Page 25 of Isle of Beasts and Shadows

“We can’t afford to linger here any longer, can’t you see that?” Jonathan implored, frustration evident in his gestures. “It’s too perilous for our people to stay.”

Duran’s confidence surged. “We possess the means to triumph over these creatures, Jonathan. We must strategize, understand our foes’ vulnerabilities. Then, we’ll rally our forces from Eldaraya and—”

“Stop trying to be Lysander! What are you trying to achieve? You’re not him, so cease this pursuit of an unattainable ideal. Your tactics are turning you callous, not formidable.” Jonathan interjected firmly.

Duran looked at him, and his gaze eventually turned into a deadly stare. By this time, his broken nose had swollen and turned purple. His hand had been carefully tended to, the bandage neatly wrapped around his hand.

“Get out of my tent,” Duran spoke with coldness wrapped in his voice, the chilling tone sending shivers down Airella’s spine, causing her to shudder.

Jonathan, feeling a surge of disappointment, shut his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself, before he turned to walk out of the tent. Airella, sensing his dismissal, stamped out of his path, feeling invisible in his presence.

As she gathered her thoughts, she turned back to the entrance of the tent, a mix of determination and fear swirling within her. She knew that now was the opportune moment to seek answers about her father, to unravel the secrets shrouding her past.

Summoning her courage, she took a tentative step forward and ventured inside. Upon entering, she noticed Duran had his back turned to her, his imposing figure dominating the space.

“Now what, Jonathan?” He growled, his voice dripping with disdain as he glanced over his shoulder. Realizing that the intruder was not Jonathan, he swiftly adopted a more menacing demeanor. “What do you think you’re doing in here? I didn’t give you permission to enter. And where is your armor? We have a Miscreant captive in our camp and you’re not wearing your armor? Just get out of my sight.” Duran’s eyes blazed with fury, a storm brewing behind his intense gaze.

“I need answers,” Airella asserted, her gaze unwavering as she met Duran’s fiery stare, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. Despite her inner turmoil, she masked her trembling voice with a facade of bravery, determined not to show weakness.

Duran advanced towards her, his massive frame looming over her, casting a shadow of intimidation.

“I said get out,” he barked, his voice resonating with authority, his steely gaze challenging her defiance.

Airella refused to yield this time. A steely resolve etched on her features. She silently vowed that things would change, that she would no longer be fearful of this ill-tempered man. In a defiant gesture, she stood her ground as Duran seized her shoulders, his forceful grip propelling her towards the exit, the tension between them palpable in the stifling air of the tent.

“Wait!” She squirmed, feeling the urgency rising within her. “I need to know more about my father.”

Duran let out a sigh, his grip loosening as he looked at her intently. “Why, you little rat... eavesdropping, eh?”

“Please, Duran. I have to know.” She heeled him as he made his way to a worn chair in his makeshift tent.

Duran, with a nostalgic look in his eyes, reached for a rag dampened with cold water and pressed it gently against his bruised nose.

“That man,” he began, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as Airella stood before him, eager for every detail. “He was a legend, a friend, and Jonathan’s mentor. Lysander Devereaux was what every ordinary man dreamed of being. His strength was extraordinary, unmatched, and his willpower was akin to that of a god.”

Airella listened intently, captivated by the image being painted of this remarkable figure.

“His nickname, The Executioner,” she inquired with genuine curiosity, her eyes reflecting the desire to uncover the missing pieces of her father’s tale. This was the part of the story she felt had eluded her for so long, and now she was on the brink of unraveling its secrets.

Duran raised an eyebrow as he looked at her from behind his desk. His gaze held a mix of curiosity and concern, his expression betraying a hint of somberness.

“A master of war and an inspiration to Eldarayan soldiers everywhere,” he began, his voice carrying a weight of history and reverence. “During the War of Aurian, he single-handedly turned the tide of battle, felling thousands of enemy soldiers with just one swift stroke of his legendary battle axe. Dawnbreaker. It was astonishing and the most inhuman thing anyone had ever seen.” His eyes shifted to the axe strapped to her back.

Pausing for a moment, Duran’s eyes seemed to drift into the past, lost in contemplation of the events that had unfolded. “He proved himself not just as a warrior, but as a leader of unmatched skill and courage, earning the esteemed title of the king’s hand and war general. As his closest confidant,” Duran’s voice softened, tinged with a hint of wistfulness, “I couldn’t help but become envious of my best friend. What had he possessed that I lacked? What secret to success had eluded me for so long?”

Turning to face Airella, his gaze intense, Duran’s demeanor shifted, a sense of urgency creeping into his tone. “The both of you... initially, many believed it to be the work of dark magic, myself included,” he confessed, his words heavy with the weight of revelation. “But now, with the truth laid bare about the secrets hidden on this island, I realize it’s something far more profound, far more extraordinary.” Rising from his seat, Duran loomed over Airella, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch beyond the confines of the room. “You, Airella Devereaux, are no mere mortal,” he declared, his voice carrying a sense of coldness.

Airella, taken aback by the gravity of his words, felt a surge of defiance rise within her.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing, a spark of curiosity igniting within her.

Duran’s gaze bore into her, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

“Your lineage,” he began, his voice barely above a rough whisper, “it’s not of this world. The blood that flows through your veins carries a legacy far older, far more powerful than you can imagine. You, my dear, are a being of legend, a Miscreant born of ancient myths and forgotten truths.”

Airella’s disbelief was palpable, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “No, that can’t be true. My mother is human, and so was my father.” Her words faltered, her arms rising in a futile gesture of defense as Duran drew closer, the revelation of her true nature looming ever closer.

“I will not let you or anyone else get in my way of my duties. I will surpass your father and bring glory to Eldaraya with the civilization of this island. As for you, you’ll just end up like your father. Locked away and left for dead along with the rest of the Miscreants that lurk upon this island,” he spat, his words filled with venom, causing Airella to stumble and fall to the floor of the tent, the weight of his threats crashing down on her.

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