Draxin Alistair (16)'s Arc

Chapter 6 of 22

Draxin sat up on the plank bed. Zag slid down into his lap and clung to his thumb. The tall man with the cigar stayed in the doorway, arms crossed, smoke curling off his knuckles like it had somewhere to be. "I don't know what a hiyrel is," Draxin said. His voice cracked. He pressed a hand to his chest. The warmth pushed back against his palm. "I found it in the trees. It was floating. I ate it." The man's jaw worked around the cigar. "You ate it." "It flew into my throat." "Orbs don't fly into throats, kid. People swallow them." The man stepped inside and pulled a crate over with his boot. He sat. The crate groaned. "Name's Dante. I run a crew called Burn. We hunt hiyrel. Which means you and me are going to have a real careful talk before I decide what to do with you." Draxin's hand tightened on Zag. "Then tell me what's inside me." Dante pulled the cigar from his mouth. Gray smoke bent around his fingers and gathered in his palm like water. He shaped it into a small ball above his hand. It hung there, spinning. "A hiyrel is a stone," he said. "Rarest thing in Ujaria. Maybe a hundred exist in the whole world. They grow in wild places where nobody goes. Deep forests. Salt flats. Caves under the sea. Each one holds a power. Fire. Water. Smoke. Speed. Whatever the world decides." The smoke ball drifted toward Draxin and dissolved before it touched him. "You don't wear a hiyrel," Dante said. "You swallow it. It settles in your chest. It bonds to your blood. From then on, its power is yours. Mine is smoke. Twelve years I've had it." "Then I have one too," Draxin said. "You have one. That's the problem." Dante leaned forward. His eyes went flat. "One is a gift. Two is a corpse. Every man who's ever tried to hold two hiyrel at once has died screaming inside a day. Their bodies can't take it. So the one in your chest is the only one you will ever have. You understand? For the rest of your life." Draxin looked down at his hand on his ribs. The dull warmth pulsed once, steady. "What's mine?" he asked. "Don't know yet. It'll show when it wants to. Could be a week. Could be a year." Dante stood. The crate creaked with relief. "But that hiyrel you swallowed had an owner. My crew has been tracking it for two months. And now it's in a skinny kid in a shed." Zag made a small sound. Dante put the cigar back between his teeth. "So here's what happens next. You're coming with us until I figure out what's growing in your ribs. Try to run, and the smoke finds you before your feet do." He walked out. The door stayed open behind him.