CHAPTER 11: The Price of Past Sins - Part 1

  Varne laid Dorian's body upon a stone altar at the cliff's peak. Dorian himself had constructed it for this very purpose. His remains were to be consumed by birds, to avoid defiling the land. This was a Wyndor tradition, and it was in this tradition he wished to embark on his next journey.

  After the Prana Armor, Dorian had taught one more technique, though it was more a matter of knowledge than a technique. Every living creature's body produced its own unique symphony – the creak of joints as weight shifted, the twang of muscles in movement, the beat of the heart, the rhythm of breath, and more. By sharpening his hearing and paying attention, Varne could gain an advantage in battle.

  And now, Dorian's body orchestra was silent, as quiet as the stone upon which he lay.

  “Farewell, Uncle. Thank you.”

  Varne walked to the cliff's edge, pausing to gaze down at Dorian's cabin below – the windmill, the unharvested garden, beehives, and the rest. He had lived there for a year.

  He materialized the Pale Thundercloud accompanied by a burst of heat, then leaped down. The waterfall beside him roared, racing alongside him. He kicked the cliff wall to push himself away and landed beside Dorian's apple tree with a loud thud.

  Besides providing protection from external attacks, the Prana Armor also strengthened his overall physical fortitude. Maintaining the Prana Armor required a substantial supply of Prana, thus it should have been used only when necessary.

  He followed Dorian's instructions to reach the nearest village. It was a secluded village on the forest's edge, similar to his own. He was fortunate as they were planning a journey to Fhon to sell their produce. A little display of strength, and they agreed to take him as a guard.

  During the journey, they encountered a pack of monsters only once. Varne drove them off without much difficulty. He did not know how often monster attacks usually occurred, as he was too young when their numbers were considered normal.

  One evening after the meal, he stood guard outside the three wagons arranged in a circle. While leaning against the tree, a hard object pressing against his lower back. He pulled out the flat throwing knife and examined it. The moonlight made the red pattern on the flat side glisten.

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  “This is your graduation gift. I made it myself and it's not sold anywhere. I used to have a few, but now only this remains. Lorn often said that speed is the best shield. But I tell you, surprise is the best weapon.”

  However, what troubled Varne most were his uncle's last words. “Forgive me and your father...”

  All this time, whenever touching upon his past, Lorn had only shared bits and pieces. Now, Varne had resolved himself. Upon his return, he would ask about about himself and Lorn, about everything. He wanted his life to have meaning, not just to spend the remainder of his years in the village.

  In two days, the barren land gave way to greener landscapes. Ascending a gentle hill, the lead wagon stopped, and the driver stood from his seat.

  “What's the matter?” Varne asked. The other members of the group became alert.

  “There's smoke coming from the direction of Fhon,” the driver said.

  “Perhaps they're burning fields?” one suggested.

  “No. It's not the season for that,” the group leader said.

  The group members discussed. The leader then decided to continue their journey as it was too far to turn back. Varne regretted not having a sword in such a situation.

  They were all stunned to see the mighty walls of Fhon collapsed, and the houses it once protected now mere blackened ruins. Even after hearing the explanation of the gatekeepers – or what remained of the gate – it still was not enough for him and the others until the group leader asked again.

  “A Terzionite invasion?”

  “A Terzionite invasion.”

  In the city, the group directed their carts to the communal kitchen. They agreed to sell their produce at half the price. Meanwhile, having fulfilled his contract, Varne separated from the group.

  The streets of Fhon sorted smoldering rubble into squares. Heat from the fire still lingered in the ground. Steam rose from the gaps in the stone tiles, and his steps stirred layers of ash.

  Hundreds of victims gathered in makeshift tents made from remnants of wood and torn fabric. Their vacant faces showed they had just lost something irreplaceable. Varne could not find him. He might not be here, or perhaps unrecognizable among the burn victims.

  “Who are you looking for?” A middle-aged woman asked. Both her legs were amputated, the bandages soaked with yellowish bodily fluids.

  “My friend.”

  “More are dead than alive. Mass graves over there.”

  The ruins had been cleared from one part of the town, and there rows upon rows of long trenches were lined up. Hundreds of charred corpses lay alongside each trench while some officials conducted a census.

  The stench of decay and rot. The smell assaulted Varne until he had to dull his sense of smell before continuing his walk. At the end of each trench, a woven basket held the personal belongings of the victims.

  He stopped upon seeing a round stone necklace in one of the piles. He picked it up for a closer look.

  “If that belongs to your family, take it and go. We don't have time to check each item.”

  The necklace was identical to his. The type of stone, a pumice, and the way it was tied could not be a mere coincidence. Perhaps Eiran dropped it, or perhaps not. His gaze lifted to the rows of unrecognizable corpses.

  He gasped. What about his village? What about his father?

  The body handlers threw the bodies into the trenches like discarding animal carcasses after a forest fire.

  Varne ran. He rushed with all his might towards his home.