Authors Note:I highly recommend listening to "Light of the Seven" and "The Night King" while reading for the next couple of chapters since I listened to them while writing. Enjoy!
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The snow was blinding as Cenric was deposited in the forest near Ramiel's base, the cold tearing at his skin and seeping beneath his thick fur lined leathers. The warriors who had dropped him off said nothing as they shot into the air without a second glance, their wings booming and sending swirls of ice skittering from the tree branches above.
He couldn't say he was disappointed that they'd offered him no parting words.
The freezing onslaught of the bellowing gusts tore at him, sharpening his senses as he surveyed where they'd left him, his breath billowing before him in a great cloud.
They'd left him near the edge of a small ravine, surrounded by tall pines with heavily-laden branches drooping with snow. A small patch of grey ice snaked through the center of the ravine, no doubt where a stream flowed freely beneath. In the distance past the pines stood Ramiel, its sacred peak masked by billowing storm clouds.
Tentatively sniffing, Cenric found that the area was nearly scentless, only the cold, crisp smell of ice greeting him. The continuous downfall of snow must have buried any trace of what or who had passed through the area before.
Good.
It would make covering his tracks easier, with the continual down fall he would be able to slip through the woods nearly invisible, his tracks and scent both masked.
At least for the time being. The prospect of the hunt upon him had a smile curling on his lips.
He'd need to craft a weapon of some variety-a bow would be useful but would take time and materials. A simple sharpened wooden spear would be much quicker and more useful in close ranged combat.
At least for the time being.
He had a week to craft whatever tools he would need.
Surveying the trees around him he noted the sturdiest branches and felt his lips downturn, he'd need a makeshift knife to cleave the branches free for use. A sharpened stone would have to do, a few well-placed hits on a broad, large rock would do the trick.
It was truly unfortunate that they'd stripped him of all his weapons. A simple knife would have sped up the process significantly.
They'd taken everything from him except for the clothes on his back.
Two warriors had patted him down in camp, checking for any items before departing with him for the sacred grounds. They'd lifted him wordlessly into the air, alongside the other various warriors, and flown him into the depths of the Steppes.
His family had watched them take him, their faces hard as he was flown away into the dim morning light. His mother had lifted a hand in farewell and he'd done the same, the tear between them still wide, but mending.
She'd spent the entire night by his side, quiet and contemplative.
She'd only hugged him in the morning once he'd roused, her arms gripping tight about his shoulders before she'd let him go.
She'd told him she was sorry for what she had done and that she loved him and would be waiting for him when he returned.
It had softened the tension he'd held inside of him since their argument. She'd exited the tent with no further words, leaving her bow leaning against the canvas wall of his tent.
Cenric had awoken to the sound of weeping winds and the cold chill of snow, the pain in his head having vanished. In its place a pit of emptiness had cracked open, gaping and hollow.
His magic was well and truly gone.
Blinking blearily, he noticed the figure poised beside his cot, a bow laying across her lap as she toyed with the fletching of an arrow. His mother's soft ice blue eyes blinked once as he sat upright.
Annoyance flitted through him as he watched her, bracing for another round of protective nonsense. None came, only silence filled the tent.
They sat there for a time, their gazes locked with one another.
She was the first to break the silence.
"You were the only one to leave the tent immediately," her voice was soft, eyes bright. "You were right."
Cenric lifted a brow at her in question; she blew out a long, shuddering breath.
"You are ready for this." His mother reached out a gloved hand and took his in hers, his palm dwarfing her delicate fingers. "I won't say anything else, just promise me," she squeezed his hand tightly in her own, "promise me you will come back to me."
He nodded his head, gently squeezing her hand in response.
"I will, Mom, I swear it." He looked up at her gentle face, the one he loved so dearly, before softly pulling his hand free. "But you have to let me do this. No more intervening."
"I know." She rose from the chair, straightening her clothes and leaning her bow and arrows against the side of his tent. "I won't."
"Thank you."
His mother nodded her head, absentmindedly chewing at her lip as she stepped back and allowed him to rise. Standing, he found that his feet were surprisingly stable beneath him, with no sign of the weakness he'd felt the night before.
He felt his strength had fully returned.
"Are you ready?" His mother toyed with the end of her braid, suddenly looking like the fragile human she'd once been. The fidgeting and uncertainty something that he had never associated with her strong and powerful presence.
He ignored the surge of guilt that rose up within him.
"Yes, I am." Running a hand through his hair, he pushed it back before kneeling to slip into the boots his mother had undoubtedly pulled from his feet during the night, before tightening them and straightening, his focus on the world coming to life outside of his tent.
He heard the rustling of wings and the deep murmur of his father and uncles' voices whispering to one another just outside of his tent. They'd stood guard all night.
A sense of gratitude filled him.
"Cenric," his mother began as he moved to exit the tent, the sounds of the other warriors rising in the brisk morning air, "remember who you're doing this for."
He paused briefly to look back over a shoulder at her, taking in the face he knew like the back of his own hand. The long-tapered face and soft expression that were the twin to his sister's.
"I could never forget."
A particularly frigid burst of wind had Cenric shivering and reflexively reaching into his power, willing it to create a shield against the cold. Nothing happened.
The spelled brew had done its work well.
Cenric looked at his gloved hand, blinking as he twisted it about.
The absence of his power left him feeling oddly empty, the great chasm that had once been filled with night-kissed power had been completely drained.
He flexed his fingers experimentally, but no insistent pressure of power pressed against his skin any longer. Quiet, it had turned completely silent.
He'd never felt such an emptiness, had never felt so . . . alone.
He vaguely wondered if others with no magic felt this same hollowness. If this was what those that possessed no ability to influence the world around them with a mere half a thought experienced: the lack of being able to sense things that others could not see.
Somehow the feeling was oddly comforting.
Squaring his shoulders, he quickly surveyed his surroundings once more, cataloging what he could use and what would serve as a detriment against him. To decide where he would begin.
A calmness slid over him that extinguished any residual bit of anxiety that haunted him, replacing it with a sense that the task before him was destined for him.
He would not fail in it.
He owed too much to her memory to even consider that outcome.
The thought of his family rushed through him - the image of his mother's tear-streaked face bold in his mind - he also had a home and life to go back to.
He just had to finish this.
Contemplating, a plan began to map itself out before him.
Cenric turned and set off into the blinding snow. He slipped into the shadows of the great pines, blending and moving quietly, careful to step in the shallowest patches beneath the branches where his footprints would be swiftly swallowed.
He would need to begin tracking game - a hare would be ideal for dinner and would give him the start of the supplies he would need. It would allow him to begin the process of stretching and drying its innards to create makeshift twine.
He'd also need to find cover, perhaps a cave or a high treetop would do while he fashioned his weapons and plotted his movements.
He would not make their deaths easy or quick.
He would savor their demise.
They would feel every blow that he inflicted upon them, would understand the price that would be paid for touching his blood, for threatening and harming what was his.
It didn't matter to him that it hadn't been their own hands, their disdain had been evidence enough of their guilt. Their clan names rang through his mind like a pealing bell, each a reminder of the discord and hell they'd put his family through.
But no longer.
They would finally feel the fear they'd tried to instill in his family, would understand that their precious sons were just as susceptible to a blade as a small ten-year-old child had been. That their whispers of treason did not go unheard.
Unknown to the rest of his family, Azriel had given him every name and description he could offer him before his departure. His stone gaze watching Cenric knowingly as he departed.
The list repeated itself in a loop, growing louder with each iteration.
His hunt would begin once the sun fell below the horizon.
The group of males had just lit their fire, their hunkered forms barely visible behind the lean-to they'd fastened against the cliff face, a solid barrier between them and the raging winds. They'd managed to hunt down a young doe, barely more than skin and bones, now freshly bled and skinned and roasting slowly over the flames.
Their crudely fashioned clubs sat menacingly against the wall of their shelter, a brutal reminder of what would happen to any who crossed their path in this wood.
They were out for blood and the glory that came with spilling it.
Their arrogant voices rang out into the inky night, booming laughter filling the empty space around them. Their bound wings casted great shadows across the cliffs wall, giving the impression of great beasts.
They weren't the monsters lurking in the night, however.
They never heard him coming, never saw him slip through the edges of their camp, nearly as silent and dark as the shadows themselves.
It was the first scream of terror and agony that had goosebumps flecking up on Valka's skin as she crouched in the lower branches of a fir, watching the young lord's son assault. He broke brutally past their guards, bones snapping beneath his iron grip. The spear he wielded in his right hand was brutal as it flashed red in the firelight as it tore into the soft tissue of their necks and guts.
Cenric took his time with them, inflicting deep, ragged wounds as they tried and failed to fend him off. He moved like a shadow, darting around their blows nimbly and countering with swift and agile grace.
Valka couldn't help but be reminded of a great forest cat - too fast and far too clever.
It was when the tip of his spear burst through the largest's throat and shredded it like paper that she suddenly understood who had trained him.
Nesta's style had always been near torturous, expertly crafted to inflict as much agony on the opponent as possible.
A cold sweat ran down Valka's spine despite the icy wind as she tucked herself further into the cover of the trees, careful to not make any noise as she watched the skirmish come to a rapid and bloody halt. It had ended nearly as quickly as it had begun.
The bellows of their anger and surprise had melted into whimpers of pain and agony as the stench of blood filled the night.
The snow finally began to slow to a crawl as it danced over the now empty camp, only the rapidly cooling corpses its occupants.
Valka had known the names of each of their clans, knew the egotism that was bred into their very beings, knew of the foolish whispers they had shared during the Rite.
Their thirst for glory had held no light in the shadow of a brother's pursuit of vengeance.
He looked every bit a prince of carnage as he stood there in the billowing snow, the darkness around him nearly singing in his presence.
It stole the breath from Valka's lungs.
She watched as he rose to his feet, the spear in his hand hanging loosely, the crudely sharpened tip glistening with rapidly freezing blood. His face was a mask of hard stone as he glanced around, cobalt eyes blazing in the light of the fire that danced before him, his breathing even.
He wasn't even winded.
A chill rippled through her as the realization took hold of her and she instinctively tightened her grip around her own crude weapons she's carved earlier. She watched with quiet intensity as he moved toward the first of the corpses and kicked it over so that the warrior lay on his stomach, bound wings reaching skyward.
She couldn't help the flinch as Cenric produced a sharpened stone and crudely began carving off their wings, the wet squelch of tearing tissue nauseating.
He tossed the membrane and sinew lazily into the snow besides their bodies.
The greatest insult an Illyrian could face, both in life and in death.
His face was hard as stone as he looked over the discarded appendages and quickly snapped them beneath his boots, the crunch echoing sickeningly across the still night.
Valka's stomach twisted as she turned away.
The bindings around her own wings suddenly felt tighter, more wrong as she watched him.
Finishing his deed, the male quickly slipped from the camp, not even bothering to ransack the group's gathered supplies. He slipped from Valka's sight nearly as quickly as he had appeared, a like a wraith in the night.
The snow had finally stopped, the winds nothing more than a faint whisper in the sky.
Sucking in a surprisingly tight breath, Valka slipped from the tree and began to tail him, as she had since her arrival on the sacred ground. She clutched her weapons close as she wended her way through the forest into the pitch blackness, following the Prince of Night.