Shadow Bands

XXI. Blue

Several moons had passed, creating a daunting wake for Draven—the anticipation for each day of training remained dreadful. He wished he could enter his rift and be free of his shackles, but Civet knew better than to let him do as he pleased.

Despite all the negative emotions, he had noticed a considerable amount of progress in his fighting; even the use of his magic has become efficient, more potent than he could imagine. He never knew that he was capable of such abilities, but one thing weighed him down—he would use them to end a life, eventually.

Draven wandered the halls of the training grounds. Not too far away, the castle of Nasherux stood eerily under heavy red miasma and the looming dark gray clouds that threatened to rain hot ash. Its pointed towers were like spears that threatened the heavens if it came any closer.

Most of the hallways of the training grounds had open ceilings. Rain was never a problem in Nasherux—if it ever came. The heat was immense from the volcano, but over time he grew used to the burning temperatures. As Civet would put it, the heat served as part of the discipline and training.

He approached the doors to the designated training room and stood at the front for a moment, collecting his thoughts and his will.

"You can come in!" Civet's voice said, muffled by the door between them.

Draven opened the door and found Civet sitting at a table pouring a drink elegantly into a delicate ceramic cup. A click sounded as the door shut, piercing the silence in the room. Civet gestured for Draven to sit across from him and poured another cup.

"Surely this isn't training," said Draven, ready for what was to come.

"No," he simply said, allowing silence to envelop them like a fog. Civet didn't have his usual listlessness or cynical smile. His expression was rather calm and readable for once. "What do you think this war has to offer?"

Draven wasn't expecting a question such as that. Civet's desired answer seemed so delicate that a wrong answer would likely kill him.

"Well, it's hard to say." He hoped that leaving the answer open would buy him time.

The clink of Civet's cup sent a sharp shiver up Draven's nerves as the silence got drawn out.

"Do you know what Akari'sutar is?" He asked another question.

"I don't recall learning about that."

"By steel, a crucible of flame and coal. By warrior, a trial of blood and death. Akari'sutar is a formal battle between two demons. Commonly done within the Thirteen."

Draven pieced out why he was here. His palms sweat, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. "Are you saying. . ."

"No, dear boy." Civet took a sip from his cup. "However, Grimoire will ask for your audience. And you will be doing an Akari'sutar with one of the Thirteen to solidify your standing. It would be beneficial to have your Source in the upper echelon of the army."

He threw his cup away; the fragile ceramic shattered upon impact with the ground. Civet got up and walked towards the exit, extending his arm at an acute angle beside him. Draven hurried to be beside him, and they left the training room. It was odd for Draven to feel normal around Civet. His entire persona changed, and he was no longer the Civet he knew to fear and loathe. There was something off about the day, and Draven didn't like the calm before the storm.

· · ─ · ◯☽✵☾◯ · ─ · ·

Draven walked through the familiar black-ribbed hallway just before Grimoire's room. This time, the obsidian guards weren't alert—they stood poised at their positions along the wall. Civet knocked on the door and opened it. He peeked his head in and gave Draven a quick nod to enter.