With quiet attentiveness, Aica listened to Vesta explain the lore and mythology, his arms interlocked at the small of her back.<i>Stories rooted in women who had access to magic</i>seemed to imply tales of evil witches and sorceresses who raised the dead, as he always believed, until he was married to one himself. He saw then that they were just scholars who turned their art into practicality, though a practice he deemed useless. He knew not what power a tiny woodland dryad or tree nymph could present to them that might deem them their savior.<i>A campsite, some berries and onions, that didn’t save him. It may have, for a night, a few hours, but not enough to deserve honour. Like a hospitable innkeeper, she deserved thanks and no more.</i><br/><br/>His grey eyes remained locked upon the tree for just a moment longer before he gave a scoff, keeping his thoughts of the dryad to himself. He didn’t care for what the books said, he trusted only in what he saw and knew from his own experience. “Not my land. Not at the moment.” Aica merely stated.<i>Perhaps never again.</i>No, he was a disinherited, exiled Prince, with nothing but shit to his name and mud on his boots and clothes. He closed his eyes and turned his face away, squeezing Vesta towards him for a moment, sharing heat and comfort. “Go to sleep. Tomorrow we move on.” He instructed and went alone to contend with his thoughts of hope, failure, and despair alone into the night.<br/><br/>The fire died away before Aica found any slumber. And when morning came, dark bags still remained under his eyes when he awoke, having gotten very little rest.<br/><br/>Because with morning came the<i>dream</i>.<br/><br/>He didn’t move at first, merely staring straight at the sky above, the tall spires of trees reaching up to the infinite shroud that covered the lands. Birds chirped their morning songs but all else seemed quiet. For a while Aica lay there, listening to Vesta breathe, arms around her torso. Then he shifted her, moving her off of him and to his side where she could continue resting on their spare cloak atop a bed of moss. Aica stood, stretching his arms, feeling the stiff muscles crack and flex. He glanced around, taking stock of their surroundings, before reaching to his belt and pulling out his knife. It was a poor quality, but all they had. And if he ever wanted to leave here, he had to make do with it.<br/><br/>So he strode up to the tree ahead of him, forgetting it was the so called home of a little tree nymph. He strode right up to the trunk, then turned on his heel and counted five decent paces from it. There he stopped and turned, taking several breaths to calm and steady himself. Then he reared his arm back, the other slightly before him, bent at the elbow…and threw the knife at the tree. It struck the bark with a loud thud, the handle quivering a little before it went still. Then came the crunching of leaves and foliage as Aica retrieved the knife, returned to his line, and threw it again.<br/><br/>He aimed for the same spot. He never quite hit it a second time, leaving many piercings in the oak’s trunk. No, he wasn’t trained for throwing knives but practice as they said made perfect. And he did not want to waste any further time in idleness. So for that morning, he wanted to prepare, to train himself, to get ready for the next rung of his reclamation. If he perfected this, he might one day kill someone who had a sword, something he understood even better. And with a sword, he might be able to effect upon those around and the land itself his will, building up himself more and more.<i>And keeping Vesta safe.</i><br/><br/>The knife spun, it struck with a thud, he grabbed it and repeated.