Chapter — Feeding Secrets
The dorm was dim, the air thick with the scent of sweat, dried blood, and something else… something faintly metallic, almost ozone-like, clinging to their clothes. They dragged themselves inside, boots half-unlaced, armor stained and stiff, their movements heavy with the leaden weight of exhaustion. It wasn't the awkward silence of defeat; it was the weary quietude of a hard-won victory, a silence laced with the sharp sting of pain and the gnawing uncertainty of what came next.
Asher collapsed onto the worn couch, face-first, groaning a wordless lament that echoed the creak of the old springs. Nick kicked off his boots, the clatter a harsh counterpoint to the overall stillness, and leaned his back against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes distant and unfocused, lost in the echoing chambers of his own thoughts.
Ethan, ever the observant one, was the last to enter. His gaze, sharp even in his fatigue, flickered towards the corner of the room, lingering on the intricately carved wooden chest tucked behind the bookshelf. A fresh, shimmering rune, pulsing with a low, internal light, sealed its aged oak lid. The faint magical hum was a constant reminder of the power contained within, a power they had yet to fully understand, let alone unleash.
*Still dormant,* he thought, the words a silent prayer whispered to the sleeping entities within. *Still sleeping.*
He allowed himself a single, shaky breath, the air catching in his chest, before retreating to the washroom. The grime of battle – the dried blood, the clinging dust of the arena, the lingering scent of goblin ichor – needed to be scrubbed away, a ritualistic cleansing before the next, far more delicate, act.
By the time they finally collapsed into bed, the moon, a pale sentinel in the inky sky, had long since ascended. The three eggs within the chest remained silent, their secrets held close within their smooth, enigmatic surfaces.
The Next Morning
Ethan was the first to rise, driven not by the insistent demands of a military schedule, but by something deeper, something visceral. Even the persistent ache in his muscles, the stiffness in his joints, paled in comparison to the gnawing sense of responsibility that had settled deep in his bones. It was an unspoken pact, a silent promise etched into the very fabric of their shared purpose.
He moved silently to the chest, the floorboards groaning a soft protest under his weight. He knelt, his breath catching slightly in his throat as he placed his palm on the cold, metallic clasp. The rune, intricate and powerful, responded to his touch, peeling back with the ethereal grace of morning dew on glass.
He opened the lid.
The three eggs nestled within, cradled in soft, folded cloth, met his gaze. The red-ember egg, radiating a subtle but undeniable warmth, pulsed with a faint, internal glow. The other two, pale-grey and veined with shadowy striations, remained inert, sleeping entities awaiting their destined awakening.
Ethan reached for a thin ceremonial dagger, its blade dulled with age, its enchantment long faded. It wasn't a weapon of great power, but it held a purpose as potent as any enchanted blade. With a slow, deliberate breath, he pricked his palm, drawing a single drop of blood for each egg. The blood was absorbed instantly, vanishing into the eggshells as if absorbed by thirsty earth.
The moment passed, leaving only the hushed stillness of the room.
By the time the others stirred, Ethan had already cleaned and bandaged his hand, the faint sting a testament to the ritual.
Asher yawned, a prodigious stretch sending his blue hair into a chaotic tangle. "Please tell me we're not training today," he groaned, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I can still feel goblin teeth in my spine."
Nick gave him a look that implied a certain amount of shared understanding. "No one's making us. But we should."
Ethan nodded, his voice tired but firm. "Kael said the weapons would take time. But we can't afford to be useless until then."
Asher groaned again, but this time, the protest lacked its usual conviction.
Training Grounds – Midday
They stood again on the edge of the arena, but this time, the familiar weight of their weapons was absent. No Emberfang, no Zephyrfang, no Spellmirror Daggers. Just them, their bodies, their limitations, their flaws laid bare under the harsh midday sun.
"I've been thinking," Ethan said, pacing slowly around the sandpit, his words deliberate and measured. "We were sloppy. Even with magic, we barely survived. Our weapons weren't tools – they were decorations."
Asher kicked at the loose sand, a frustrated gesture. "Didn't feel like decorations when Emberfang nearly blew a crater in that wall."
"Exactly," Nick said, his voice sharp. "We don't *use* them. Not really. We *react*."
Ethan nodded, his gaze sweeping over his companions. "We need to learn how to fight – with or without them. Our own style. Our own flow."
They began with the basics: movement, spacing, striking. Bare hands, slow, deliberate movements, only gradually incorporating bursts of magic. It was far from graceful.
Asher's swings were powerful, but wild, his reliance on brute strength leaving him vulnerable. Nick possessed speed and precision, but lacked stamina, his wind bursts uncontrolled without solid strikes to anchor them. Ethan was methodical, quick with feints and counters, but his instincts still drew him to the shadows, his reliance on lightning leaving him open between bursts.
They pushed through the failures, sweat stinging their eyes, knuckles bleeding, lungs burning. They fell, they rose, they stumbled, they learned. By midday, they were drenched, exhausted, but for the first time, they were truly *fighting*. Not merely surviving, but actively *fighting*.
Evening
Back in the dorm, their bodies screamed in protest, but their minds were sharper, their understanding deeper. Before anything else, they returned to the chest.
One by one, they fed the eggs again, a single drop of blood each.
This time, the change was palpable. The ember-colored egg pulsed with a low thrum, a barely audible vibration that resonated through the room.
Nick stared, his eyes wide. "It's… humming."
Ethan leaned closer, the warmth emanating from the egg stronger now, enough to cause a faint misting of the cloth beneath.
"Whatever's inside," Ethan murmured, "is feeding on more than blood."
"Mana?" Asher guessed, his voice a hushed whisper.
Ethan shook his head. "No," he said, his voice low. "Instinct. The more we evolve, the more it does too. It's learning *us*."
Nick ran a hand through his silver hair, his expression thoughtful. "Which means when it hatches… it won't be some wild beast."
"It'll be something linked," Ethan confirmed, his voice laced with a sense of profound understanding.
Asher offered a crooked grin, a spark of humour amidst the serious intensity of the moment. "You saying it's gonna come out swinging a tiny Emberfang?"
"Not funny," Nick said, his voice deadpan, but a hint of a smile played on his lips.
"Kind of is," Ethan muttered, a small smile finally breaking through his own fatigue.
They closed the chest, resealed the rune, and sat down, their bodies too weary to even lift their arms. Outside, night settled over the academy, a blanket of darkness punctuated by the distant glow of distant lights. Inside, three eggs pulsed faintly in the dim light – fed by blood, shaped by instinct, waiting for the moment they would hatch, waiting to become something far greater than the sum of their parts. Waiting for the weapons. Waiting to be born.