NOVEL NEXT (Chapter 85) Liam’s Trial
Liam blinked, torn between indignation and determination. He rose slowly, jaw tight, the sting of the earlier jab still raw under his ribs. Once standing, he curled his fist, closed his eyes, and reached for something within, like a man groping for a light switch in a dark room.
Two memories responded: the arrow he'd shot at the Oni on the road—how that instant had felt like everything hinged on one small breath—and the almost crushing surge inside him during Okun's soulful transference attempt, the tidal-like pressure that had forced him to cough and gasp.
In both flashes, there had been a warmth, a small ember beneath his chest, like embers in a stove. He hunted for that feeling, fingers clenched until his knuckles paled.
However, he found nothing.
Frustration pinched his features. Confusion allowed resolve to leak out. He opened his eyes and could almost feel the doubt as a physical thing tightening his throat. "The warmth, where is it? I'm certain that warmth is my soulura, so why can't I call it out now?"
Dominitus watched him with a leer that wasn't mean so much as filled with expectation. "Don't force it," he said, as if answering a question Liam hadn't spoken, "stop thinking about finding it. Don't think—do. Your soulura will follow."
Liam let the words fall into place in his mind. Confusion that only fueled his frustration further filled him. He let the memory of Alexandra's steadiness, of the cramped clinic, of nights bent over patients—of all the small, stubborn reasons he'd chosen to stand up for others—wash over him.
Finally, he threw a punch.
The motion was clean, lungs driving, hips snapping. He launched himself forward and slammed his fist into Dominitus's waiting palm with everything he had. No calculation, no second-guessing, only gut and will.
The contact still bit like a stone. His entire arm tingled and he staggered back, fingers stinging from the impact. He rubbed at his wrist as if the pain could explain the absence of something larger: the surge, the unlocking, the spark he'd been promised.
Before he could steady himself, Dominitus's expression sharpened. In one fluid motion the captain closed his fingers into a fist and jabbed—not a wild strike, but a precise thrust aimed at the center of Liam's chest. The blow carried a shimmering aura Liam couldn't see, but felt as it struck—Domitius' soulura threading through both of their flesh.
Air exploded from Liam's lungs. His knees gave and he pitched forward, tumbling into the snow and folding to his knees. Pain and the aftershock of the strike hammered through him, his breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts.
Before Liam could even register, Dominitus' voice bluntly cut through. "Too weak, again!" He lifted his palm once more, the challenge clear in the set of his great hand.
Liam struggled to push himself up, coughs wracking his frame as snow pressed cold against his palms. He swallowed hard as he placed one hand flat against the spot Dominitus had jabbed, the sting and ache in his chest extremely uncomfortable.
Then and there, the usually calm doctor of Enohay felt a rare thread of anger cut through his fatigue. Was it at himself, at his repeated failures, at the humiliation, at the pain? He couldn't really tell.
Dominitus watched him with an impatience that felt like a physical shove. "What are you waiting for," he barked, "up! Punch my palm again, put everything in it!"
Liam hesitated. Old habits surfaced before instinct: he glanced down at his hands, fingers flexing as he mentally rewound the last attempt, hunting for some fix he could apply. He looked at his fist as if technique alone could close the gap between him and whatever strength the training demanded.
Dominitus's face darkened; the captain's disapproval became a tangible thing. Without warning, he surged forward and shoulder-checked Liam so hard he was sent flying. Liam flew backward a few inches, the snow catching him under his back with a breath-stealing thump.
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For a stunned second Liam laid on his back, the sky a wash of pale and white from the snow that was kicked up from his landing. As the snow landed, he could taste not only it, but also a hint of blood on his tongue. While felt the aftershock of impact in every bone, Dominitus' voice came down on him—not cruel, but hard as steel.
"Stop thinking," Dominitus scolded and repeated, "do! You think the Oni's going to give you time to fiddle with your memories in the middle of a fight? Or if you get jumped by a pair of muggers in some dark town alley—do you reckon they'll pause and let you go 'oh, hold on while I find my motivation'?"
Liam coughed, a short, embarrassed sound, trying to drag air into his lungs. He had no answer; the argument was a direct hit, and shame curled hot behind his ears. He blinked up at Dominitus, wanting to show resolve, but finding only the pain.
Dominitus stared down at him for a long beat, then eased and closed his eyes, folding his arms. "Look, it's fine if you want to lie down in the snow and stay there. You'll just be like all the others who failed. Either way, men who live in books weren't always built for this." The words were blunt—meant to wound, to prod, but to also ignite.
Opening an eye to see if his words had any effect, Domitius scoffed seeing Liam move not one muscle. The next moment, a devious grin plastered itself on his face. "Tell me this, Liam: if you do that, if you let yourself stay down when trouble comes, what will Alexandra think of you? A man who folds when things get hard? Who protects her then?"
Liam only coughed, one that reflected his dazed state, in response.
Domitius shook his head at this. He was disappointed, not just in Liam, but also in the fact he had to say what he would say next. "Fine. You want to think and waste your time? Imagine this: You half unconscious, like you are now, in some backwater town while the 'bad people' you spoke of did anything they wanted to poor little Alexandra—gods forbid what men would do to a lass they don't give two shits about. All you can do is watch at that point..."
Dominitus' eyes were steady, accusing and practical. He wasn't being cruel for cruelty's sake, of that was obvious. He was a trying his best as a mentor, trying to forge resolve from hesitation.
The barb hung in the air, the challenge laid bare: get up and stop thinking, or lie down and unable to protect the ones you care about.
The jab about other men and Alexandra landed like an iron weight in Liam's gut. For a long moment he just laid there in the cold, every instinct telling him to stay down. Then, something more powerful unfurled inside him—shame braided with a fiercer, hotter thing: protectiveness.
He gritted his teeth and pushed. Muscles protesting, lungs fighting, Liam hauled himself up, keeping his head bowed as if he could hide the pain. Snow slipped from his shoulders in a sloshy whisper.
Liam forced his posture straighter despite his ribs still rebelling, and his breath came in ragged gasps. His usual neat hair was now messy, blonde strands hanging loose, with some casting shadows on his face.
When he lifted his head, his face had changed—the boyish softness that almost anyone immediately found trustworthy was now steeled into something meaner: anger and agitation hammered with resolution. There was fear there, too, but it sat behind a wall of will.
Dominitus watched with a satisfied expression a smith gives when a blade has finally taken shape. "That's it," the captain said simply, "there we go". He spread his hand again, palm open like an offered target, and let his voice fill the frozen air. "Show me why the gods gifted you both a Soulful Technique and an Affinity!"
The words were a gauntlet. Liam felt Dominitus' command cut through the fog in his head, and the earlier lesson returned: Don't think. Do.
He let go of the frantic rummaging for memories and meaning. Instead, he let a single motive occupy him: Alexandra's safety, the image of her waiting, of failing her being impossible. That image became the only thing he would let his body answer to.
Without words he launched himself forward, a raw, animal sound tearing from his chest as a subconscious warcry. Feet hammered in the packed snow, breath burning his lungs. He threw his weight behind the motion: hips, core, shoulder, and finally fist, all aligned in one clean line.
When his knuckles met Dominitus's palm this time, it was not the disappointing impact of before. There was a pulse, a current like the thrum of a distant drum, and it flowed from Liam's chest, through his shoulder, and to the point of contact up his arm.
Heat flared under his skin, not a pain but a realization, as if a gate somewhere inside had been pushed open and something that had always been only barely there was finally allowed to rush.
Dominitus's eyes widened. The captain's face, for a breath, lost its practiced smirk and became a map of surprise and appraisal. He felt it in his own hand: not merely the force of a hit, but another faint force threading through the strike.
It was Soulura. Small, unrefined, but undeniably present—coursed from the point of impact and into Domitius' arm.
Liam had successfully infused his fist with soulura.
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Next: (Chapter 86) Liam's Trial: Part 2