Chapter 25: Moonlit Festivities

The celebration was epic.

Clove and Ike were escorted by Elders to a private bathhouse deep inside the temple, where the two scrubbed off the thick amounts of dragon’s blood from under their skin and nails. They were brought sparkling wine by the bottles, and heaps of expensive, exquisite food. Once they were clean, the two feasted in a natural hot spring outside the temple by a lush garden.

Ike dangled a grape bundle over Clove’s mouth, and she nibbled one grape for each of Ike’s questions about herself that she answered.

With the warm, refreshing waters of the hot springs around them, Clove and Ike discovered through their elated conversations that they both viewed the world quite similarly. Both wanted to use their new position as Novice to help those who had succumbed to inner-weakness, just as they had once before. If the perception of the Butterfly Nightblades were arrogant, pretentious aristocrats who hid away treasures in a big temple, then they agreed to prove themselves as the exceptions.

But for the meantime, they dried off, dressed in exquisite garments, and returned to the dining hall. The Trainees may have indeed been arrogant, pretentious aristocrats, but they knew how to party. Clove and Ike gulped down more wine with chocolate cakes, and tried their best to retell the dragon’s defeat to their fellow Trainees while tipsy.

But during all the festivities, Ronan was nowhere to be found.

At the forge, he hammered down the dragon’s gray scales, flattening them and weaving them around pieces of leather armor. He worked silently by candle and moonlight. All his time working with Farrier was showing itself in his detailed designs. The armor he forged himself was the best of both worlds— both lightweight and created with movement in mind, but reinforced by the thick, aged gray scales that were stronger than the forge’s sturdiest steels.

Ronan held it up to the moonlight and grinned.

It was armor fit for a Nightblade Master.

Ronan glanced at his forearm. He was now a Rank 3 Serpent and Butterfly. He could feel a considerable amount of Essence flaring at his fingertips, and he knew he had unlocked more abilities.

Rank 3 Butterflies could make their bodies move at double the speed, and Rank 3 Serpents could not only make powerful flames from their hands, but control fires around them too. At Serpent Rank 5, he would be considered an Adept and gain a second tattoo on his other arm, one that was capable of controlling smoke and ash. At Rank 8, he’d officially be considered for a Master position, though he knew the Essence required to gain Ranks 4 through 8 is tremendous, and that most Nightblades went their lives maxing out at Rank 3. He had no plans on becoming one of those idle Nightblades.

His ears perked as he heard footsteps behind him.

“Tell me,” Maritza said, her voice silky and removing the tension in Ronan’s shoulders, “Why you finally have a chance to be a part of a celebration with others, and you’re over here by yourself.”

She set the Black Hellblade on the forge’s wooden table, along with a custom black-leather sheath and strap developed for Ronan’s back.

Ronan set his hammer down and said, “Honestly, I don’t think those are the people that I want to celebrate with, or be the center of the attention of.”

Although the confiscated Hellblade was in front of him, he couldn’t pull his attention away from Maritza’s glittering green eyes. She seemed particularly pleased tonight.

Maritza nodded and contained a smile. She was in a long, purple and pink dress with a gold band holding an emerald in the middle over her blonde bangs. Ronan had the feeling she was uncomfortable in such attire.

Still, she looked radiant in it.

She said, “I can understand that, I suppose. But what about Ike and Clove? Or Farrier?”

Ronan waved a hand and looked to the Hellblade. “I’d rather let them enjoy themselves this evening. I don’t want to--”

Maritza stepped closer to him and lifted his chin with her hand. His heart dropped in his chest.

“You don’t what?” she asked. “Get in the way of their fun?”

Ronan chewed the inside of his cheek. How was she reading him so well?

“I thought,” Maritza said, inspecting Ronan’s face, “that you would have discarded such self-destructive thoughts by now.”

Her face close to his, she licked the tip of her thumb, then wiped away dried blood off his cheek.

Respectfully, Ronan tilted his head slightly and asked, “Why do you care about what I think or do?”

Maritza’s breath got sharp when she responded, “Because when I’m near you, I feel something...”

She paused and looked deeply into Ronan’s blue eyes. She cleared her throat, changed her attitude to something more serious, then said flatly, “I feel something unique.”

Ronan was close enough to Maritza to notice that her hair smelled like strawberries.

"I feel something unique around you too," he responded, trying to sound respectful.

He added with a touch of nervousness to his voice, "Maybe The Shroud connects us, somehow."

"Connects us, yes," Maritza said slowly. She scratched the edge of her thumbnail.

They both felt the overpowering desire to move closer to one another, and Ronan reached for her hand.

“Oh, Ronan!” Farrier boomed. He stomped into the forge with a flagon of ale and a drunken stupor on his face.

Maritza quickly stepped back and Ronan yanked both his hands behind his back. The two looked away from one another and tried to hide their blushing faces from Farrier.

Farrier’s perfectly parted red hair was all unkempt and cow-licked. Even in a pink ruffled shirt and tight purple vest, he still had his apron of tools around his waist.

He pointed a stubby finger at Ronan and proclaimed through a mighty slur, “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Farrier reared his head back and finished the contents of his flagon.

“Look at you two,” he said, shaking his head and stumbling.

Maritza covered a hand to her face. What was she thinking, letting such feelings overcome her like that? She was seven years Ronan’s superior.

“We’ve got a big problem now,” Farrier said, waggling a finger. He wiped away the ale running down his cheek with his wrist.

Ronan gulped.

Farrier opened both his arms wide and shouted, “It’s a party, and neither of you two sticks in the mud have drinks!”

He teetered over to Ronan and handed him the large flagon.

“There,” Farrier said.

Farrier peered into the drained flagon, scratched a cowlick in his hair and said, “Oh, it’s empty. Well, we can fix that!”

He started to drag Ronan out of the forge but stopped at the Hellblade on the table.

“That’s right,” Farrier mumbled with a small hiccup and one eye half-shut. He reached inside his vest pocket and produced a scroll. “I see Maritza has returned my finely crafted sword to you.”

He swayed and continued, “After your performance today, the Elders have determined you may keep my wonderful blade.”

Ronan sighed with relief. He went to pick up the sword and Farrier slapped the scroll into Ronan’s palm.

“For you,” he said, handing the parchment to Ronan. “Your first assignment as Novice. Hand picked by the Elders, no less!”

Martiza marched forward, protective.

“Which one is that?” she asked.

Farrier feigned seriousness, leaned in close, and whispered, “The Norovir, haunting the slums of Augustate.”

He raised his eyebrows and added, “The monster that lives deep in the district’s well.”

Then Farrier set both hands on his stomach and belted out in laughter that startled Maritza and Ronan.

Farrier hung a finger drunkenly in front of Maritza’s nose and said, “You’ll be accompanying him tomorrow, bright and early. The Gods know I can’t do it! I’ll be feeling this tomorrow, if not the next day, and the next!”

“Good,” Maritza said. She said it so fast that it made Farrier curious, but he was too distracted by his want for more alcohol.

“It’s a celebration,” Farrier laughed. “And neither of you two have drinks.”

Ronan strapped his sword around his chest and felt the black veins fight to surface around his markings. He kept them back with little effort, and fixed the sword’s strap so it fit snugly.

He was in complete control of his life, and he walked with the confidence of somebody who knew just that.

The next thing he realized, Farrier was asleep and snoring peacefully in the chair beside the table.

“We should leave him and let him rest,” Maritza said, draping a worn blanket made from furs on a tanning rack over Farrier’s broad shoulders.

“Well then, Lady Maritza,” Ronan said, imitating the pretentious tone of the Butterfly Trainees. He extended a hand outward. “Would you care to accompany me to the dining hall’s festivities.”

Maritza straightened her shoulders and weaved her arm through his. “I would like that very much, Ronan.”

The two walked slowly through the empty Training Grounds in the moonlight, enjoying each second they were together.

“Remember,” Maritza winked, “It’s just Maritza, to you.”

“Right, of course,” Ronan chuckled.

Ronan set his hand over hers, and the two took their sweet time strolling to the dining hall doors. Tomorrow would be Ronan’s first monster hunt, but tonight, he would heed Maritza’s advice and relax. Besides, he found doing so much easier with her.

They broke their embrace at the dining hall doors, and Ronan saw the big smile on her face. Knowing he’d put it there, an even bigger smile grew on his face. Whatever was to happen with the monster in the morning, he would always carry this moment with him.

Though tonight, he knew, was not a night to cast any doubts.

He opened the door to the ruckus of dozens of drunk and blissful Trainees.

“After you, Maritza,” Ronan said.