Chapter 6: Ambush

By the time the class ended, Asterion was drenched in sweat, his tunic sticking uncomfortably to his back from both the effort he’d put into mana refinement and the warm early summer sun. The exercise had been exhausting, both mentally and physically, and though many in the class had struggled, he knew he was one of the ones who’d had the hardest time.

While some kids couldn’t even sense their mana, others had managed to move and compress it with far less trouble. Theos, of course, had barely struggled at all. He’d even complained about how boring it was to just sit and move his mana around instead of doing something more exciting.

Asterion couldn’t help but feel a little disheartened, but he refused to let it get to him. He was determined to keep practicing during his free time, even if the headache building behind his eyes reminded him just how tough this exercise had been.

After parting ways with Theos, Asterion hurried home, his stomach growling in protest. He felt famished and couldn’t wait to wash off the sweat clinging to his skin.

When he arrived, the familiar scent of stew greeted him, and he noticed a pot simmering idly on the stove. However, his mother was nowhere in sight.

“Mom? Where are you?” he called out, glancing around.

“I’m in my workshop! I’ll be up soon,” his mother’s voice echoed from downstairs.

Asterion nodded to himself and quickly grabbed a fresh set of clothes before heading straight for the bathroom, eager to clean up and chase away the lingering exhaustion of the day.

When he finished, his mother was still downstairs, so he set the plates and gave the stew a quick stir to ensure it didn’t stick or burn over the magic flames. After a few minutes, when she still hadn’t come up, he decided to head down the winding stairs.

The workshop was brightly illuminated by the large roots of the Lumivyre tree, their surfaces glowing faintly as they absorbed sunlight from above. Asterion didn’t fully understand how the magic worked, but he knew it greatly assisted his mother in the creation of elfstones, helping to stabilize and amplify the process.

At the center of the room, his mother was bent over a glowing pool of mana, quietly chanting, her hands submerged in its shimmering surface. In the middle of the pool, an elfstone was slowly crystallizing from the liquid mana, its form larger than it had been the last time he’d seen it. The light filling the room seemed to flow from both the roots dipping into the edges of the pool and from his mother herself, who was supplementing the pool with her own mana while using her magic to carefully guide the crystal’s growth.

Even with her full focus, no obvious changes were happening to the elfstone, but that wasn’t surprising. Asterion knew how painstakingly slow the process was, a labor of precision and patience that demanded her complete attention.

He decided to quietly observe the magic while he waited, unwilling to disturb her in case she was in a crucial phase.

Listening closely, he could hear her quiet chanting as the mana flowed slowly yet smoothly from both her and the glowing roots around him, all coalescing toward the elfstone in the center of the pool. The mana felt different compared to his own—lighter, more refined. He could only guess it was aspected toward purity, light, or perhaps even a combination of both.

When his mother’s chanting came to an end, the flow of mana slowed but didn’t stop entirely as the roots continued to let their magic seep into the basin. She looked up, noticing him with mild surprise.

“Oh, sweetie, you could have started without me,” she said, standing up, the liquid mana soaking into her skin.

Asterion shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “I’d rather eat with you than alone.”

Her face softened, and she smiled brightly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go eat. How was class with the new teacher?”

“Oh, he’s awesome!” Asterion exclaimed as they headed back upstairs. “He taught us about mana refinement and how powers grow like a tree—just like you told me—but he also explained the tiers and the different stages!”

When they reached the kitchen, his mother praised him for setting the table, asking the occasional question as Asterion eagerly launched into a detailed retelling of his lesson. He explained what the teacher had taught, what he had struggled with, and his plans to improve. His excitement was obvious as he spoke, already looking forward to his next lesson after lunch.

“When is Dad coming back?” Asterion asked between bites.

His mother’s expression softened again as she answered, “He should be back soon. The expedition should already be on its way home.” Then, with a gentle but firm tone, she added, “But enough talking—finish your meal, or you’ll be late for class.”

Asterion grinned and hurried to eat, his mind buzzing with everything he wanted to accomplish in the afternoon and beyond.

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Kyros watched through the treeline as the small tribe of orcs continued their migration across the hillside.

Skulls, bones, and shrunken heads decorated their bodies and wagons, though, at this distance, Kyros couldn’t tell if the heads came from another expeditionary force, an adventuring group, or the hordes of undead still roaming the countryside.

He exchanged a glance with Vasia, who was hunkered down beside him.

“I count about three dozen. How about you?” Kyros asked in a hushed tone.

“Sounds about right,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “Though I’d bet they’ve got scouts ahead of their caravan.”

Looking back down the small hill, Kyros raised a hand and made a series of quick signals to their expedition leader, indicating the number of enemies.

Telemachos, standing at the base of the hill, seemed to consider the report for a moment before gesturing for them to rejoin the group.

Kyros and Vasia descended the slope carefully, their boots crunching softly against the loose dirt, before slipping into the circle of warriors waiting below.

Telemachos stood at the center, his expression grim as he scanned the faces around him. He spoke in a hushed but firm tone, his voice carrying just enough to reach them all.

“We can’t let them slip away again. Their numbers have grown by nearly a third since the last time we saw them,” he said, his eyes hard. “Last time, we were far too few. But this time, with the element of surprise on our side, we can take them out.”

Grimaces met the declaration. Kyros wasn’t thrilled about fighting a larger group of orcs, even with the advantage of an ambush, but he understood the necessity. If they didn’t act, the orcs’ numbers would continue to grow, eventually posing a serious threat to their lands and costing innocent lives.

“We hit them hard and fast, killing as many as possible in the initial attack,” Telemachos said. “If we do this right, none of us should die.”

Kyros wasn’t the only one with a doubtful expression. While they were likely stronger than any individual orc, there was always a chance one of them had a dangerous ability up their sleeve.

Regardless, Kyros slid on his helmet, as did the rest of their twenty-strong force, and they moved along the ridge, weapons drawn. Vasia led the way at the lip of the ridge, keeping a sharp eye on the caravan below.

Eventually, they reached a section where the slope was less steep and settled into position, lying in wait as the caravan caught up with its two forward scouts. Fortunately for them, the orcs weren’t particularly thorough in their vigilance. They seemed more focused on listening for the groans and haunted screams of the dead—or perhaps the sounds of larger monsters—than for more subtle threats like the expeditionary force poised above them.

Kyros accepted one of the bows, as he didn’t specialize in long-range abilities or spells, and he wasn’t the only one doing so. Carefully, he pulled an arrow from the small quiver on his hip and nocked it.

He took a steadying breath, waiting silently for Telemachos’ signal. The quiet was only broken by the whispered chanting of some of the expedition members positioned along the lip of the hill, their spells nearing completion.

Kyros had been part of these expeditions long enough to know what came next. His body tensed instinctively, ready to spring into action as the chanting subsided, signaling the synchronization of their fireball spells—both regular and empowered—coming to an end in precise harmony.

Ten fireballs of varying sizes hurtled at the densest grouping of orcs just as Telemachos gave the signal for them to open fire, and Kyros rose over the lip of the hill, firing his arrow at one of the more isolated orcs, followed by a staggered hail of arrows impacting the same and other orcs from the other archers.

Screams of anguish and rage rang out as the orcs turned on them in an instant, spells, and abilities flying in both directions. Despite many of the orcs being struck by arrows and scorched by fireballs, the majority charged forward undeterred, their absurd vitality allowing them to shrug off injuries that would have felled lesser foes. Only those caught directly in the center of the fireballs or overwhelmed by the hail of arrows were killed outright or rendered unable to attack.

Kyros’s attention snapped to one orc in particular as it hurled its axe with terrifying force. The weapon spun through the air like a deadly boomerang, crashing through trees and hastily conjured barriers as it carved a path toward their line. Just before it could reach them, Telemachos stepped forward, his power warping the very nature around him. Roots erupted from the ground, lashing out and intercepting the axe, wrapping tightly around it. The weapon struggled for a moment, its magic flickering as the roots sapped its strength until it became hopelessly entangled, falling just short of their ranks.

Kyros continued to fire his bow as the first of their fighters clashed with the orcs. Arko transformed into a massive black bear, charging into one of the orcs and mauling him with powerful swipes. The orc fought back savagely, hacking into Arko’s thick hide with a heavy cleaver, but the bear barely flinched as the battle raged on.

Sweat beaded on Kyros’ brow as he loosed a second arrow at the same orc, this time hitting it in the neck. The creature staggered, clutching at the wound, before finally collapsing to the ground.

The satisfaction of the hit was short-lived as two more orcs charged at him. Dropping the bow behind him, Kyros drew his sword and grabbed the kite shield he had placed at his side.

Beside him, Telemachos conjured a series of javelins from the surrounding trees, sending them hurtling toward the pair. One of the orcs went down, impaled by the sharp projectiles, but the second let out a deafening roar, blasting away the incoming javelins with a wave of force.

Kyros didn’t hesitate. Sunflames erupted along the edge of his blade as he charged to meet the massive orc running uphill. In the last moment before their clash, Kyros activated his Brilliant light ability, his shield emitting a searing flash of brilliance that blinded and disoriented the orc.

The creature’s force-enhanced axe came crashing down where Kyros had stood moments earlier, splitting the rock with devastating power. But Kyros had sidestepped the attack using his Flash Step, narrowly avoiding the strike. Sharp splinters of shattered stone sprayed upward, several piercing his armor and cutting into his body

Kyros gritted his teeth, his thrust driving the blade into the orc’s skull with the aid of the sunflames blazing along its edge. The flames burned through the thick bone, allowing the blade to pierce deep. As he twisted the sword, the sunflames erupted violently, and the orc collapsed to the ground in a smoldering heap. The acrid stench of burned hair, fat, and meat overpowered the earthy scents of the forest.

Kyros didn’t hesitate or linger. He jumped back, shield raised, and scanned the battlefield. Their ambush was overwhelming the last of the orcs.

Kyros winced, his gaze dropping to his side, where a long, sharp rock jutted from his calf.

Telemachos caught sight of him and waved Alexos over. The young mage hurried to his side, fumbling briefly with a satchel before pulling out a bandage and a small bundle of herbs.

Kyros couldn’t help but lament their lack of a proper healer. At least Asterion won’t have that issue, he thought, recalling how Telemachos’ daughter had awakened a healing power of some kind—any such ability was far superior to the healing herbs and spells they had to rely on and even if she didn’t participate directly in most expeditions having someone at home that could fix even the most grievous of wounds was a massive boon.

“I’m going to pull out the shard. Press the Panacea onto the wound,” Alexos instructed. Kyros nodded, taking the bundle of Panacea herbs, ready to press them in place.

Alexos counted down before pulling the shard, and Kyros winced in pain but pressed the bundle into the wound as Alexos tossed the shard and began to wrap his calf with the bandage.

Thankfully the magical herbs quickly numbed the pain and he knew his leg would be healed in an hour or two.

Looking around, Kyros realized he was one of the few who had managed to get themselves injured. He cursed under his breath but took some solace in the fact that nobody had died this time.

Their expedition into the city ruins of Ruban had yielded only a modest haul of magic items and treasures, as the number of undead infesting the ruins had somehow grown since their last visit. Still, they had managed to confirm that the rift the previous expedition had detected within the ruins was indeed still present. Securing it, however, would require a far larger force.

With their main objective completed, Kyros felt a wave of relief. At least now, they could begin the journey home.

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