Chapter 14: What Lies Ahead

Aurette tightened the clasp of her cloak with slow, deliberate hands. The morning light filtered through the high window, but her thoughts were elsewhere—already halfway across Velaria. She’d made her decision. The weight of it pressed on her shoulders, yet steadied her heart. She was leaving Aeldenmarch… leaving its warmth, its safety, and the people who had nursed her back from the edge of death. But her duty lay beyond these walls, in the frozen reaches of Caelrhime. Her people needed her.

The door creaked open behind her.

"Aurette," came Lysena’s voice—soft, but threaded with worry.

Aurette turned to find her standing there, clutching a folded cloth in her hands. There was something in her eyes—gentle, but troubled. She had been the constant by Aurette’s side throughout her recovery, and now the thought of separation weighed heavily on her.

"You’re really going?" Lysena asked, stepping into the room slowly. Her eyes moved over Aurette’s posture, her travel gear, the firm grip she had on her resolve. "You’re still not fully healed. Your wounds may have closed, but… you nearly died. Shouldn’t you give yourself a little more time?"

Aurette offered a small, tired smile. "Time is a luxury my people can't afford. Every moment I rest here is a moment Caelrhime remains in silence. I have to go."

Lysena’s brows drew together, her voice lowering. "But what if something happens again? What if—"

"I know the risk," Aurette interrupted gently, walking over and taking Lysena’s hand in hers. "But I also know I can’t stay. You’ve cared for me with such kindness—more than I can ever repay. But I need to be there, even if it’s just to remind them that they’re not forgotten."

Lysena’s fingers trembled slightly in Aurette’s grasp. She swallowed and gave a small, wavering nod. "I won’t stop you. But… if ever you feel lost, or tired, or just need someone—I’ll be here. Always."

Aurette nodded, her eyes soft. "And I will remember that. Thank you, Lysena."

Half an hour later, Aurette and Lysena walked together through the tall corridor leading toward the exit gates of Aeldenmarch. The air was mild, tinged with the scent of fresh grass. At the arching gate, Caelan V. Eirwyn stood waiting—his posture regal, his expression calm. A steed stood beside him, saddled and ready, with two packs fastened carefully—supplies for the road ahead.

"Aurette," Caelan greeted, his voice steady. "I trust you’re ready."

"I am," she replied with certainty.

Caelan produced a parchment map and unfolded it, pointing out her route. "Aeldenmarch lies in the northwestern curve of Velaria, but lower on the slope. Your homeland, Caelrhime, lies further to the upper northwestern reaches—past the frostline. You’ll ride northeast at first, then curve westward through the glacial pass. It’s a rough path, but it’s clear for now."

He folded the map and handed it to her. “You’ve got two days’ worth of food and water. It’ll be enough to reach your border.”

Aurette accepted the map with a respectful nod. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

She turned to Lysena, who stood beside her silently. “And thank you, truly.”

Caelan offered a faint smile. “It’s nothing. Please… return safely. We’ll need you in the days to come.”

Lysena adjusted the cloak around Aurette’s shoulders one last time. “Take care of yourself out there. Don’t make me come chasing after you.”

Aurette chuckled lightly. “I’ll try not to.”

With a final nod, she mounted the horse and took a breath. The wind brushed her cheeks like a cold reminder of what lay ahead. And with a light kick, she rode forth through the gate, into the biting winds of the north.

Lysena watched until Aurette disappeared behind the ridged path ahead. Her hands gripped the edge of her robe tightly.

"She’s strong, but still recovering," she said quietly. "Should we have stopped her?"

Caelan’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. “We can’t stop what’s already in motion,” he said. “She’s made of stronger ice than even Caelrhime’s peaks. And like all storms born in silence… she’ll return when the time is right.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

The same day, Raye after his fight with Theron.

“I guess now you should be able to activate it at will… but it will be unstable and not consistent,” Theron said as he took a step back, steadying his breath.

Raye stood before him, sweat already trickling down his neck, his chest rising and falling in deep, controlled breaths. He looked at his hand, concentrating. A faint flicker of reddish-gold light shimmered around his fingers for a second before disappearing.

He tried again. The aura responded—but only for a moment, fluttering like a dying ember before it vanished.

Theron gave a firm nod. “Practice your sword with using your aura. That’s the only way it’ll start to feel natural.”

Raye nodded in return.

Theron glanced toward the palace with a thoughtful look. “I’ll leave you to it. I have to meet with His Majesty regarding… other matters.” With that, the Commander of Aeldenmarch turned and strode off toward the main building, leaving Raye alone in the courtyard.

Silence settled in once more.

Raye walked over to the nearby weapon rack and picked out a sturdy wooden sword—heavier than the ones used for sparring. Its grip was slightly worn, its weight familiar in his hand. He gave it a swing through the air to test the balance. It was good.

“Alright… let’s try this again.”

He took a stance. Inhaled. Focused.

He could feel the aura within him—like a fire buried deep beneath his skin. When he tried to summon it, it responded. But not steadily. It flickered to life along the edge of the blade, wavered, and then collapsed back into nothing.

He started practicing anyway.

Each swing was measured, each step calculated. He poured focus into every movement, forcing himself to try and draw out the aura in tandem with his strikes. At first, the sword sliced through air alone. Occasionally, the aura sparked to life for a split second—bright and vibrant—but never consistent enough to enhance his attacks.

Minutes turned into nearly an hour.

Sweat drenched his back. His breathing became ragged. The wooden sword began to splinter from the repeated force. Still, Raye didn’t stop.

He tried again.

Swing. Flicker. Gone.

Again.

The aura sparked up his arms this time—warmth surging through his veins—but it remained unstable. Sometimes it overloaded his strike, causing his grip to tremble. Sometimes it simply faded away halfway through.

The sword cracked further. His arms ached. His legs felt like they were made of stone.

And still… he kept swinging.

Because deep down, he knew this was the path forward. Because strength wasn’t just about survival anymore.

It was about protecting what mattered.

At last, after another strike, Raye paused—panting, his shoulders heavy. The aura faintly lingered around him, a weak glow fading like the last rays of twilight. His sword was nearly split down the middle, but his eyes… his eyes burned with fire.

He glanced down at his hand, flexing his fingers.

“Still not there yet,” he muttered. “But I’m getting closer.”

Raye lay flat on the training ground, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his breath. The cracked wooden sword rested beside him, and his fingers flexed slowly—twitching with the lingering heat of Aura that still fizzled inconsistently in his veins. He stared up at the open sky, arms spread out, sweat clinging to every inch of him.

He was exhausted, but in a strange way, it felt good.

That’s when he heard the sound of boots approach—a steady, confident rhythm unlike the soldiers or servants. He tilted his head slightly and saw a shadow fall across him.

“Looks like you had a good time,” came the familiar voice.

Raye turned his gaze and saw Caelan V. Eirwyn, King of Aeldenmarch, standing above him with a small smirk tugging at his lips. Without a word, Caelan extended his hand.

Raye didn’t hesitate. He reached up and clasped the king’s palm, letting Caelan pull him up to his feet.

“Yes… it was,” Raye replied with a tired grin, brushing his hand through his damp hair. His muscles ached, his body felt like lead, and his fingers still tingled—but it was the kind of pain that meant progress.

Caelan gave him a moment before speaking again. “I came here to let you know… Aurette left for her kingdom this morning.”

Raye looked at him. There was no surprise in his eyes—only quiet understanding.

“…I had a feeling she would,” he said, gaze dropping slightly. “She doesn’t seem like the type to stay behind… not when her people might still be out there needing her.”

Caelan nodded approvingly. “You read her well.”

Before another word could be exchanged, hurried footsteps echoed through the training ground. A soldier, breathing heavily, rushed toward them and stopped a few paces away, bowing quickly.

“My lord! Urgent news about the Aurellian.”

Caelan turned to him, brows drawn. “Yes?”

The soldier straightened. “A group of soldiers—wearing Vaerond’s colours—have been spotted moving toward the Aurellian town.”

The atmosphere shifted immediately. Caelan’s expression hardened, the gravity of the report anchoring everyone in the moment.

Raye’s shoulders stiffened. “How many?”

“We don’t have an exact count yet. But our estimation is around 100,” the soldier said, “but the scouts say they’re armed and moving quickly. Possibly a scouting division or a pre-emptive strike force.”

Caelan’s jaw tensed slightly as he processed the information. A quiet storm brewed behind his eyes.

“Ready a detail,” he ordered. “We ride within the hour.”

Raye’s fists clenched—despite the fatigue, a renewed flame lit within him.