Time melded into one long procession of marching, sword craft and Cleansing, until one evening they came to the woodland’s edge. Under twilight the gnarled branches cast long eerie shadows, woven into a frenzied dance upon the ground. The air grew heavy, smelling sweet but sickly, and reminded Holt of the refuse piles outside the Crag’s kitchens.
In the gloom of those trees, Brode called for them to make camp. The old rider’s mood seemed to brighten now they had made it to what he deemed relative safety, but his bite remained in his training sessions.
Despite the beating Holt took when learning the sword, he preferred that pain to the difficulty of Cleansing. That night, he made the mistake of stretching his tired limbs during his meditation.
“Don’t fidget,” Brode called over to him. “You’re still breathing in too fast as well. I can see the rise and fall in your chest.”
Holt overcompensated on his next breath in, going too slowly this time and lost the delicate connection. He huffed in frustration and buried his face into his hands for a moment. Ash rumbled sympathetically beside him.
A tiredness threatened to take Holt then. The allure of the campfire warmth nearly took over. It had been hard going the past few days, but he felt good about making progress – it felt like he was at least doing something now. He stifled a yawn and said, “Sorry, Master Brode. It’s proving much harder to search for impurities. I’ll keep trying.”
Brode raised his eyebrows. “It’s a hard thing to perfect. Takes years, a lifetime even.”
Holt quietly returned to Cleansing. Brode hadn’t suggested he’d take a break and Holt would rather push himself anyway. He and Ash had a lot of catching up to do if they were to be of any use in the fights ahead.
“If you’ve Cleansed the worst of the excess away,” Brode went on, “perhaps it’s time to learn the basics of Forging.”
Holt opened his eyes, met Brode’s and simply nodded. “I presume Ash’s core is clearer to you now?”
Holt checked. Ash’s core shone like a chandelier in a dark hall. The mist of ill-suited magic had mostly cleared and now he could discern individual specks of light orbiting the core. These must be motes of light energy Ash had yet to absorb, something Holt could help him with through Forging.
“Most consider it an easier process once you get the hang of it,” Brode said. “The difficulty is maintaining the rhythm once you find it. For this requires you to slow or increase your own heart rate to match the beat of the dragon bond.”
“More breathing techniques?” Holt asked.
“Afraid so. As I say, the aim is to match your heart to the beat of the bond. Deeper, infrequent breaths will slow your heart down; shallow, faster ones will raise it. In doing this you will press loose motes of energy toward Ash’s core. Keep up the pressure and you’ll beat the motes into the core – like a smith striking steel.”
“And this adds to Ash’s pool of magic?” Holt asked.
“Yes and no,” Brode said. “Motes of magic in their raw form, like you can see orbiting the core, are still magic, they are just weak. Should a core run empty, a dragon or rider can pull on the raw motes, but the effects would barely register compared to core forged magic.”
Holt was unsure on this. “What is it about the core that makes the magic so strong?”
“The density of it,” Brode said. “That’s the best way I can describe it. Or perhaps you might consider it like the effectiveness of a lone soldier as opposed to a seasoned battalion. The latter can achieve so much more than the former. Within the core, the motes are compact and pressed against each other, increasing the strength of each one many times over. Aside from that, the core acts as a store of energy. You need not be near a raw source of your magic type so long as there is power within the core.”
“Raw motes,” Holt muttered, trying to figure these things out in his own terms. Brode’s use of the word ‘raw’ got him thinking of raw food. One
didn’t eat food raw, though it is technically still food. Cooking releases water, intensifying flavor. Forging motes into a dragon’s core was akin to adding ingredients to a stewing pot, inside of which the flavors could deepen and enrich into something truly wonderful.
He just had one question.
“I understand that motes must be Forged into a dragon’s core to make it strong, but, just how much weaker is the magic when raw? Fire still burns does it not?”
Talia – who had been Cleansing and Forging herself this whole time – stirred at this. Evidently, she had also been listening in. “I can demonstrate for you.”
Pyra had her wings over the fire like two great nets. She withdrew them at Talia’s word and looked to Holt expectantly. This made him nervous. How exactly were they going to demonstrate this for him?
Talia got up and came to sit closer to him. She held her palm out before her and conjured fire. The heat was so intense that its center was rich blue, while its outer edges were razor sharp and almost solid.
Holt gasped, drew up an arm to shield himself and scrambled back a bit on the grass.
“This is core forged fire,” Talia said. “This will burn clean through the shell of a flayer or stinger, or indeed most armor.” She clenched her fist and let the fire wink out. “Now this, is drawing on raw motes.” She reopened her hand and a redder set of flames appeared. These rippled and shook even in the light breeze, and tendrils curled up and away into nothingness like any common fire. “You could pass your hand through it and be fine,” Talia said.
Taking her words as a challenge, Holt quickly passed his hand through the top of the flames. Just as passing a finger through a candle flame would do no damage, so too was Holt’s hand completely unharmed.
“I see what you mean,” Holt said. “Though if you’re desperate, it would be better than nothing. It’s still fire. I wouldn’t want to hold my hand in it.”
“Maybe,” Talia said. “But that would be desperate. This wouldn’t help much in a fight and remember Pyra would have to be close to a source of fire to have an abundance of raw fire motes to even make this work. Without the campfire I doubt I could do even this.” She dissipated the weak flames in her hand. “And drawing raw motes across a bond will strain it like drawing on the core, just not so severely.”
“If our little demonstration is over,” Brode began, “I’d like Pyra to return to shielding the flames from any searching eyes in the night.”
Pyra stretched out her wings, then returned to enveloping the fire, dulling most of its light.
Brode turned to Holt. “Do you understand better now?”
Holt nodded. “I’d like to see the difference in our own magic, if I may – I won’t let the light travel,” he hastened to add. He hardly wished to attract attention either.
Brode grunted. “Carefully.”
Still sitting cross-legged, Holt raised his left palm and aimed down at the grass nearby. He formed a Shock and released it, feeling the kick up his arm as it left his body. The Shock hit the earth with a satisfying thud, throwing up grass, dirt and small stones buried beneath its surface.
Next, he tried pulling on the raw motes. They lay in the ethereal space between Holt’s bond and Ash’s core, so he could pull on them. What he hadn’t expected was for it to be more difficult. He tired breathing them into himself but the swirling motes only vaguely moved toward him before dancing off again. The bright, dense light of the core was far easier to take hold of. It was solid. Holt felt as though he could reach out and touch the light of the core, but these raw motes were elusive.
After several attempts he managed it, channeling the magic down his left arm. The light produced this time was watery and without force. Instead of a concentrated beam, it spread out almost lazily, only just creating enough light to see by before it fizzled and died without him even cutting it off.
“Take some well-worn advice,” Brode said. “Stick to the core.”
Holt drew a deep breath. Daily were more challenges being piled upon him and Ash. He hadn’t expected being a rider would require as much work, perhaps even more work, than any servant dealt with.
“I understand, Master Brode,” he said. “I’m prepared to work.”
Brode reviewed the basic Forging techniques with Holt before instructing him to make his first attempt. Much like Cleansing, it took several false starts before he even came close. The first time he managed to sync his heartbeat with the bond, it lasted only a moment, and the sudden surge of music in his mind caused him to lose the rhythm.
“Am I supposed to hear the dragon’s song?”
“It’s one of the more enjoyable aspects of Forging,” Brode replied. “It will ebb and flow, but listen closely. You can learn much about your dragon’s condition from it.”
Holt cracked one eye open. Brode smirked. “Baby steps, pot boy.”
Holt’s first Forging session progressed slowly. Every single mote he pushed into Ash’s core felt like an uphill battle, but each success gave him a surge of accomplishment and motivated him to continue. After what felt like an hour, he could have sworn the core had grown, though it might have been wishful thinking.
Only once more that night did he hear the dragon’s song. It rose suddenly, but this time Holt maintained the connection to listen. Ash’s song still had a light, tinny quality—likely due to his age. However, there was also a swell of power, like a ringing chorus, and something else, something sorrowful, like a lone flute playing in a desolate land. It faded quickly, but it left a lasting impression on Holt. Heat prickled at the corners of his eyes.
Was Ash in pain? Was he wrestling with some inner struggle?
He blinked and was grateful no tears fell but noticed something else. Ash had come close. His snout was almost touching Holt’s nose. Had he felt something over the bond?
“Holt, I’m bored.”
Holt stifled a laughed and pushed playfully on Ash’s snout. “You should practice using your breath, as Master Brode said.”
Ash took a step back and turned his head in a guilty manner.
“I have been. But it’s hard to know if I’m getting any better at aiming without targets to hit.”
Holt thought this fair. Brode had told Ash to keep his beams of light low to the ground, so that they would hit the earth quickly and not give away their position.
“Once we’re in the woods I’m sure we can do more. And you’ll get better in no time. You already took out that flayer!”
“That was a very big target. Hard to miss.”
“True.”
Ash titled his head the other way. A quiver of excitement ran down his spine, not unlike a cat ready to pounce. The dragon leapt backwards then braced his four claws into the earth, head low and tail high.
“My wings have grown.”
Ash raised and extended them, and Holt was impressed at their size now. He hadn’t noticed how much the wings had developed while they were tucked in. Now they were fully extended it looked like two white sails had been hoisted on either side of Ash.
“I want to fly.”
