Page 26 of The Ashborn

“A star fell softly into bloom,” he said, spinning the flower in front of them so they could imagine its beauty. “Lavender light in petaled form, gold breath glows at its quiet heart. As if night left magic behind. Hold it gently—the sky is still warm.”

“Do you have magic, High Commander?” Premian asked, wiping his nose.

“No,” Tristian lied light-heartedly. It was better for them if they didn’t know. He scratched the scar on his collarbone beneath the scales, letting his gaze shift into the colossal trees. Though he had magic, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be at full strength again, not after the death of his mother.

He was stripped bare afterwards, then sent away to the cold Elvish mountains to become this version of himself, only to lose his father in the process—and his brother in ways, who was too consumed with his shadow magic and Connak to work alongside Tristian.

This was who he had to be.

“One day, I’m going to be like you,” Premian said, lashing forward with an invisible sword to slice through his sister.

Malia jumped back and slapped at him. “Stop that, you feral Viking!”

Tristian held his hand up, silencing them both. “For one thing, Vikings are not as terrible as you may think. I encourage you to find nicer things to say. And another, you should take care of each other. A sibling is a gift⁠—”

“Malia! Premian! Inside!” their mother scolded. “Chores.”

Tristian stood, eyes focusing ahead, beyond the woman as she approached. Premian and Malia bolted, giggling as they ran into their little home in the tree.

“High Commander, I do apologize. They⁠—”

“Are children,” he said curtly, then turned to leave, twirling the asterlily between his fingers.

“Feet apart,” Tristian said to a batch of six recruits freshly out of Silverthorne—so fresh they didn’t even bother training them. “Bend your knees.” He nudged a soldier’s elbow inward with the flat of his blade. “Elbows in. Blade up. If your guard drops like that in a real battle, you’ll lose your head before you ever swing.”

The recruit frowned.

Tristian stepped forward, flashing his own sword and resting the tip against the soldier’s collarbone. The recruit blinked, realizing his sword was still halfway raised.

“That,” Tristian said quickly, “is how fast it happens.”

The soldiers did as they were told, each lowering their stance and holding their blades in place with perfect precision, waiting for their High Commander to give the word. He looked out over the edge of the Shardborn into the clouds as the tremendous trees rested below. Sweat beaded the soldiers’ brows, their arms wavering, and still, they held.

Tristian nodded to Talon and waved him over. The Shardborn Commander’s falcon soared overhead, screeching into the wind, then landed on Talon’s shoulder as he approached, claws sifting through his master’s long strands of hair.

“At ease,” he called to the soldiers.

They dropped their elbows, shoulders slumping, then sheathed their swords, falling into a line to face their commanding officers.

“This is Commander Talon,” Tristian continued, pacing the line. “You will listen to everything he says, including when to rest, eat, and train. He is in charge until you learn the ways of Trinity.”

“Yes, High Commander,” they chimed in unison.

“All yours,” Tristian said, stepping away from the Shardborn crew.

Talon took over. “Welcome, recruits. We are the Shardborn, Trinity’s most acclaimed fighters. You’ll either bleed with us, or not at all.”

Tristian smirked as Talon barked his commands, then found a shaded tree to rest while soldiers ran through obstacles, hopping above trees, pulling themselves up on branches, and running at speeds only Talon would deem worthy. He dug into his pocket, pulling the asterlily, studying it, letting it call his mind wherever it needed to go.

It was rare that any recruits, despite their magic, would be sent to the other eleven battalions. Tristian’s goal was to ensure soldiers knew how to fight without magic, as Silverthorne only ever cared about magical prowess and how they could exploit it for further gain. They’d try to do the same to him—coax out his power for academic purposes. Tristian held it to himself, using his strength and speed instead to prove his worth in the Elvish mountains. He vowed to do the same to any recruit Silverthorne deemed unworthy enough to push to Trinity.

He would make them worthy, if anything, to remove the stain of Elvish history.

Recruits ran by slowly, huffing. As they did, whispers trailed, carried by the wind shifting directions as the Galeweavers jumped between trees and away from their island above, training under the wing of Commander Raelan.

“—even more formidable than we heard in the mountains.”

“—lives up to his acclaim, that’s for certain.”