Chapter 16: Way of the Myrmidon

Ronan slept for two days and was awoken by the sweet sound of Maritza’s voice.

His eyes slowly opened and he saw Maritza pacing back and forth, speaking with Farrier, who stroked the perfect middle part in his red hair.

Maritza said, “It’s clear he can use The Shroud System, but that doesn’t explain why his Mark of the Butterfly connected with his Mark of the Serpent. The wings grew on his snake’s neck.”

Farrier laughed and waved a hand. “It’s probably just some weird Serpent trait. There’s no way for us to know for sure.”

“Only a few Nightblades have ever even gotten more than one marking,” Maritza added with a cut to her tone.

She stood over Ronan and leaned forward, and he almost thought he was dreaming once more. He wanted her to reach her lips even closer to his, but instead he only smelled the scent of fresh blueberries on her breath when she whispered, “What if he’s been chosen by The Shroud, not me?”

Ronan groaned and moved slightly in the hospital ward bed. The two Masters hushed one another. They hadn’t expected Ronan to awake so early.

Maritza pulled back from Ronan, stood straight, and asked, “How are you feeling?”

It took Ronan a second to get his bearings, but he saw that he was back in the hospital ward. Surprisingly, he felt rested, clear-headed, and ready to tackle a new day.

“I actually feel pretty good,” Ronan said, curling his fingers into a fist. The markings on his left arm glowed a faint black.

Runes formed beside his tattoos, and Maritza’s eyes focused on them. Ronan could tell she could read them too.

Unclear whispers filled his ear.

“You have to focus hard on what they’re saying,” Maritza said softly.

Similar ancient Runes appeared from under the shoulder of her white bodice and spiraled up across one side of her neck and face.

“I know because I hear them too,” she said. “If you tune out all other noise, you can hear what The Shroud is saying.”

The tools in Farrier’s apron clinked together as he stepped back and observed Ronan and Maritza.

“How did we get cursed?” Ronan asked Maritza. “Why are we affected by The Shroud?”

She was lost in concentration.

Maritza shut her eyes and grabbed his hand.

“A curse is only a curse if you don’t know how to make it into a gift,” she said. “Now close your eyes, and listen.”

The warmth from Maritza’s hand was something Ronan hadn’t experienced before— a strange mixture of emotions and magic. Whatever it was, he knew he could get used to it.

Then the rapid whispering in his ear slowed down and became clear.

The Shroud said, “We will guide you so that you don’t suffer the same fate as us.”

Among all the voices, Ronan heard Maritza’s too, though she didn’t move her mouth.

The Runes on Ronan’s forearm took the shape of a warrior swinging a small sword.

“It’s telling me to relearn my basic forms,” Ronan muttered. “To practice the standard sword strikes for the trial, The Way of the Myrmidon.”

Fast footsteps clacked down the hall from the ward. Lord Wallace entered with his hands tight behind his back, making the shoulders of his blue peacoat appearing larger than they really were.

Maritza quickly hid behind Farrier, who stood tall and wide with his arms crossed.

Lord Wallace sneered silently at Ronan, then smacked his heels together and said, “Lady Maritza, Master Farrier. The Elders wish to speak with you at once.”

He nodded his head at Ronan. “It’s about the boy here, and his strange, well, tendencies.”

Wallace spun on his heel and strutted out from the room while saying, “It’s my strong preference that you both join me urgently.”

“Fancy jackass,” Farrier mumbled once Wallace was gone. He put his burly hands on Maritza’s shoulder and checked to see if the black markings were still on her face.

They were gone and he didn’t think Wallace saw them, though Maritza still breathed fast and sharp from the scare.

In that moment, Ronan understood that Farrier looked at Maritza as though she were a daughter to him.

“If Wallace found out,” Maritza said.

“He didn’t,” Farrier said seriously.

Ronan felt his stomach churn. Everybody had seen him use The Shroud, and now there were Elders discussing what to do with him. He’d finally found a home, mentor, and person like himself, and he feared he would lose all of it.

Maritza sprung from around Farrier and said to Ronan quietly and while checking for any sign of Wallace, “Do as The Shroud says. Go train this moment in the Training Grounds.”

She and Farrier rushed out, but not before Maritza added, “I’ll advocate for you, Ronan.”

“Of course we will!” Farrier boomed.

They left promptly, and Ronan noticed the black Hellblade at the side of his bed, resting under the windowsill.

“One thing at a time,” Ronan mumbled to himself, swinging his legs over the bed and grabbing his sword.

Its hilt throbbed in his hand, and the figure swinging a sword on his forearm steamed. Beneath it, he saw a progress bar etch into his skin and fill one tenth of the way.

Ronan walked briskly through the temple and to the empty Training Grounds. Moonlight dazzled overhead, and he approached a wooden dummy. Following the movements of the figure on his forearm, Ronan swiped diagonally down with his blade, keeping his core firm and shoulders loose.

Unlike all the other times he had wielded a sword before, Ronan held the hilt tightly and guided his wrist through a complete and strong movement. Something about the Hellblade felt right in his hands, as if it were not a weapon but an extension of himself.

The dummy was cut completely in half, and its top half of stuffed straw and cloth fell to Ronan’s feet.

“Basic Forms, Way of the Myrmidon engaged,” The Shroud whispered. The figure on Ronan’s forearm spread out and copied itself into eleven other figures, all performing their own stances and strikes. The original figure that had demonstrated the diagonal cut glowed a bright black.

His palms sweating around his sword’s hilt, Ronan observed the next figure in the line of little swordsmen along his arm. He moved to the next dummy and sliced it upwards with his sword. He watched as it glowed along with the first. Wisps of black Essence filled his progress bar beneath the two figures, and as Ronan completed the figures’ movements, he felt like he’d been practicing the strikes all his life.

Ronan continued to mimic the figures' motions, and with each dummy he destroyed, black Essence filled his progress bar and the next figure in line glowed.

Testing his luck, Ronan held his free hand out. White flames burst from his palm and ignited a dummy, burning it to a crisp. His Mark of the Serpent sizzled, and the veins around it turned black. He smirked, snapped his fingers, and balanced a white flame at the tip of his index finger.

It was if everything in his body suddenly made sense, and his muscles and magic could finally act as one.

Ronan continued to slash and set dummies ablaze. He was one dummy away from filling up when he heard the dirt crunching behind him.

“Looks like the mutt has learned some magic,” Alfred said. He pulled his thin sword out from its golden sheath, and the women he’d been sparring with joined him at his side.

“Too bad it won’t be enough to save him,” Freya laughed, knocking her big braid of brown hair over her shoulder as she drew her own sword.

The other beautiful woman among them already had her sword out of its sheath, and she held it royally. The blade’s tip gleamed in the moonlight near her straight, brushed black hair and pale blue eyes. She smirked as the three surrounded Ronan.

Alfred swept blonde hair from his cobalt eyes, laughed and said, “Freya, Clove. Get him.”