Rise Of Orthros

Chapter Seven

The midday sun cast soft beams across the Dragon Guild hall, illuminating the towering shelves of the library, where Aesthra lost herself in the ancient tomes. Dust danced in the air around her, delicate particles swirling in perfect harmony with the quietude that blanketed the space. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, splashing colours upon the stone walls, but Aesthra's mind was shrouded in the weight of unresolved memories. The silence in the library was both comforting and treacherous, allowing her thoughts to linger far longer than they should.

Meanwhile, in the bustling lounge just outside the library, Cyrelle drummed her fingers on the wooden table, her azure eyes wandering towards the library doors. “Do you find it odd that Aesthra never talks about home?” she mused, her voice light but threaded with curiosity.

Samuel Firthmaker looked up from polishing his sword, nonchalantly shrugging. “Maybe she just prefers it that way?”

“Maybe,” Cyrelle replied, her brow furrowing slightly. “But don’t you think it's strange? She’s always so distant when the topic comes up. No stories, no anecdotes—it’s as if her past exists in a different realm entirely.”

Erasto who was lounging with his feet propped unceremoniously on the table, scoffed, his blue skin glimmering under the light. “Mages are all the same,” he sneered, eyes narrowing. “Not one of them cares about anyone else. They’re just self-serving creatures cloaked in power.”

Samuel shifted, a frown pulling at his lips. “Have you seen Aesthra? She is nothing like everyone says about mages. She’s the complete opposite.” His gaze hardened as he leaned toward Erasto. “You wouldn’t even give her a chance if you had her standing right in front of you. You just don’t understand her.”

Erasto’s expression twisted as if Samuel had attacked a nerve. The air seemed to thicken, the playful vibe of their gathering dissipating under the tension. After a moment of silence, Erasto turned his gaze away, stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest. “Understanding? She’ll never deserve anyone’s sympathy,” he muttered under his breath, bitterness lacing his tone.

Samuel, still firm with resolve, shot back, “You just can’t see beyond your own hatred. You’re letting your past blind you to who she truly is.”

In that moment, the room felt heavy with unspoken words, and the boldness of Samuel’s defence echoed in Erasto’s mind, connecting the present to a past marred by tragedy and heartache. The laugh of children pulling at his memory, he felt a riptide of grief surge within him.

Far from the lounge, a young Erasto ran through the streets of his village. The sun shone brightly, and with it came the carefree laughter of children—his laughter mingling with that of his little brother, Phayli. They raced past market stalls, dove around vendors, full of life, until a bell tower tolled erratically, sending chains of alarm ringing through the vibrant day.

“Run! The mages are coming!” A shout echoed, instantly cooling the joy in the streets. Confusion erupted, and townsfolk raced to hide. Young Erasto grasped Phayli's hand tightly, urging him to flee, but as they dashed, he stumbled, sending his necklace sliding from his clutch, glinting innocently before settling on the cobblestones.

“Wait, I dropped my necklace!” Phayli exclaimed, halting mid-run.

“No! Get back!” Erasto hollered, but time and innocence conspired against him. Phayli’s gaze lingered on the pendant, and with a determination that only childhood could muster, the boy darted back, oblivious to the impending doom.

“Phayli, no!” Erasto yelled, panic sharpening his voice.

The air thickened with dread as the ominous figures of mages began to descend upon the street, casting long shadows that swallowed laughter and warmth. Their robes billowed like dark clouds, and Erasto felt his heart pound in his chest, fear gripping his instincts.

And there was Kendrick Goldendawn—a tall figure emerging from the throng, his icy blue eyes scanning the chaos. He strode forward, unfazed by the panic and ultimately, locking his gaze on Phayli, who had reached the necklace now, the innocence still radiating from him.

“Who does this child belong to?” Kendrick’s voice rolled over the crowd, powerful and unyielding, demanding submission from the gathering villagers.

Their mother, feeling her heart race, stepped bravely into the fray, her spirit like a gentle flame flickering against the gale. “He’s my son! Please, let him go!” she called out, her voice trembling yet steadfast.

Kendrick turned, the calm surface of his demeanour implying deep-rooted wrongness. “Cora,” he said, addressing his wife with a casualness that cut through the tension. “Deal with this."

The desperation in Erasto’s mother’s voice ramped up as she faced Kendrick. “I’m begging you. He didn't mean any offence. Just let him go home!”

But before any more pleas could be uttered, Cora Goldendawn raised a hand, and the air buzzed thick with unnatural energy. A golden light enveloped both Erasto’s mother and Phayli, their forms contorting before the eyes of the horrified villagers.

“Mom! Phayli!” Erasto screamed, falling to his knees, his breath hitching painfully in his throat as the light dissipated to silence, leaving nothing behind. The air felt stolen, and a palpable emptiness settled over the village with a crushing force.

As the chilling echo of that day surged back into Erasto's consciousness, he bolted upright in the lounge. Breathing heavily, he found himself glaring at Cyrelle and Samuel, their conversation stinging like the bite of cold. The shadows of his past haunted him, clawing up from the depths, tying him inexorably back to hatred and distrust.

“What’s with him?” Cyrelle whispered with concern, but Samuel remained contemplative, a frown deeply etched into his features.

“Stay out of it!,” Erasto spat as he shoved his chair aside, the skidding sound slicing across the room. “You don’t know anything!” He turned and stormed out of the lounge without another word, leaving Cyrelle and Samuel to wrestle with the aftermath of his harsh departure.

“What happened to him when we mentioned Aesthra?” Cyrelle wondered aloud, her voice now tinged with worry. “He's got a chip on his shoulder too large for his own good.”

Samuel sighed, leaning back into his chair, his thoughts drifting. “Everyone’s wounds run deeper than they seem,” he said softly, glancing toward the library as if expecting Aesthra to emerge from the bookshelves at any moment. Echoing their unspoken concern for her, the two lapsed into silence, contemplating their own burdens—past and present.

As the day waned, both friends couldn’t shake the feeling that they would need to confront not just their own histories but the shadows lurking in the hearts of their guildmates if they hoped to emerge stronger together.

Later that afternoon, Aesthra was seated on a chair in her room, filling out her journal like she did every day. She liked to document what she did and what she could be better next time, as she always liked to improve on her skills. She also writes about the dragons she meets along the way. It was only yesterday she had helped that dragon on Gandor find a new home.

Writing in a journal also helped her mind stay calm and herself relax. She found herself drifting off to a peaceful place. She didn't always write a journal she started after the events that happened when she was five. When her father tried to kill her.

Once she was done, Aesthra placed the quiver in the ink, closing the journal and mumbling a spell to keep it sealed as she didn't want anyone reading it. She has nothing to hide, but it was personal.

Standing up, she made her way to her wooden bed and sat on it while looking around her room: her room was a rectangular shape, with wooden furniture, the floor was covered with dark blue carpet, to her right was a large bookshelf filled with magic books and also some crystal she had received on her trips, or by herself. The newest addition to her collection was the red crystal she was given by Seviphal. Lights were provided by wall lamps and a ceiling light.

Aesthra couldn't help but feel mesmerized every time she looked at it, like it was calling out to her, the beautiful red glistened whenever the sun would touch it, the clear speckle of black could also be seen in the crystal.

Unfortunately, she was drawn out of her thought process as she heard a knock at the door, clearing her throat as she stood up and wandered over to it, amazed to see Erasto standing behind it. He never came to her room for anything. It was something he always avoided.