It was far from easy to be around him, but bearable. Unlike how it was with the others.
He turned to the younger guardians.
“While we let guardians fight and stand watch at sixteen, despite being unforged, there are a lot of limitations,” he explained, seeming to have given in to Nevedya’s request.
Iryana took a steadying breath, and Misha looked over, lips pressing together slightly. Was her little sister annoyed with Iryana’s impatience? Or justher?
A surge of dread shot through her, her breaths speeding up to shallow pants. Iryana swallowed, nearly choking from how tight her throat was.
In the years since she’d left, Misha had grown more confident, her gaze following Iryana more. Like there was a growing awareness there that simmered every day.
Her little sister had been a quiet child, a quiet baby even, thankfully. For Misha had been born in the last months of their fleeing through the Lasharye highlands of Istri. Iryana had only been six, too young to take turns carrying the infant, butshe’d been responsible for cuddling and rocking the little girl while they stopped. Anything to keep Misha quiet and not draw the attention of the dakii.
Iryana shook that memory away, focusing on keeping her feet under her despite her lightheadedness.
She wished her sister would go back to avoiding her. To pretending she didn’t exist.
“One day, when you are forged, you will practice constantly. Build up your endurance, strengthen your control. But you can still start that training now.” Nevedya perked up at Dinhal’s words. “The more you practice with your shield, stretching out how long you can sustain it, how thick you can make it, the more control you will have once the magic is forged.”
She couldn’t see how the others were reacting, but Iryana felt like her fingers were growing numb. The edges of her vision darkening.
Nevedya nodded vigorously while Misha twisted her lips together.
Iryana just tried not to pass out.
“And learn to be aware of your surroundings, quicken your reaction time. You must be sure to form your weapon before danger gets too close,” he told them. “If a beast, or any threat, makes it to you before you can form your magic, you won’t be able to summon through the resistance of its body. Even forming in water is difficult, though some can manage it.”
Uncle Dinhal held out his hand, his magic forming in the shape of a two-handed sword. It was the gray-purple color of metal-forged magic; the color showing the average-level of well magic he had forged with his own. Though it hardly mattered that his magic wasn’t particularly strong; her uncle was lethal. And with his strong, burly body and warrior’s eyes, Dinhal looked the perfect guardian warrior, even more terrifying with a sword in his hand.
Dinhal trained harder than anyone else. Iryana still had the bruises from the last time she’d trained with him to prove it.
Uncle Dinhal worked through some of the first forms they learned, likely showing Nevedya that the ones she learned now would one day be used with a forged weapon in her hand. Reminding her how important her training was now.
Misha kept glancing Iryana’s way, and every time she felt worse: her breathing, her nausea, her lightheadedness. Until she couldn’t take it anymore.
When her uncle stood, looking ready to dive into something else, Iryana stepped forward, feet dragging. She hesitantly touched him on the shoulder.
He looked at her, one brow slightly raised.
“Please?” Her voice was hopefully quiet enough the others wouldn’t hear the strain.
He was still and silent for a moment, then glanced over to Misha, who was staring at Iryana.
“Come by later to get your schedule,” he said, a hint of apology in his voice.
Iryana nodded quickly and bolted toward the gate, not even able to offer her sister a smile in farewell.
She made it out of the courtyard, making sure the jogging guardians weren’t visible, and set off toward home. She pulled her oilcloth cloak tighter around her body, the hood over the woolen scarf wrapped around her head. Every step helped calm her breathing, her pounding heart.
The long wooden wall stretched out to her right and the village to the left, clustered around the mountain stream that flowed through their valley. On the other side of the wall, where the hanging valley cut off, she knew the stream tumbled over the side in a soft roar that helped disguise the sounds of their post from the lower valley.
The stream grew more bloated every day from the snowmelt, and all around them, after months of endless white, brown was creeping out from under the snow.
The village had been there before they arrived, the original inhabitants and its name lost long before they turned it into the Dovaki Post.
She had to track across the wooden boards along the sides of the main road to avoid the ankle-deep mud where tracks from hooves and wheels dimpled the sludge. The progress was painfully slow.
But ahead, far up the valley slope, she could just make out the old, inoperable windmill. Once, it would have been used to mill grain for the village. Before the beasts came. The little cottage where the miller had likely lived was obscured by trees from her vantage point, but she knew it was there; it was her home. Blessedly far from the rest of the village.
