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Chapter 1: The Priest’s Of The Aria
~ 865 RE ~
~ Southern Kingdom, Sacred Grounds Of The Aria ~
Belairus stood as rigid as a weathered pine, ensnared in an uneven circle of gnarled trees, their forms thrown into eerie relief by the flickering midnight fires. Her ears, sensitive and sharp as an owl’s, twitched at the smoke-heavy breeze that whispered secrets of sacred spirits. In the mesmerizing glow of the crackling embers, the ancient carvings etched into the bark of the trees seemed to come alive. Her father’s arm, strong and protective, curled around her petite frame, but did little to quell the tempest in her heart.
Through the shifting hues of the fire, her eyes traced the figure of the stranger who had led her to this gathering of druids – Fenrir, a wanderer who had descended on her village like an unexpected storm. His tale was a fantastical saga, spun in the language of the Aria and greeted with reverence by the Hukoten people. They had believed the tale of a goddess reincarnate, even though Belairus herself barely comprehended it. Together, she, her father, and Fenrir had embarked on a journey to the high priests of the Aria.
Fenrir, with his dubious past and cryptic demeanor, was a puzzle Belairus didn’t wish to solve. His gaze seemed to linger on her too often, his interest bordering on the uncomfortably obsessive. He was referred to as a mystic by some, a witch by others, but in Belairus’ mind, he was nothing more than a filthy warung in a robe as black as the ash-strewn ground they tread upon.
Just beyond her father, she spotted hooded figures draped in crimson cloaks, glinting with golden trinkets that reflected the firelight. They stood as silent as ancient monoliths, casting enormous shadows that danced in the glow of the bonfire. Amidst the flickering flames, she saw two white-furred beasts, their naked forms bathed in the warm firelight, brandishing torches that conjured visions of mythical fire-breathing creatures. But what truly sent a chill down her spine were the colossal swords, embedded so deeply into the earth that they appeared as though they had been born of the land itself. Such weapons were far beyond the might of even her father.
A sudden crackle pulled her gaze back to the fire. Her heart stumbled as a shadow materialized within the inferno, solidifying as another branch snapped under its weight. Fear clutched her and she clung to her father, her voice choked with dread. “Someone’s in the fire! Father, do something!” she cried out. Her father merely hushed her, his gaze focused on the impossible spectacle unraveling before them.
A figure emerged unscathed from the heart of the conflagration, wielding a massive iron stave half as tall as himself. She remembered stories about high priests and their ceremonial staves. She had always thought those were mere tales to keep children amused. His robes fluttered in the breeze, untouched by the flames. How could his stave not be molten? she wondered, her heart racing.
She turned to her father, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t like this place,” she pleaded, hoping that he would take her back to the safety of their home. The touch of her father’s hand on her head was answer enough. A sense of foreboding wrapped around her as her pointed ears flattened against her head, her tail brushing nervously against the ground.
The chilling silence broke with a voice, veiled in mystery and authority from behind the black and red wooden mask. “Belairus, come forward.” Her heart dropped like a stone into the abyss of her chest. Her tail, full and bushy as a duster, bristled with her anxiety. With a tentative step, as if dipping a toe into icy water, she moved. Her eyes darted back to her father, who gently nudged her onward. Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, she started her reluctant journey across the ash-blanketed earth. The dark grey soot kissed her pale feet, painting them as black as the twilight sky.
“Come now, child.” The command, given with a lackluster flick of the priest’s hand, spurred her forward. A paralyzing fear of causing upset propelled her across the layer of ash, her footprints like faint whispers of her presence. In the dancing light of the fire, the golden accents on the mask glittered ominously. The priest towered over her, his height astonishing. Could he be even taller than her father? An oppressive heat radiated from him, caressing her face with an intense kiss that sent an icy shiver down her spine. With a sense of finality, he lowered his hand, revealing a palm swathed in worn cloth. The elongated, skeletal fingers of the high priest curled around Belairus’s trembling hands as she offered them in an expected greeting. An unexpected thought dawned on her, “He is so cold. But how? Amidst all this heat, is he really that icy?”
“Old friend, why do you stand before me with this child?” The high priest’s words sliced through the tense silence, directed towards Fenrir.
Fenrir, ever the prideful one, stepped forward, his chest out in a display of defiant assurance. “The pride lands buzz with whispers of a sacred child. Upon investigation, I found Belairus. She, in my assessment, is the potential avatar. I’ve tested her, and she embodies the spirit of Lumaria. Her image alone could become the beacon of unity among the tribes. I propose that we prepare her to take on the mantle of the avatar, to be trained as a high priestess for all our people to follow.” His voice oozed confidence and self-importance. Belairus had always attributed his pompousness to his view of her people. Now, she realized, he was simply drowning in his own conceit.
The high priest straightened himself, standing tall and silent. His palm found her lower cheek, his fingers coercing her to turn her face for inspection. He studied her left cheek, then her right, his eyes probing beyond what others could see, searching for something inscrutable. His gaze finally met her wide, royal-blue eyes. A smile played at the corners of his hidden mouth, but it was a secret concealed behind the mask.
As the comforting crackle of fire receded into the background, the beating of Belairus’s heart became a deafening drum in her ears. “Child,” a voice whispered in the confines of her mind. The proximity was unsettling. It felt intrusive. Realizing the voice resided within her, her eyes narrowed to slits in surprise. “You speak our tongue. Very interesting. Not what I was anticipating.” A second voice echoed the first, resonating inside her head.
From behind the concealment of the mask, the high priest spoke aloud, “Belairus?” At the same time, the voice inside her head inquired, “Have you learned how to communicate like this?”
“No,” Belairus responded internally.
A muted chuckle rippled from beneath the high priest’s mask. “Good enough,” he voiced aloud. The high priest, his tone as soft as the murmur of a gentle breeze, questioned, “Do you grasp the grand design Fenrir wishes to fulfill through you, Belairus?”
“I’ve been told I am the chosen one—the avatar. And you, you are to mentor me in the sacred practices of the Aria priests. Or so he claims,” she replied. An unshakeable conviction had begun to take root within Belairus: this priest was touched by some unseen sorcery, some clandestine power that allowed him to peer into the inner recesses of her mind. Perhaps he could even discern the deep-seated loathing she harbored for him.
Fenrir’s gaze, heavy and probing, drew the high priest’s attention. “Are you aware of what it means to be Lumaria’s avatar?” His words hung in the air, his focus unwavering, locked onto Fenrir.
“No,” she replied, her voice a mere whisper.
“Are you willing to surrender your being to another? To a stranger unbeknownst to you? To relinquish control, to become a mere vessel for another’s voice within your own flesh and blood?”
“No, that’s… terrifying,” she murmured.
“Indeed, it is a daunting proposition,” he agreed.
“Yet, I am determined to honor my family,” she resolved, steel entering her voice.
In a hushed undertone, the priest conceded, “I’ve made my decision. It’s true what the whispers claim. I can see why the neros tribes would hail her as a goddess. Yet the paleness of her skin proves naught but an attribute, and a common superstition. She’s but a girl, Fenrir. It’s unjust to ensnare a maiden in such machinations. Belairus, enlighten us about higher truths. What is our origin?”
Belairus hesitated, unsure. ‘Higher things’? The meaning of the phrase eluded her. She considered the trees, then dismissed the thought. Surely he didn’t mean birds, despite his birdlike mask. Her gaze drifted skyward, but she realized she knew little of the heavens above. Deflated, she admitted, “I don’t know of higher things. All I know is we hail from Lumaria, the sacred land of the goddess.” Her ears sagged, a tangible sign of the creeping shame that engulfed her mind.
The high priest reached out, his elongated fingers gently brushing her hair. “If you echo our speech, you’ve surely encountered many spirits. What do they reveal to you?”
She cast a quick glance at her father, noticing the slight arch of his eyebrow. “To avoid their territories,” she responded.
“Territories?” the priest echoed, his interest piqued.
“The sacred spaces within the forest,” she elaborated.
The priest addressed Fenrir, a hint of warmth seeping into his voice. “See, Fenrir? She is but a child, and should be allowed the innocence of youth.”
Fenrir snapped back, “You wouldn’t recognize the spirits of Lumaria even if they materialized before your very eyes.”
The priest countered, “So, you imply I should squander such a rare opportunity?” His staff pointed menacingly towards Fenrir, clattering ominously. Suddenly, a gust of wind erupted, causing the fire to flare up behind him. Belairus clung to the high priest, burying her face into the soft fabric of his robes as the fire danced around them. “Fenrir, here we do not bow to the Tempest. Nor do we dare to traverse the Maelstrom like heretics.” The priest comforted Belairus with a soothing pat on her back. “You are safe, young one.”
Fenrir’s voice was a low rumble, “Have you forgotten our queen’s rightful claim?”
Shaking his head, the priest warned, “I’ll cast you into these flames if you continue to blaspheme.” Fenrir’s swallow was audible, a sign that he understood the gravity of his misstep. The high priest turned to Lymric, a grimace distorting his face. “Your schemes hold no merit here.” Fenrir maintained a deafening silence.
The high priest crouched down to Belairus’s level, lifting his mask to reveal a face reminiscent of a warung. “Belairus, your potential is great. Please don’t misinterpret my intentions. If a queenship is in your destiny, I will not be the one to deny you. But you are not the avatar. I see a crucial role in your future, but it’s not one that serves the Aria.”
Belairus swiveled her gaze towards her father, whose face was a mask of disbelief, mouth hanging open in stunned silence. She then turned to Fenrir, who was locked in a staring contest with the high priest. A sense of surrealism washed over her. ‘Is this really happening?’ she wondered.
“Please,” her father pleaded, causing the High Priest to lower his mask and pivot towards him. “Rethink your decision. At least let her study under your guidance,” he implored. The high priest rose to his full height, casting a looming shadow over Lymric. The silence stretched on, becoming its own presence in the clearing. “Teach her your ways, so she may become a high priestess like yourself.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done,” he responded, an indifferent shrug in his voice. Belairus nervously nibbled on her claw, anticipating her father’s retort. However, the high priest cut him off with a sharp bark. “Nothing!” he declared. “Belairus should not be schooled in the mystic arts by the priests. Let Fenrir instruct her; he considers himself superior anyway. But I warn you, this is a grave mistake. She would be better suited training as a warrior, not a priest. The Hukoten have a proud legacy as the noble warriors of our tribes.” He gently touched Belairus’s cheek, and she found herself smiling at the unexpected ticklish sensation. “The task of preparing her is your responsibility. I foresee immense trials in her path. Equip her well, or her life’s river will prematurely run dry. Now leave…” instructed the high priest.
He guided Belairus away with a gentle push, and the young girl scampered back to her father. Lymric’s face was a tapestry of disappointment, as if she had committed an unpardonable transgression. A blush of shame rose on her cheeks, her expression mirroring her father’s. Lymric knelt down and enfolded her in a comforting embrace. Hand in hand, they began their trek through the forest, following a shadow-laden trail.
Fenrir turned to join them, but the high priest’s voice halted him, “Fenrir, stay behind.” The trio stopped in their tracks and turned to face the priest, who was pointing an accusing finger at Fenrir. A low growl escaped Fenrir’s throat as he snarled back, revealing sharp teeth. “I need to discuss another matter with you, Fenrir,” the high priest elaborated, gesturing towards Lymric and Belairus to continue their journey.
“What might that be?” Fenrir questioned gruffly. Lymric, his hand reassuring on Belairus’s back, prodded her to continue along the path. The arcane tongues of the priest and Fenrir trailed through the woods behind them, sounding like eerie echoes of a forgotten language.
The dying light of the day cast long, dancing shadows across Fenrir’s form. The crackling flames seemed to be in conversation with him. “Your recent activities have aroused my curiosity. What are you up to? And why bring this child before me? We both know she’s too young for such a burden. Even if she is the avatar, why reveal it to her now?” the high priest probed.
With a dark smirk and a dismissive shake of his head, Fenrir muttered, “So, you’ve been spying on me.” His boots scuffed the ground, sending up plumes of black ash with every step. A cruel chuckle escaped his lips, “You would deny a man his rights. If you were wise, you would have trained her. Her mere presence at the Hukoten village was proof enough for me. Her image alone could convince the masses that she’s the true avatar. Even if she isn’t, we could use her to rally the tribes. The expansionist ambitions of the Golden Kingdom are threatening us. We are on the brink of war, and unity among the tribes is paramount for our survival. I will train her, and when she ascends the throne of the Aria, you will be ousted from the temple.”
The high priest chuckled at Fenrir’s bluster. “Bitter words, old friend; tinged with rage. We’ve always been at odds, and I relish this. Your petty revenge for our refusal to accept you as a boy is entertaining. You may have swayed the tribes with your tales of being an ancient seer, but you don’t fool me. It’s been many years since we were children. I chose the right path when I rejected you, Fenrir. You chose a darker one, a path that cannot be trusted. Your association with dark spirits is a cause for concern. And your wanderings within our lands do not escape my notice. Are you planning to wage war?”
Fenrir jerked his head back, incredulous. “Are you accusing me of treason?” he howled.
The high priest simply bowed his head, replying with an ominous tone, “That remains to be seen…”
As Belairus nestled into Lymric’s arms, she was cocooned in the security of his embrace. The small fire pit at the center of the leather tent breathed warmth into the soft wolf’s pelt beneath her. A false veneer of joy painted her face, but she knew her father could peer beyond the smile that was simply a charade. “What thoughts weigh on your mind, Belair?” He queried, his voice a gentle echo in the quiet tent.
At first, Belairus merely shook her head, maintaining her disguise. But under Lymric’s unwavering gaze, she understood her pretense was futile. Her ears drooped dejectedly. “Did I err in some way, Father?” The contours of her face were etched with disappointment, shame, and a fear that clawed at her heart. Her once effervescent spirit had lost its sparkle, and her tail had dragged limply behind her all the way back to the camp.
Enfolding her closer, Lymric gently tousled her hair, eliciting a faint smile from her. “I am bursting with pride for you. There is nothing amiss with you. It is not that they don’t believe you to be an avatar; they perceive a formidable warrior within you. That in itself is a badge of honor.” His voice held a soft chuckle, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
One question gnawed persistently at her mind, and the recent encounter with the mystic added to its urgency. “What is an avatar?” Belairus asked, her voice hushed.
“A beacon to our people. Avatars are embodiments of the goddess, gracing us with her divine presence,” Lymric elucidated.
“How could I be that?” A dull ache throbbed in her head as she grappled with the staggering impossibility of being divine. “If I were indeed the avatar, wouldn’t I recognize it in myself?”
“Yes, I suppose you would.” Lymric’s voice trailed off as he paused, his fingers lightly tracing the sharp tip of Belairus’ ear. “Perhaps Fenrir is mistaken. The man is consumed by the desire to resurrect the Aria. His ambitions may have obscured his judgement.”
Gazing into the dancing flames, Belairus pondered on this revelation. “Is that so?” Her lips, as rosy as the dawn sky, curled into a slight smile, revealing a glimpse of her sharp fangs.
Seeing this, Lymric clenched his jaw. “The elder believes you are destined to become a commendable warrior. But your path must be chosen by you alone. If Fenrir consents, I will allow you to train under him. Despite not being a priest of the Aria, his prowess as a mystic is formidable. You stand to gain more knowledge from him about such matters than anyone else in the tribe. Alternatively, I can arrange for you to train under your Uncle, honing your skills with the spear, and learning the ethos of the hunt and the warrior spirit.”
“The priest, he held sway over the bonfire, and he could converse with spirits. Perhaps Fenrir possesses similar knowledge. But if I train under Fenrir, I will require protection from the tribe,” Belairus mused, her gaze riveted to his chili yellow eyes. “If I trained under Uncle, I could be the one protecting our kin and providing for them when food is scarce.”
“Thinking about usurping me already, are we?” Lymric teased, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
Belairus’ hands shot up in the air. “No, Father! That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, little one,” he soothed, his voice like a calming breeze in the midst of her outburst.
Curiosity sparking in her eyes, Belairus asked, “Why is Uncle Asgar training me instead of you, Father?”
A long, weary sigh slipped from Lymric’s lips. “I lack the courage to train you, Belairus. I could never bear to see you stumble or falter,” he confessed, his voice a mere whisper. The sporadic snap of the fire was a soothing counterpoint to his heartfelt confession.
Belairus poked a stick into the glowing embers at the edge of the rock circle. Tiny flames flickered to life, dancing like woodland fairies. She breathed gently, coaxing the flames to sway in harmony with her breath. Her smile brightened. “And Uncle would?”
As Lymric tried to disentangle the twigs in Belairus’s hair with his broad fingers, she batted his hand away with a feigned annoyance. “He wishes to ensure that you are worthy of the chieftain’s mantle. You must be resolute and commanding. Even now, the tribal title is a coveted prize that anyone can snatch away from you.”
The prospect of succeeding her father as chieftain hadn’t crossed her mind until then. If she became a ruler one day, she would strive to be the most enlightened leader her tribe had ever seen. She’d embody the cunning of a fox and the wisdom of a serpent. Despite the bitter taste Fenrir had left in her mouth, she realized she could learn from him for the sake of her people. “Can I learn from both?”
Lymric nodded without a moment’s hesitation. “That would indeed be quite the endeavor. Bear in mind that if you train under both, your leisure time with your friends may be curtailed.”
“Then, if Fenrir is as wise as everyone claims… why hasn’t he learned to temper his tongue?” she asked with childlike frankness.
A roar of laughter erupted from Lymric at Belairus’s blunt inquiry. “That, my dear, is a question for the ages. But speaking of time, it’s late, and you should be nestling into bed.”
“But I don’t want to go to bed,” Belairus protested, her face contorting into a theatrical display of disappointment that was almost comical.
Lymric flashed a knowing grin, patting her head. “You silly girl. Before we retire for the night, I’ll have a word with Fenrir. Now off to sleep you go. I don’t want to be chasing after you if you wander off.”
“We are in Aria!” Belairus retorted, her lips curling into a smug smile. “I am safe from harm.”
Lymric uncoiled his arms and rose to his feet. “You must stay here. There are matters to be discussed. Tomorrow’s journey home will be long. You wouldn’t want to be drowsy and grumpy, would you?”
Despite her protest, Belairus whined, “The journey back takes seven days.”
“Yes, seven days. But if you skimp on sleep, it might stretch into eight or even nine,” Lymric retorted, his tone teetering between stern and playful.
“Alright… I will sleep. But promise me, if I wake early, you will rise with me. I don’t want to be bored,” Belairus bargained, her toothy grin illuminating her face.
In response, Lymric nodded, his expression soft. “Of course, my queen.” At his comment, Belairus cast a demure glance, her cheeks flushing with a bashful glow.
Daybreak arrived too soon for Belairus. Her eyes fluttered open abruptly to find the comforting cocoon of her father’s sleeping space vacated, the blankets meticulously rolled up and stowed. The fire that had lulled her to sleep with its gentle crackling had long since died, and shafts of sunlight were beginning to sneak their way in through a small hole at the apex of the tepee. A quick scan of the surrounding landscape from the doorway revealed no sign of her father.
However, Fenrir was perched on a log near the remnants of the extinguished fire, his hood down, unveiling his imposing visage. Rousing herself, Belairus rubbed the sleep from her eyes, soot smearing across her cheeks and tousling her disheveled hair. Her intricate makeup had smeared in her sleep, leaving behind only the ghost of a crescent moon.
Rubbing the vestiges of slumber from her eyes, Belairus greeted the mystic with a groggy, “Morning, Fenrir.”
A toothy grin sprawled across his muzzle as he glanced at her. “Awake at last, young one,” he remarked, “Your father is out on a hunt.”
A perplexed frown creased her brow at Fenrir’s idle stance. “Why aren’t you hunting with him?” she inquired.
His laughter rang out across the quiet campsite. “Your father is more suited to such tasks. Now rise, child. It falls upon me to teach you. Your first lesson awaits.”
Summoning her resolve, Belairus crawled out of the tent and shuffled over to Fenrir’s log. “Alright,” she grumbled, still battling the remnants of sleep, “Just hope I can grasp anything.”
“An ideal moment, indeed,” Fenrir responded, pointing towards the charred remnants of the fire. “Tell me what you see.”
Bewildered, Belairus scanned the lifeless campfire, straining to discern anything of interest. The question seemed absurd to her, and she didn’t care for the game. “It’s a burnt-out fire,” she replied, glancing up at Fenrir to gauge his reaction.
“Look deeper,” he urged.
Try as she might, she could only see a pit filled with ash and scorched wood. Slightly irritated, she retorted, “It’s a fire pit!”
A low snort emerged from Fenrir, “Look beyond what you see,” he instructed.
As Belairus fixated on the heart of the stone circle, it seemed to darken, growing as black as ink. The ashen ground became a portal to a void, revealing rotted apparitions staring back at her. “The dead!” she gasped, “I see the dead!”
“The old ones. Listen to those who have lived a long life, Belairus. Their guidance is sacred,” Fenrir intoned solemnly.
A deep voice echoed from the void, “The child has seen.”
A whisper followed, “The child has seen.”
“The child has witnessed.”
More voices chimed in unison, “The child is the witness.”
Terrified, Belairus clamped her eyes shut and screamed, “I don’t want to hear them anymore!” she cried, “I don’t want to see them!” With a swift motion, Fenrir struck the ashes with his rod, sending a plume of dust billowing into the air. When Belairus dared to open her eyes, she was met with the sight of the burnt-out campfire. “I didn’t like that,” she confessed, her voice shaking.
Fenrir smirked. “When I first saw the old ones, I was scared too. They are drawn to fires. It is the source of power that allows them to manifest amongst us.”
“But they are dead. The dead should stay with the dead,” she argued, her chest heaving with the intensity of her emotions.
“Sometimes, we must resurrect the dead to gain knowledge. Remember this, Belairus. Our ancestors guide us in this way,” Fenrir stood up as Lymric appeared on the path, a string of water otters slung over his shoulder. “Ah, Lymric, what do you have for us?” Belairus looked to her father, relief washing over her at his return.
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