I state, “No.” Lying to this intruder is second nature. I meant what I said; I owe him nothing. Who this person is to Layna is a mystery. He could be an old lover or a rival of some sort, and besides, I don't want to give away my friend. I’m moments away from releasing all the anger that’s built up over the last week on some poor stranger.

“You sure?” he asks.

Gods, this kid is just asking to be punched, I groan in my head before replying aloud, “I’m positive.”

He holds up his hand to show me an image there. It looks similar to the maps we used to get to the Southern forest and navigate the streets to the dojo. However, instead of a map, it’s as though the image of the room we’re in is projected onto his hand in real time. “Ah, no, she’s definitely here talking to some guy,” he hums, looking around the room and towards the hall Markus and Layna went down earlier. “Hmm, you sure? Looks exactly like the same floor.”

I’m over this charade, over this conversation, over not being able to fucking meditate–the first thing they taught us at the temple as children. “What are you doing here?” I bite out, not hiding the venom in my tone.

The elf shrugs, oblivious to my anger. “I want to find Layna. Is that–”

“Then go wait outside,” I snap.

He looks stunned, like I slapped him rather than spoke to him. “Oh, you’re a rude one,” he scoffs, having the audacity to accuse me of being rude.

Gritting my teeth, I snarl, “I’m trying to fucking meditate.” His eyes widen in recognition, and I add, “And you’re distracting me. I’ve had a really rough week.” My voice pitches up at the end, the only restraint I can afford myself at this moment. If I get kicked out and Markus won’t train me–

I abruptly stop the thought from fully forming in my mind, refusing to allow that to even be a possibility. Inhaling deeply, I turn back to the elf, and he’s currently watching Lendys in the pool. “Is that dead?” he asks me, his ever cheery tone grating on every nerve in my body.

“No,” I forcefully reply, “Very much not dead.”

He watches Lendys for another moment before perking up and observing, “Ahhhh, it’s like a big dog…”

I roll my eyes. “Go wait outside,” I demand.

“Oh, oh, alright,” he relents, walking backwards before slipping behind the partition. My gaze doesn’t shift from the spot he disappeared from as I wait for the sound of the heavy wooden doors opening and closing. A moment later, the raven haired man pops his head around the room divider.

“Outside!” I yell immediately as he comes into view.

The man startles and yelps, “Okay…”

Tilting my head to the ceiling, I release a frustrated groan before my gaze drops back to the partition, unconvinced that the stranger is actually gone. After a few minutes, I turn back to face the dragon statues. I lock my eyes on Bahamut and mumble just above a whisper, “This better be worth it.”

For the third time, I attempt to slip into a meditative state. Before I’m even able to achieve a rhythm to my breath, the sound of footsteps reaches my ears. I whip my head around and scream, “What are you doing here?!”

The room is empty.

I roll my eyes and mumble, “Freaking invisible.”

At that there’s more footsteps, the sound clearly coming from upstairs. I groan, but resign myself to the fact that he’s not my problem now. Whoever he is, he’s looking for Layna, and from the little interaction I had with him, he strikes me as the type to not give up so easily. Markus and Layna are more than capable of dealing with whatever this walking distraction intends to do.

With almost as much determination as when I tried to summon a draconic spirit, I settle into meditation once more. My eyes close and the hum of energy moves through my body, allowing the room around me to fade away. The scent of incense fills my nostrils, and a whipping wind tugs at my hair, pulling more strands from my loose braid.

A light smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, envisioning myself deep in the mountains, surrounded by trees and rocks rather than bright lights and mechanical contraptions everywhere. The feeling of soft grass beneath me pulls my spirit deeper into the trance, and I dive head first, falling into the meditation without looking back.

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I’m unsure how much time passes in the meditation before a voice comes through from a far corner of my mind. A man’s voice says tauntingly, “Ha, you got kicked out,” before the sound is followed by stomping footsteps across a floor.

A floor, not the ground. I breathe deeper, exhaling through my mouth to send myself deeper into my mind, and push away the distraction once more. I can nearly taste the chill of the wind when another voice breaks through my focus. This time, it’s a newly familiar drawl–Markus. “Thank the fucking gods,” he mumbles. I allow him to continue to be present as I breathe through the reverie. “Good, and you’re doing it now. Can you hear me?” It is clear he is directing the question at me.

Not quite ready to leave my little mountain clearing, I resort to responding with a wink and a click of my tongue.

“Good,” he observes, “Now we’re going to start.”

Stretching my neck, I pull myself from the trance and back into the physical space of the dojo. I blink my eyes, letting them adjust to the lighting of the space. When I open them fully, I’m face to face once more with Lendys’ statue, and a bloom of warmth radiates through my chest. Getting to my feet, I brush off my pants and stretch my shoulders as I turn my attention to Markus.

“I need you to take a–” he pauses, looking at me and the equipment I still have strapped to me. He shakes his head disapprovingly and instructs, “Drop your bow. Drop the weapons. We’re not using those, okay?”

Following his request, I remove the new bow from my back, and set it and my pack just inside the opening to the side hall. Unsure what all Markus has planned, I don’t want the pack getting in the way of anything.

Laziness will not be tolerated here, Svataril.

It takes me a moment to determine if the words in my mind are the Priest or an echo of a memory. I pause, hands hovering as I drop my bag, and when his looming presence doesn’t overtake my focus, I nod, satisfied that the words were just a memory. Returning to stand in front of the monk once more, I shake the past aside and meet his eyes squarely.

Bahamut sent me here–sent us here. This is my way forward. This is what I’ve chosen, I remind myself.

“Good, now–how good are you at fighting?” Markus inquires.

With my fists? Not great. “Passable,” I reply, my voice not nearly as steady as I’d hoped.

Markus grunts, “Well you’re about to fucking find out.” He looks me over and nods before continuing, “So this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to play a little game I like to call one for one. Okay? Got it?”

After nodding my response, he elaborates, “You’re going to hit me as hard as you can. And then I’m going to hit you and probably make that spot go numb. Understand?”

I nod once more, and the fact that he didn’t say he would hit me as hard as he can is not lost on me. The monk before me is employed by the King of the Northern Forest, trains bodyguards and monks, and was recommended specifically by Bahamut for me. He breaks you then builds you back stronger? Was that what Layna said earlier today?

Here’s to hoping she’s right.

Markus plants his feet in a starting stance, one foot ahead of the other, his torso angled slightly to the side. “Match my stance,” he commands.

I mirror his form, raising my fists and balancing myself on the balls of my feet. The movement has a fluidity to it, muscle memory returning to me from my early days of training at the conclave.

“Good,” Markus nods as I settle into the position, “Okay–one for one. I’ll let you go first.”

I breathe through the movement as I twist, throwing a punch that connects squarely to his chest. My fist connects with a curling wave tattoo on his right pec. He grunts and I pull back, returning to the neutral stance.

“Good, good,” Markus smirks at me and asks in a sickly sweet drawl, “How do you like your left arm?”

My eyes narrow at the specific mentioning of my arm that's scarred by draconic runes. “I have a love-hate relationship–” I begin, but abruptly I’m cut off.

Markus blurts, “Too late!” He punches, and instinct kicks in as I flinch away from his movement. His fist just barely misses my arm and he nods in approval. “Ahhhh–good reflexes, but too bad.” He pivots around me, using the movement to carry him into another attack on my arm.

When his fist connects with my shoulder, all feeling drains from the limb as it goes limp at my side. He coolly returns to a neutral position as I shake off the stunned limb. I match him once more and he nods, silently instructing me to proceed.

After successfully hitting him once, I repeat the action, allowing the familiar sensation of the action to provide momentum. Throwing a little more weight into the punch, it connects, earning me another grunt from the monk. “Okay, hitting the same spot like that. I see.” Instead of returning to neutral, he holds the edge of his hand an inch away from my sternum. With a smirk, he cockily states, “Good luck.”

The movement is so slight, I underestimate the intensity of the action, and barely brace for the strike. His hand juts an inch forward, connecting with my chest, and I grunt, coughing at the ache from his hit.

“Okay, keep going,” he tells me.

Coughing once more, I return back to neutral and throw the same punch, sticking with what I know has worked in the past and hoping for another grunt. I’m rewarded for a third time as Markus winces, this punch carrying a little more power behind it than my previous two.

“You really like hitting the same fucking spot,” he winces, a hint of anger in his words. I’m not ashamed to say his frustration fuels me, and I bounce a little lighter on my feet as I brace for his next strike. He smirks at my confidence and adds, “Okay, alright then, you know what? We’re not playing around anymore.” He changes his stand and puts his hand directly on my shoulder. “We’re not playing anymore,” he repeats, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

A smirk plays at the corner of my mouth as I ready myself for whatever attack is coming. Despite having witnessed the visible flow of energy through his body when we entered the dojo initially, I’m not expecting that level of intensity during this training session. Nonetheless, a golden glow of light builds at the top of his shoulder, and flows through his tattoos down his arm like a wave before it ricochets into my body.

A sound like a rockslide echoes through the training room, and I fly backwards from him. Landing on my back, the wind is knocked out of me, and my back screams at the impact. It takes longer than I’m proud of for me to sit up. All the while, Markus is smiling with satisfaction as he watches me.

“You’re still up. That’s a good sign,” he compliments. “Come on back. I’ll give you two shots this time.”

As I approach him, closing the ten feet that separated us, I immediately throw my body into another strike. Having not properly set myself, Markus anticipates the attack and brushes my fist to the side.

He glowers at me and tuts, “Not the same spot.”

I narrow my eyes, irritated at the ease with which he dismissed my attack. Resetting my stance, I start to follow the same movement as before, but as Markus shifts to block my fists, I adjust my balance, kicking out with my right leg and hitting him square in the cheek. The grin that’s been dancing across my features throughout this fight is now fully formed on my face as I smile defiantly at the monk.

The pride I feel is only amplified by the disappointment that contorts his features. Without warning, he jabs his fingers into my abdomen. Energy flows through him and explodes in my stomach.

Momentarily, my vision goes black, spots dancing before my eyes as I collapse to the floor gasping for air. Keeled over, I cough and spit a glob of blood onto the floor. This feeling is familiar–the pull of unconsciousness, the quiet of nothingness–and yet somehow I’m still present, not yet sucked into the void. My head swims, vision blurring, and a wave of nausea almost has me vomiting on the floor.

Get up. Do not let him see weakness in you, Huntress.

Closing my eyes so that the movement doesn’t bring on another wave of sickness, I lift my head. Once it’s up, I open my eyes to meet Markus’ gaze with as determined of an expression as I can muster. I will face this challenge fully. There is a lot I don’t know about my conclave, and a lot I am sickened to learn I was a part of even unknowingly, but one thing I cannot hate them for is instilling a sense of fight, a sense of survival in me. Sure–that might’ve been there all along, but that environment stoked it, allowed it to flourish and bloom into something stronger, more menacing.

I was sent here for a reason. Clear my head, center myself, become more self-reliant–whatever the reasoning, I can feel it in my bones that this moment is crucial.

Markus pulls back, genuinely surprised. “Oh–you’re still up.” He narrows his eyes in confusion and I cough once more, my throat raw and my body screaming in pain. Something internal is ruptured for certain. I probably have a broken rib or two also from the flight I took a few moments ago. “Hmm,” he continues as he looks me over, “I don’t like that you’re still up.”

Without another moment of hesitation, he raises his bare foot with an annoyingly casual grace. The last thing I remember is the crack in my jaw as his foot connects with my chin, and everything goes–