Page 10 of The Awakening of Essensia

“I’ll wait for you,” Vaelira said, “we can take it together.” She forced a smile, even as the thought of it ached deep behind her ribs.

“You will not,” Commander Lysander said. He stood, his chair scraping loudly across the tiles. “Report to my office in the morning for orders.”

Silent tears rolled down Freya’s face. Vaelira took her hand again, squeezing tightly as Commander Lysander left.

“I’ll talk to him. Make him see sense,” she said.

Freya wiped at her eyes, sucking in a breath. “No. He’s right. I’m not going to hold you back, Vaelira. I know how hard you’ve worked.”

“You’ve worked hard too.”

“Not nearly as much or as long as you.”

“That’s only because you didn’t need the practice. I did.”

Freya’s green eyes held her own, and she shook her head. “If you don’t take the final task, I’ll never forgive you. You promised.”

“I promised we would pass first time. Together.”

Freya smiled, her expression equal parts sadness and understanding. “Then do it for me, Lira.”

Vaelira was up before first light.

Embers glowed softly in the fireplace, still hot enough to warm the small living room. She crept past where Jon sprawled across the sofa and padded towards to small kitchen.

Commander Lysander had acquired the one-bedroom cottage for them after their father died. The more spacious Captain’s residence was given to the man that had replaced him. Vaelira had never learnt his name, only known that he had been killed by Wasteland raiders a few years later, the demoncursed taking a second captain from Anhaven. As a child, spiteful pleasure had filled her when she’d heard what had befallen the man who had thrown them from their home, but now, it was another of the countless stories that strengthened her determination.

Swiping a chunk of stale bread from the kitchen table, she grabbed her cloak and headed outside, closing the front door quietly behind her.

Vaelira took her time walking to the barracks. Her gaze drifted skyward, where flames danced in their braziers high on the wall. Dark figures stood out against the lightening grey sky, moving slowly and methodically through the crisp morning as they made their patrols.

The image of a shadow prowling at a treeline flashed through her mind.

She had never seen a demon before, but she was certain that’s what had been stalking them. If she made it through today, she would no doubt see more and perhaps feel more of that strange hunger that had gnawed at her insides at its appearance. Or perhaps she had just needed a bigger breakfast, and she was overthinking the entire thing.

The streets were quiet, and muffled voices came from behind the door of a cottage as she passed, followed by older tired ones. Most likely parents begging for a few more moments of sleep. Vaelira moved on quickly.

The chapel stood quietly on the edge of town, its whitewashed walls seeming to glow in the dimness. A few trees dotted the patchy grass surrounding the building, their branches stretching spindly fingers towards the upper wall. Ivy clung to the weathered stone of the building, curling up and over the tall glass windows. At the top, a clock observed the town like a giant eye.

Inside, the air was cooler, the scent of fresh heartviolets snaking up her nose. She wrinkled it, always having found the smell too sickly-sweet for her taste. Perhaps that was why she avoided coming here.

She walked between the worn wooden pews, candlelight flickering in smooth alcoves, her steps echoing off the stone walls. She sat at the front, craning her head up at the three faceless statues towering above her.

The Goddess of Creation, Embral and the God of Destruction, Kharos, stood on either side of the stone lectern. Issar, the Goddess of Balance stood in the centre, her arms bent, palms raised outwards towards her siblings.

Below them, a long narrow bench spanned the width of the room, cluttered with idols to the many gods and goddesses people worshipped. Some were artfully crafted, with delicate faces and tiny hands. Others were crude, no doubt shaped in reverence, if not with skill. She recognised a few, but there were too many deities for Vaelira to remember them all.

Below the bench, kneeling in such perfect stillness that she had not noticed him, the old priest, Arlon, bent his head, his hands placed on his knees. He rose slowly, the rough fabric of his thin robes rustling with the movement.

She hadn’t expected anyone to be here so early and had to fight the urge to bolt.

“Vaelira,” he said softly. A note of surprise. “It has been some time since I last saw you here.” There was no judgement in his voice, but her chest clenched anyway. “You have the same expression your father used to. He wasn’t sure whether to believe either.”

“I didn’t know he came here.”

“Often.” He smiled a little too understandingly. “I was sorry to hear you were injured in the first task.”

“Courtesy of your nephew.”