Chapter 30

  Francis woke to find himself in a proper tent with furs beneath him and a small fire burning nearby. His body felt better than it had in weeks, the divine healing from the ceremony having erased every ache and pain. He sat up, stretching, and noticed the barbarian clothing folded neatly beside him, along with Glitvall's ancestral axe.

  He dressed slowly, running his hand over his chest where the tattoo had been. The skin was smooth and unmarked, but he could feel something there beneath the surface. Power, waiting.

  When Francis stepped outside, the difference was immediate. Warriors who'd previously looked at him with skepticism or outright hostility now nodded in greeting. Some even raised their weapons in acknowledgment. Francis was no longer the Southerner who didn't belong. He was one of them now, marked by their gods and claimed by their people.

  A young barbarian approached, barely taller than Francis but still massive by southern standards. "High Shaman Greythorn requests your presence. I am to take you to her."

  Francis followed the warrior through the camp, noting how people watched him pass. Not with the hostile stares from before, but with curiosity and something that might have been respect. They reached the shaman section, and Francis felt the familiar weight of power in the air.

  The young warrior stopped at the entrance to Greythorn's tent. "She waits within."

  Francis ducked through the flap and entered for what would probably be the first time in a lot of loops.

  Glitvall had told him that the inside of this tent was considered holy according to a word Francis’s people used. The barbarians called it sacred. None would talk about what was inside because to do so meant sharing something not to be shared..

  The blue-green flames in the central fire pit cast everything in an otherworldly light. Carved idols ringed the pit, their stone faces watching Francis with what felt like genuine awareness. Against the far wall stood the altar, a collection of offerings and relics that spoke of decades of ritual. Skulls held candles, broken weapons were arranged in specific patterns, and in the center sat a bowl carved from ice that appeared not to melt.

  Greythorn sat on her carved stone seat, her pale eyes fixed on Francis as he entered.

  "Sit," she said, gesturing to the wooden and leather seat across from her.

  Francis sat, feeling the weight of her gaze.

  "You are one of us now," Greythorn said. "Mark given, blood spilled, pain endured. But ceremony is not teaching. Power you have within, yet use it you cannot. Not yet."

  Francis nodded, waiting for her to continue.

  "You must unlock ability to call upon magic we do. Core within, power flows through veins. But first..." She leaned forward, her eyes seeming to glow faintly. "Have you touched magic before? Not fighting against it, but using it yourself?"

  Francis considered his answer carefully. "I have skills that interact with magic. I don’t have a Magic Sense ability, yet I’ve learned to feel the magical threads around me. Magic Resistance helps protect me from hostile spells, but it doesn’t affect those that are meant to aid. And..." He paused, unsure how she'd react. "Magic Feedback… When magic is used against me, I can cause damage back to the one who cast the spell."

  Greythorn's expression shifted, and Francis saw something like respect flicker across her painted face. "Magic Feedback... that one is... feared. Dangerous for those who cast, revealing for those who possess. But useful, yes. Very useful for learning."

  She stood and moved to the altar, retrieving a small leather pouch. "For now, you must learn to locate your core. Center of power, source of strength. Without finding it, you cannot draw from it. Without drawing, you cannot use."

  Greythorn opened the pouch and pulled out what appeared to be dried herbs mixed with small crystals. She sprinkled them into the fire, and the flames shifted from blue-green to a deep purple. The smoke that rose smelled sharp and clean, and Francis felt his head clear as he breathed it in.

  "Others will teach you methods we use. Learn what you can, adapt what you must. Your path may be different, but destination is same." She looked toward the tent flap and called out something in her language.

  Three shamans entered, each one painted and adorned in a distinct manner. The first was an older man with white hair and scars covering his arms. The second was a woman younger than Greythorn, but no less intimidating; her face was painted with symbols that looked like frozen lightning. The third was massive, even by barbarian standards; his body was covered in tattoos that seemed to move in the firelight.

  "This is Vorgrim," Greythorn said, gesturing to the scarred man. "He will teach you breath. This is Lyska," the woman with lightning symbols. "She will teach you stillness. This is Haldor," the massive tattooed man. "He will teach you violence. Three paths to core, three ways to find. Learn from all, or learn from one. Choice is yours."

  Francis looked at each of them, feeling their power radiating in different ways. "I'll learn from all three."

  ---

  Vorgrim took Francis outside to a quiet area away from the main camp. The older shaman sat cross-legged on the frozen ground and gestured for Francis to do the same.

  "Breath is life," Vorgrim said, his voice rough like gravel. "Breath is power. Before you find core, you must learn to breathe correctly."

  "I know how to breathe," Francis said, then immediately regretted it when Vorgrim's eyes narrowed.

  "You know how to survive. Not same thing. Watch."

  Vorgrim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. But it wasn't a normal breath. Francis could see the man's chest expand, but more than that, he could feel something shift in the air around them. The old shaman held the breath, and Francis's Magic Sense tingled as power gathered.

  When Vorgrim exhaled, steam rose from his mouth despite the cold, and Francis felt a wave of warmth wash over him.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "Breath draws power from core," Vorgrim explained. "Power flows through veins, fills body, returns to core. Cycle continues. You must learn cycle."

  For the next hour, Vorgrim taught Francis a breathing pattern. In through the nose for a count of four, hold for seven, out through the mouth for eight. Over and over, maintaining the rhythm until Francis's lungs burned and his head felt light.

  "Focus on chest," Vorgrim instructed. "Where heart beats, where breath centers. Core lives there. Feel for it."

  Francis tried, maintaining the breathing pattern while turning his attention inward. He felt his heart beating, his lungs expanding and contracting, but couldn't sense anything beyond normal physiological functions.

  "Nothing yet," Vorgrim said. "Expected. Takes time. Continue practice. Lyska will show you next path."

  ---

  Lyska brought Francis to a different location, this one near a frozen stream. She stood at the edge of the ice and looked at Francis with eyes that seemed to crackle with energy.

  "Vorgrim teaches breath, teaches movement," Lyska said. "I teach opposite. I teach stillness so complete that body forgets to exist. When body quiets, core reveals itself."

  She sat on the ice without ceremony, her legs crossed, her hands resting on her knees. "Sit. Do not move. Not finger, not eye, not breath more than needed. Become ice. Become stone. Become nothing."

  Francis sat on the frozen stream and tried to comply. At first, it seemed simple enough. He'd spent time sitting still before. But as minutes stretched into what felt like hours, his body began to rebel. His muscles yearned to move and stretch. His nose itched, begging for a little relief. His back ached from the posture he had chosen.

  "Do not move," Lyska said without opening her eyes. "Pain is distraction. Ignore it."

  Francis gritted his teeth and remained still. His Pain Resistance helped, dulling the discomfort but not eliminating it entirely. The discomfort was there, letting him know it didn’t like this method. Even when a blade cut his flesh and Pain Resistance muted the agony, he knew it was there, aware that he had been injured. Time passed, and Francis lost track of how long they'd been sitting. The sun moved across the sky, casting different shadows, but neither of them moved.

  Finally, when Francis thought he might scream from the need to move, Lyska spoke.

  "Now. While body is quiet. Look inward. Find the warmth that remains when all else is cold."

  Francis turned his attention inward again, and this time, something was different. His body was so still, so quiet, that he could sense things he normally couldn't. He felt his blood coursing through his veins, the electric pulses of his nerves, and the steady rhythm of his heart.

  And, deeper still, beneath all of that, he felt something warm. Not hot like the burning coal, but a gentle heat that radiated from somewhere in his chest.

  Is that it?

  "Good," Lyska said, opening her eyes. "You touched edge of it. Not enough to use, but enough to know it exists. Haldor will teach you the rest."

  ---

  Haldor took Francis to a training ground where several warriors were sparring. The massive shaman watched them for a moment before turning to Francis.

  "Vorgrim teaches you to find core through breath. Lyska teaches through stillness. I teach through violence."

  He picked up a training axe and tossed it to Francis, who caught it reflexively.

  "Fight me," Haldor said simply.

  Francis barely had time to register the command before Haldor was on him. The shaman moved with shocking speed for someone so large, his training axe whistling through the air. Francis blocked on instinct, his own weapon coming up to deflect the strike.

  They fought, and Francis quickly realized Haldor was good. Not just strong, but skilled, his movements economical and precise. Francis used everything he'd learned from the Ursaloths, from Glitvall, from dying hundreds of times. Even though he wasn’t trained in using an axe, the movements were similar in some ways. Mainly, don’t get hit.

  "Good," Haldor said between strikes. "Now, while fighting, find your core. Violence strips away pretense. Pain focuses mind. In battle, core burns brightest."

  Haldor's next strike was harder, faster, and Francis felt it jar his arms. The impact triggered Warrior's Resolve, and power flooded through him. For a moment, Francis felt stronger, faster, more capable.

  And in that moment, he felt something else. The warmth Lyska had helped him sense flared brighter, hotter, responding to the skill activation.

  "There!" Haldor shouted. "You felt it! Again!"

  He struck Francis again, and again, each blow triggering Warrior's Resolve without causing serious injury. And each time, Francis felt that warmth respond, growing stronger, more defined.

  Finally, Haldor stepped back, lowering his weapon. "Enough. You have felt it three times now. Breathing taught you rhythm. Stillness taught you awareness. Violence taught you recognition. Now you must combine all three."

  ---

  Francis sat alone in his tent that night, his body sore from the day's training. He closed his eyes and began Vorgrim's breathing pattern. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. The rhythm steadied him, centered him.

  Then he applied Lyska's stillness, letting his body quiet until the only things he could sense were his heartbeat and that faint warmth in his chest.

  Finally, he remembered Haldor's violence, the way Warrior's Resolve had made that warmth flare. He didn't activate the skill, but he remembered the sensation, remembered how the warmth had responded.

  And then Francis did something the shamans hadn't suggested. He called upon all the experiences he had ever had with magic, searching for the threads that he had learned to sense.

  Turning that knowledge within, Francis reached out to the core that he had barely touched today, seeking what he hoped to find. Time passed, and then he saw them.

  Threads.

  Not the thick veins the shamans had described, but thin, delicate threads of power that spread throughout his body like a spider's web. They were almost invisible, even to Francis, even after learning to sense them, but they were there. Dozens of them, hundreds maybe, all connected to a central point in his chest where that warmth resided.

  His core.

  Francis's eyes snapped open, and he gasped. The vision faded, but the knowledge remained. He'd found it. Not veins like the barbarians described, but a lattice of threads spreading from his core like a web of power waiting to be used.

  Different, but the same. Threads instead of veins. My path instead of theirs.

  Francis smiled in the darkness of his tent. He'd found his core, and now the real training could begin.

  ?