Chapter 9 – Echoes of the Past
The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, gilding the rooftops of our village with soft rose and gold—an ordinary morning, or so it seemed, until five legendary figures strolled in as casually as if they were travelers pausing at a crossroads. I sat in our humble kitchen, halfway through a thick slice of freshly baked bread, its jam-slicked sweetness warming my tongue, when a single, astonished cry cleaved the tranquil air.
"Is that—?"
"Wait—Red Wind? She's here?"
"By the gods, it's Cedric's crew—the real crew!"
I abandoned spoon and plate in one fluid motion and sprinted for the gate. My heart pounded in my ears until I skidded to a halt on loose gravel, breath misting in the cool morning. There they were: five towering silhouettes framed by the swirling dust beneath the ancient stone archway, each exuding the confidence of warriors who had slain monsters and broken sieges before breakfast—and lived to laugh about it.
At their forefront strode my father, his grin broad and bright, as carefree as a child at a summer fair.
---
Let me introduce them properly.
Vira "Red Wind" Thorne led the charge. Her flaming crimson hair lashed around her face like living fire, and her eyes, the color of an approaching storm, scanned every villager with razor-keen precision. Twin curved blades—edges gleaming in dawn's light—hung at her hips, but it was the crackle of wind magic humming around her boots, lifting stray leaves in a whirl, that truly marked her as a force of nature.
Behind her came Brannock Stonejaw, a brawny colossus who moved with the weight and authority of a mountain. His massive warhammer, nearly as tall as I was, rested casually across one broad shoulder. Yet the same hands that wielded such destruction could cradle an injured sparrow—his laughter rumbled like distant boulders tumbling down a friendly slope.
Beside him, drifting in like a whisper of ice, was Lira Moonveil. Her skin was pale as the freshest snowfall, her voice as chilling as crackling frost. The air around her shimmered with crystalline magic; villagers stepped lightly around her, as if even the ground feared to thaw in her presence.
Juno Sparkspark flared next, a human spark of kinetic energy. Golden hair stood on end from static, eyes dancing with mischief. She grinned so wide I half-expected to see lightning crackle from her fingertips. Rumor said she could snatch your coin purse—and your life—before you even noticed what you'd lost.
Bringing up the rear was Sorin Ashvale, my father's old sparring rival. His twin blades, forged in dragonfire, glowed faintly, embers pulsing along the steel. His expression was stern, memories of countless battles etched into every line of his face—yet when he spotted Dad, the tension melted, and a genuine, if rare, smile curved his lips.
They converged on my father like brothers reunited after an age apart.
"You still alive in one piece?" Vira teased, the wind swirling around her laughter.
"Just about," Dad shot back, matching her grin.
"Must be Sera's cooking keeping you upright," Brannock rumbled.
A dry voice called from behind me: "I will murder you where you stand." That was my mother, deadpan as ever—and every one of them roared with laughter.
---
That evening, our modest home became a lively fortress of merriment. The dining table sagged beneath platters of roasted meat and steaming vegetables. Brannock's elbow snapped a chair to splinters. Juno filched the salt cellar before anyone blinked. Vira and Sorin argued over the proper brewing temperature for tea leaves—he favored a fierce boil; she insisted on a gentle steep. Lira's icy glare quelled any sparks of chaos, though her silence spoke volumes. All the while, I perched on a stool at the edge of the room, drinking in every sound: the crash of tankards, the barbs traded like friendly blows, the echoes of old loyalty resurfacing like embers in a hearth.
They noticed me at last. Vira's storm-gray eyes locked onto mine. "You're Theo?"
"Yeah," I replied, voice steady.
"My father says you're training."
I nodded.
"Sword and magic, both?"
I managed a small affirmative.
Her grin sharpened into something like a challenge. "Show us tomorrow."
---
Before sunrise, I found myself in the training yard, Kael and Noah practically vibrating with excitement at the sidelines. "You're about to spar with living legends!" Kael whispered.
"I'm not here to win," I murmured, tightening my grip on the hilt of my sword.
Vira stepped forward, the wind at her command howling softly around her boots. Twin blades ignited with eager anticipation as she advanced. I drew my own sword, heart hammering, and centered my breath. Her first strike was a blur—I ducked beneath the gleaming arc. The second blow I met with my steel, sparks dancing as blades kissed. A breath of wind—just enough to shift my stance—carried me aside, careful not to reveal the full fire-woven power humming at my fingertips.
Every feint from her was a question: Can you handle this? I answered with a flicker of flame that brushed the air, then a gentle gust that cleared the dust from the courtyard—it was modest, merely a hint of my true gift, enough to keep her guessing. The onlookers murmured: Brannock whistled low, Sorin studied me with keen interest, Lira's pale gaze never moved, and Juno leaned close to Kael, whispering, "He's hiding something." I stumbled in surprise at her words—and she winked. "Probably snacks."
When Vira launched her final lunge, I exhaled, a controlled breath of wind guiding my blade to intercept hers. The clash rang out, then stilled in a soft whisper. She stood back, chest rising and falling, and allowed herself a nod of respect. "Not bad, birthday boy."
---
Next came Sorin—no magic, just the cold rhythm of steel on steel. We danced that deadly tango of thrust and parry. His movements were artistry born of countless battles; mine were precise but earnest. I slipped, half a heartbeat too late, and his blade found a nick in my guard. He stepped back, sheathed his sword, and offered me a rare, approving smile. "One day, you'll be better than me."
"Who?" I asked, breath ragged.
"Him," Sorin said, gesturing to himself with quiet pride.
---
By dusk, my arms felt like iron bands, every muscle humming. But my secret remained safe: no earth, no water—only enough fire and wind to seem skilled, not extraordinary. They patted my shoulders, praised my promise, and told Dad he had every reason to beam with pride. They thought they'd seen my full measure. They had no clue.
---
Later, when the others recounted war stories around a crackling fire, I slipped away to sit beside my father beneath a canopy of stars. Sparks drifted upward, fading into the night sky.
"You held back," he said softly, voice threaded with both pride and concern.
I stiffened. "I didn't want to overreach."
He was silent, watching the glowing embers ascend. Finally, he placed a hand on my shoulder. "Strength doesn't always need to shout. Sometimes the wisest move is patience."
I let the words settle, gazing at that tapestry of distant suns.
"Are you worried what they'll say?" he asked after a long moment.
"A little," I admitted.
He smiled, warm and reassuring in the firelight. "You're strong, Theo. Stronger than I ever was. When the time comes, you'll know what to do."
I said nothing more, tucking my secret close to my heart. A quiet smile curved my lips, and for the first time in a long while, I felt ready for whatever echoed through the shadows of my future.