Episode 3 Sneak Peek #26

Since I'm on a break right now, last week's sneak peek brought us up to the end of the newest content I was working on. So, for this, I am going way back to stuff from June/May. A different branch of this scene was previewed before (in June 😅). This is from Aeran's romance reconciliation branch. 

• MC was trained by Varyn
• MC took her surname

You squeeze his hand, a silent confirmation that you’re listening.

He exhales a grateful breath. “Have you ever thought what you would do if you weren’t a Wayfarer?”

You pause, his words heavy on your mind. Of course you’ve imagined what your life would be if you weren’t a Wayfarer—every member of the order, from apprentice to grand master, has at one time or another.

1. It’s a comforting fantasy, one you would pursue if you could. You’d gladly give up $blade to know another life.
2. The fantasy is far from the reality you face every day. Ever since your inauguration, the journey and the fight is all you know. It’s naïve to think you’ll be free from it completely.
[CHOICE] 3. A Wayfarer is what you are. Ever since Cenric took you from [country of origin], you have wanted nothing else.

Aeran falls silent, waiting for you response. You can feel his anxiety rising; the longer it takes you to speak, the longer he has to imagine your answer. But you can’t bring yourself to soften the blow. This is your life, not his.

“I don’t,” you say finally. “Not in a way that matters. This is what I am. There aren’t many options for magiani in Rhesainia. If it’s a choice between being ostracized as a magianis or being a Wayfarer, I choose the latter.”

His arms go stiff. “And I can’t. I though I suppose it doesn’t matter, in the end. Someone will always find a reason to use people like us, to one end or another. Lethalis and the Astrial, the Count and the chalice… They’re all the same. Varyn and the others weren’t innocent of it either.”

You push yourself up, twisting your body around to look at him. The bitterness in his words is tangible. “What do you mean?”

He meets your eyes. “The Order used us, just like everyone else. Haven’t you ever wondered whether it was right for them to take us away? We were kids, $firstname. We were kids and they brought us into this.”

A uncomfortable knot twists in your gut. “I chose this, Aeran,” you say. “It doesn’t matter how I came to the Order, I know I would have found my way there regardless.”

“And I didn’t. Did you know there was an agreement with my foster father?”

You blink. “What?”

He pauses and rubs the back of his neck, struggling to find the words. “Tyridia was accustomed to visits from the Order,” he says finally. “I saw plenty of Wayfarers on the streets, but it wasn’t until after he took me in that they paid attention to me. I think it was Avennor who approached him first, but… Varyn was the one who convinced him to hand me over.”

“Varyn?” you reply, surprised. This is the first you’ve heard of it, but then again Varyn was always focused on the present and cared little for reflecting on the past.

Two decades may have passed, but you remember the day you joined the Wayfarer Order like it was yesterday. While your tutelage could have been claimed by any of the three Wayfarer masters, Aeran was always going to be Varyn’s apprentice. There were times during your training when that knowledge drove a wedge between you. Though Varyn did not show preferential treatment, it was difficult to stave off jealousy when Aeran was always seen as her apprentice, despite refusing to take after her at all.

“To be honest, I don’t remember much. She assumed I knew and didn’t tell me until years later.”

You fold your hands quietly in your lap, uncertain what to say. He so rarely speaks of his childhood. Considering your own complex feelings on your past, you can’t blame him. In a way, for both of you, life began in that cart on the snowy road from Trost.

He catches your eye, then quickly averts his gaze. Discomforted with the direction your conversation has taken, he disentangles him from the sheets and rises from the bed. You fold your knees into your chest and drape your arms around them, watching from a distance as he pads across the room to the open windows. He slept without a shirt and the sun now warms his skin, making the difference between his pale back and tanned arms all the more stark. The web of old scars laced across his back stand out, some red and lurid, some silver and silent. Others still resemble brands or burns, like the curious mark his lower back—three deep, angular lines etched onto the curve of his spine, faded and stretched with time.

On anyone else this would be the mark of a veteran Wayfarer, not one barely a decade into their career. He’s bruised and battered in a way you never were, battle-hardened not only by the events of the Spire, but everything that came before it. He flinched the first time you touched those scars, as if your caress had uncovered some deep memory he wished to forget. It must be a sign of how much he trusts you—how much he loves you—that he did not shy away later.

Nor does he now.

You pause, uncertain what do to—or how to feel—about this information. “Varyn all but raised us. She taught us everything we know. I can’t say whether it was right or wrong, but she did everything in her power to keep us safe and prepare us for who we are now—”

“I know she’s like a mother to you, $firstname, but she wasn’t to me. She was my teacher, my colleague… and my superior. Just because she trained us does not make her infallible.”

You fall silent. The bed creaks beneath you as you shift your weight, torn between staying where you are and going to him.

He rests a hand against the wall and stares out at the palace grounds below. “Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for everything she did.”

“Aeran…”

“But I don’t know if it was right.”

You grip the sheets, twisting the soft silk between your fingers until it becomes a hard knot. When you imagine what your life could be if you were no longer a Wayfarer, you always accept your past before hanging up your sword for good. Aeran, on the other hand, has a different perspective entirely.

The bitterness of his words ring sharply in your ears, far too reminiscent of your fight the night before. He told you that the order was dead, that you needed to let it go. Before, those words had left you confused and hurt… But now, you can’t help but wonder how long he’s wanted to push this part of his identity away.

How long has he resented this life he was forced into without his consent? How much does he hate his own abilities, honed through years of training and practice? And in this past month alone, how much does he hate himself every time Zenaida addresses him as “Wayfarer Kellis”?

It’s not the same for you. You are a Wayfarer. Abandoning your line of work is tantamount to stripping yourself of your identity and abandoning the order for good.

You and Aeran are among the last of your kind. Sirin may very well still be active, but you don’t know what plot she’s embroiled herself in. You may very well be the last true Wayfarer left. Some may call you a glorified mercenary, but there’s more to your work than that. If you give it up now, there will be no one to pass on all the skills, all the knowledge, all the history you know. There will always be magiani, but with no one to train them, the Wayfarers will be gone.

It’s a heavy burden, one you never expected to bear.

1. “We could rebuild it, you know. Together. Make it better than it was.”
2. “You were right. Maybe it is time to let go.”