The next dawn arrived in hues of amber and violet, the twin suns cresting over Talsara's rolling hills, their light gilding the village's thatched roofs.
Kaelith dragged himself to the grove, every muscle protesting yesterday's abuse.
His shoulder still throbbed, the ogre's bite a lingering scar beneath his tunic, but he pushed through, determined to prove himself
. Seraphine leaned against a tree, her dark hair loose, catching the light like polished obsidian. She straightened as he approached, her smirk daring him to complain.
"Day two," she said. "Control now. Flame Cloak—hold it steady."
He planted his feet, breathing deep to center himself. "Ignis vestis," he chanted, voice steady despite the ache in his limbs. Fire bloomed around him, a shimmering mantle that hugged his frame without burning his skin.
The heat was alive, pulsing with his heartbeat, a comforting warmth that reminded him of the hearth at home.
He counted silently—ten seconds, fifteen. His legs trembled, mana seeping out like sand through clenched fists. At twenty, the flames wavered, and he gritted his teeth, pushing for more.
"Longer," Seraphine snapped, stepping closer. Her scent—leather and something faintly spicy, like cinnamon—cut through the smoke, distracting him for a heartbeat.
He hit twenty-five before the spell collapsed, dropping him to one knee. Sweat dripped from his chin, pooling in the moss. Seraphine's boots stopped inches from his hands, and he glanced up, catching the barest curve of her lips.
Her tunic hugged her frame, the fabric taut across her chest, and he quickly averted his gaze, face warming.
"Better," she said, voice low, almost a purr. "Again when you're ready."
Lirien trained nearby, her sword slicing through the air in tight, graceful arcs. Steel flashed, trailing faint sparks—her mana weaving into the blade with each strike.
She paused to wipe her brow, tunic riding up to reveal a sliver of toned midriff, the skin glistening with sweat. Kaelith's eyes lingered a heartbeat too long before he forced them back to the ground, his throat tight.
She was his friend, his sparring partner, but lately, her presence stirred something else—something he wasn't ready to name.
Weeks bled into months, each day a grind of sweat and spells. Seraphine was relentless, pushing Kaelith until his mana pool felt like a well on the verge of running dry.
He learned to cast Fireball with precision, shattering rocks instead of just scorching them, the explosions sending shards flying like shrapnel. Flame Cloak stretched to forty seconds, then fifty, the flames a steady shield that danced around him like a second skin.
The hunger gnawed constantly, a reminder of his cursed blood, but he buried it beneath focus, hunting rabbits in the woods at night to sate it—small, quick kills that left him ashamed but alive.
One humid afternoon, the twin suns low and swollen, Seraphine called a break. Kaelith slumped against a tree, shirt plastered to his chest, silver hair matted with sweat. She sat beside him, closer than usual, her thigh brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through him, heat unrelated to magic pooling in his gut. Her scent was stronger now—leather, cinnamon, and something muskier, intoxicating.
"You're improving," she said, her tone softer, almost conspiratorial. She leaned in, breath warm against his ear, her voice a low whisper. "Faster than I thought, kid."
He swallowed, mouth dry as sand. "Thanks to you."
Her laugh was low, husky, sending a shiver down his spine. "Don't get soft on me now." She pulled back, but not before her fingers grazed his arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. Her dark eyes held his for a moment, a flicker of something dangerous in their depths, before she stood, brushing dirt from her trousers.
Lirien jogged over, cheeks flushed from exertion, her tunic gaping slightly at the neck to reveal a glimpse of collarbone and the swell beneath. "What're you two whispering about?" she asked, plopping down cross-legged, her sword resting across her knees. Her voice was teasing, but her green eyes narrowed, a hint of something sharper—jealousy, maybe—flashing through them.
"Nothing," Kaelith said too quickly, his face warming. Seraphine smirked, saying nothing, but the air between them crackled with unspoken tension.
Training evolved as the months rolled on. Seraphine taught him Blaze Guard, a fiery shield that deflected Lirien's practice swings, the flames shimmering like a wall of molten glass.
She introduced Inferno Burst, a blast that turned a rusted plowshare to slag, the metal glowing red-hot before crumbling into ash. But sunlight remained his enemy.
Shadow Mantle—a spell to cloak him in darkness—flickered promisingly but drained him in moments, leaving him dizzy and ravenous, his vampiric hunger surging with every failed attempt.
One evening, the hearth crackling in Veyra's cottage, Seraphine broached the issue over a dinner of stew and fresh bread. The room was warm, the scent of rosemary and roasted meat filling the air, the table cluttered with bowls and a pitcher of spring water. Kaelith sat across from her, spoon hovering midair, his red eyes fixed on her as she spoke.
"You're close," she said, her voice low, serious. "But spells won't fix everything. You're a vampire, Kaelith. You've got to own it."
He tensed, the mug in his hand creaking as his grip tightened. "How?"
Her eyes darkened, reflecting the fire's glow. "Rituals. Potions. Risky stuff. But it's a start. We'll get there."
Lirien watched him from her seat, her spoon still, concern etching her features. "You don't have to rush it," she said quietly, her voice softer than usual. Her hand rested on the table, inches from his, and he felt the urge to take it, to feel her warmth against his own cold skin.
"I know," he replied, forcing a smile. "But I want to."
Seraphine's gaze lingered on him, sharp and unreadable, her lips parting slightly as if to say more. Instead, she stood, brushing crumbs from her lap, and headed for the door. "Get some sleep," she said over her shoulder. "Tomorrow's a big day."
Later, as Kaelith washed dishes in the basin, Seraphine joined him, her shoulder brushing his as she reached for a rag.
The contact was deliberate, her fingers lingering against his under the soapy water, her touch warm and teasing.
His pulse quickened, a flush creeping up his neck, but she was already drying her hands, leaving him to wonder if he'd imagined the heat in her glance.