Chapter 2 : Down The Windy Trail, The Two Souls

After fleeing the scene of the crime, the hooded guy slipped into the shadows of a narrow, cluttered alley, a few blocks away from the tavern, the stench of mildew and decay mingling with the faint aroma of dead rats. Broken wagons and abandoned wooden crates crowded the space, offering a semblance of concealment. He slumped against the damp wall, cursing under his breath.

“So much for laying low,” he muttered bitterly, the weight of his actions pressing down on him. His stomach growled, loud and insistent, dragging his thoughts to the meal he hadn’t been able to finish. The image of that buttered sausage bread haunted him. If only he’d stayed out of that fight, he might be savoring it right now instead of sulking in the dark.

With a long sigh, he inspected his wrist—the one nearly burned by the man in the red coat. The faint outline of scorched skin reminded him of the heat and power the man had wielded effortlessly. No chants, no incantations, just raw control over his Animus. The thought both amazed and unsettled him. Who was that man? And how did he do that?

He shook his head, dispelling the memory. It wasn’t just the red-coated man that lingered in his thoughts. There was someone else in the tavern—someone that appear way weaker than they should be. The unsettling mix of vulnerability and hidden strength gnawed at his mind.

Another growl from his stomach brought him back to reality. He was starving, penniless, and exhausted. The fight had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, and now his body threatened to give out.

“Hi.”

The soft voice startled him. His instincts kicked in, and he leapt to his feet, fists raised, ready to strike.

“No, no, no!” the voice stammered, panic clear in the tone. “It’s me! The girl you saved earlier. Hi! Hello!”

Took him a while to recognize her face. She held her hands up in a gesture of peace, her expression equal parts wary and apologetic. “It’s alright. You can stand down.”

The guy hesitated, his body still tense. After a long moment, he relaxed, leaning back against the wall but keeping his guard up.

The girl rummaged through a small wooden container she’d brought with her. “Here,” she said, opening the lid to reveal neatly arranged slices of pie. “It’s oukan pie. I thought you might like some. I see… you didn’t get to finish your meal back there, so… consider this a thank-you.”

He stared at the offering, suspicion flickering in his eyes. His stomach betrayed him with another growl, loud enough to make the girl stifle a laugh.

“Go on,” she urged. “Eat. Please don’t make me force-feed you.”

After a moment’s hesitation, He took a piece, biting into it cautiously. The rich, savory flavors of spiced meat and flaky crust melted on his tongue, and before he realized it, he was devouring piece after piece with abandon. The girl grinned, watching him with amused satisfaction.

When the last crumb had vanished, she broke the silence. “Wow, you were hungry. You ate most of it! Not that I blame you—it’s pretty good, huh?”

He nodded, finally speaking. “Yes. It’s delicious. Thank you.”

Her face lit up with a broad smile. “Oh! So you do talk! I was starting to think you couldn’t. I was thinking, maybe you were one of those former criminals or something—someone whose tongue got cut off during a trial. I mean, I’ve heard that’s a thing around here. But then again, having your tongue cut off is way better than the punishments they dish out at the academy. Oh, let me tell you about—”

She stopped mid-ramble, noticing his unimpressed stare. Clearing her throat, she shifted awkwardly. “Right. Maybe gruesome punishment stories aren’t the best conversation starter. Sorry. I tend to talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

After a beat, she extended her hand. “Let’s try this again. Hi, I’m Serena Calderu. Nineteen years old, originally from Alteria City in the east. I moved here years ago and just graduated from Orias Academy. I’m a fresh graduate sorceress working on getting my adventurine license. Nice to meet you!”

He regarded her outstretched hand before responding curtly, “Elliot. Elliot Hargrove.”

Serena blinked, her hand suspended in midair as her eyes flitted between Elliot and the burn on his wrist. Her tone, laced with disbelief, was almost sharp. “That’s it? Just… Elliot Hargrove?” Her voice carried a tinge of offense, the confusion in her expression betraying her frustration. “I bare my soul to you, tell you about my past, and you offer me two words in return? At least tell me where you’re from, how old you are! Or—ugh, Serena, stop talking.” With a swift motion, she slapped a hand over her mouth, her face flushing with the realization that she had, once again, become overly talkative. “Sorry,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by her own palm. “I’m being invasive again. Bad habit. Uh… anyway, you should really take that to the infirmary.”

Elliot, still a stranger to her and her incessant chatter, looked at her with an unreadable expression, his brow furrowing in mild confusion. The woman in front of him was a whirlwind of energy, her eyes bright and expressive, yet her words came out too quickly for him to follow. “Uh? …” he mumbled, unsure how to respond.

Serena, immediately recognizing the confusion, adjusted her stance and gestured toward his wrist. “Your burn,” she stated softly, her voice carrying a thread of concern. “Mr. Barrentworth did this to you, didn’t he?”

Elliot stiffened, instinctively pulling his hand away from view, his cloak falling to cover the marks that marred his skin. He winced slightly, the faint sting of the burn still fresh in his mind, though he was loath to show any sign of weakness. “It’s… nothing,” he muttered, his voice low, a subtle edge of defensiveness creeping into his tone.

But Serena wasn’t deterred. Her sharp eyes had already picked up on the details—the burn marks, the slight tremor in his hand, the way he tried to hide it. Her smile softened, though there was a hint of amusement in it now, as though she had already seen through his act. “It’s not nothing,” she said gently, her voice shifting with a sudden calmness. “Barrentworth isn’t just some average fire-wielder. He’s an advanced pyrokinesis user. He didn’t just scorch your skin. No, he burned you from the inside.”

Elliot’s gaze flickered, his heart skipping a beat as the weight of her words sank in. He hadn’t considered the attack in such a way. “I… I don’t understand,” he stammered, the confusion now overtaking his stoic demeanor. “What do you mean… burned me from the inside?”

Serena’s smile faded into a more serious expression, her gaze narrowing as she watched him closely. “The burn marks, as faint as they are, aren’t the worst of it. The real danger lies beneath the surface,” she explained, her voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of urgency. “He’s seared your animus circuit. That’s the magical pathway in your hand. If you leave it untreated, the damage will spread, maybe permanently. Worst case… you could lose the hand altogether.” Her words were blunt, unflinching, the gravity of the situation settling over them both.

Elliot recoiled slightly, not from the pain but from the starkness of her explanation. He hadn’t been prepared for something so complex, so dire. “Lose my hand?” he echoed, the disbelief clear in his voice. He had assumed the burn was nothing more than a surface wound—an inconvenience at worst. The reality was far grimmer.

Serena’s brow furrowed as she noticed the way he winced again, his hand instinctively cradling his wrist beneath the cloak. “You can still feel it, can’t you?” she added softly. “The tingling? The burn that lingers beneath your skin?”

Elliot swallowed hard, his mind racing as he turned the information over in his head. “It’s… uncomfortable,” he admitted, his tone cautious, his wariness creeping back. “But I didn’t know it could be this bad.”

Serena offered him a small, sympathetic smile, though her eyes remained serious. “You should really get that looked at. It’s not just about the pain—it’s about what happens if the animus circuit is compromised. Trust me, you don’t want to wait.” She took a step back, giving him space, but her gaze never left his wrist, as if silently urging him to make the right choice.

After a few seconds of deep calculation in his head, Elliot agrees with a heavy heart. “Alright, to the infirmary”

“To the infirmary!” Serena called out, her voice light and melodic, as if dragging a wounded man through stone corridors was all part of her morning routine. Before Elliot could protest, she had already taken hold of his arm—surprisingly firm for someone so small—and began tugging him forward with a cheerful sort of determination.

Elliot, for his part, didn’t budge easily. His boots held their ground for a second before he reluctantly allowed himself to be guided, more out of bewilderment than compliance. He glanced down at the bright-eyed sorceress beside him, her grip unwavering, her steps bouncing with energy that felt strangely out of place in the cold, torch-lit halls of the Academy.

He didn’t particularly like being handled like this—dragged around like some reluctant ward. It wasn’t that he distrusted her, not exactly. But there was something about her—her relentless friendliness, her utter lack of caution—that rubbed against every instinct he’d spent years sharpening. She spoke too much, smiled too easily, and didn’t seem to understand the concept of personal space.

Is this girl even real? he wondered, letting her chatter fill the silence between them. Why is she being so open with me? We’ve barely met. Sure, I did pulled her out of a pack of hyenas, but does that really warrant this much enthusiasm?

Her grip tightened slightly as they turned a corner, and Elliot sighed under his breath. It was as though she had never known danger, never been taught to question the intentions of strangers. There wasn’t a flicker of hesitation in her movements, no subtle wariness in her eyes. Just pure, unfiltered trust. No survival instinct, he mused grimly. She’s either incredibly brave… or dangerously naïve.

Still, he followed. Despite everything—his suspicions, his discomfort—there was something disarming about her, something genuine in the way she fretted over his injury. Perhaps she wasn’t just naive. Perhaps she simply hadn’t learned yet that kindness could be a weapon, too.

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Arriving at the infirmary

As they emerged into the open courtyard, Elliot found his steps slowing, his eyes drawn upward in silent awe. Towering before him stood the infirmary—though to call it that felt almost insulting. It was no mere healing hall, but a grand, cathedral-like stronghold of marble and gold-veined stone, its sheer size rivaling that of the royal citadel itself.

Sprawling towers pierced the sky, each adorned with intricate carvings and gilded spires that caught the light like fire. Stained-glass windows arched across the facade, each pane depicting scenes of divine miracles and celestial interventions. Banners fluttered along the ramparts, emblazoned with the sigils of the Prime Celestials, High Church of Artheon. Their presence was not subtle. This structure was a proclamation carved in stone: the Church was not merely surviving—it was thriving.

Elliot’s gaze lingered on a massive relief above the main archway: a depiction of Artheon himself, arms outstretched, halo burning like a second sun. Below the image, the scripture etched into the stone read: " From the Word, the world; from the Hand, all form — by the divine grace, all beginnings endure. "

He narrowed his eyes. The infirmary was more fortress than sanctuary, more temple than hospital. And its location—right in the beating heart of Alaric city—was no coincidence. The High Church had been growing steadily in power, but this… this was a monument to their dominance. The fact that they could claim this much ground in Amorette’s second largest city, erect a structure so grand and unignorable, was proof enough that their influence had not just growing—but rapidly flourished.

They’ve entrenched themselves deep, Elliot thought grimly. And the people let them.

As the great marble gates swung open before them with a low, echoing groan, Elliot and Serena stepped onto the pristine white stone of the infirmary’s forecourt. The air smelled faintly of incense and polished metal, and high above, doves wheeled in lazy arcs beneath the spires.

They had scarcely crossed the threshold when two figures approached, gliding across the courtyard like ghosts. Both women were draped in flowing robes of ivory, layers upon layers of fine silk and embroidered linen, trimmed with delicate patterns of azure thread and subtle glints of gold. Sunlight caught the edge of their ceremonial sashes, causing them to shimmer faintly with every step.

“Welcome,” one of them said, her voice warm and practiced, like a lullaby spoken in ritual. “Celestials’ blessings upon you both. How may we serve you on this radiant day?”

Elliot froze. Words caught in his throat, tangled somewhere between suspicion and sheer social paralysis. He could barely manage eye contact, let alone speech. His mind scrambled to form a sentence that wouldn't sound ridiculous or worse—true.

Thankfully, Serena stepped in with the effortless poise of someone who had done this kind of thing many times before. She smiled brightly, catching Elliot’s injured wrist in her hand and gently guiding it forward toward the priestess.

“Yes! My companion here had a little mishap while we were out hunting,” she said breezily. “Giant mantis, out in the forest. Nasty things, very territorial.”

Elliot blinked. Mantis? He gave her a sidelong glance, but her face was the picture of serene, confident honesty. Her ability to lie without the faintest stammer was… unsettling.

One of the priestesses raised a brow, her expression still kind, but now tinged with curiosity. “Hunting giant mantis?” she repeated.

Serena didn’t miss a beat. “Oh yes. It seems we weren’t the only ones with a craving for rare chitin. Unfortunately, another Adventurine group thought they’d staked the claim first. Words were exchanged… and one of them turned out to be rather enthusiastic with fire magic.”

The priestess’s expression softened into understanding, the raised brow settling back into place. She nodded, already gesturing for them to follow. “Come, we’ll have his arm seen to immediately”

Both Elliot and Serena followed in the quiet footsteps of the priestess, her robes whispering over the polished stone as she guided them through the infirmary’s sanctified halls. The air was cool and still, heavy with the scent of lavender oil and old parchment. Muffled chants echoed from deeper within the structure, and clerics moved like drifting spirits between veiled doorways and curtained alcoves.

They were eventually led to a smaller chamber—more modest than the grand nave, but still adorned with arched ceilings and walls inlaid with celestial runes. A few cushioned benches lined the sides of the room beneath frescoes depicting scenes of divine healing and miraculous restorations. The priestess offered a gentle nod before slipping away with a promise that a healer would attend to them soon.

And so, they waited.

Elliot sat in silence, shoulders slightly hunched beneath his cloak, his injured wrist carefully cradled in the shadow of his lap. The stillness suited him. He welcomed it. In the quiet, he could listen to the distant drone of hymns, the rhythmic hush of the wind pushing through tall windows. He could think.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before the silence began to itch at Serena.

She shifted on the bench, her boots tapping lightly against the marble floor. Then, inevitably, she turned to him, her voice soft but unable to resist breaking the growing quiet.

“So… Elliot,” she began, tone cautious yet tinged with curiosity, “I think it’s safe to assume you’re not from around here, are you?”

He glanced at her, then returned his eyes to the floor. “Um… yes. In a way.”

Serena gave a knowing little smile, folding her hands over her lap as she leaned back against the wall. Her expression was bright, but there was a trace of wariness in her voice—as though trying not to press too hard, not yet.

Serena tapped a finger thoughtfully against her chin, her legs swinging idly beneath the bench. The silence clearly hadn’t lasted long enough for her liking.

“Hmm… Port city of Lewendell?” she ventured, casting a sideways glance at him with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Elliot turned to her, one brow arched in mild confusion. “Port city of what?”

“Lewendell,” she repeated, undeterred. “Bustling trade hub on the southeastern coast, smells like salt and smoked fish, full of suspiciously charming sailors and overpriced trinkets. I swear I’ve seen someone there wearing a cloak just like yours.”

He blinked. “I—what?”

She squinted at him now, as if narrowing her eyes might sharpen her memory. “No? Huh. Thought I had you pegged.” She leaned back again, not missing a beat. “Alright, how about Aberforth? That little mist-locked village in the northern forest? Or Havensteel? Though it’s boiling hot there half the year and people still wear cloaks like they’re hiding from the sun gods themselves.”

Elliot gave her a sideways look, half-bewildered. “You’re just naming random places now.”

Serena grinned, unbothered. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m narrowing down the possibilities”

He exhaled slowly, leaning against the wall with the ghost of a smirk. She was relentless. Annoyingly perceptive. But in a strange way, it was… disarming.

Serena suddenly snapped her fingers, eyes lighting up with the thrill of discovery. “Stonegard!”

Elliot flinched—just barely. A flicker of something passed over his face, and he glanced away, as if the stonework of the infirmary wall had suddenly become very interesting.

It was the confirmation Serena needed.

“A-ha!” she cried, pointing at him in triumph. “You are from Stonegard! I knew it! I should’ve guessed that sooner. I mean, it makes perfect sense—your cloak practically screams Stonegard. That silvery weave? Perfect for blending into the snowy ridgelines. That whole terrain is like a frozen canvas.”

Elliot hesitated, then gave the barest of nods. “Um… yeah,” he muttered, his voice barely above the hum of distant chanting.

Serena, oblivious to his discomfort, leaned forward with wide eyes and a grin that could melt frost. “Waw—Stonegard! I’ve never met someone from up there before! What’s it like? How’s life on the upper side of the Renoa mountain range? Is it really as cold as people say it is? Like, breath-freezing, eyelash-breaking cold?”

She was practically bouncing in place, the enthusiasm pouring out of her unchecked.

Elliot was quiet for a beat too long. His fingers brushed over the edge of his cloak, as if remembering something far colder than just snow. His gaze dropped to the tiled floor.

“…It’s actually not that cold, not as cold as how people think it is” he said at last. His tone was soft, flat—not quite nostalgic. Not quite bitter. Just distant.

Serena blinked at the sudden shift in energy but said nothing more, sensing—for once—that she may have touched something fragile beneath all that frost. Realizing her excitement had once again carried her too far, Serena drew back, her shoulders shrinking slightly as guilt crept into her expression. “Darn it,” she muttered, eyes lowering to her lap. “I’m being pushy again… sorry.”

She let out a breath—a small, deflated sigh that sounded more worn than she likely intended. The kind of sigh that came from recognizing a flaw too familiar to fight.

“I just… got a little excited,” she added after a moment, her voice quieter, more careful. “Believe it or not, I’ve always wanted to visit Stonegard.”

Elliot glanced at her, not speaking, but not pulling away either.

“My mentor, Professor Whillthrop,” Serena continued, her fingers now absentmindedly tracing the embroidery on her sleeve, “she used to talk about it all the time. Said the night sky over Stonegard was unlike anything she'd ever seen. No lanterns, no city fog—just pure, open sky. She said… it felt like you could reach up and touch the stars. Like if you tried hard enough, you could wrap your arms around them and never feel cold again.”

She gave a soft chuckle, but there was a brittle edge to it—less joy, more longing. “Funny, huh? A place so far away, so quiet, so cold... and yet somehow sounded like the warmest place in the world when she described it.”

For the first time, Elliot’s gaze lingered on her—not wary, not distant. Just quietly, curiously… present.

“Well, why haven’t you?” Elliot asked suddenly, his voice breaking the lull like a sudden shift in the wind.

“Haven’t what?” Serena tilted her head, caught off guard.

“Visited the top of the Renoas,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely as though the peaks themselves loomed beyond the infirmary walls. “If you wanted to see the true night sky, why don’t just go there?”

Serena let out a soft laugh, the sound light but edged with a hint of resignation. “Oh, come now, Mister Hargrove. You’re from Stonegard—you know how impossible it is to just stroll in or out of that place. It’s practically a walled kingdom. First line of defense against the Nivalis front. They don’t just open the gates for wandering scholars or curious mages.”

Elliot looked away, his gaze flickering to the far end of the hall where sunlight spilled through tall stained-glass windows. “Right…” he said at last—but it came out a touch too slow, too uncertain. Like someone agreeing to a truth that didn’t quite belong to him.

But Serena, caught up in the warmth of her own storytelling, didn’t seem to notice.

“Still,” she went on, her eyes lighting up again, “congratulations to you. Being born there and earning the right to leave? That’s impressive. Stonegard folk don’t exactly toss travel permits around like festival ribbons.”

Elliot’s jaw tensed ever so slightly, but he said nothing.

“And after what I saw at the tavern? You’re no novice. The way you handled those half-orcs—focus, quick, efficient, like you’d done it a dozen times before.” She gave a playful nudge to his arm. “You have to be at least Silver rank, or close to it.”

Another sigh slipped from Serena’s lips—heavier this time, laced with something more fragile than her usual bubbly exterior. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, eyes fixed on the intricately tiled floor beneath them.

“I guess some people are just born to be great adventurines,” she muttered, her voice uncharacteristically flat. “While others... can’t even make it past the trainee trials. Can’t even find an Adventurine that wanted to supervised me on my final assignment, Ugh.” She frowned for the first time since they’d entered the infirmary, and in that quiet moment, the weight of self-doubt shadowed her otherwise bright demeanor.

Elliot studied her for a second, then broke the silence. “Is that why you were talking to that guy?”

Serena blinked, as if pulled from some internal fog. “Hmm?”

“The big guy at the tavern,” Elliot clarified. “Blond. Towering. Wears a red coat like it owes him money. Has that constant scowl and smells like… burnt timber?”

Recognition hit immediately, and Serena’s entire expression soured like milk in summer. Her nose scrunched, and she waved her hand dismissively through the air like trying to bat away a foul memory. “Ugh. Mr. Barrentworth.”

She practically spat the name out.

Serena shook her head with a small, bitter laugh. “Let’s not talk about him, please. He’s… complicated. And absolutely exhausting. And somehow always angry at everything—including air he breath, I think.”

Though she had firmly claimed not to want to talk about it, Serena’s actions betrayed her words. The moment Elliot uttered the name Roderick Barrentworth, it was as if he’d broken a dam. Her silence shattered into a flurry of speech, and now he was caught in the current of her exasperated rambling.