Power Stone - Light & Shadow

PROLOGUE

A tall, youthful figure stumbled up the snow-covered hill, only stopping when it reached the old oak at the edge of the spring. Its movements were sluggish, every fiber of its body screaming for rest, but the danger left no room for such a luxury. The cold wind tugged at the thick, soaked coat that offered little protection, and deep breaths sent waves of pain through its chest. The figure leaned one arm against the rough trunk, the other hand shakily reaching for its hood. With a quick tug, it pulled it back, revealing a blood-smeared, dirty face in the moonlight — young, yet scarred by battle and escape. The adolescent's breath came in gasps, the metallic sheen of the blood reflecting the pale light that fell upon him.

Trembling fingers traced his wounds. Across the bridge of his nose, beneath the small bump, ran a deep gash, while warm liquid trickled down from his forehead into his eyes. He raised a hand to find the source. A gaping tear cut through the dark, damp hair on the left side of his head. The pain burned like fire, but it was the least of his worries.

He clenched his teeth and cursed quietly. "Damn." It was more of a whisper, an exhausted word lost in the wind. A curse at himself, at the moment the plan had failed, and they had discovered him. They had seen what he was and what he was capable of. How long would it be before they found him up here? Their shouts echoed through the trees, filled with determination to hunt him down.

From here, he could see the lights of the monastery he had fled just ten minutes ago — but there was no sign of those who were supposed to meet him here. Alone, his chances of making it out of this alive were slim. "Where are you?" he muttered to himself, his eyes nervously scanning in all directions. With great effort, he pushed himself away from the oak and limped toward another tree on the opposite side of the spring.

There, they had stashed their packs, and he quickly found them again. He pulled out some dried fruit and a linen cloth — the wounds had to be tended to first, and something had to be done about his waning strength before he could continue. In his current state, neither fleeing nor fighting was an option.

With trembling hands, he reached under his coat for the small leather pouch attached to his belt. Even opening it was difficult, but he managed, and his left hand slid inside. Only a brief moment passed before he pulled out a needle, thread, and a small vial.

The youth soaked the linen cloth in the liquid from the vial and pressed it to the wound on his head. The burning pain was intense, but he had expected it and gritted his teeth. Stitching the wound, however, was a different matter entirely. "Two stitches should do it... hopefully." His hand trembled even more as he brought the thick needle closer to his head. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He had stitched up countless wounds before; it had become second nature. Eventually, the pressure was great enough that the flesh gave way.

He kept his eyes closed during the procedure, cursing internally at the pain and the fact that none of the others had made it here yet. After ten minutes, it was finally done — the wound was stitched, and he exhaled in relief. His pursuers seemed to still be searching the area, and to his fortune, they hadn't seen him flee up the hill.

Once more, he soaked the linen cloth in the liquid and pressed it to his head again. With trembling fingers, he pulled a narrow band from his pouch and tied the cloth in place. He leaned heavily against the tree, as if trying to anchor himself to its stability. A part of the tension drained from his body. "At least that's one less thing to worry about," he murmured softly. But a new question burned in his mind: "What next?"

They would hunt him down. The Church of Light now knew he had resurfaced after they had thought him dead. Too many Clerics and Magisters had witnessed his abilities — there was no undoing that. He could flee, hide in the southern wildlands where the Church had not set foot in years. But between him and the wildlands lay a hundred kilometers of unforgiving cold, and it was far from certain that the mountain tribes there would welcome him.