The Dragon in his Soul: Quest for the Tears of the Gods (A Progression Fantasy Epic) by D. R. R. Hatch

Author:D. R. R. Hatch [Hatch, D. R. R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-08-29T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Masked

Aziroth stirred a pot of soup with one hand, holding a crystal ball with the other, staring deeply into its depths. Watching as the fight between Lael and Briar came to an end. The armored warrior dove through the exit, and the door slammed shut behind him, leaving Lael and Elswyth behind . . .

“Interesting . . .” he whispered. The two Soulfire artists were down two to nothing. But this was far from over. Their next destination was the Sanctum of Flames. And after that . . . one final test.

“Interesting?” the crystal ball said.

“Yes.” Aziroth scooped a spoonful of roiling soup, then brought it to his lips, sipping. It scathed his tongue, so he swallowed. Smiling as the burning liquid slid down his gullet. “Interesting.”

“I . . . fail to see why the failure of the Soulfire artists interests you.”

“That’s because you fail to see anything at all.”

“Ah . . .” Silence. “Was . . . that supposed to offend me?”

“Sure.” Aziroth took another sip of the scalding delicacy. “Ah . . . This soup is perfect! Has just the right amount of kick.” He waved a hand and called off the white Soulfire smoldering beneath the pot. The manacles on his wrists shivered, trying to block him from manipulating the fire, but the amount of mana it took to shut off a flame was minimal, so it failed to stop him. He sat down cross-legged, dipping his spoon into the boiling liquid, then sipping it up.

“Your insults could use some work, my friend,” the crystal ball muttered.

“Oh?” He took another sip of the scalding soup. “How so?”

“Well . . . consider your previous epithet. You claimed that I fail to see anything at all when, in fact, my sight is magnified fifty times over.”

“True!” Aziroth chuckled. “True.” He was in no mood to argue with the ghost, so he let the conversation drop.

“Now . . .” The ball continued, speaking in his stately voice. “If there was one man who could construct an insult, it was your great-great-great grandfather, Zuinarkinathuz.” The spirit chuckled. “In fact, I remember one time when . . .” Olhatha, the ghost abiding in the crystal ball, prattled on. But Aziroth drowned him out, staring deeply into the orb, eyes fixed on the image of Lael and Elswyth. He smiled, thinking of when the boy incinerated the tentacled mollusk, saving his friend . . . Letting Briar go. Taking yet another hit.

Aziroth let out a shuddered breath.

Trembling, restraining his excitement. He tried not to let it get the best of him, reminding himself that they weren’t the only one’s who’d made it this far. There had been another, months ago, who’d completed the forest sanctuary and this one. Giving Aziroth hope. Days later, the man died at the Sanctum of Flames, shattering that hope. . . . But he hadn’t been a Soulfire artist.

And neither was Briar.

Or . . . was he? He knew of several late bloomers, ones who didn’t discover their true identity as Soulfire artists for decades.

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