Читать книгу The Oyxia Chronicles: Shadow of Lorian - - Страница 2

The fire surged too fast.

Dry straw ignited as if it had been waiting for that very moment—the flames leapt upward, greedy and crackling, devouring everything in their path. People screamed. Some ran toward the well, others froze, unsure what to do.

“Water!” someone shouted. “Put it out! Put it out!”

Leonard stood a few steps from the shed, feeling heat build in his chest. Not fear—something else. Hot, crushing, as if the fire was not only outside, but inside him as well.

He didn’t understand what he was doing.

He simply stepped forward.

His arm extended on its own, fingers tightening—and the flames faltered, as though they had struck an invisible wall. In the next instant, the fire collapsed in on itself, vanishing, leaving only smoke and the stench of char.

Silence fell.

Leonard stood motionless, a heavy sensation lingering in his hand—as if he had been holding something vast and unseen.

What did I just do…?

Someone crossed themselves. Others whispered.

His father grabbed his shoulder sharply.

“Home. Now.”

Leonard felt a wave of dizziness and, without quite realizing how, found himself back in the house.

That night, Leonard was forbidden to speak of what had happened. But rumors do not ask permission.

Tirgald was a small village, and secrets did not survive long there.

Life was simple: livestock, fields, hearth. The villagers disliked change and distrusted those who thought too much. Leonard had known this since childhood. His books, his experiments, his attempts to understand the nature of fire had always unsettled his neighbors.

“What use is learning when you have a shovel and a flock of sheep?” the village elder used to grumble.

Leonard was thin, slightly hunched—a consequence of long hours bent over books. His red hair was perpetually unkempt, as if he forgot about it entirely, and his hands were almost always marked with burns or ink stains.

He was used to being strange.

Now, he was dangerous.

Several weeks passed before a stranger arrived in Tirgald.

Tall, with a mane of gray hair, wearing a dark cloak embroidered with crimson patterns. He introduced himself as Valkerian.

Leonard sensed him before he saw him. The heat within stirred again—uneasy, alert.

On the square, the mage spoke with the village elder. Later, Valkerian sat at a roughly hewn table in the elder’s house.

“Tell me about the boy,” he said calmly. “The one who commands fire.”

The elder hesitated.

“We don’t like such talk. Magic… it brings trouble. Leonard is a good lad. Just… strange.”

“Power frightens those who cannot control it,” Valkerian replied. “He must learn.”

The elder sighed.

“And will that be a blessing for him? And for us?”

But the mage already knew the answer.

When Valkerian announced that Leonard was to go with him, the house filled with heavy silence.

His mother sat by the hearth, clutching an embroidered handkerchief. His father stood with arms crossed.

“You mean to take our son?” his mother asked, her voice trembling.

“His gift cannot be ignored.”

“A gift—or a curse?” his father shot back.

“Without training, it will become a curse,” the mage said. “You saw the fire. Next time, it may not go out.”

“I’m not a child,” Leonard said, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. “I need to know who I am.”

His father studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded.

“Go. But remember where you come from.”

His mother embraced him—tight, desperate.

His sister came last. In her hands she held an old wooden figurine of a rider.

“Take it,” she said quietly. “So you won’t forget us.”

Leonard slipped the figurine into his bag.

“I’ll remember.”

She turned away quickly, so he wouldn’t see her tears.

The next morning, Leonard left Tirgald.

His mother wept. His father stood motionless.

Leonard did not look back.

He knew there was no road back anymore.