Chapter 12: Family Reunion
“Simi’s Sword” colour pencils on paper by Chaiga T Cheska
The light that crept into the ravine was a bruised sort of blue, as if the sky itself had wearied of holding up the night. Bran woke, groggy and cold, his limbs weighted with uneasy dreams. He turned, expecting the warmth of fire or the hush of movement, but found Oren and Tavik precisely where he had left them, hollow-eyed, silent, their faces etched with the same shadows as before.
Bran scrambled upright, rubbing at his eyes. His voice was sharp with a fatigue too deep for one night's sleep to mend. "You didn't sleep. Neither of you? And you didn't wake me for my watch. What was the point, if you two were just going to sit here and pretend?" He kicked at the ashes of the fire, anger prickling beneath his skin, but his brothers only looked back at him, wordless and grey.
Ignoring the ache in his shoulders, Bran began to repack their meagre belongings, hands clumsy with cold. The world beyond the ravine pressed in: heavy clouds bruising the horizon, the wind rising, pulling sharp and insistent at cloaks and hair. The scent of wet stone and iron hung in the air, thick and metallic, as if the earth itself was bleeding beneath the storm's weight.
Nix lingered at the edge of the camp; his gaze lost in the storm-stained dawn. He seemed further away than the ridge above, his silence raw, as if every word unspoken pressed upon his chest. The name, Aurelian, echoed in his mind, each syllable a knot caught in the web of blood and belonging he could neither untangle nor deny. He did not meet their eyes, nor did he help with the packs, his presence a shadow flickering at the edge of their morning.
Oren hefted his satchel and watched Nix with quiet uncertainty. Tavik, shifting uneasily, caught Oren's glance, a silent question passing between them: is it the storm that gathers, or is this a storm of Nix's making? They felt it, pulsing beneath the cold, the sense that Nix was drawing the wind tighter with each dark thought. Yet neither dared voice the fear, not as the first drops of rain patterned the rocks, not as Bran slammed his pack shut and stalked up the narrow path.
It was Nix who finally moved, stepping ahead as if the decision had already been made deep in the night. "The ridge will be quicker," he said, his voice distant, eyes fixed on the shattered line of the horizon. Without waiting, he led the way upwards, boots scraping over loose scree and slick, sharp stones.
The ravines below twisted in shadow, their depths swallowing sound and warmth alike. Above, the ridge offered no shelter, only exposure to the growing wrath of the storm. The wind bit without mercy, carrying the taste of rain and the promise of thunder. Lightning flickered behind the clouds, turning their edges a dull violet, whilst the company pressed onwards, heads bowed against the gale.
Tavik felt the pull of Nix's pain as a tightening in his own chest. Each step was a silent battle, the air between them heavy with words unsaid. Oren's mouth set in a hard line, his eyes flicking from Nix to the sky, measuring the distance they had left, and the distance growing between them all.
Halfway across the exposed ridge, Tavik could bear it no longer. He closed the gap between himself and Nix, his hand reaching out but falling short. "Nix," he called above the rush of wind, "talk to me. You're not yourself. Tell me what you're carrying, mate, because we can't carry it for you if you won't."
Nix stopped, rain carving rivulets down his face, the runes on his arms and face flickering in the half-light. He turned, his eyes wild and lost, pain raw at the edges. For a moment, the storm seemed to pause, suspended in the space between breath and confession. The words trembled in the air, waiting for Nix to let them fall, as the bruised clouds pressed lower and the world held its breath.
Nix's lips parted, the words trembling on the threshold of release, when the shriek of an arrow cleaved the air, a silver streak tearing through the tempest, aimed straight for the centre of Nix's forehead.
Instinct surged through him. He twisted aside, the arrow splintering jagged against the stone, shards scattering like fallen stars. The impact sent a jolt through his body, and his ears flattened against his skull, a reflex older than thought. His runes blazed to life, blue-green fire racing across his skin in wild, stuttering patterns that mirrored his panic. Light erupted from his fingertips, raw and unbidden, weaving itself into a shield, stormlight and wind swirling together, an ephemeral wall shimmering between them and the violence lurking beyond.
Across the ravine, silhouetted against the storm-lashed dawn, Simi stood poised atop a crag, bow taut and lips split in a wolfish grin. Older than Nix by nine years, eyes hungry and rimmed with envy, Simi's skin bore the telltale pale blue of the Lightweavers but lacked the runic gleam that now radiated from Nix's form. Shock flashed across his face, his expression twisted swiftly into resentment, as he witnessed the transformation and the strange, luminescent beauty that marked Nix as something more, something other than what their blood had promised.
Simi loaded another arrow, this one notched and trembling, his gaze sliding with predatory intent to Bran. The bowstring groaned, the threat palpable as Oren and Tavik sprang forward, bodies angled, arms thrown up to shield their younger brother from the coming blow. The storm raged, rain lashing in wild arcs, thunder rolling beneath their feet.
Fear clawed at Nix's throat. Panic, thick and electric, drove him. His body convulsed, a sensation like being torn apart from the inside seizing hold of him. He gasped, doubling over as his bones began to stretch, the agony white-hot and immediate. His shoulder blades screamed as flesh split; the tearing sound lost beneath the thunder. Blood should have followed, but instead violet light poured from the wounds, cauterising even as it destroyed.
Wings erupted from his back with brutal force, vast and constellation-lit, each feather mapping the stars of universes beyond counting, limned in starlit silver and shadow. The pain was exquisite, a thousand nerves shrieking at once, but Nix had learned long ago not to cry out. He bit down hard, tasting copper, and forced himself upwards. His body magnified, height increasing, the transformation pulling at every sinew. The wound in his chest blazed, draining his life force in great, desperate gulps to fuel the magic, leaving him hollow and gasping.
He surged upwards, wings unfurling to defend his friends in a shield both living and divine. His fangs lengthened, sharp and gleaming. His eyes shifted, pupils narrowing to molten slits as his vision sharpened to predatory clarity. His ears, already flattened in fear, swivelled and twitched, tracking every sound, Simi's breathing, the creak of the bowstring, the pulse of fear in those he protected.
Behind him, Oren stumbled, one hand shooting out to catch himself against the slick stone. The waves of magic pouring from Nix were nearly visible, shimmering currents of violet and blue-green that rippled through the storm-charged air. His newly awakened elvish senses caught it all, the tremendous drain, the life force flowing out of Nix in great, desperate torrents to fuel the transformation. "Nix," he gasped, the word torn from him as he felt the pull of it, the terrible cost written in every pulse of light. His sword clattered forgotten to the ground.
Bran's knees hit the stone, his hands bracing against the rain-slicked ridge. "Nix." The name came out cracked, barely a whisper, his voice breaking on the single syllable. Through his healer's senses, magnified now by elvish blood finally awakened, he could see it all with brutal clarity: the wound in Nix's chest blazing, the life force draining to feed wings and height and transformation. A tear slid down his face, lost immediately in the rain. Not for fear. For the beauty and agony of witnessing such sacrifice, for watching his friend burn himself to ash to keep them safe.
Tavik made no sound at all. He simply folded, a strangled gasp the only warning before his legs gave out. Through the tether, magnified a thousandfold by magic newly woken, the transformation tore through him. Pain lanced across his shoulder blades where Nix's wings had erupted. His chest hollowed, echoing the drain of life force pouring from Nix's wound. But worse than the physical agony was the emotional torrent: Nix's fierce, protective love, his absolute certainty that they were worth this cost, his willingness to empty himself completely if it meant keeping them alive. Tavik's hand clutched at his chest, his breathing ragged, eyes wide and unseeing as the echo of Nix's pain crashed through him in waves.
Oren saw Tavik crumple and moved on instinct, catching his brother before he hit the ground. "Tavik!" His arms wrapped around him, holding him upright, but Tavik's weight was dead, his eyes fixed on Nix's transformed back with an intensity that went beyond seeing. Oren's gaze snapped between them, Nix with his impossible wings spread wide, Tavik shaking in his arms as if experiencing something Oren couldn't fully sense. Understanding dawned cold and certain: his brother was connected to Nix. Somehow, impossibly, Tavik was feeling what Nix felt. "What's happening to you?" Oren's voice cracked with alarm. "Tavik, talk to me!"
The storm howled in answer to Nix's transformation, lightning writhing along the barrier he'd created, winds spinning in a furious vortex towards Simi, who staggered, awe and terror mingling in his widened stare. Nix stood between his friends and his older brother, every fibre singing with protection and defiance. Simi, face twisted in disbelief, felt his jealousy bloom black into rage, the storm's fury reflected in the depths of his eyes as thunder cracked the sky and the wind screamed his defeat.
Simi's roar split the storm, raw, guttural, echoing through the ragged chasm as his rage spilled past restraint. In a single, furious motion, he tore the sword from his back and hurled it across the ravine, metal a streak of pale fire in the rain. The blade spun, deadly and inevitable, but before it could find flesh or kin, a latticework of blue light flared to life, intricate as winter frost, catching the sword mid-flight and holding it suspended, trembling in the air. Magic sang where steel met illumination, the storm's thunder swallowed by brilliance.
From the heart of the tempest, Lisera descended. Her wings unfurled in a cascade of blinding blue, each feather shimmering with a thousand silent prayers, constellations of worlds beyond counting. She landed between her sons with a force that shook the earth, the impact sending tremors through the stone. The lightweaving still hummed between her hands, holding Simi's sword aloft. Her presence commanded the ridge, the air thick with magic and something older than sorrow.
Her skin bore the deep cerulean of Tioria's night sky, patterned with runes that shifted and flowed like living water. Her hair, moss-red and wild, tumbled past her shoulders in tangled waves that seemed to move of their own accord. Her eyes, Tiorian green, lambent and ancient, fixed upon Simi with the intensity of a hunting cat. When her lips parted, revealing the curve of fangs, a sound emerged, low and resonant, vibrating through bone and stone alike.
"Simi." The word was guttural, shaped by a tongue more beast than woman, the syllables roughened by throat and fang. "He is not yours to kill."
Her voice carried the weight of command.
But Simi's fury was unyielding. Betrayal twisted his features, his eyes ablaze with all the years denied, all the magic he'd craved and never received. He spat his defiance at the ground; lips curled in a snarl that echoed his mother's own predatory expression. With the storm raging in his wake, he turned and fled, his silhouette soon swallowed by the gloom, rage and jealousy the only companions to his flight. The storm seemed to follow him, rain falling heavier, the wind keening after his departure like a mourner's wail.
Lisera stood motionless, watching until her eldest son vanished completely. Then, with deliberate grace, she released the sword. It clattered to the stoney ground, the sound sharp and final in the sudden quiet.
