But now...Yerin was going. And he wasn't.
“Already?” he asked, and he sounded like he’d swallowed sand.
“Told you I wasn’t burning time,” she said, meeting his eyes. “They’ve got some test or something coming up. Could be my last chance, and I’m not planning to miss it.”
He wanted to say he was going to join her, wanted to leave Fisher Gesha and walk out alongside Yerin. They’d traveled together for so long, it felt wrong to be parting ways now.
But she was still rushing, he wasn’t wrong about that. The smart thing to do was wait.
If only it didn’t feel like slicing into his own chest.
“There will be another test, though? Perhaps I can join then.”
“Could be,” she said, with half a smile. “Couldn’t tell you when it is, though.”
Then, at least for now, he needed to say good-bye. He bowed at the waist, as deeply as he could. “This one thanks you for your long guidance. He could never have made it without you.”
She scratched the back of her neck with one hand. “Yeah, well...wouldn't have made it out of the Valley without you, would I? And having you around kept me busy.”
Lindon straightened and looked into her eyes. “Thank you, Yerin. I can't...ah, thank you.” It wasn't adequate, but he was afraid that if he said any more, he would embarrass himself.
She nodded, shifting her gaze. They stood in silence for a few moments before Yerin finally waved and turned on her heel. “Don’t need to make this any fancier than it has to be,” she said as she walked out. “I’ll see you soon, won’t I? Not gone forever.”
“I'll see you then!” he called after her, even as the door shut.
Fisher Gesha eyed him. “I'm sorry, boy.”
Lindon didn't hear her.
The excitement of his new arm had been completely dampened. He packed up his things in a haze, and the next thing he knew, he had returned to his room. It was simple—less appointed even than the cell where the Skysworn had kept him before, but mercifully bigger. It was connected to a kind of stable, where Orthos slept.
He stood in the center of his room, lost.
When Gesha had asked him who he was trying to catch up to, only two faces had popped into his mind: Yerin and Eithan.
Both of them were too embarrassing to say aloud. Yerin was the apprentice of a Sage, and a prodigy. Eithan was an Underlord and the Patriarch of a great family.
But they had both treated him as though he could catch up to them. They had made him believe it.
Now he was on his own.
Without knowing what he was doing, he grabbed his pack with his left hand and slipped it on. He froze halfway through, realizing he didn't need it, but it comforted him. Made him feel prepared.
Then, aimlessly, he drifted over to Orthos' room. It was broad, empty, and its walls were plated in dark, scripted metal. It had been designed to hold contracted sacred beasts, or so Lindon had been told.
Orthos hadn't been asleep, which Lindon had expected from the feel of his spirit. Instead, the turtle was munching on a pile of rocks and broken chunks of street that Lindon had scavenged from around the city. The red circles of his eyes pivoted to Lindon as he entered, but the turtle didn't say anything. He just kept chewing away.
Lindon hugged his pack to himself—with one arm, because the other had rebelled again—and sat down.
Orthos felt confused and weak again. The years he'd spent with a damaged spirit had left their mark on his mind. Now, he was struggling to think.
Little Blue popped up from inside Lindon's robes, eyeing Orthos. With a quick glance at Lindon, she hurried across the floor, resting her blue hand on one of the turtle's forelegs.
His spirit and body shuddered as the Sylvan Riverseed's power cleansed his madra channels, but he kept munching away on the rock.
“Lin...don...” he said, through a mouthful of gravel.
Little Blue gave him a mournful whistle and then drifted back to Lindon.
“Good morning, Orthos,” Lindon said.
“...arm,” the turtle forced out.
“It's a new one,” Lindon said, holding it up and twisting it with difficulty. “But it should be an improvement.”
Orthos' consciousness was growing sharper by the second, but he was still having trouble with speech. After a moment, he gave a single nod. “Good. Like it.”
Well, he'd gotten approval from Yerin and Orthos.
“I think you and Yerin will be happier the more frightening I look,” Lindon said, idly opening his pack.
“Dragons...are frightening,” Orthos said, the red in his eyes shining.
“That doesn't mean I want to be,” Lindon said, flipping through his belongings. He was taking inventory.
Here, in this room, was everything he had left.
Little Blue, Orthos, and the contents of his pack. Eithan would still help him, but Eithan was gone. Who knew when the Underlord would return? He had been fickle even before the Emperor had needed him to resolve an imperial crisis.
He dug down past a portable rune-light, a spare set of clothes, and a ball of string. Counting everything in his pack calmed him, gave him a sense of control. He had prepared for everything he could, and these were the fruits of his preparation.
After only a moment, his fingertips brushed old, yellowed paper. He pulled it out: The Heart of Twin Stars, the cover said.
Inside, he had written on the blank sheets the manual had included, and had added more pages within as necessary.
The Path of Twin Stars, he had written, in his own handwriting.
Here, he had recorded every step of his advancement. The uses of pure madra. Notes on the performance, range, and feel of the Empty Palm technique. He had recorded his experience splitting his core, and how he had used scales he Forged himself to expand his capacity. He recorded when he'd moved on to the Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel technique—though he was vague on those details, following Eithan's advice to keep that cycling method a secret.
After that, his notes were sparse. He'd recorded the pills Eithan had given him to train, and how he had refined Lowgold and Highgold cores for Lindon's digestion. That was the method Lindon had used to reach Lowgold in his pure core.
But that was all. There were still more blank pages left.
Lindon sat for entirely too long, holding the manual in his hand. The feel of the old paper, the smell of it, brought back old feelings.
How he'd felt when Yerin taught him that an Unsouled was a fabrication of Sacred Valley. How he could carve out his own Path.
“Orthos,” Lindon said quietly. “Yerin went to join the Skysworn.”
The turtle grumbled for a moment before forcing out, “Why?”
“They're fighting against Redmoon Hall.”
Rage boiled up in Orthos' spirit. Lindon could feel it, pushing against the sacred beast's restraints. He had heard about the bloodspawn, what they'd done while he slept, and that they'd come from a Dreadgod. In his mind, Redmoon Hall had made a fool of him while he slept.
Orthos kept himself under control, but he rose up to his full height, turning his head to face Lindon. “And you? You will allow them to do as they wish, unopposed?”
At least he was back to full sentences.
“The smarter choice is to stay with the Arelius family,” Lindon said. “Get stronger first. If I went to fight now, I wouldn't offer anything. I'd be going to lose, or to die.”
Orthos backed him against the wall, looming over him. Lindon felt a pang of fear, though he could sense that the turtle was totally in control. He had fought against the wild Orthos too many times to be entirely comfortable.
“A dragon does not allow fear to make his decisions for him,” Orthos rumbled. “A dragon decides for himself.”