THE CULTIVATOR - CHAPTER 1. PART 3
CHAPTER 1. PART 3 :
Visibly tired of a one-sided fight, the bloodthirsty pirate eventually grabbed Iona by the forearms.
A searing pain then invaded the young girl, where her hands held her. Piercing screams rose, mixing with the acrid smell of scorched flesh.
Laughter increased around them.
Iona soon realized that Kah-ra had an affinity with the Essence of fire; a perfect specimen of an elemental mage, as impetuous and bloodthirsty as the characters from her childhood tales. Iona had never met mages before, having never set foot off her planet.
She who had so admired these legendary characters and who, like all Virvenian children, had nurtured the naive dream of waking up one day with the power to control the elements or even read minds, had been cradled by this ideal that her heroes could do no wrong.
But the burns that Kah-ra's inflamed palms inflicted on her that day left marks on her forearms, a cruel lesson on the naivety of childhood.
The seconds seemed like hours as her skin burned under the incendiary embrace. Through the veil of pain, Iona struggled to remain conscious, fearing she might never wake up again if she succumbed.
Then, almost as abruptly as it had ignited her flesh, the fire seemed to wane. Iona thought for a moment that she was mistaken. Perhaps it was a trick of her agonized mind?
"Cursed be this planet!" Kah-ra spat, breathlessly, not a drop of energy left.
The Essence no longer surged from her hands. With a dark look, she cast her last reproach towards their chief, who, unperturbed, showed no surprise at the exhaustion of their magic.
When Kah-ra finally released her, Iona collapsed on the ground, whimpering stifled sobs.
The commotion began to grip the ranks of the pirates, some stunned, others frightened by the sudden disappearance of the magical resonance they usually felt coursing through their being.
For while not all were gifted with magic, each creature was at least capable of perceiving its echo, this gentle vibration that enveloped and infused all living matter.
Their chief stood there, a bastion of tranquility starkly contrasting with the tumult of his subordinates, and with an imperious gesture, he demanded order.
He moved forward slowly, his boots hammering the ground in a heavy and ominous cadence. In the space of a heartbeat, silence fell, and all eyes turned towards the man, parting on his path.
"Settle down," he ordered in a clear voice. "The Essence will return to you once we have left the cosmic influence of this planet."
His words fell like a balm on his men who let out a collective sigh of relief.
Iona, on the ground, watched him approach, feeling despair overtake her. She was convinced he was about to finish her off. She dared not whisper pleas for fear of sealing her fate for good.
She simply let her tears flow in silence.
As he crouched beside her, the pirate seemed drawn to a gleam in the dust.
It was Iona's badge.
Detached from her half-burned work suit, it was smeared and damaged, but the engraving remained visible: "Culturae Magistra"—the mark of excellence she had received during her last exams, which had consecrated her as the top prospect of her class. A badge from a life that now seemed to belong to another world.
The pirate picked it up between his gloved fingers, observing it with a curiosity devoid of any kindness. Then, lifting his eyes to Iona, he took her chin with a firm hand, forcing their gazes to meet.
Her eyes filled with fear; his, an abyss of calculating coldness.
"This is not how you will die, cultivator," he said in an emotionless voice, but his eyes betrayed a spark of interest.
"My name is Arkhan, captain of the crew of the Kra'keng, and from now on, your life belongs to us. The rules are simple. As long as you're worth something, you stay alive. Make a mistake, and you'll suffer the consequences. Try to escape, and you'll share the fate of those dear to you..."
The words struck her like a thunderbolt, leaving a piercing pain in her soul. Tears mixed with the dust on her cheeks, but she suppressed them, clenching her teeth.
In the silence of her despair, a silent rage took root, ready to blossom in its time. And in a final moment of lucidity, she had a fleeting thought for her mother, who was probably busy with winter preparations at that very moment.
Unaware that her daughter might never return home again.
The badge slipped from the captain's hands and, five years later, slipped again from the young girl's hands in her work greenhouse.
The metallic sound of the badge falling to the ground echoed faintly in the structure of the ship.