Rodrigo Mundragon couldn't sit still. The inn's damp walls and lumpy bed grated on him, mocking his restless energy. He'd sparked a flame last night, and now it burned in his mind, like a question he couldn't shake.
Havenport's market had shown him Essence in action, and Mara's words about Infusers echoed too loud to ignore. He needed to see more. Not because he trusted this place, but because he hated feeling lost.
He left the inn at midday. The city's edge called him, away from the market's noise. He'd overheard a sailor at the Gilded Anchor mention a training ground of the Guildhall near the outskirts, where all the students practiced.
Infusers.
Maybe he'd get answers there. His skin tingled again, that ember-heat stirring in his chest. He grunted, shoving it down, and kept walking.
The training ground sprawled just near the Havenport's northern wall, a dusty patch ringed by low cliffs. Young figures moved in the distance, maybe a dozen, their shouts cutting through the sea breeze. Rodrigo stopped at the edge, leaning against a weathered post. He watched, taking it in.
A girl with a whip swung at a wooden dummy, and her blade was trailing water. Each strike splashed, soaking the ground, and the dummy splintered under the force. A Water user.
Another kid hefted a spear, the tip glowing green as vines sprouted from it, wrapping a target tight. Earth, maybe. The air hummed with raw and fresh Essence. Rodrigo's chest tightened, that heat flaring hotter, itching to burst out.
He clenched his fists, fighting it. Part of him wanted to join in, to swing something and feel the rush again. But he stayed put, a soldier sizing up the field.
"Sloppy," he muttered as his eye catched a boy's shaky fire toss miss its mark. "No discipline." Still, his lips twitched.
Kids or not, they had power. More than his pitiful flicker.
He turned away, the machete flashing in his mind. That damn blade at Hilda's forge. Its fiery etchings haunted him, pulling like a tether he couldn't cut. Five silver waves, she'd said. He had one copper drift, barely enough for a night's sleep. But he needed it. Not because it called him, not because he'd never admit that, but because a soldier without steel was a dead man walking.
He trudged back to the Market Quarter, the sun dipping low. The forge came into view, smoke curling from its chimney. Hilda stood there, hammering a dagger, her gray hair tied back in a messy knot. The machete sat on the table, its broad blade glinting, those etchings pulsing faintly. Rodrigo stopped, hands in his pockets, the copper drift cold against his fingers.
"Back again?" Hilda rasped, not looking up. "Thought you'd run off."
"How much?" he asked, voice gruff. "You said five silvers."
She snorted, setting the hammer down. "Five waves, aye. Good steel, worth it. I assume the blade's been looking for you. It ain't been pulsing ever since you left."
He pulled out the drift, tossing it onto the table. It clinked, pathetic next to the blade. "That's all I've got."
Hilda's eyes flicked to the coin, then to him. She smirked, leaning forward. "Hah! That won't even buy a rusty spoon, stranger! Are you begging now?"
Rodrigo's pride flared, his jaw tightening. "I don't beg," he snapped. "Name a price I can work for."
She studied him, her smirk fading. "Got guts, I'll give you that. Tell you what, fetch me a crate of saltvine from the slums. Tidecallers grow it down there. Bring it by dusk, and the machete's yours. No coin needed."
He nodded, short and sharp. "Done." Saltvine sounded like a plant, and he'd hauled worse in war. Damn, he hauled five active grenades one time when some people infiltrated their base.
So he turned, striding off before she could change her mind. The slums weren't that far off. It was south of the river, clinging to the cliffs. He'd seen them from the inn, where shabby huts and narrow paths rest in silence.
It was easy enough for a man who'd spent his life protecting the whole landmass of a country with his mother as motivation.
The trek took an hour, the sun sinking as he reached the cliffside. Some fisherfolk eyed him warily, and their hands stained with salt and fish guts. He found a Tidecaller, who appeared to be a wiry old man with a braided beard, chewing the tough, gray-green vine.
"I need a crate," Rodrigo said, keeping it curt. "For Hilda, the smith down the market."
The man squinted, then shrugged. "Take it. Grows like weeds." He pointed to a stack by his shack, and Rodrigo hefted one. The vine's bitter scent stung his nose.
It was heavy, but nothing he couldn't handle. He hauled it back, sweat beading on his brow, and dropped it at Hilda's stall as dusk settled over Havenport.
She grinned, kicking the crate. "Not bad. Deal's a deal." She slid the machete across the table. "It's yours now."
Rodrigo gripped the handle, and a jolt shot up his arm. It felt hot, like lightning meeting fire. The blade faintly vibrated, and its etchings flared red-orange in his hand. His breath caught, with the heat in his chest surging to match it.
"What the—" he muttered, staring at it.
Hilda chuckled. "You have the Fire element. Knew it the second you walked up. Welcome to the club, Infuser."
He didn't answer, too stunned. The machete felt right, like an old friend reborn. He stepped away from the stall, slipping into a quiet alley off the market.
The blade gleamed in the fading light, as if it was begging to be tested. So he focused, remembering the spark from last night.
…
…
Nothing. He gritted his teeth, trying again.
The heat swelled, sluggish, stubborn. "Come on," he growled, pushing harder.
And—
The machete flared, flames licking up the steel. "There… There!"
He spotted a stray crate in the alley. With a run, he swung, fast and hard at the crate.
Shing!
The blade of the machete sliced clean through, red-hot and burning with fire. The wood sizzled as it split, and the embers drifted to the ground. Rodrigo froze, staring at the wreckage.
His pulse raced, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. Power. Real power. "God damn."
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He spun with his machete raised, and the flames still danced around the blade. A cloaked figure stood there, and it was the same one from the market, with its hood shadowing their face.
"Nice trick," a low, female voice said, calm and steady. "You've got the spark. Guildhall could use someone like you."
Rodrigo lowered the blade, but his grip stayed tight. "Guildhall? That place?" he asked, wary.
"Training," the figure said, stepping closer. "Essence isn't just fire tricks. Join us. Learn what you're capable of."
His pride swelled. A war veteran, thirty-five years commanding men, and he'd just sliced a crate like butter. Perhaps he could teach these kids a thing or two. But competition flickered in his mind. Others with swords, spears, powers he didn't understand. Part of him liked that. A challenge. A way to climb higher, and to figure this world out.
"I'll think about it," he said, his tone clipped.
The figure nodded, approaching him, and she placed a paper card on the palm of his hand—a card indicating invitation. After, she slipped back into the shadows. "Find us when you're ready. Call me… Mistress Eclipse." Then she was gone.
Rodrigo stood there, the machete's flames fading. He needed space to think. So he meandered to the harbor, the quiet lapping of waves a balm after the day's chaos. He sat on a crate by the water as the machete rested across his lap. Its steel was cool now.
Dusk painted the sky orange and purple, and the ships bobbed in the distance.
Fishermen worked nearby, their voices rising in a rough sonnet. "Oh, sea of might, your tides do sway, carry us home at break of day." It was clumsy, heartfelt, their hands hauling nets as they sang.
Rodrigo listened, the words weaving into the night. Havenport felt alive, and every person had their own journey. It was gritty, strange, but real.
He ran a thumb over the locket at his neck, Franca's face clear in his mind. "I'll make it, Ma," he whispered, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. He was alone here, cut off from his men, his world. But he wasn't helpless.
Fire ran in him now, tied to this blade. An Infuser, Hilda had said. Whatever that meant, he'd master it.
The fishermen's song faded, and the harbor grew still. Rodrigo stared at the machete, and the sunlight glinted at the blade. He wasn't just a soldier anymore. He was something new. Something fierce.
And he'd damn well prove it.