Seeds of Discord

Jonathan watched the children's retreating figures, their laughter fading into the twilight. He leaned heavily on his gnarled walking stick, each knot, a testament to the trials and tribulations he had weathered over the years, whispered of resilience and unwavering strength.

The shuffling of footsteps behind him heralded Elara's arrival. Her outstretched hand held an intricately carved pipe, its bowl sculpted to resemble a miniature volcano, its stem smooth and polished like river stones. A faint wisp of smoke curled from the bowl, a fragrant blend of herbs and earth.

"Here," she said, her voice soft yet resonant, "I thought you might need this." Her eyes, the color of sun-baked clay, held a depth of understanding that only a lifetime of shared experiences could create. "I haven't seen you with that expression since... since you expelled Vestin."

Jonathan accepted the pipe, his fingers tracing the familiar patterns etched into the wood. The pipe, a gift from Elara on their wedding day, had been a constant companion through decades of joy and sorrow. Its earthy scent, a reminder of their homeland, always brought a sense of comfort and grounding.

Elara followed his gaze towards the children, a wistful smile gracing her lips. "Is he as good as Vestin?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

A shadow passed over Jonathan's face, his grip tightening on the pipe. "He used variant magic," he murmured, his voice heavy with unspoken worries.

A look of shock crossed Elara's face. "That is... unexpected," she breathed, her voice laced with concern. She reached out, her weathered hand resting gently on his arm. "Are you wondering what to do?"

Jonathan nodded, a troubled sigh escaping his lips. He brought the pipe to his mouth, inhaling deeply. The fragrant smoke filled his lungs, a familiar ritual that calmed his racing thoughts.

"Magic is a fascinating thing, dear," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "It is capable of great and terrible things. Fascination often blurs the line." He paused, his gaze drifting towards the darkening horizon. "I cannot expect a child to understand that. If I force him, what's to say he won't turn into another Vestin?"

Elara became pensive, her gaze drifting towards the distant horizon, towards the land where their home lay in ruins, where they had to run away without even a last look at the loved ones they lost.

"Children learn by example," she said, her voice firm yet gentle. "Let us set the best one for our children. Learn from our mistakes in the past and do better this time."

She turned back to him, her eyes filled with a solemn determination. "But," she added, her voice unwavering, "no matter what he does, never force his choice. It is his choice and his choice alone."

Jonathan met her gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. The pipe, a symbol of their shared past and their unwavering love, glowed softly in the fading light.

*****

Pyrrhus and Cora raced back to their tent, the thrill of their unexpected magical breakthroughs bubbling within them. Jonathan, usually a miser of knowledge, had been surprisingly generous today. 

The secrets of stable and unstable mana, the promise of further training—it was a day of exhilarating progress. They could hardly wait to put their newly acquired knowledge into practice.

As they rounded a familiar bend, a familiar presence washed over Pyrrhus, stopping him dead in his tracks. Cora, oblivious at first, continued a few paces ahead before noticing his sudden halt.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

Pyrrhus frowned, closing his eyes and concentrating. The physical world seemed to fade, replaced by a swirling vortex of sensations. He could feel distinct bundles of energy – souls – scattered throughout the camp. Four of them, however, were clustered together, hidden behind a thicket of bushes just ahead.

Pyrrhus knew little of soul magic. Jonathan had never mentioned it, leaving Pyrrhus to rely solely on the cryptic information provided by his system window. But he did know one thing: it allowed him to sense the presence of living beings in his vicinity.

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he turned and marched towards the bend. "Where are you going?" Cora asked, hurrying to catch up.

Pyrrhus remained silent, his focus fixed on the voices growing louder as they approached.

"Is this all you brought?" a young boy's voice snarled.

"That was all that was available," a timid voice mumbled in response.

As they cleared the bend, Pyrrhus's suspicions were confirmed. 

Milo and his gang of bullies had cornered a smaller boy, their faces contorted in cruel delight as they rifled through a pouch. The air hung heavy with the sweet scent of fresh fruit—fruit that Pyrrhus knew instinctively belonged to Owen, Jonathan, and Elara.

A wave of anger surged through Pyrrhus, fueled by the memory of Elara's gaunt frame and the dwindling rations. He could feel the magic within him stir, a crackling energy yearning for release.

"Owen?" Cora's voice broke the tension as she rushed to the boy's side.

Milo straightened, his thin frame puffed up with bravado. "If it isn't Snitch," he sneered, the derogatory nickname he'd given Pyrrhus after he sided with Owen when he was six months old. 

To think he held a grudge against a baby. Pyrrhus didn't know what to feel about Milo's stupidity. Pity, maybe? Or perhaps just amusement at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

"Let him go," Pyrrhus growled. "Do you really want Grandpa Jonathan to find out?" 

"Oh, I'm scared," Milo mocked. He brought up his finger and a wisp of flame flickered to life on the tip. "You think I'm scared of the senile old man?" 

The sight of the flickering flame on Milo's fingertip sent a jolt of revulsion through Pyrrhus. It wasn't just the heat, the way it danced so innocently, oblivious to the devastation it could wreak. He hated those who played with fire.

The wind around them whipped into a frenzy, mirroring the storm brewing inside Pyrrhus. A surge of raw power crackled through his veins, a wild and untamed beast straining against its leash.

But then Cora grabbed his arm, her eyes pleading. "Please don't," she whispered.

Pyrrhus looked into Cora's eyes, the flames of his anger dimming a little. He remembered the precarious situation at the camp, the constant struggle for survival that weighed heavily on everyone, and the tensions it brewed. 

He didn't want to exacerbate the already tense situation.

With a frustrated sigh, he withdrew his mana, the wind settling around them. He walked over to Owen, his small hand reaching out to help the boy to his feet. "Let's go," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Bring more food tomorrow," Milo taunted as they walked away, his gang erupting in laughter.

Pyrrhus ignored them, his jaw clenched tight. He would not let them win, not today. Fortunately, he knew exactly what to do.

***

A/N:

Thanks for reading Chapter 8! I hope you're enjoying John's journey as Pyrrhus. Your comments and votes really motivate me to keep writing.

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