Heart of Flame

V. Run

Nagar studied the paring knife, spinning it around in his hand. He'd showed her how to move a knife around, but this was the first time she'd given him one to hold. It was time to finally test how well she'd managed to learn the chant. They'd been working on it for a month, Nagar correcting each and every syllable. She could feel the burn of magic through her body now, attuned to its ebbs and flows. It took more out of her than she'd thought possible and so she couldn't focus on it for long if she was going to complete her other chores. That meant learning in piecemeal ways throughout the day.

Still, the orc seemed satisfied with her progress. "Hold out your hand," Nagar said. "Trust yourself. Trust me."

Sorne nodded and took a deep breath to steady herself. The words came, humming with power as she found the rhythm. "Unshiir, unshiir nakhis shenla iriaak—"

The knife plunged at her hand and connected. There was a sharp sound, like metal meeting stone, and the blade rebounded off her bare skin without leaving a scratch behind. Nagar let out a small crow of delight and grinned fiercely as he examined the blade. "You chipped it, little rock. How's that for a trick?"

She lost the thread of the chant with a laugh, the power flickering and fading away. She felt like she was soaring. "It worked! It actually worked!"

Nagar tapped the side of her face gently with an open hand, as if a slow, playful slap. "Of course it did," he said. "You shouldn't doubt your elders. Now keep your voice down before the guards decide to come poking around."

Sorne covered her mouth with a hand, immediately silencing herself. She still felt elated, but she was doing her best to be quieter. "Please, they've already cracked the ale cask," Sorne said. She took a deep breath. "That does remind me of something, though."

"Oh?" Nagar said.

She nodded. "Getting you out of here."

The orc frowned slightly. "I love the notion, but I want you to know at least one more chant and be a bit better with that knife. It will cause a stir when we leave."

Sorne was still grateful that Nagar hadn't objected to the idea of her tagging along. They both understood on some level that there was no way that she would survive if she helped him escape and then stayed. Aldana was not known for letting people who angered him live in general, let alone after they'd already done him an injury once. She didn't want to die in flames at the stake, and thankfully, Nagar didn't seem to want her to either. "The longer we wait, the weaker you get."

He grinned. "That's why you're getting stronger, little rock. Someone's got to do the heavy lifting." The orc studied her hands as she held onto the bars. They were perpetually healing. Every blister or tear that started to close was invariably followed by a fresh one, courtesy of Luken's endless tasks. The man could hold a grudge almost as well as Sorne could, and he certainly hadn't forgotten about her victory in front of the ovens. "Perhaps the Badar Iirzar next."

"The Chant of Water?" Sorne said, following his gaze. Her scars were still red, but her mobility had improved gradually as she learned to stretch and flex her hands. Knifework taught her how to move them along with the rest of her body. Nagar barely considered it a weapon—to him, it was a tool, but one that was invaluable in combat at times. "You really think I could use it?"

"Certainly. We should start with stopping the blood of minor wounds first, though, like the little ones you get on your hands. Between that and the Unshiir, you will be able to ward the worst off and tolerate the afterthoughts." Nagar gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Good job today, Sorne. That was not something just anyone could do. Tomorrow, we will think of water."

Sorne smiled as she slipped out of that section of the dungeon. The guards were still chatting and drinking, enjoying their evening almost as much as she was enjoying hers. Knowing that her grasp on the chant had improved to the point of it being useful was a good feeling. Even seeing Josu approaching in the garden wasn't enough to dim her mood, at least until she realized that his expression was grim. He seemed less downcast and more determined, albeit with a sharp edge of worry.