Rise of Tyrus

Wayne inclined his head to Igneal. "Young master."

"Sir Wayne," said Igneal.

"You return without injuries. I am… relieved."

Although Wayne's tone was level, verging on friendly, a fragile tension vibrated just below the surface. He let the pause breathe just long enough to draw attention.

"Though I confess I remain troubled by your continued exposure to hazards better suited to… professional explorers."

Reo glanced at Tyrus and grimaced, as if to say, "Here we go."

Igneal smirked. "Hazards are where strength grows. Walls don't forge a family head."

Wayne folded his hands behind his back. "Strength, yes. But strength must be cultivated with purpose and with propriety. A Lockhart destined for leadership should not spend his prime years seeking work as though he were pressed for coin. Those born to lead must be above certain necessities."

In the corner of his eye, Tyrus saw Fiona roll her own while she tied a rope around the stallion and led it to the nearby post. In the meantime, Grant was busy tending the campfire in the middle of a ring of stone benches.

Igneal's eyes brightened at his servant's words. "You think I'm out here for pay?"

"I think," Wayne said with consideration, "that explorer work is a path for commoners to earn their coin, not a road for a Lockhart to inherit a mantle. Your father entrusted me with your safety so you might return to your studies and assume your rightful place without stain. That remains my counsel."

And then there came the familiar right in the middle of every sentence, a blend of politeness and a subtle sting. He knew his place, knew Igneal's temperament, and yet he kept returning to that edge where obedience and insult shared a boundary.

The Lockhart narrowed his eyes. "I'm not here because my pockets are light. I'm here because this is entertaining. Beasts make better opponents than paper and dummies. But don't mistake entertainment for idleness. I'm not out here for nothing."

"Strength," Igneal continued. "And reach. I'll inherit eyes and ears within the walls—that's a given. But a family head needs allies who don't bow in halls. The guild breeds useful people. I mean to know which one's answer when I knock. I mean to know which beasts the people face so I know what I'm asking them to fight. That is what a Lockhart should possess, isn't it? Power that extends beyond the estate? Respect bought with more than a surname?"

"He isn't wrong," Fiona said without turning around. She looped the rope twice around the post and pulled it tight, testing the knot.

That pulled Wayne's eyes toward her. He inclined his head just enough to acknowledge the remark and waited for her to speak again.

She finally faced him, one hand brushing back loose strands of hair. "You may not like it, Sir Wayne, but Igneal's gaining more here than he would behind the safety of Valis walls and the academy. You call this common work? Then maybe that's exactly what a leader should understand—what common work costs. And as much as I hate to admit it, I know the family head is aware of this as well. Isn't it correct to assume you update him about Igneal's whereabouts and actions?"

"The family head is informed when necessary. It is my duty. The family head understands risk and entrusted me to mitigate it."

"Mitigate, or smother?" Fiona said. "I've watched Igneal. He's not wasting his time out here. He's building strength the academy alone can't give him. If the family head truly objected, Igneal would already be back behind the walls. Yet here he is. Which means, at the very least, the family head isn't blind to the value of this work."

For a heartbeat, Wayne's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but his voice stayed level. "Lady Fiona, your candor honors you. Still, I am bound to remind: there is a line between strength gathered and dignity lost. A true Lockhart must balance both."

"I grow tired of your voice," Igneal growled, his eyes burning in the firelight. "Be mindful of whom you are speaking to, and of whom you speak. Treating me as if I'm some sort of weakling who needs to be wrapped in silk while the world moves without me. Your worries are misplaced, and frankly, insulting. I am a Lockhart that doesn't need smothering. That will only hold back my true potential. Strength is what will make me a family head worth following."

Sir Wayne dropped to one knee and bowed. "Never would I imply weakness. I apologize for my insolence. This servant of yours will leave your side for the time being and inspect the perimeter for any beasts."

"Don't apologize only to me, Sir Wayne. Apologize to Fiona as well. Though Father has banished her to Valis, she still carries the Lockhart name. Show her some respect."

Silence enveloped the camp as the flames danced, casting flickering shadows on the faces of the party. The crackle of the fire was the only sound, punctuated by the occasional cry of a distance beast, or a brief gust. Jaw clenched, Sir Wayne rose to his feet, offered one last glance to his master before walking toward Fiona and giving her a curt bow.

"I apologize for my words and actions, Lady Fiona."

Before Fiona could even retort, Sir Wayne spun on his heels and disappeared into the quiet expanse of the rocky terrain. Fiona clicked her tongue and returned to tending the horse, feeding it a bucket of feed, muttering to herself while Igneal just stared at the fire.

From the shadows of the firelight, Reo leaned toward Tyrus and muttered, "Still won't get used to this. Not long ago, they'd spit venom at each other just for breathing. Now she's standing guard for him. Strange times."

Tyrus gave a slight shrug, though his thoughts ran deeper. Everyone remembered how Fiona and Igneal used to clash, where every word a dagger, and every look a glare. Their interactions nowadays weren't a surprise and had improved quite a bit, but it was still progress. They still had a long way to go, but the fact that they could stand side by side without tearing each other apart meant something.

Actually, it was more surprising to see this change in Igneal. For him to outright command Sir Wayne to apologize to Fiona was something Tyrus never thought he'd witness. Igneal had always flaunted his pride like a badge, but it had been the kind that only protected himself. Demanding respect for his sister? That was a new one.

Was he feeling all right in the head? Did some strange illness creep into his veins and scramble his brain? Or maybe some parasite had gotten in and was puppeteering him into saying things completely out of character?

The first change was when Igneal shared his feelings with Tyrus when they left the palace together. No... it was way before that, back at the Wasteful Wetland when he saved Mitha and Wyford when he thought helping them was a waste of time. It was only by berating him for his harsh actions that the Lockhart changed his mind, which in turn saved Tyrus's life when he fought against Jericho.

And here he was, clear as day, referring to Fiona as a Lockhart when for years he'd treated her as little more than a stranger who happened to share his bloodline.

Since then, Igneal seemed to have remade himself. He didn't abandon his pride, but refined it, transforming it into something more than a defense for his ego. He still swaggered and smirked as if he owned the world, but there was something else beneath the surface.

Tonight, he'd not only defended Fiona but also ordered his own knight to respect her. Fiona, who'd been told most of her life that she wasn't a "true Lockhart." Fiona, who'd always butted heads with him.

Tyrus wondered whether someone could really change so drastically in such a short period. Either way, seeing Igneal command respect for Fiona of all people was proof of change. He didn't trust it fully yet, but he couldn't ignore it either.

The moment stretched long enough for the fire to settle into quiet pops and hisses. Fiona dusted off her hands on her trousers, finally turning away from the horse.

"All right," she said, tone all business again. "We'll need to make use of what we brought back. Empty the ring, if you would. The skymasons first."

Tyrus blinked, then rose without a word. He pressed a hand to the green gem on his finger, channeling thought into will. Two of the birdlike corpses materialized with a shimmer, heavy bodies slamming into the dirt beside the fire. Their stone beaks caught the light, gleaming like fractured granite.

Reo gave a low whistle. "Ugly things, even dead."

Fiona crouched beside one, running a finger along the hardened feathers. "No cores, of course. Flyers rarely form them even if they're magical beasts—it's why explorers don't waste time on them. But the beaks fetch a fair price if they're intact. Don't toss them out."

"Stone-backed beetles too," Reo added, tossing a pebble into the fire. "Their shells can be reforged into shields. Only worth it in bulk, though. That's why bigger explorer parties take contracts out here. One or two corpses won't cut it."

Fiona nodded. "All the same, waste nothing. Tyrus, help Grant and Reo break them down. We'll cook what meat we can. The rest we'll salvage."

They worked. The camp filled with small sounds: steel sliding into stubborn seams, the gritty rasp where stone met flesh, Reo's muttered commentary as if he were keeping himself entertained. Tyrus's knife-work found its rhythm—anchoring thumb, careful pressure, the decisive twist when gristle turned resistant.

The birds smelled strange when opened: a minerally tang under the iron, as though the skymasons had been flying with a mouthful of gravel. Stone dust clung to their fingers and turned the edges of their cuts gray. When he levered the beak free, the joint popped like a small rock giving way.

When the first strips reached the pan, the scent changed. Heat drew meat-sweetness up through the mineral, and Fiona's traveling herb-salt did the rest to lift the heaviness. The fire snapped, sending sparks into the dusk. Once the meat finished cooking, they ate.

Skymason wasn't fine fare, but food was food. Tyrus took his share without ceremony and watched the others over the firelight. Grant would flick his eyes across the High Plateau between bites; Reo telling a story about a red bison stampede that grew more outrageous with each breath as Fiona listened without scolding him for once, her chestnut hair let down and her face at ease. Igneal chewed quietly as he continued staring at the fire, his eyes distant.

Tyrus worked through his plate and frowned. The meat was tough, and the flavor strong, but thanks to the spices, chewing it wasn't much of a chore. Tyrus finished his share in a matter of minutes. He wiped his hands and rose.

"I'll be out hunting for mana cores. Stretch my legs and prepare for tomorrow. I'll be back in a few hours."

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"Be careful," Grant said, as he always did.

Reo stretched, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Please. The beasts should be watchful of him. If you find any that look cool, bring me a trophy."

"I'll bring you a rock," Tyrus said.

"Make it a pretty one."

Fiona glanced up. "Don't go too far. We move at first light."

Leaving the snapping fire behind, Tyrus felt a gaze caress his back. He looked over his shoulder to see Igneal not looking at the fire, but at him instead with narrowed eyes. Tyrus just gave him a quick wave and walked off, letting it slide off him like night rain until the camp's voices bled into the wind.

***

The plateau unfolded before him, a landscape of silvery scrub and broken stone beneath a vast sky that spilled silver light. During the day, Tyrus could see far in every direction, with nothing to block his view except the occasional spire or hill. Now, under the cloak of darkness, his vision was practically halved. Even the Northern Mountains were nothing more than dark silhouettes. Though his eyesight was still sharp even at night, the reduced visibility made him uneasy.

Snapping out of his thoughts, he found a low shelf and hopped down into the shadow it cast.

"You can come out now," Tyrus said.

His shadow squirmed. A seam in the world opened from heel to toe, and something old and hungry slipped through, stretching as if shaking off sleep. Eaubrus flowed from darkness, black fur taking shape like ink deciding to be wolf. Then came the white streaks running along its frame and the white symbol on its forehead. Soon, a beast that reached his knees was seen shaking its body.

"At last," the wolf said, voice a low scrape of sound in the back of Tyrus's skull. "I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten about me, bearer. You are at the academy most of the year yet cannot let me stretch in its courtyards. Even a floor bed in your room would suffice."

"Sorry about that, Eaubrus. I can't exactly let out most of the time. You know the rules given to us by Sir Geroth. Blue Dawn trips are the only real time I can give you room. We'll make it count."

Eaubrus took a sniff of the night air. "What should we do tonight?"

"Hunt," Tyrus said. "Cores, if we can find them out here. You absorb them, you grow."

"And remember," the wolf added, tone lower.

Tyrus nodded. "Yeah. And remember your past, and what exactly your connection to Scourge is."

Eaubrus spent the entire day shadowing Tyrus, constantly observing. Whenever Tyrus's eyes opened, Eaubrus's were mirroring them nearby. He understood the basin, the hardscales, and the tunnel network with no explanation.

The wolf trotted two paces ahead, nose lifting again, gathering threads Tyrus couldn't taste.

"East," Eaubrus said at last, head angling toward the dark beyond the butte. "Dense. Heavy. Old. Deep under the skin."

Tyrus followed his companions' gaze and felt his shoulders lock. "You know that's where Mevena's Scar is. We're not going there. It's forbidden, and even if it weren't, I heard the ground itself pulls people down into a nest of dangerous beasts. We're not testing it."

Eaubrus didn't argue. He pivoted without complaint, nose questing again. "South," he said after a beat, tipping his muzzle toward a run of ridges.

"South it is."

They jogged—Tyrus at an easy hunter's pace, Eaubrus flowing beside him like a shadow with a heartbeat. The plateau rolled out in broken steps; gravel skidded beneath their boots; scrub dragged at Tyrus's pant cuffs like the fingers of a sleeping thing. Wind combed the grass into low waves and carried scents that weren't just scents to Eaubrus: the iron-sour of old kills, the chalky tang of stone-shelled insects, the musk of beast who were just here just minutes ago, traveling some place else.

Nightlife had spilled onto the rugged terrain. A pair of rock-shelled hares sprang from a burrow and vanished under a thorn mass. Around a patch of lichen, pale beetles with stone-like backs pulsed, their shells creating a clicking sound reminiscent of rocks being shaken in a pouch. Farther out, a terrapace lay half-submerged in a sandy depression, motionless enough to pass for an extra hill.

"This area breeds armor," Tyrus said, more to himself. "Mountains and plateaus force beasts to adapt out here. They copy what kills them. Add mana imbuing everything, and you get rock-hard shells, plates, scales. It makes these beasts harder to kill."

"Harder to be eaten," Eaubrus corrected. "That is the only rule beasts make."

They slid down a short slope, pebbles tumbling away from their heels, and angled along a ridge where the wind moved slower, as if the air itself were thinking. Eaubrus halted so abruptly that Tyrus almost stepped past him.

The wolf's nose cut upward, toward the spine of the ridge. Tyrus climbed the last few yards on his palms, keeping low, and eased his eyes over the rim.

There, sleek as poured shadow, was a cat the color of rain-wet stone, lying flat along the crown of rock. Its coat was short and iron-gray, peppered with chips of flat shale and specks of basalt that caught starlight in dull glints. Around its brow, a thin coronet of embedded stones—not jewels, but a ring of thumb-sized shards fitted like a crown. Its eyes were pale, its tail long and balanced, moving in slow, countering arcs as it tracked a herd below.

Wild swine, huge and bristled, their spines like gritty gravel, scraped the scrub below the ridge. Soft rattles and rumbling filled the air as they rooted near the terrace. The cat, muscles coiled tight, its gaze unwavering, tracked its prey.

"Shardcrown," Tyrus said, remembering the bestiary at Selena's Manor, which he'd practically lived with that first winter. The images, the drawings, sprang unbidden to his mind: shale crown, basalt flecks, five to seven stones, standard rank when the crest was complete. He counted seven stones circling the brow.

"It looks fully grown, so it's not a juvenile. Must be a standard shardcrown."

They watched it a heartbeat longer. The shardcrown's shoulders tensed, and Tyrus imagined its attack: a swift, brutal leap that would turn the herd of bars into mangled flesh. Nothing about it suggested it feared anything, least of all being prey.

It was the perfect beast to start out their hunt for the night.

"Split it from the herd," Tyrus said. "You circle to the other side and cut its retreat. I'll draw it off the ridge."

In two seconds, Eaubrus vanished. The wolf melted into the shadows, sliding along the ridge's backside where even moonlight didn't reach.

Not only could Eaubrus slip into his bearer's shadow, but into the deeper pools cast by boulders, trees, and walls as well. To others, it was like watching dusk turn to smoke and pour into a crack. However, there were limits Tyrus learned one night at a time.

The shadow had to fit him. Shallow shade only cloaked his paws and tail before spitting him back out. Bright gaps were walls—he couldn't cross open light unless there was a bridge of overlapping darkness. And there was a tether: he could range only so far from Tyrus before the bond tugged tight and pulled him home, as if an invisible leash had reached its end.

Dipping into shadows was useful. Unfairly useful.

A pang of envy struck Tyrus. He could imagine a dozen ways slipping into shadows would have saved him bruises, scars, whole fights. He'd tried it—more than once—imagining himself becoming shadows itself the way Eaubrus had coached him, willing himself to sink. Sadly, not even a ripple occurred. Tyrus knew it was possible for a human to do so, given he'd seen Wanderer do it in their skirmish, stepping through black like a door she alone could access. In fact, she was entirely the reason he tried to mimic her when he returned to the academy.

Tyrus's jaw tightened. Don't go there. Thinking about Wanderer always dragged him toward the same pit of anger, old questions, and the memory of a hand vanishing into shadow while he stood, teeth bared, helpless and young.

"Snap out of it," he hissed under his breath, and slid along the ridge to work.

He let Eaubrus ghost to the lee side while he angled ten paces below the shardcrown. Lightning prickled at his fingertips. He scratched a quick diagonal glint across the ridge face. The shardcrown's head snapped toward the sound, tail stilled.

Tyrus dragged a second pinprick line a pace to the right, away from the herd. The beast flowed to the lip and dropped, not toward the herd, but after him—three clean steps down the cliff. It scarcely touched stone.

Eaubrus's thought brushed his mind: "Bearer, I am behind it."

"Good," Tyrus returned, retreating at a measured pace.

The ledge flattened into a narrow strip of shale. The shardcrown lunged, low and fast, muscles coiled. Tyrus sidestepped, letting a claw brush past. Then, he struck the shoulder with the flat of his sword. The beast turned, mirroring the blade's angle.

Watch the wrong thing, Tyrus thought. I am your sole opponent.

He flicked a needle of lightning at the crown. The embedded shards sang a tinny chime, and the cat's paws misjudged by half a hand-span. Momentum carried it an inch wide.

From above, Eaubrus burst from a seam of darkness like falling night. He struck the flank and bit the fold behind the jaw, then released it before the cat could rake. The shardcrown was ready to attack, its forelegs digging in and hips tensed for a lunge that would go right through Tyrus's chest if he tried to face it.

Wrong move, little beast.

Tyrus didn't raise his sword. Instead, he summoned his other weapon: a thin dagger covered in runes, taken from Jericho. He channeled a bit of mana into it, and the dagger flared with light, humming in his hand. Tyrus hurled it at the beast, watching it clatter against the stone beneath its belly.

The shardcrown surged for his head, all eyes on the obvious steel.

Tyrus flicked a finger, and the blade leaped from the ground. It spun in the air, then sliced upward, entering behind the jaw and tearing through the vulnerable spot at the skull's base. The body stiffened, its strength failing.

Pebbles clicked underfoot as the wild pigs snuffled and crashed onward, oblivious. He tugged again, and the throwing dagger sprang free, zipping to his outstretched hand. Tyrus starved the sigils of their mana, and the blade became dull weight, indistinguishable from an ordinary dagger.

Huh, that was easier than I thought. Hunting with another person really makes a difference. The shardcrown wasn't even given the chance to fire off any elemental attacks.

He kneeled beside the shardcrown's chest and set the tip of his dagger to the notch between ribs. With a steady breath, he drew a straight line down the sternum, feeling the steel ride muscle and resist at each seam. The smell rose at once: iron underlaid with that chalky, mineral stench, like dust after rain.

He used his thumbs to widen the cut, then slid two fingers along the curve of the ribs, tracing the cage by touch since he couldn't see. Switching his grip, he braced with his left hand and used his right to sever connective tissue with small, precise strokes. After much work, grunting, and searching, he finally found what he was looking for.

Beneath the thick muscle, a gentle warmth spread across his palm. The mana core, roughly the size of a fist, was now free. Tyrus carefully detached it, using the dagger's heel to sever the last connections. As it came loose, the chest settled slightly. He retrieved the orb; its white surface smeared with blood. A flicker of flame and Tyrus sealed the wound.

Eaubrus watched without a word, tail still, silver eyes fixed on the stone. Tyrus wiped his wrist on the beast's hide, cradled the core in both hands to keep it clean, and held it out.

The wolf pressed his snout to it. Light drew through Eaubrus fur. The white streaks along his body brightened, then softened again. In no time, the mana core turned dull gray. Tyrus tossed the now useless core aside and faced the corpse of the shardcrown. In seconds, the Scourge ring pulled the carcass into its gem, leaving only droplets of blood.

"Did you remember anything?" Tyrus asked.

Eaubrus shook his head. "No memories have resurfaced, bearer. I fear that absorbing every mana core, hoping I receive a glimpse of what was, is not the way."

"Or we haven't crossed the threshold yet. Maybe there's a number, or a kind, that flips the lock. I'll keep feeding you cores until you hit standard. If that still jogs nothing, we try other measures, like finding magical beasts of your... Would it be your kind, now, since you're a hound and all that?"

For a moment, the wolf said nothing. Then he dipped his head in a bow. "You gave me a body, time, and a clear path. I am fortunate that fate knotted my shadow to yours."

Heat climbed Tyrus's ears. He clicked his tongue and looked away. "Hey, quit it, will you? We've got more cores to find."

"As you wish," said Eaubrus.

They searched the ridge for an hour. Eaubrus took the lead, weaving in and out of deep shadows, always staying within the bounds of their linked senses. When the moonlight finally cleared the ground, he came back to Tyrus, a darker shape at his heels. They dodged trouble twice—a terrapace that would have taken ages to defeat, even with help, and a young hardscale that couldn't even form a core, so not worth the effort.

Their second core belonged to a lurker, a smaller reptile, though still as long as a grown man. It was a mass of sinew and stone-like scales, and it hunted the swine by digging underground with pincers near its jaw. Eaubrus sensed it first. He veered left, sniffing the ground, then lowered his head and froze. Tyrus crouched, placing his palm on the earth. A faint vibration hummed beneath his skin, like a rake scraping lightly across gravel.

Tyrus summoned lightning to etch a lure into the stone, drawing the creature with his mana. When its head surfaced, the flying dagger found its mark, piercing the jaw, and it was finished. He pulled it free as if yanking a stubborn weed and then dissected the creature. The core, smaller than a shardcrown, was near the brain. Eaubrus drained it, experiencing no memories in return.

Tyrus rolled the last spent core in his palm and clicked his tongue. It would have fetched a good price to a guild. Feeding it to Eaubrus still felt like throwing money into a well. Still, he tossed it aside anyway. A promise was a promise. He knew what it meant to live without a past. Besides, he could not take the cores himself. Cecilia's warnings still held. His mana heart was mending. Raw intake would pull at the scars until they split.

"That's enough hunting for tonight," Tyrus said. "I've been gone for too long. Good work out there."

Eaubrus lifted his head, then dipped it once. "Thank you for the praise. I am looking forward to our next hunt."

The wolf slipped into the nearest pool of shadows and settled at Tyrus's heel.

Suddenly, Tyrus felt a chill run down his neck and turned, expecting a beast to be watching him, but nothing greeted him. Just to be sure, Tyrus made a quiet sweep along the nearest ridge to be sure nothing was watching them.

When nothing caught his eye, he turned and took one step forward until he stopped. Tyrus looked down and saw a peculiar rock.

Two small holes like eyes pierced the top, and a gaping hole yawned beneath. One could almost hear the rock's silent scream, its face a permanent mask of terror from the curse that petrified it.

Tyrus bent down and picked it up with a smile.

"Reo will love this. I think I'll call you... Screeching Rock."