Igniting A Flame {Kingdoms #1}

Forty

Each step felt like eternity. A constant shattering of bones, a million knives slashing through tender flesh. Lukas's chest tremored with every stained breath. Releasing that black inferno broke something inside of him, constricted the bustling energy within. He was a damn fool to push that far. Despite the heavy exhaustion heaving at him, he kept his pace steady—even through the limp. There was something eerie about venturing this deep into enemy quarters, to spy the endless steel doors and wonder if one should open any moment. Arvin effortlessly glided across the walls, those vigilant green eyes darting to every corner. A meticulously trained warrior. Lukas wondered how many of those skills he used to escape his own captor all those years ago.

Lukas's leg buckled, his weight leaning against the wall, before he caught himself. A soft mumble vibrated in his pocket, the cursed stone alert. If such an item could be brought from Elasta to his own realm, then perhaps it is possible Krest Andel used it in some way. How can he be sure? He had no idea how his king would even have it in his possession. Lukas considered telling Arvin yet held back, whether in fear or a divine force preventing him from doing so. He had grown accustomed to Khandi's lingering presence, and even contemplated her input in his decisions. Stupid, he knows. Yet that constant shadow in his pliant mind stirred as if gradually digging deeper into its depths, slowly gaining control. Lukas hadn't mulled over the possibility of Khandi's motives being far from docile or how her hidden magic posed a threat to him, or his realm. He would ponder it later. He would ponder everything later.

Arvin stopped dead in his tracks, utterly silent, a fair distance from a lone door. A muffled clank of stone interrupted the silence. The calculated warrior before him reached into his worn pants, honed muscles peeking from the fabric, and gripped a moulded stone, similar to that makeshift pick Lukas had conjured in that lonely room. Finally, Arvin spoke, pointing to the door, "That room should contain our weapons, or at least weapons of some sort."

"How do you know? And when did you make that," Lukas breathed, gaping.

"Well, whilst you were hopelessly moping in your own filth or silently simmering in the corner avoiding Yevvi's gaze, I listened to every hushed word spoken and scouted every inch of that damned cell. And so, voila, I know of a weaponry location and found the time to scrap together a lock pick. And weapon, if you will," he gloated. A wry grin plastered Arvin's face, those green eyes lighting up.

Lukas could only glare at the cockiness lining the cunning warrior's face. A look he had seen many times from Yevvi, a likewise twinkle in those oak eyes. Excitement, pride or a thrill, he was unsure. The shrewdness and utter precision of the Maragnian immortals guiding him through this journey truly astounded him, even provoking a hint of jealousy. Lukas dreaded speaking to Yevvi again, whether from his own shame or anger. Avoidance had become his reprieve, a way to block out the conflict, the cruelness, the truth. But he had conquered that emptiness, sought a new path. A path to new beginnings, a long overdue one. Lukas took a deep breath as Arvin tiptoed towards the door, pressing his body next to the threshold.

"You better unleash that wondrous magic of yours once I open this door." Arvin's smile faded as he paused, sucking on his teeth. "We'll study it closer later."

"Have you seen anything like it before?"

Arvin only flicked his eyes to the doorknob, bracing his hand on it. The silence answered enough. Great. He was given a chance to redeem his normalcy yet ended up defected once again. Not fiery Soran elf or Maragnian shadow-wielder. Just a boy with a cursed power, forever different and feared or despised. That flourishing purple stone rumbled, a certain sentience brewing within it. He doubted it was comfort the stone retorted, perhaps it were basking in Lukas's sorrow. It suddenly felt unwieldly, dangerous. He swallowed hard, forcing back the instinct to throw it against the wall.