The Falor of Khaleus: Blade of the Empress

Chapter 8

Calypso and I walked in silence through the village, the streets bustling with life around us. I stole glances at her as we passed vendors calling out their wares and children laughing, but she remained focused, her expression unreadable. I hesitated, debating whether to break the silence, but then I remembered something Jacob had mentioned on the plane.

"Hey, can I ask you a question?" I ventured cautiously.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced over at me. "What is it?"

"I, uh... I heard this rumor that you were once petrified by Medusa. So how are you here... alive?"

Calypso's expression darkened instantly. "First of all, it wasn't Medusa. It was a Basilisk," she corrected sharply. "And second, don't ever mention that backstabbing, lying gorgon in front of me again. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am!" I yelped as she smacked the back of my head, the impact making my ears ring. So, the rumor had some truth to it, after all, but I clearly needed to tread more carefully. There was serious history there.

We continued walking in tense silence until we reached a small building near the outskirts of the village. A painted sign above the door read, Carriage Rentals & Deliveries. Calypso stepped up to the counter and exchanged a few curt words with the attendant before tossing a handful of Silver Ardents onto the counter.

After a few minutes, we were seated inside a sturdy-looking carriage, the driver nodding as Calypso gave him our destination. The ride cost us about ten Silver Ardents, and I glanced at her curiously as the carriage rolled forward, rocking gently over the cobblestone roads.

"So, where exactly are we going?" I asked hesitantly.

"Training grounds outside the village," she replied flatly. "There's someone I want you to meet."

I bit back further questions, sensing that she wasn't in the mood to answer. Instead, I looked out the window, watching as the village melted away into rolling hills and fields, dotted here and there with small farms and cottages. The air grew warmer as we moved, and before long, I could see a sprawling open field in the distance, lined with tall wooden posts and fenced off by stone walls.

The carriage came to a halt at the edge of a wide dirt path, and I climbed out, my nerves twisting uncomfortably in my stomach. The field stretched out before us, filled with dozens of people training in various weapons. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the sharp sound of clashing blades. Some warriors were sparring in pairs, while others struck at training dummies or practiced complex forms.

My stomach churned with anxiety as I stepped onto the grass, feeling completely out of place. This was an arena for seasoned fighters, and here I was, a scrawny, untrained rookie.

"Stay close and don't wander off," Calypso ordered, her tone clipped. She led me forward, weaving between training groups until we reached a clear area near the center of the field. There, overseeing a group of warriors who were swinging practice weapons with precise, fluid motions, stood the largest centaur I'd ever seen.

His chestnut body clad in weathered leather armor that hugged his muscular frame. Leaning heavily on a sturdy wooden cane, he moved with a slow, deliberate grace as he oversaw a group of eager students training under his watchful eye.

His long white hair flowed down his back, and his face was lined with deep wrinkles, each telling a story of wisdom and experience. His piercing green eyes sparkled with intelligence and a hint of mischief, as if he could see through to the very core of those he taught.

Calypso cupped her hands around her mouth and called out, "Hey! Chiron!"

The centaur turned, his massive form moving with a grace that seemed impossible for someone of his size or age. He trotted over, and I couldn't help but gape. His body was that of a Shire horse—thick, powerful legs, and a broad chest covered in a smooth coat of rich, dark brown. His human half was equally impressive, with a muscular torso and shoulders that looked strong enough to crush boulders. His face was weathered, framed by a mane of silver hair that fell to his shoulders. Despite his age, his sharp eyes were vibrant, watching us with a curious gleam.