Aziz
The two figures moved in single file through the hush of the wet forest. Rain from the night before dripped from the canopy in slow, patient taps. Mist coiled around Aziz's boots like pale snakes.
Cold water slid down the back of his neck. He ignored it.
His eyes stayed on the signs only he seemed to notice. A snapped twig. Moss scraped thin. The land whispered a path, if one listened hard enough.
Behind him, her voice scratched at his thoughts.
"So if someone's an Arcane Channeler, that means they can't die, right? I heard they heal from anything."
A branch cracked under his heel. His jaw tightened.
"No."
He shoved through the ferns and ducked beneath a sagging limb. When he stopped, she nearly collided with his back. He knelt, staring at a churned patch of earth.
They had crossed their own trail.
The air felt colder now.
"Why is it," she pressed, "that only royal blood can hold the Arcane?"
"Quiet."
The word fell flat and sharp. She obeyed for two steps.
Then, "Could you teach me? Just a little. I learn fast."
Aziz turned so fast she almost struck his chest. He caught her elbow before she fell.
"Do you ever stop talking?"
She blinked, rain clinging to her lashes. "I just want to know."
They reached a fallen log swallowed by thorns and moss. The forest pressed close, green and watching.
Aziz dropped his pack into the mud.
"Sit," he said. "One question at a time. Or I leave you here for the crows."
She dropped onto the slick bark, hugging her knees, eyes fixed on him.
He crouched and dragged his fingers through the damp soil.
"The Arcane," he said, "is the energy our souls give off. It's everywhere, in everything. Most people just never notice it."
He traced a line. "Like a wound you do not notice until someone points it out."
She leaned forward. "And the royals?"
"They did not inherit it," he said. "They took it. Slaughtered scholars. Bound the raw essence into their blood. Then crowned themselves above the rest."
"So they think they are gods."
Aziz stood.
"It is not sorcery," he said. "It is will."
He tapped his temple once.
Her voice softened. "Could you teach me?
He hoisted his pack. "Enough. We move. Find ground that slopes down."
"Oh, so downhill is the way out?"
He shot her a look. "Do not test me."
He stepped closer, words forming, then stopped.
The gun.
He pulled it free and held it between them.
Her smile vanished.
"Where did this come from?" he asked.
Her gaze hardened. "Where did you get that?"
"Bandit," he said. "He tried to use it."
The memory burned sharp. The bullet snapping back. The skull breaking.
Her jaw clenched.
"That weapon burned my village," she said. "My father died pulling me from the wreckage."
Silence pressed in.
Aziz slid the gun away. "I am sorry."
She laughed once, harsh. "So the royal cub bleeds after all."
"Who is giving these out?" he asked. "Who arms filth like that?"
"No one sells them."
He stepped closer. "Explain."
She jabbed a finger into his chest. "They are handed out. Free. To every brute too dull to hold a blade."
His arms crossed. "Then who does it?"
She tilted her head, pity sharp in her eyes. "Truly? It is your own blood. The Royal Family."
Her voice cut off as she turned and pushed through the brush.
"And their camp is close," she added. "Two ridges west."
Aziz watched her go.
Father. The ache returned, tight and deep.
Hold on a little longer.
She called back through the trees. "Move, hero! Night will catch us if you keep staring at moss."
He exhaled, adjusted his pack, and followed her into the green.