Chapter 7: Jon
Jon tightened his grip on the ship's railing, the chill of the iron biting into his palms.
The sky loomed heavy with fog as the Black Ship sailed closer to the shore, the volcanic landmass slowly emerging from the shroud of mist. The air tasted thick, a mixture of salt from the sea and ash that seeped into everything, settling on his tongue like an unpleasant memory.
The land ahead revealed itself in dark, jagged shapes—mountains that rose like the backs of ancient beasts, their forms fractured and sharp against the dim horizon. It breathed with its own malevolence, volcanic smoke drifting from the distant peaks, mingling with the natural haze. Jon squinted through the fog, his eyes watering from the wind. He could make out a city in the distance, a hulking shadow built of black stone, its spires clawing upward like skeletal fingers scraping at the sky.
How did they possibly manage to make their home here?
Everything felt hostile, as if the land was alive and wanted nothing to do with humans. Back in Winterfell, the stone walls had always exuded the warmth of the hot spring water running through their pipes. Here, there was no warmth, no sense of safety—only a deep, throbbing emptiness that seemed to feed on his unease.
What had he gotten himself into?
"This is the Isle of Ash." Vaelira's voice was barely audible over the groaning wood of the ship and the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull. "Upon it is Garna Luthre, the city of the Morvail, which in the tongue of Westeros is called the Garden of Ash."
"That's where we're going?"
"Yes." She moved beside Jon, her steps as silent as ever. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, stayed fixed on the fortress as if it held answers she had sought for years. "Our course is to the fortress in the heart of the city. The Mor-Darach. That is where the Ascendant, the commander of the Morvail, resides."
"You've never mentioned him before."
"Her." She sighed. "The Ascendant's word is absolute, as is her power in the Breath. Fortunately, you will not be in her presence any time soon."
Jon nodded, his throat tightening at the sight of the dark, towering structure.
The Breath of the World throbbed here—he could feel it, deep beneath his skin, pulsating like a second heartbeat, darker and far more potent than anything he had felt at Winterfell or on the Sunset Sea. It wasn't just an ethereal hum here; it was a storm, pressing down on him from all sides, every gust of wind a whisper urging him to listen, to obey.
The ship shuddered as it met the rocky shore, a low groan echoing through the timbers.
"As one I intend to claim as my Apprentice, you shall first meet the Crimson Council." Vaelira gestured for Jon to follow, her expression unreadable as always. "They will want to see the face of one that has gained my interest."
"Who are they?"
"The Crimson Council constitutes a number of our Masters, our most powerful practitioners of the Aruvail, discounting the Ascendant. Each Master bears responsibility for one of the aspects of the Morvail Order, such as the Flamebearer—who oversees matters of war—or the Dreamshaper—who runs espionage." She stepped onto the gangplank, her crimson cloak flowing behind her like spilled wine across dark stone. "Their authority is second only to the Ascendant, and their purpose is to make her life easier. In Westeros, they would be your lords paramount."
"Are you one of them? Is that why your cloak is red when everyone else's is black?"
She shook her head. "I am yet a Harbinger, who you would consider as ordinary lords."
"Right…." Jon took a deep breath, the air burning his lungs with an acrid sharpness as he followed Vaelira down the Narrow gangplank. "So, what am I, then…?"
"You are but an initiate." Her hood flapped in the wind. "An initiate is any person that has joined the Morvail and stays such until they master all the basics. After that, one becomes an Acolyte unless a Harbinger or above chooses them as an Apprentice."
"Which you will…" His boots crunched on the ashen shore, the volcanic dust shifting beneath his weight, the blackened ground as unforgiving as the sky above. "So, I'll be like a knight?"
"Indeed." Vaelira strode forward. "Once I claim you, you will command Acolytes, the Ashcloak soldiers, and any servant in the order. You will, of course, obey any command a Harbinger or above gives you."
Jon nodded.
He glanced at the ground, watching the dust swirl around his boots, and wondered if he would leave anything behind here—any mark at all. The Isle of Ash seemed like the kind of place that erased those who dared step upon it, consuming them into its bleak, unending landscape. He thought of his family—of Robb, Arya, and his father. They would never know what happened to him if he vanished here.
The thought stung more than he cared to admit, and he tried to shake it away.
Vaelira led them on a narrow path that snaked its way through the barren terrain, up towards the city and the dark fortress that loomed above it. Jon glanced back at the sea, the gray waves crashing against the rocks, and felt a pull—a desire to turn back, to sail away from this grim place, to return to the warm comfort of Winterfell. But that wasn't an option. Not anymore. There was nowhere else to go. He turned back to the fortress, the weight of it pressing on him like a great hand, pushing him towards whatever fate awaited inside those black walls.
"This island is sacred to our order." Vaelira took a deep breath. "The Aruvail is the strongest here, untamed and raw. That is why we endure this volcanic hellscape."
"Still…" Jon looked around. "Can't be comfortable to live in…"
"Perhaps. Yet, power makes all things possible, and only those that truly wish to know power can survive here in the first place."
Power.
In some way, Jon had always wanted power. Not for the sake of ruling, no that was Robb's fate. No, Jon wanted power so he could belong. So that he could eat with his family instead of with the guards. He'd wanted to control his fate instead of letting others push and pull him.
What if that power came at a cost he wasn't willing to pay?
The other disciples moved behind them in silence, their forms blurring in the fog, their steps in unison. Jon kept his head down, focusing on each step, the path ahead growing narrower and steeper. The earth crumbled beneath his feet, the volcanic ash giving way with each step as if trying to swallow him whole. The city grew nearer, its shadow stretching out to meet them, swallowing them in darkness.
"Vaelira…" Jon's mind struggled under the touch of the Breath, which pulled and tugged at him as if it were hungry, and he was food. "Will… Will I still be Jon once my training is done?"
"Of course." She looked back at him, her eyes flashing with golden lightning. "You will be more you than ever before."
"What… what does that mean?"
She turned away from him and kept walking.
Jon clenched his jaw, the taste of ash bitter on his tongue, and forced himself to move forward. The city loomed above them—a bastion of shadow and stone, and as the gates yawned open before them, Jon crossed the threshold.
The darkness of the gatehouse swallowed them whole.
The fortress walls closed in on Jon as Vaelira led him deeper into its stone bowels, the echoes of their footsteps bouncing off the black granite corridors.
The air inside carried the dampness of ancient stone, tinged with the sharp metallic tang of something that reminded Jon of blood but wasn't blood. He glanced at the flickering sconces lining the hallway, their crimson flames dancing like ghostly shadows. Everything about this place felt alive in a way that unnerved him, as if the very walls watched him and whispered secrets he couldn't quite grasp.
Vaelira halted before an imposing set of double doors, tall and carved from wood so dark it seemed to drink in the light. Deep etchings of swirling shapes—serpents and skeletal hands—covered the surface, like a warning that this place swallowed the weak.
"We are here." She turned to Jon. "Remain calm. Do not speak unless spoken to."
Jon nodded, his mouth dry.
His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. Worthy. The word twisted something inside him, an old wound aching to be acknowledged. Worthiness had always eluded him at Winterfell, no matter what his father or Robb said. He clenched his jaw, determined not to let that feeling define him now.
Whatever lay beyond those doors, he would face it, not as a bastard or a nameless shadow, but as Jon Snow.
Vaelira pushed the doors open, and they swung inward with a groan that filled the air, a sound like the grinding of bones. She stepped forward, and Jon followed, the room swallowing them in a rush of darkness and power.
She'd called it Feidhma Tallach. The Veil of Echoes. The Inner Sanctum of Mor-Darach, where the Crimson Council met.
The Sanctum stretched ahead—a vast chamber, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow. Crimson light bathed everything, filtering down from unseen sources, and the air thrummed with something heavy, a hum that settled in Jon's bones like a constant, low vibration.
Five figures stood at the far end of the chamber, each draped in a crimson robe.
Their hoods hung low, hiding their faces, but Jon could sense their eyes on him, like the weight of a dozen winter storms pressing against his skin. The energy in the room grew thicker with each step he took, tightening around his chest like a vice. Vaelira walked forward confidently, her crimson cloak pooling behind her, and Jon kept pace beside her, his footsteps muffled by the thick red carpet that led to the dais.
She stopped before the council and bowed her head. Jon followed suit, the movement stiff, his muscles locked under the pressure of unseen eyes. Silence lingered, broken only by the faint rustle of robes and the thrum of the Breath.
"Vaelira." One of the figures spoke, their voice low and resonant, as if echoing from the depths of the earth itself. "You bring us a new initiate."
"Yes, Honored Masters." Vaelira straightened, her eyes sharp, her voice clear. "This is Jon Snow. His potential is... substantial."
Jon kept his head bowed, listening as his name echoed through the chamber. The council's collective gaze cut into him, as sharp as the edge of a blade, weighing every breath, every tremor in his muscles. He wanted to look up, to meet their eyes, but he kept his focus on the ground, on the crimson shadows that shifted with the flicker of the light.
"A Northerner." A deep voice this time. "Honor-bound and stubborn. Is he capable of surrendering himself to the Breath, of giving up that foolish sense of nobility that binds his kind?"
"Oh, but you're wrong." One of the other robed figures stepped forward, their movements smooth, fluid, a hand raising slightly. Her voice slipped into Jon's ears like a breath of wind. "It is precisely his sense of honor that we can use. Such emotions, such turmoil, are a gateway. His heart screams of rejection and loneliness. It simmers beneath the surface, untapped. Rage, sorrow, yearning—all waiting for us to unleash."
The words jolted Jon.
They spoke of him as if he were a tool to be measured and used. Yet, there was truth to their words. He knew rage far too well. The quiet fury he had felt so many times, the weight of being on the outside, the constant whispers of bastard that followed him like a specter. He'd always fought against it, always trying to be better than it. He had to admit that, for all they spoke of him as a tool, they still viewed him as someone to be nurtured and helped. They'd said stubborn and honorable.
Not bastard.
"Lift your head, boy." The first voice brimmed with coldness and brittleness. "Do you understand why you are here?"
"To learn." Jon obeyed, his eyes rising to meet the shadowed figures. "To prove myself."
Their faces remained hidden beneath their hoods, but he could feel their presence—an overwhelming power that seemed to pulse with each breath he took. The room felt smaller now, the air thicker, as if the walls had drawn closer, crowding in.
"To prove yourself?" Another councilor scoffed. "Do you think the Mor-Darach to be a place of children's tests? Perhaps you expect noble quests and fantasies of glory?"
"No… Honored Master…" Jon's hands clenched at his sides, the heat rising in his chest. He kept his gaze forward, refusing to look away. "I know what this is. I know it's not a game. I came here because I want to be more than what I am."
"More than what you are…" The councilor leaned forward. "What are you, Jon Snow of the North? What do you see when you look at yourself?"
Jon swallowed, his throat tight.
He knew what they wanted. They wanted him to bare himself, to strip away the defenses he had built over the years. He took a breath, the words catching in his chest before he forced them out.
"I…" He swallowed. "I see a bastard. Someone who's always been less. Someone who's always been told he didn't belong."
"Good." The councilor nodded, their hood dipping slightly. "Does that anger you? Does it make you yearn for change? To take what the world has denied you?"
Jon met their hidden gaze, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes."
A murmur ran through the council, a shifting of robes, an exchange of glances that Jon couldn't see but could feel. A change in the air, a ripple through the Breath that flowed around them.
"You do have potential." The first voice spoke again, slower now, each word deliberate. "Yet, potential alone is not enough. You must be willing to break what you were to become what you could be. The Aruvail demands everything, Jon Snow. Your past, your pride, your very soul. There is no room for hesitation. No room for weakness."
Jon swallowed, the weight of the words pressing down on him.
He thought of Winterfell, of his father's stern gaze, of Robb's laughter, of Lady Stark's cold, unforgiving eyes. He thought of the Wall, of the endless snow and the biting wind to which Lady Stark had wanted to condemn him. He thought of himself—of the boy who had wanted so desperately to belong, to be something more than a shadow.
"I understand." He clenched his fists. "I will give whatever it takes."
Another murmur, this one almost approving.
"You will begin your training." The figure at the center nodded. "Yet, you must know this, Jon of the North. Failure here does not mean a simple dismissal. It means your end. The Aruvail has no mercy for those who falter. Do you still accept?"
"Yes."
The council remained silent for a moment, then, as if satisfied, they stepped back, their presence receding slightly, the pressure in the room easing. Vaelira turned to Jon, her eyes meeting his, a flicker of something—pride, perhaps, or pity—crossing her gaze.
"Come," she said, her voice softer now, almost gentle. "We have much to do."
The gray sky hung low over the Isle of Ash, shrouding the volcanic peaks in a mist that clung to everything.
Jon followed Vaelira through a winding path that led to an open courtyard, its center marked by a large circular platform of blackened stone. The platform was ringed with sigils carved deep into the rock, their forms twisting like roots, filled with a glowing ember that pulsed as if alive. A group of disciples had already gathered, seated cross-legged, their faces hidden beneath their hoods.
Jon scanned the gathered disciples and caught sight of Coren's tall, broad-shouldered form.
This was certainly off to a great start. Barely any time to settle in, and now he had to attend a training session with Coren of all people.
Vaelira gestured for Jon to take his place amongst them, her crimson robes rustling softly as she moved.
Jon hesitated for a heartbeat, then knelt, his knees pressing against the cold, unforgiving stone. The air thickened and buzzed, as if it was humming with the energy of those who had sat here before him.
"Today, we explore the Breath through mediation." Vaelira positioned herself at the head of the circle. "Mastery of the Aruvail requires not only strength of body but the willingness to plunge into deepest emotion."
The gray sky hung above them like an unyielding weight, the mist clinging to the peaks as if trying to drag them back into the earth. Ash fell like snowflakes, settling silently on every surface, the light catching on the fine particles until they glowed like ghosts of some long-lost fire.
Vaelira let her gaze pass over each of them before settling on Jon. Her eyes hardened. "Close your eyes."
Jon obeyed, the world falling away as he shut his eyes. Darkness wrapped around him, broken only by the flickering orange glow from the etched sigils.
Vaelira's voice came as a lash of sharpness and iron. "Breathe deeply. Let the air enter your lungs, then release it. Focus on the rise and fall. Feel the Breath of the World flowing within you, as old as the earth beneath your feet."
Jon breathed, steadying himself, listening to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
He focused on the air—the scent of ash, the hint of sulfur carried by the breeze. With each breath, he tried to let go of the tension in his shoulders, to sink deeper into the space Vaelira had created.
"Recall a moment in your past that fills you with a strong emotion. Anger. Longing. Fear. Delight." Vaelira moved across the stone platform, her steps precise and deliberate, her robes whispering against the ground. "Let that memory come to you, feel it, but do not let it consume you. This should be simple even for someone as limited as you, Snow."
The black peaks of the volcanoes stood jagged against the sky, their silhouettes sharp, as if the mountains had been slashed into existence by some ancient god's rage. The veins of molten rock glowed faintly in the distance, cutting through the stone like scars that never healed.
"We must learn to dance on the edge of the abyss without falling in. For some of you, this will be challenging." Vaelira turned to face Jon. "Snow here, for example. Such concepts are too complex for his feeble mind, but I'm certain he will try to understand regardless."
Jon's heart tightened.
He blinked, taken aback, Vaelira's words like a dagger between his ribs. His mind struggled to catch up, to understand. Why this sudden shift? She had been stern, yes, but there had been a guiding hand in her sternness. Now, she spoke with disdain, her voice dripping venom meant to poison him from the inside. His face heated, the sting of her words cutting into his pride, his sense of purpose.
Strong emotion?
His mind flickered through a thousand memories, fragments of his past flashing by like pages turned too quickly. The cold eyes of Lady Stark. Robb's laughter. His father's voice telling him he was a Stark in all but name. But there was one memory, sharp and relentless, that settled into the front of his thoughts.
He remembered the godswood at Winterfell, the way he had stood beneath the heart tree, staring into those pale, carved eyes, as Lady Stark's words echoed in his head. Her voice, so full of disdain. 'He is no kin of mine. He dishonors our name.' The way her gaze had sliced through him, colder than the northern winds. He felt the hot sting of rejection in his chest, the way it twisted into something more—something darker.
Jon inhaled, his breath shuddering slightly.
Confusion still clouded his mind. Why now? What had he done to earn such venom from Vaelira?
"Feel it, bastard." Vaelira's voice seemed to come from far away, though her words struck like a hammer. "Do not hide from it. Let it rise. Let it show you what lies within. If you falter now, you prove nothing except your own weakness."
The word hit him harder than he expected. Vaelira had always addressed him by his name before. She had never used that word—not until today. Something in her tone made him feel smaller, insignificant, as if she were showing him how fragile the foundation beneath him truly was. A creeping sense of doubt edged into his resolve, gnawing at the corners of his mind. He had believed in her guidance, believed that maybe… just maybe… he had found someone willing to shape him into something more. Now, she was tearing at him, ripping away the sense of progress he'd begun to feel.
The memory swelled, pressing down on him, tightening around his heart. He remembered watching his brothers through the windows of the Great Hall, seeing them laugh with Lady Stark—seeing the warmth that he had never been allowed to share. Anger, thick and heavy, began to rise, coiling like smoke.
"Do not resist." Vaelira moved behind Jon, her fingers closing around his upper arm with a firm, almost painful grip. "Anger is not your enemy. It is a tool, a force. It only destroys you when you deny it. If you cannot control it, you have no place here, and I will end this charade myself."
Her grip anchored him, but it also hurt.
Jon clenched his fists, the rough stone beneath his palms biting into his skin. The pain helped—a focal point amid the chaos—but her voice, her words… they twisted inside him, more painful than the pressure of her fingers. He wanted to shout at her, demand why she had suddenly turned on him like this.
What had he done wrong?
The anger flared hotter, the sting of Lady Stark's words merging with the ache of watching Robb and Theon laugh without him. He saw Lady Stark's eyes again, felt the wall of separation she had built around him, felt the exclusion, the resentment. It surged inside, raw and fierce, the power of it almost frightening.
His breath came faster, his chest rising and falling sharply.
Why was she doing this? What did she want from him? The betrayal he felt toward Vaelira began to meld with his anger at Lady Stark, the confusion feeding the fire until it threatened to consume him.
"Control it, bastard." She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered, her voice like poison-tipped honey. "Do not let it sweep you away like a child lost in the current. Hold it under your heel. Anchor it. Crush it. Surely you're capable of at least that, you pathetic excuse for an initiate?"
Jon struggled, the weight of his memories threatening to drag him under.
The stone beneath him seemed to vibrate, the carved sigils glowing more intensely, mirroring the storm inside his chest. The Breath pulsed with the rhythm of his rage, a dark, resonant force that throbbed through his veins. He felt like a dam about to burst, the pressure mounting, straining against the limits of his control.
Laughter echoed across the courtyard.
"Look at the bastard struggling." Coren's voice buzzed like a hive of hornets. "Filthy Northern savage thinks he can be someone."
Rage threatened to spill over. The desire to wipe that smile from Coren's face, to make him understand the strength that coursed through his veins. Jon's breath caught in his throat, his body vibrating with barely-contained fury.
"Are you about to drown, bastard?" Vaelira gave a sharp push to his back, not enough to throw him off balance, but enough that Jon had to press his hands harder against the stone to remain steady. "Are you about to show us all your stupidity and incompetence? Are you about to show how useless you are?"
For a brief moment, he lost himself in the anger coursing through him, not just at Lady Stark, but at the injustice of it all, the unfairness of being born into a place where he would never truly belong. The power surged, and Jon felt like fire was spreading through his body, ready to lash out, to consume.
"Do not drown in it. Breathe, Jon. Feel the ground beneath you." Vaelira leaned on him. "If you fail, I will not hesitate your miserable attempt at being a Morvail."
Jon sucked in a shaky breath, focusing on the sensation of her chin on his shoulder—the warmth of her skin and the pressure on his muscles and bones. He let it pull him back, away from the brink. The stone beneath him felt solid again, the glow of the sigils dimming slightly, the heat inside him slowly ebbing. He took another breath, and then another, feeling the anger recede, leaving only an ache—a hollow emptiness where the fire had been.
"Good." Vaelira stepped away from him, her crimson robes swirling like a shower of fire. "Get up and follow me."
The path Vaelira led Jon down twisted deeper into the heart of the Mor-Darach.
Each step took them away from the cold courtyard and into a labyrinth of narrow halls and dim torchlight. Jon followed, his mind still reeling from the training session. His body ached, his chest felt hollow, and yet here he was—ordered to follow. Vaelira moved with purpose, her crimson robes trailing behind her, leaving Jon struggling to keep pace.
They stopped before an imposing door made of dark, polished wood.
Vaelira pushed it open without hesitation, stepping through, and Jon followed her into a lavish chamber unlike anything he had seen in this grim place. Rich tapestries adorned the stone walls, depicting scenes of battles, of triumph, and of fire. The air smelled of incense—spicy and sweet—an intoxicating contrast to the acrid ash outside. Candles flickered from all corners, casting soft light on plush cushions and a long table set with platters of fruits, roasted meats, and bottles of wine. Acolytes stood along the walls, their eyes downcast, waiting in silence.
Jon blinked.
His eyes adjusted to the sudden opulence, and he hesitated, lingering just inside the doorway. This place felt alien, a stark contrast to the courtyard where she had torn into him, her words sharp as blades. Now, warmth radiated from the room, as if it welcomed him in with open arms. He didn't understand. Was this some trick? A punishment wrapped in deceit?
"Sit, Jon." Vaelira's tone lacked the bite she had used earlier. She gestured towards a low table surrounded by cushions. "You must eat. Your training has only just begun, and you'll need your strength."
Jon sank onto a cushion, eyeing the food but not reaching for it.
"You wonder why you are here." Vaelira snapped her fingers at an acolyte, who poured a goblet of dark wine. "You wonder why I offer you food and drink of such quality after calling you bastard."
Jon swallowed, his mouth dry. He nodded slightly, unwilling to speak and risk revealing just how uncertain he felt. His mind still buzzed with her words from earlier—the insults, the contempt.
It made no sense.
"I have told you already. The Aruvail functions on powerful emotions. Not just pain, anger, or joy. Agony, rage, bliss." She put the goblet down. "If you are to master the Breath, you must feel everything. You must experience everything. I will break you, and I will reward you, over and over again, until your emotions are like fire—burning, alive, and ready to bow to your command."
"But…" Jon frowned. "That doesn't sound… humane."
"What does humanity have to with this?" Vaelira raised her thin eyebrow. "The Aruvail allows you to perform acts beyond human comprehension. How the methods to achieve that exist in the constraints of humanity?"
Jon stared at her.
"Besides…" Vaelira picked up a piece of fruit—something red and ripe—and bit into it, the juices staining her lips a dark crimson. "To understand the greater mystery, one must study all its aspects."
"What does that mean?"
"Your connection to the Breath is different than Coren's and the other disciples'." She put the fruit down. "Theirs is like iron. Rigid and unbendable. They can access the Aruvail with the pure Morvail way, and that is all."
"Aren't we here to learn the Morvail way?"
"Are you not, indeed?" Her eyes burned as they stared into his. "Yet, the Aruvail is only one half of a whole, and you, like the Ascendant and myself, are pliable enough to avoid binding yourself to one half."
"What do you mean? What is the other half?"
"I will take you as my apprentice, Jon Snow. I will have you complete every trial and challenge the Morvail place in front of you." She stood up, her robes whispering against the floor. "I will push you to your limits and further still."
"Okay… but… what does that have to—"
"I will teach you all you need to know when it is time for you to learn it." She snapped her fingers at the Acolytes, who started placing all sorts of food on Jon's plate and filled his goblet with wine. "You cannot learn to run before you can walk. Consequently, I will not share with you concepts that could interfere with your learning of the Aruvail. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good." Vaelira studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Eat and rest. You may sleep in my chambers tonight."
"What about you?"
She smiled and left the room, the heavy door closing behind her with a thud.
He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the room wash over him, the scent of incense filling his senses. He knew that to survive here, he would have to let go of that boy. He would have to embrace everything the Aruvail demanded of him, no matter the cost. He had chosen this path, and there was no turning back now.
He would survive. He would become more. Whatever it took.
That's a wrap for Chapter 7.
Let me know what you liked and disliked, I love and appreciate all constructive criticism, especially since I always keep editing and improving these chapters. I would love to hear all your thoughts!
Check me out on p. a. t. r.e.o.n.. c.o.m. /TheStorySpinner(don't forget to remove the spaces and dots) for early releases of new chapters and bonus content.
Chapter 8: Sansa, and Chapter 9: Jon are already available there now.
As for this chapter, I'm thinking about rewriting the training scene where Vaelira is all mean to him, it's looking a bit too much like the scene he had on the ship. Might end up changing the exercise he does. Let me know what you folks think about that.
See you in Chapter 8!