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Rogue struggled to take in the image of his fellow dragon slayer, lying on the hospital bed that bleak morning. Everything about the small infirmary seemed to be too bright for the shadow mage’s eyes. The walls were sparkling white, notepads that had barely a black smudge, bed linen offering no comforting creases or folds. And in the centre of it all lay a white dragon slayer, emitting a strange and overwhelming light.
Instincts told Rogue to shield his eyes from the intense shine that was radiating from Sting’s body. He’d never seen anything like it. Strange symbols traced the sides of his face, down his neck and arms, jagged white lines zigzagging against his paling skin. Even through the hospital blankets, the glow pulsed into the air with a fierce and frightening power.
If it wasn’t so horrifying, it may have even been beautiful.
They’d been fighting in a mission, just like every mission beforehand. There had been an intense pressure to become the best, to be the very strongest they could, and it had been clear a while now that the twin dragon slayers had been pushing themselves – and each other – far beyond their means. Magical energy had been draining low. The enemy was gaining advantage. There was still so much left to fight for, so much that they had yet to accomplish. Failure was not an option. And then, out of nowhere, it felt like the sun itself had fallen out of the sky. Rogue was certain had he not disappeared into the shadows he would not have survived the blast.
When he opened his eyes, he was face to face with the very same image he saw now; Sting Eucliffe, struggling with every heavy breath in his chest. Radiating magical light. Unconscious.
Rogue reached out hesitantly towards his friend’s forehead. His fingertips gently touched the pale skin, softer than he’d it imagined to be, before skimming across the white lines and towards the distorted marks. It didn’t feel any different. Somehow, he’d imagined it to zap him, feel cold or hot to the touch. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have guessed he was just touching the dragon slayer’s guildmark. But a guildmark would never hurt him, not like this.
There was someone close.
Even while flustered and distracted, his dragon senses were keen and sharp. He was fully alert now. The heavy footsteps filled his attention. A much larger man was pushing open the door and stepped inside, one foot after another until stopping directly behind him. Rogue lowered his hands, as if somehow the newcomer would have been able to sense the caring touch against Sting’s forehead. Affection was weakness. The guild was nothing without strength.
The figure didn’t speak, not for a long time. He didn’t have to. Even against Sting’s laboured breaths, Rogue was overwhelmed with the presence of the man. All he could sense was the figure’s shuffling, the dominating scent, the impatient sigh.
“Can I help you, Master Jiemma?” he asked.
The older man wasn’t standing in the hospital ward out of affection or care, that much was clear. At most, he would be concerned for the condition of one of his greatest assets. He didn’t answer for a few more seconds. He let out more exasperated sounds. “When will he be ready?” he asked eventually.
Rogue frowned to himself more. “I’m not sure. I don’t even know what’s wrong with him,” he admitted, not daring to let even the slightest hint of strained nerves show through his voice.
Jiemma scoffed. “Isn’t it obvious, boy?”
Rogue couldn’t stop himself from quickly turning back around, finally looking up at his superior with widening eyes.
The master nodded, and now finally Rogue could see the smug smile on his face. “About time that he started to come into his true powers.”
“True powers?” Rogue glanced back down at Sting, to the strained expression written across his face. This didn’t look like the embracing of power. It looked painful. It looked exhausting and restless and on the edge of losing both body and mind. It looked dangerous. Rogue’s mind was running in circles, trying to remember any last words that Skiadrum had given to him in guidance. They had been few and far between, and nothing at all like this. No secrets to unlocking some kind of hidden power. Had Weisslogia somehow passed down some ancient knowledge to his child that Rogue had missed on his own?
And what was the price Sting had paid for that…?
“Let me know as soon as he’s back on his feet.” Jiemma said, once again with the impatient huff feeding through his words. “You have training to catch up on, if you’re ever going to learn your own Dragon Force. You’re falling behind, Rogue.”
He offered no more advice, no respects to the sick young man and no chance for Rogue to question his sudden overload of information. Just as swiftly as he’d arrived, the guild master disappeared back through the door.
It slammed closed behind him, unnaturally loud against the quiet room.
There was nothing left but the silence. Silence, and that heavy, unsteady breathing.
Rogue fell into the chair beside his best friend, eyes faded onto the white marks written across his face and body. So, this would be the next frightening force to come into their lives…? Dragon Force? Skiardum hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. That alone frightened him.
His hand hesitantly reached out to Sting, back to what he had been so reluctant to touch before. This time he took a hold of his arm, a portion of the glowing white hiding behind the palm of his hand. Sting hadn’t seemed to notice. He didn’t know if it was giving any comfort, but in a way, it made Rogue feel a little better. As if his shadow was blocking out the light, even if only a little. It may be just enough to help Sting fight whatever battle was raging deep inside of him, whatever Dragon Force caused the unnatural glow.
Their master seemed convinced that it was something to make him stronger. To make them more powerful. Because there was no room for this kind of weakness in Sabretooth, no room for anything except the very best. Knowing Master Jiemma, they would have to repeat this experience over and over in their conquest for power. Even if it killed them.