Chärsian awoke once again due to the pain. It wasn’t just physical pain; it was deeper, more internal. In his heart. In his soul. And all around him. The world wept around him, and he could feel it.
He didn’t know how to explain it, but if someone had asked him, he would have said in simple terms that it was magic that hurt. Of course, it wasn’t something so trivial or simple to be reduced to such a simplistic and ineloquent expression. When he concentrated, closing his eyes and trying to meditate, he could feel as though the threads connecting him to the plane of magic, that which made him the Ethereant he was, were about to snap.
With every breath, every inhalation, and every exhalation, he felt a sharp pain in a part of his body that wasn’t really in him, but rather in another plane of existence.
It had been a week since he had regained consciousness, in a simple yet comfortable bed, his skin lacerated, his flesh bruised, and his muscles stiff. No potion could alleviate what he felt, and he was certain that his suffering was tied to some supreme punishment.
He tried to stand, but his legs trembled. He was forced to sit back down on the bed to recover. He wanted to move his feet, but it seemed like an enormous effort, an ordeal impossible to overcome.
“They told you to stay still,” said the voice of the insufferable roommate assigned to him.
“Shut up, Dräconir, no one asked for your opinion,” Chärsian replied wearily.
“Do what you want, for all I care. Go ahead, trip and break your neck.”
“At least that way I won’t have to keep listening to you.”
“All right, that’s enough. Both of you,” said the voice of Akärva, the elderly woman who had taken it upon herself to heal the young ones in her care. “You’re not going to be walking for a few more days, Chärsian.”
“I have to walk,” insisted the young man. “The war, my friends, my master…”
“They’re fine, it’s you who’s not well. This is what happens when you suppress all your magical abilities, and then a wall collapses around you. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Why am I alive?” interrupted Chärsian, unable to contain the fury caused by those words, repeated for the hundredth time in this makeshift infirmary.
Akärva, as always, shrugged.
“Someone brought you to Nibïria, dear,” she replied, once again. “And they did the right thing. The hidden city is the best place to recover from a war, or to leave behind an unwanted past and start a new life.”
“The war isn’t over, and I don’t want to start a new life,” Chärsian complained.
“There’s no point in crying over past mistakes and pretending they don’t exist,” Dräconir chimed in, joining the conversation; it was the first time Chärsian had agreed with him.
He also seemed consumed by an anger unusual for him, his eyes blazing. Chärsian recognized those eyes, for they were like his own— a fraïno with a strong magical affinity. And within those fiery orbs, guilt lurked behind a mask of anger.
“You should both be grateful to be alive. One day, you’ll understand that,” Akärva insisted. “Clinging to pain never brings anything good.”
“What do you know about clinging to pain?” Dräconir blurted out.
Far from being provoked by the comment, the old woman made a gentle gesture with her hand, and a soft breeze pushed a chair toward her. Chärsian had also noticed the magical affinity in the woman’s eyes, but he hadn’t expected her to have such power that the wind would respond to her like a trained, obedient dog.
“I left the brotherhood you two belong to.” Was Dräconir an Ethereant? Impossible. Chärsian had lived his entire life in the Valley of the Summoners and had never seen him. And Akärva? She was old enough to have left the Valley before his birth. “Sometimes, it makes no sense to stay where suffering is constant. It’s better to hold on to compassion, mercy, and harmony. Look at you two: since you opened your eyes, all you’ve done is argue, compete, and try to prove who’s better than the other. But if you gave each other words of encouragement, if you stopped for a minute to listen and get to know each other, you would have someone to lean on as you move forward.”
It was true. Chärsian hadn’t had the patience for Dräconir’s complaints, and vice versa. Though he doubted that a stranger could help him rid himself of the anguish he felt.
As soon as he had regained consciousness, Akärva had told him how the Coalition of Summoners had breached the territory of Jharferún after the explosion that Chärsian himself had caused in the unbreakable walls. The young man had only wanted a tactical advantage over the Jharferüni and had never anticipated the reaction of the Coalition and the Protectorate of Actubrión’s soldiers, along with their allies, the refugees from lands ravaged by Jharferún. In the fury and frenzy caused by the breach in the enemy’s defenses, they had charged, taking advantage of the confusion and disarray caused by Chärsian’s explosion. Rumors said they had left no stone unturned, and that the city of Jharferún was now a thing of the past.
On one hand, the young Ethereant felt proud that his plan had worked. But on the other, he was horrified, imagining the screams of children and innocent citizens echoing through the northern mountain ranges.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Akärva said then, as if she knew what he was thinking. “You’re not responsible for the decisions of others,” she added, now looking at Dräconir.
“I need some fresh air,” the other fraïno interrupted dryly, leaving the room as quickly as he could. His breathing was ragged, and he seemed to be on the verge of tears.
“He’s like you, Chärsian,” the old woman said, as she examined one of the many bruises that covered the young man’s body.
“Is he an Ethereant?”
“Trained in the southern realms by his own grandfather, Tarbänas Ïdoss.” That was a name Chärsian did recognize.
“I don’t remember the last time I saw Tarbänas… He never mentioned anything about training his grandson.”
“Tarbänas was a reserved man; he never spoke more than necessary. And he certainly never talked about his family, even though it was quite large.”
“And you know him because you’re an Ethereant too.”
” Was ,” she clarified with a kind smile. “I didn’t train him, but I was there when he became an Ethereant.”
“You didn’t train him?” Chärsian was surprised. Why would Akärva train Tarbänas? Unless…
“Tarbänas was training Dräconir for the war against Jharferún, preparing the southern soldiers to withstand the Nordüri advance,” the woman explained before he had the chance to ask. “But he never got the opportunity to carry out his plans. Dräconir is now the last of the Ïdoss.”
“No. Not the last,” the young man interjected, re-entering the infirmary. “Some survived.”
“Survived what?” Chärsian wanted to know.
Dräconir snorted instead of answering, still carrying that attitude as pleasant as drinking a bowl of rusty nails.
Akärva handed him something to drink before he could complain and start another argument with the other fraïno. He almost choked on the drink but understood the old woman’s intention and decided to play along.
“In any case, I don’t have another room besides this one,” the woman said. “So, you’ll have no choice but to put up with each other until you’re able to leave. The hidden city will be your refuge for a while, so you’d better start getting used to it.”
Chärsian and Dräconir exchanged a look of disdain, one that loudly proclaimed they would never get used to it. How could they know back then that they would end up forming a bond of brotherhood stronger than any spell in existence?