Chapter 3: Kindling the Spark
As the sun began to peek over the treeline, casting long shadows across the clearing, Anya and Elara set out for their morning tasks. Tall grass swayed gently in a cool breeze, and a nearby hill sloped upwards, eventually giving way to a dense forest that seemed to stretch on forever.
Anya and Elara selected a large bucket filled with chunks of raw meat from a pile near their tent and weaved across the tents. It sloshed precariously as they navigated the maze of tents, most occupants still in slumber.
Around fifteen makeshift shelters huddled together, their occupants hidden by canvas walls.
A young man, his hand resting on a sword hilt, stood guard near the perimeter.
Elara's voice, roughened by years, rumbled through the air, "*Quiet night, I presume?*"
He grinned. "*Another silent dawn, Elara.*"
Elara snorted. "*See that it stays that way, lad. You're welcome by my tent for lunch. This old woman has too much meat for these creaking bones. Drag the rest of the boys along, and that grumpy captain of yours too, if you can manage.*"
A chuckle escaped the young man's lips. "*That might be a tougher sell.*"
They continued away from the main camp, following a well-worn path that led deeper into the clearing.
"*We won't last long on these rations*," Anya said with a worried tone. She glanced towards the forest. "*They will have to organize another hunt.*"
Elara's reply, almost a growl itself, vibrated through John's tiny body. "*Don't you fret, child. Our boys can handle themselves.*"
A snarl ripped through the air as they rounded a bend. John's eyes widened, his tiny body jolting as monstrous creatures unlike anything he'd ever seen emerged from the path. Towering beasts, a mix of boar and brute, were tethered to a hefty cart.
Their hides, a patchwork of bristly fur and armored scales, glinted in the morning sun. Beady eyes, scanning for any sign of movement, sat atop their massive heads.
Anya tossed a bloody haunch towards a slavering Fenbeast, its maw snapping shut with a sickening crunch. Beside her, Elara did the same, but her eyes were fixed on John, a frown tugging at her lips.
"*A quiet one, isn't he?*" Elara remarked, her voice a low rumble. "*He's barely made a sound since we set out.*"
Anya remained a statue, her face etched with a worry that went beyond the usual concerns of a new mother. Elara's smile faltered, replaced by a furrowed brow.
"*Something troubles you, child?*" Elara asked gently.
"*It's Pyrrhus*," Anya blurted out, her voice thick with worry. "*He's so... quiet. He doesn't cry, barely makes a sound. And this mark...*" She trailed off, her eyes darting to the swirling red on John's shoulder.
Elara's weathered face softened. "*Have you talked to Jonathan?*"
"*I...*" Anya hesitated.
"*Don't 'I' me, child*," Elara interrupted, a spark of amusement in her eyes. "*Go. Now. Leave these smelly beasts to me.*"
Anya mumbled thanks to Elara and hurried back towards the camp. Her pace quickened as she reached their tent, anxiety twisting her features. Inside, an old man, Jonathan, sat hunched over in a chair, his weathered face etched with pain as he tried to adjust his leg on a stool.
"*Anya? What brings you here so early?*" he rasped, his voice laced with surprise.
Anya hesitated, then the tiny bundle on her back stirred, revealing a sliver of John's head. Jonathan's eyes widened.
"*Ah*," he muttered, reaching for his walking stick with a groan. The simple act seemed to take a herculean effort.
"*Don't get up*," Anya rushed forward, concern etched on her face. But Jonathan was already struggling to his feet. His gaze fell upon John, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features.
"*Pyrrhus, is it?*" Jonathan's voice was gruff, but a hint of warmth peeked through. "*Sorry, dear. I couldn't be there to greet him when he arrived. These knees…*" he trailed off, his voice laced with frustration.
"*Can you check him now?*" Anya pleaded, her voice trembling slightly.
"*Of course, child.*" Jonathan hobbled closer, his brow furrowing in concentration. He placed a gnarled finger on John's forehead, the touch surprisingly gentle.
A wave of warmth washed over John, unlike any sensation he'd ever known. It pulsed through him, tingling like a thousand tiny sparks. His tiny body hummed with a foreign energy, a vibrant thrum that resonated deep within his soul.
Magic, he thought, his mind reeling. This isn't just a new life... it's a new world entirely. The thrill of discovery mingled with a chilling fear. If magic was real, what else was possible? What other wonders—or horrors—awaited him in this unfamiliar realm?
"*See, he's perfectly fine*," Jonathan wheezed, a hint of relief lacing his voice. "*Absolutely nothing wrong.*"
But then, unknown to John, the mark on his shoulder flared subtly, a faint glow barely visible through his swaddling. Jonathan's connection with John was severed abruptly.
John felt the warm sensation of mana receding, slipping away like sand through his fingers. He tried to hold onto it, but it was gone.
Anya clutched him tighter, her grip almost painful.
"*Jonathan, what was that?*" Her voice was sharp with fear, making John's tiny heart race. What had caused his mother such sudden worry?
Jonathan's expression remained carefully neutral, his weathered face a mask of practiced calm. "*The fire*," he said evenly, "*it's protecting him*."
But inside, he was shaken. Did it just... burn my magic? He had never encountered or heard of anything like this before.
"*Are you sure?*" Anya asked, her voice still trembling.
Jonathan offered a reassuring smile. "*Of course, dear. He's a strong little one, just like his mother.*"
Jonathan bit back the fuller truth—that magic, contrary to popular belief, wasn't a cure-all. The burn mark on John's shoulder was unfamiliar, something he had never encountered before and lay beyond his understanding and abilities.
But he kept these doubts to himself, judging that a worried mother had no need for such unsettling revelations.
His mind raced with the implications. There are also rumors about the Order of Ash to consider. No one knows much about them, but they hunted those born of the elements for reasons unknown. The thought made him uneasy. Bram shouldn't have spoken so openly, he mused bitterly. But perhaps there were still ways to protect the child. He would have to be cautious, for the boy's sake.
Anya, seemingly reassured, nodded gratefully. "*Thank you, Jonathan. I'll let you rest.*"
Anya stepped out of the tent, the sounds and smells of the camp washing over John like a wave. But his attention remained fixed on the lingering warmth within him. It was a secret, a hidden power, and it filled him with a giddy sense of possibility. Forget crawling and drooling, this was something real. A spark of his old life, his old self, ignited within him. Could he harness this magic?
***
A/N:
Thanks for reading Chapter 3! I hope you're enjoying John's journey as Pyrrhus. Your comments and votes really motivate me to keep writing.
If you like the story, please show your support with Power Stones and Golden Tickets. Your encouragement means a lot!
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