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Arus followed Vultrel and Eaisan back toward Keroko, lost in his feelings, battling the once-silent need for vengeance that had only recently begun to stir. It was a desire that he knew went against everything he'd ever believed in and everything that his father, his grandfather, and even his great grandfather had stood for. The Sheeth family had always been known for their chivalry. Things like revenge and bloodlust had no place in their lives, but the more he thought about it, the more Arus found himself trying to justify his anger. His heart screamed at him for it, telling him that it was wrong no matter what excuses he made up, and yet . . .
"And then, Melia told me she thought I was cute," Vultrel was rambling. "Can you believe that?"
"Not for a second," Eaisan laughed.
Vultrel nodded. "Well, she did. And she said she'd like to get breakfast with me in the morning sometime. Hey, Arus, wouldn't that be fun? You could invite Katlyn along and we could all go together!"
Arus couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Oh, sure. That would be—"
Eaisan suddenly stopped short, his back straight and his eyes alert. He looked hard at the surrounding woodland, studying it, watching it, listening to it. His gaze turned to seemingly random places, but his eyes were focused as though they had already locked their target. Arus and Vultrel remained quiet, looking around in search of whatever had drawn their master's attention. Arus noticed that Eaisan's hand had moved to the hilt of his sword. He unconsciously rested his palm on the handle of his own and tried to beat back the thumping of his heart.
"We're being followed," Eaisan's voice was barely audible, but he didn't need to repeat it. Vultrel began to slide his sword from the scabbard on his back, but a sharp look from his father stopped him.
"Go ahead. Draw your weapon."
The scratchy voice came from the trees to the east. Arus gripped the handle of his weapon but waited for Eaisan to make the first move. Vultrel stood to his father's left, and Arus moved to his right.
"You may as well come out now that you've revealed yourself," Eaisan said, his voice calm as ever. "We are peaceful, so long as you are."
A man wearing black and yellow stepped from behind one of the trees before them. His blond hair glistened in the sunlight, and his eyes were narrow over an arrogant grin. A thick beard covered most of his face, its color almost matching the yellow of the shirt he wore beneath his black vest. "Well, well, well," his deep voice spoke, "If it isn't ‘Master' Eaisan Lurei." His emphasis suggested he was mocking the title. "What are you doing wandering the forest with these children?"
Eaisan's voice never wavered. He spoke as though he was having a pleasant conversation with a friend. His words said otherwise. "I don't see how that's any of your business. I don't even know you."
"You don't remember?" the man said with a snort. "We've met many times on the battlefield."
"You are Vermillion Mage, then?"
"The grandest of them," the grin widened. "Boss, leader, king, ruler, champion; call it what you like. Allow me to introduce myself," he bowed deeply in artificial respect. "I am Sartan Truce."
"Truce . . ." Arus murmured. "Son of Aratus."
He hadn't expected Sartan to hear, but the Mage looked at him. "You know your history, I see. Did your father teach you that?"
Arus gripped his sword, still sheathed. If there was ever one to exact revenge upon, it is this man. "He did," he said, deciding it would be best if he limited his words.
Sartan looked back at Eaisan. "How nice. What else have you taught him, hmm? Taught him how to fight? Have you taught him how to wield that blade he clutches so tightly?"
Eaisan held up his hand. "I am not the boy's father, if that is what you're suggesting."
A brief moment of confusion flashed across Sartan's face, but the smile returned almost instantly. "Tragic to lose one's father at such a young age. How did he die?"
"You know how he died," Arus growled. His blood boiled, and the weapon at his side inched from the scabbard. "You and your dogs killed him during the—"
He was cut off by the waving of Eaisan's hand, but it was too late. A smile, this one genuine, formed on Truce's face. "Many died during the war, but only one wielded that sword. It is the weapon that impaled my father—the old fool—and only the son of Dayne Sheeth would be worthy of carrying it."
"Enough of this!" Eaisan shouted, his calm disposition shattering. "What do you want from us?"
Sartan's smile also vanished. "What do you think I want?"
His words hung in the air as several more men revealed themselves from the woods. There were at least twenty, perhaps more, Vermillion Mages scattered amongst the trees. To Arus' left, another man in black and yellow caught his eye. It was the man he'd fought with at the Festival—the one who'd tried to kidnap Max. The Mage glanced at another on the opposite side, a slim man with an oversized nose and an orange shirt. A small metal device of some kind sat in a leather holster on his right side, but Arus couldn't make it out. Beside Eaisan, Vultrel's anxiousness was evident, but Arus couldn't tell whether he wanted to fight or escape. His master wore an intimidating expression, his eyes like daggers aimed at Truce.
"If it's a duel with me you seek, it is yours," Eaisan said. "But leave the boys out of this."
"But they look so eager to fight," Sartan's antagonistic smile had already returned. He turned his attention to Vultrel, and it was then that Arus noticed the broadsword strapped to Truce's back. "What's your name, little boy?"
Vultrel finally drew his sword and readied it as though he meant to attack. "Vultrel Lurei. Call me a ‘little boy' if you must. It will give me something to remember when I carve the tongue from your mouth."
Another brief expression—excitement this time—crossed Sartan's face. He glanced at the other Mage in yellow and muttered something. Too good to be true, he said.
Eaisan and Sartan continued arguing back and forth while Arus searched for any means of escape. The Mages had completely surrounded the area, leaving not a gap wider than a cow between them. Some wore swords on their backs while others had metal devices like the big-nosed man. Still, regardless of how skilled they were with weapons, Arus knew they had awesome powers at their disposal.
"And what of you, young man?" Sartan was once again looking at him. "Do you wish to wield that blade in combat against me?"
Arus locked eyes with Truce. Kill him and be done with these feelings. Kill him and Father will be avenged. Kill him and every last one of his allies! KILL HIM!
"NO!" Arus shouted, clenching his fists. He ground his teeth and turned away from Sartan. "I won't succumb to such nonsense!"
"Such extreme anger for such a child," Sartan spoke as calmly as ever. "I wonder if there's more . . ."
A sharp pain, brief but piercing, shot through Arus' temple. The sounds around him began to fade, pushed to the back of his mind. Visions filled his head. Memories of years past. Adjusting to his role as the man of the house, learning the chores that Dayne had once held—it all came flooding back to him in a surge of emotion. He remembered the sadness, the emptiness, the warmth and joy his father had brought to his home, and the hollow void he'd left behind. He remembered the day his father handed him his sword, lying on his deathbed, moments before he breathed his last. His soul churned with turmoil as the morals and teachings that Dayne and Eaisan had instilled within him were abruptly cast aside, replaced by an unfathomable bloodlust and rage. Arus seethed with anger, tears running down his face, his sword now drawn. The only thing that mattered, the only thing he wanted, and the only thing he believed would purge those cursed feelings had suddenly become the only driving-force in his life. He would drown his sword—Dayne Sheeth's sword—in Vermillion blood, or he would die trying.
Arus raised his weapon in his father's stance and stepped toward the Mage. He could hear Eaisan screaming in the background—something about resisting—but it was l
ittle more than a muddled echo behind his blinding rage. He could barely feel his boots beating across the dirt as he ran. It wasn't until his weapon was inches from Sartan's chest that a white wall of flame burst from the ground. The searing heat knocked him back like a cudgel to the chest, throwing his body to the dirt with such force that his sword flew from his grip. The world spun as he tried to focus, vaguely aware of the battle that had erupted around him. He could hear Eaisan and Vultrel calling his name amidst the clashing of swords, but soon they, too, were silenced. Truce's laughter filled his ears as darkness overtook him.