Shattered Line

Chapter 4: Peace and Quiet

A loud bang jostled Isla awake. On instinct, she tumbled over the bed's edge, grasping her sword. Her stance lowered and she eyed the noise's source.

"Woah!" Leef spouted.

"Why is it you..." Isla sighed before standing straight and lowering her weapon.

"Oh, sorry." His chubby cheeks reddened and his gaze dropped.

"What do you want?"

"Rydin made food." He pointed towards the door, his finger drooping.

"No need."

"But..."

"I'm fine." She turned, studying the hazed sky and delicate sprinkle wetting the landscape. A weak gust entered her domain, freeing her locks. "Go on."

Her words spurred his soft, quick, footsteps to action, the sound mellowing to silence. She listened one second more then cloaked and booted herself. With the sheathed sword tucked under her arm, she pushed the wooden shutters fully open.

Propping herself onto the sill, Isla tucked and lifted her legs, swinging them outside. Her fluid movements cleared the opening's dimensions and she landed, her feet sinking.

She wiped her hands, cleaning the imprinted dirt. Combing the dull yard, she spotted a recessed clump of trees and beyond the distant smoke streams of Bartez. She walked the muddied path, veering left uphill. A single tree flourished upon the peak with an expansive reach to deflect the elements. Deep scars marked the trunk, delving deep past the bark.

She leaned against the rough surface and sifted through her cloak's pockets. Dampness met her fingers, the delicate map a bundled trap. Slowly, Isla removed the article, an inch forward and the portion ripped clean. "Seriously..." she sighed.

Unfolding the soaked paper wad revealed the water-streaked colors, even more unreadable than the harm caused by Maron's wench. She shoved the piece inside her cloak and scoured the horizon. Her thoughts drifted. Great, now what should she do?

Instigating those fools in Maron had likely quickened her bounty's news. She should have ignored the brute. Should have, would have, but didn't. She shook her head. Still not happening, ever. How could she accept becoming a plaything? Her answer would be the same no matter how many lives she lived. Was this the seventh? She hadn't remembered as the last few blurred together.

Still, even though an accelerated hunt seemed imminent, what bothered her was Skye. How did he find her? Had her aura's seal weakened?

Twenty years. Five less than her previous life. Again, her aura—or magic ability—had heightened.

Any non-God worshipper would be ecstatic. More power, more strength, who would refuse? But did they have a sick and deranged father using that very ability to locate them? Of course not.

Isla sighed, rubbing her forehead. Forget him, forget finding her father and ending this torturous game, he could wait. She needed an improved technique for suppressing her aura. Squash the source, and no more unannounced visits by Skye.

Only problem: an extensive archive on magic theory didn't appear when called. If such existed on Detra, the magic suppressing inhabitants would cry blasphemy. Which meant leaving these water entrenched lands for a warmer and drier place.

Even worse, her current needs required constructing a spell with multiple layers upon her body. Get one layer wrong, and she risked harm worse than death. Tricky and dangerous.

She tilted her head back, shutting her lids. "For once, can't this be easy," she murmured.

"What's the problem?" Rydin voiced.