Chapter 14: Tensions Rise
The training yard was a scarred battlefield, its flagstones gouged by blades and boots, each mark a silent story of warriors past. The walls loomed, their vine-like carvings twisting upward, catching the skylight's silvery glow like veins of moonlight. The air was colder, heavier, thick with the scent of sweat and polished metal, a tang that bit at Mark's lungs with every ragged breath. His tunic was soaked, clinging to his skin, chafing his shoulders, the fabric heavy with exertion. His wrists throbbed, raw from old chains, and he rubbed them, the sting a sharp anchor to reality. "She's onto me," he thought, his modern lilt a defiant spark in this ancient place. "Gotta fix this."
Tauriel stood across from him, hands on her hips, her red hair blazing like a torch in the dim light, her green eyes blazing with a fury that wasn't playful, wasn't sparring. Her leather armor creaked, the lavender scent clinging to her sharp, cutting through the yard's musk like a blade. Her dagger twirled in her hand, a nervous tic, the steel flashing like a warning. Vaelor, the training elf, worked nearby, his blonde hair tied back, scarred hands steady, his armor clanking softly. Caelin, the haughty guard, lingered at the yard's edge, his sneer a grating prod, his pine-scented armor glinting with hostility.
"You're keeping me from them," Tauriel said, voice low, dangerous, her eyes narrowing, a flash of green fire. "The dwarves. Why, huh? What're you hiding?"
Mark's mind raced, his lie ready but bitter in his mouth, jealousy driving him to defy logic—an emotional override that risked everything. "Just… doing my job," he said, voice strained, his modern lilt faltering. He phased nervously, his form shimmering from one foot to the other, a subtle flicker that betrayed his unease, the system's runes humming like a glitchy storm.
[Tauriel Trust -10%. Lies hurt, genius.]
[Phasing Lv. 3 used. MP -15. Digging a hole, huh?]
Her eyes narrowed further, her dagger pausing, the air thick with tension, like a standoff in a walker-infested camp. "Your job?" she murmured, voice sharp, melodic, laced with suspicion. "You're no guard, human. You're playing a game I don't understand."
Mark's stomach twisted, guilt and fear warring in his chest. "She's too sharp," he thought, rubbing his wrist, the sting grounding his racing thoughts. The ache of it tightened his throat, but he shoved it down, focusing on the yard's scars, a faded carving of a broken arrow whispering of a failed stand.
A faint clank echoed from the cells, rhythmic, metallic, sharp. Kili. Mark's gaze darted to Vaelor, who was distracted, adjusting a target. "He's trying to signal her," Mark thought, jealousy flaring, his wrist stinging as he rubbed it. He focused, summoning Minor Transportation, the air buzzing with a low hum. A flicker, a shift, and he was at Kili's cell, the damp air chilling his skin, the stone cracked, a faint scratch mark hinting at despair. Kili rattled the bars, his whisper echoing, "Tauriel! A word!"
Mark phased his hand through the bars, a shimmering barrier, his voice a low growl. "Stop it, dwarf," he said, his modern lilt sharp, menacing. "She's not yours to call."
[Minor Transportation Lv. 2 unlocked. MP -10.]
Kili froze, his dark eyes flashing with defiance, his beard braids swaying. Mark's heart raced, triumph and guilt warring, his moral hypocrisy a shadow he couldn't shake—blocking Kili to protect Tauriel, but hurting her trust in the process, like Daryl Dixon sabotaging a rival's plan. He returned to the yard, the scent of damp earth and sweat grounding him, the system's runes pulsing faintly, their snarky tone a prod.
He moved to a row of wooden targets, their surfaces splintered, one bearing a crude rune scratched into its base—a prisoner's mark, perhaps. He focused on Repulsion Field, pouring his frustration, his fear, his jealousy into the skill. The air hummed, a low, thrumming energy, and the targets splintered, wood chips scattering, dust swirling in a chaotic cloud. The sound was a loud, chaotic crash, breaking the yard's strained silence.
[Repulsion Field Lv. 2: MP 20/100. Cooldown: 50s.]
Mark panted, sweat stinging his eyes, his chest heaving. "I'm getting stronger," he thought, but the cost was heavy, Tauriel's suspicion a wound he'd inflicted. In a quiet moment, he leaned against the wall, his fingers tracing the broken arrow's jagged lines, the stone rough under his touch. The pine air cooled his sweat, the dust gritty on his tongue, anchoring him in this alien world where every lie was a gamble, his moral hypocrisy a shadow he couldn't outrun.
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