Airlean Tales

Azalea barely saw the First Hunter move.

One moment, the fireball was searing right for him.

The next, his glaive carved forward, and water arced around the projectile in a beautiful crescent—

—and crushed in, dissipating the fireball in a hiss of acrid steam.

Even before the beach cleared, Azalea knew what figure she would see. She knew the signature of that twisted black fire deep in her bones.

The Dragon Whisperer emerged from the steam with a billow of his crimson scaled cape, menacing and impressive.

For a moment, all she could do was balk. What was he doing this close to Airlea’s heart? He had never pushed out of the far north—at least, not from what Nicolina said.

Silence descended on the battlefield. Halcyon’s grip tightened on his glaive, and he angled himself in front of Azalea.

“Run,” he said tersely.

“What?”

The madness had disappeared from his eyes, replaced by a lucid, deathly cold. “Run. He’s not after you.”

But maybe he is, Azalea thought, trembling. She had the sinking feeling that the Whisperer was, in fact, following her.

“I can’t just leave,” she whispered. “I can’t, Lord Halcyon. He could kill you.”

“That’s an order, Fairwen.”

The Whisperer moved, the barest shadow in the night. Halcyon swept his glaive, the blade aglow like an underwater opal.

For a moment, there was stillness, and Azalea wondered what they had done.

Then the impact landed.

She was struck by a surge of power, raw and explosive, an ocean’s undertow meeting a volcano’s eruption, so brutal that she was knocked clear off her feet. The entire beach pulsed, sand whipping in the air and water throttling away from the shoreline.

Halcyon skidded back, untouched, his mouth set in a grim line.

The beach quieted.

Azalea staggered to her feet, winded. The world was spinning, the air thick and curdling with instability.

What in the Myths’ names just happened?

She understood then. As lovely as the sentiment of loyalty might have been, the grade of this fight was leagues beyond her. It didn’t matter if she stayed; her contribution would mean little, like bringing a kitchen knife to a war between starshooters.

Halcyon’s glaive carved a neat line, and Azalea felt the power washing into the blade, gathering there, a boiling wave behind a dam. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrow.

“Go,” he said. “Now.”

Azalea sparked her manawell. Fired her windsoles.

She arced away from the beach as the world ruptured behind her. Light seared the sky in vermillion and turquoise, casting vivid shadows on the sand. A torrent of black fire barreled into a soaring wave of water, splattering the beach with scalding steam.

Halcyon could die.

The thought pushed Azalea faster, faster, shoving more mana into her windsoles until she was bolting through the air, feet throttling with every step. She lurched down the beach, the world a blur around her. Still, she pushed harder.

Get to the Guild.

Get help.

The First Hunter was incredibly powerful. She’d only caught a glimpse of it in the final moments of their hunt—how something in him had clicked open, and suddenly, a regenerating Class Four had looked like little more than a domestic pest. But what the Dragon Whisperer could not match in refined skill, he made up for in brutality and an utter lack of self-preservation. He would kill the First Hunter even if he had to kill himself in the process; how he’d detonated the cavern had shown Azalea that much.

She burned harder and flew faster. The world was blazing by in a sea of dim shapes, wind slapping at her cheeks, feet stumbling for balance. Even at this distance, she could feel the echo of every strike behind her, breathing at her back in a shower of unstable sparks.

Faster. Faster still.

Azalea’s knees began to scream with every leap and her ankles felt on fire—but then she was rewarded with the distant lights of the Mythaven mana lamps rising to meet her.

She flared her windsoles and shot over the wall, landing hard on the flat tiled road leading up to the guild. Another springstep placed her at the entrance, and she shoved through the door, wood splintering under her palms at the force.

“The Whisperer,” she gasped through burning lungs. “Fighting the First Hunter. Need reinforcements.”

The guild was bustling, thank the Myths. Hunters milled at the tables with drinks and cards in hand. They fell silent at her sudden outburst, and all eyes shot to her, demanding and suffocating.

“What’d the kid say?” called a voice in the back.

“Reaper found himself a target, from the sounds of it. And Yuden found himself another fight.”

“Cheers,” said another easily. “Any bets on if anything stays standing?”

“Barren land, all structures down, trees burned to ash,” laughed a Hunter by the beverage table. “Put me down for fifty.”

“I’ll raise you one hundred.”

“We can’t bet on the same result, you dolt, that’s not how betting works.”

“Why not? We should all be winners in something. Myths know that it never happens.”

Through her haze of exhaustion, Azalea felt the tight, congested feeling of absolute bewilderment. Were they making light of this? The First Hunter could die, the Dragon Whisperer was in the heart of Airlea, the encounter could prove fatal for everybody within miles—and they were tossing jokes about as if this were simply another game. She had pushed herself to her limits, beyond her limits, for nothing. They would leave Halcyon to die and cast lots for his position.

The heat in Azalea’s chest rose, boiling into frustration, frustration into anger, until—

—she drew her sword and, in one fell cleave, split the table before her, sending cards and mugs of ale scattering.

The room fell deathly silent.

Shards of wood sprayed over the ground like bits of rain.

“I didn’t run all this way for a round of bets,” Azalea said. Her voice was terribly even, distant in her own ears. “Somebody go provide reinforcements. It’s near Fletcher’s Fry, down the coast.”

For a moment, there was no response. She was met with silence, and her hands began to tremble, numb and cold. She couldn’t tell whether it was fear or rage or exhaustion. Perhaps all three.

Finally, one of the Hunters drew up and faced her. He was a mountain of a man, grizzled and bulky, scars knotted up his arms to where bear furs hung from his shoulders.

“Do not misunderstand, little cub,” he said. His voice was deep enough to rattle Azalea’s bones, but she refused to cower. She looked him in the eye, even though it meant craning her neck until it hurt. “There are times when it is better for a Hunter to fight alone. Have you witnessed the height of Yuden’s power?”

Azalea said nothing.

“It is a torrential flood that sweeps away everything in sight,” said the bear-man. “A storm that indiscriminately destroys all in its path. Yuden would not be able to fight at his greatest potential while fretting about the safety of his allies. No, it is better to leave him be. In that state, he is more monster than man.”

Azalea faltered. Was that why Halcyon had sent her away? Not to get help, but to simply remove her as potential collateral damage?

Would she always be an obstacle to her allies, and nothing more?

“And—and what if he dies?” Azalea said, hating how her voice broke. She’d tried so hard to be strong and confident like Halcyon, but in the end, she sounded like nothing more than a scared child.

The bear-man smiled, an unusually warm look. “To be a Hunter is to avoid the cull of the grim reaper every day. This night is no different.”

It was not comforting. Azalea knew that he’d meant it to be, but she felt far from comforted. She only felt, even more keenly, the yawning gap between her and the other Hunters—their graceful acceptance of death, their bravery and drive in the face of it. She felt shaken and ashamed, and the exhaustion of her sprint combined with her intense mana flare had left her weak. Beyond weak, even. It was a struggle to keep her eyes open, and the warm candlelight overhead was starting to sway back and forth, as if she’d boarded a rocking ship.

“Well,” she said faintly, staggering against the broken table. “Then I wish I hadn’t run so fast.”

And she promptly fainted, the world spinning to black.