Sorina

  I wake up with a pounding headache. But that’s not what I’m worried about.

  The first thing my hands prod is my scalp. Still there.

  Next, I check each and every part of my body for injuries. Nothing. Just a frustrating soreness to my muscles.

  Only then do I allow myself to throw up. I keep the vomit in, trying not to add to the stink of this putrid cage. Starlight peeks through the wooden bars, thick as oaks, and I peer through them to the muddy upslope leading into the fortress grounds. This is where I put Duke Rothbore—the only cells our fortress hosts. A little hole in the ground.

  I feel weak. So, I slide up against one of the bars and just hold my head in my hands.

  Where did it all go wrong? When did I make a mistake?

  Was it Rothbore? Should I not have disposed of him the way that I did?

  Or was it something else? Pamela maybe—did she betray me?

  I doubt it. She was telling me what she could, given her contract. And I don’t think Pamela could fake that dark look she gave me when we talked in the war room.

  Why am I alive?

  Why didn’t the warlock just kill me like the rest?

  There has to be a reason. The last thing I remember is him saying that he had something “much better planned for me.” What that is, only time will tell.

  I try whistling. Doesn’t work—out of innate mana. But the good thing about wind magicks, is that innate mana doesn’t take too long to recharge. So much ambient mana from the wind exists all around us.

  I just have to be patient. Bide my time.

  And try not to think about all that I’ve just witnessed.

  Yet everytime I close my eyes, I see Kara’s eyes, staring at me. Blood running down her cheeks.

  As if to say…

  You did this to me.

  I clench my fists and pound the back of my head against the wooden bars.

  “Awww… is the poor princess angry? Does she want an apple, hmm? Or perhaps, does she want to FUCK someone’s life over again? You little bitch.”

  Rothbore leers behind the bars. He’s dressed in finery once more. And he looks so smug.

  I start whispering something. His face turns up in confusion and he leans in, as if trying to grasp—to savor whatever paltry threats I might throw at him, because he knows I can no longer act on them.

  I spit a wad of my inner vomit at him. It smirches his eyes and the poor duke scuttles backing, spitting and wiping his face—cursing like a sailor.

  “You little—there’s nothing to stop me from killing you woman—”

  He hiccups.

  I finally turn to face him, and see that someone else is descending the hole. The air turns wicked.

  Choking and stale.

  Rothbore whimpers, before clearing his throat and attempting to stand straighter. And even though he towers above this robed figure, he looks like nothing more than a scared boy compared to the warlock.

  The warlock doesn’t even spare Rothbore a glance. Rather, his attention is focused solely on me.

  “Hello Princess Sorina. I hope your accommodations are not too uncomfortable.”

  …

  Raiten:

  “We should stop here.”

  I frown. “I feel like I was just starting to get it though.”

  “Yes, but it's been four hours. I don't want you to waste too much mana and I also need to save my stores.”

  “Right.” I almost forgot—she’s got one of the most taxing jobs tomorrow. Or… today I suppose. The night is still dark, but it will only be a few more hours till sunrise.

  “You’ve done well, Raiten,” Zyla encourages, patting my back as she passes by me. “A lot of this will now depend on if you can implement what we learned during the battle.”

  “Experience is the best teacher?”

  “Exactly.” She goes to leave, presumably to take a look at the stew that Saegor has been cooking ever since he got back with the rabbits. But before she can slip away, I grab her arm.

  “Thanks.”

  She looks back at me, opens her mouth. Hesitates. Clamps it shut and just gives me a nod of understanding. That says volumes more than anything else.

  I take a look at my hands and try to envision the two power sources laden within: mana and angel dust. Well, I suppose mana is the only source I have within—angel dust is given by the amulets. If only that too could be an inner facet of the soul. I already feel so connected to the dust; it's almost unfair, that after years and years of consuming it, I still am not immersed in the element. But then again, it's not an element.

  I sigh. It's all so confusing to take in. Still, having more power is a good thing. If it isn’t mine.

  I look up at the canopy once more.

  “Thank you, Hypna. With this gift, I can hopefully do what’s necessary. For both of us.”

  Of course, only the wind rustles in response.

  “Who are you talking to?” Saegor asks. He startles me out of my trance and I nearly jump back. But that would only make the bastard happy. Instead, I give him a baleful glare and he smiles.

  “Myself.”

  “Ah. I see. I do that too sometimes.” He offers me one of the steaming bowls in his hands. “Stew?”

  I take it, holding it by the edge. It's piping hot and it smells good.

  “You didn’t poison this, did you?”

  “Raiten. Please. I thought we came to an understanding.”

  Shrugging, I take the spoon and sip lightly on the stew, swishing it in my mouth to cool it down.

  “Its not bad.”

  “I put some herbs in there that will wake us up. Give us some… energy for the battle to come.”

  I nod. He takes a seat on the log and starts digging into his own stew with some stale bread. He tosses me a piece. We eat silently next to each other, like two predators forced to share the same prey.

  “So how did you learn Aether kid?”

  I pause, setting the spoon down. “I have no clue. Like Zyla said, it's an anomaly.”

  He tilts his head in a way that indicates he doesn’t believe my lie. But he just goes back to eating, wolfing down the last bits of the rabbit in his bowl. I too mop up the watery meat with that bread and chow down. I’m still hungry. I have half a mind to grab another bowl.

  “Cause you see,” he says, pausing to chew down the final remains. “Before the witch took my eye, we had a sort of dream spar. That was when she learned of what happened to her mother.” He speaks in a low whisper, as to not alert Zyla or Kiren. But they’re a good deal away from us, eating by the campfire. They too talk in hushed tones about what seems to be a personal matter.

  “Your point being…?”

  “When I saw Hypna in Thraevirula’s mindspace, I thought there was something… off about her. She didn’t just stick to the script of the memory like the other people. She almost looked… sentient. Real.”

  I don’t answer. I realize that’s a mistake a second too late—because he searches my eyes as if trying to look past them. Into my head. Into where she resides.

  “Does she hate me?” He asks softly. The question throws me off—I thought he was going to threaten me. But instead, he sounds… young again. Lost and in love. Scared of the response I’ll give.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “I—I don’t know.” I meant to lie to him—to hurt him—but honesty felt like the more natural response. Saegor’s mouth opens and he just nods, as if accepting the weight of that answer.

  “If you see her, after all of this is over tell her—tell her I said I’m sorry. That I didn’t ever mean for it to be this way. And that, if I could take it back…” Saegor pauses, shaking his head. Then, abruptly, he stands up, and leaves me alone. Once back at the fire, he laughs raucously at something Zyla says.

  And I just stare at the mancer’s back for a few moments.

  And I see, on his arm, the symbol that I gleaned on the night we played Liar’s Dice. It is faded, but clear. A flower with an eye in its center. And I recognize the eye.

  Suddenly, I don’t feel like eating at all.

  …

  Sorina

  The warlock rolls up his sleeves, and on one of them, is the markings of a flower with an eye in its center. I vaguely register where that’s from, but I’m not sure.

  “Why have you kept me alive?” I ask.

  He clicks his tongue, as if disappointed. “So morbid. I would never kill you. After all, you’ve done nothing to disrespect me.”

  My nails bite into my fist. “And what did Kara and her group do?”

  “Disrespect me. Of course, I was also ordered to kill them unfortunately. But I did make sure to extract their truths before they fell. Ah. Such desperate souls. They really relied on you, you know? They thought you could be their salvation. They trusted in your plans—vested all their hopes and dreams into your being.”

  I ignore his taunts. Every word, every syllable that he speaks is very… specific. Pointed, even. He enunciates everything.

  “They wouldn’t have betrayed me.”

  “You’d be surprised what torture can pull from somebody. But, you are also correct in some regard: I forced them to answer via… other means.” From his cloak, he produces a vial with a liquid swishing about inside.

  “Poison?”

  “Truth serum. A concoction of my master. I’ve improved upon it in some ways. Diluted it with some herbs, banes, and other little wonders.”

  I look to Duke Rothbore. Though the fear remains, plastered naked on his face, he also looks pleased with what’s about to occur.

  “So that’s why you kept me alive,” I scoff. “Its not like I have anything particularly useful to give to you.”

  “You do not understand what is useful and what is not my princess. After all, I somehow manage to find uses for even the most pathetic of people.” He nudges his head over to Rothbore. The duke pretends not to notice.

  The warlock slowly makes his way over to the cell. But rather than open the door—which seems like it would take three men to do—he merely phases through the shadows of the bars. It's strange, looking at his form half-dissappear into the dark. As if the depths are made to hold his being. He emerges fully on my side of the cage.

  I stand, feet shaking, arms feeling limp. But I give it my best try.

  He knocks me down within two seconds. Doesn’t even have to use magicks. Rothbore laughs, but the warlock shoots him a glare.

  “Do not disrespect her.”

  “But she—”

  “Did I ask you to speak?”

  Rothbore makes a grunting noise and grinds his disgusting teeth. I try propping on my elbows, but fall once more.

  “Shhhh, shhh it's alright, it's alright. You’ll be fine Sorina. It's just a little sip.”

  He clasps a cold hand to my forehead and raises it up. Then, he forces my mouth open and pours the drink down.

  It tastes bitter. My stomach rumbles fiercely, trying to fight back against this foreign thing that has entered my gut.

  “Now then…” the warlock begins. He props me gently against the bars and even dusts the mud off my mantle. Then, he grabs my shoulders. “Recently, we have been informed by Destiny of a danger that could arise for us. Of course, you have no idea what I’m talking about, so I’ll relate it more to your liking.”

  He leans closer. I can almost see his face, but the weakness in my body forces my gaze down.

  “You had a very close association with a man who wielded lightning. Tell me everything you know about him.”

  Why him? Why in the hells does everything come back to him?

  I try not to speak. But my mouth is traitorous.

  “His name—” I bite my tongue till blood leaks. Calmly, the warlock dabs the sticky crimson off my lip as my tongue wins the war against me.

  “His name is—”

  …

  Raiten:

  I approach Kiren slowly. Dreadfully. Everything in my mind screams against me. He’s the last one by the fire, still drawing up something in his journal. Zyla and Saegor are taking a walk around—patrolling, supposedly. Though I suspect they are talking about something much deeper and much more personal to them.

  After all, this may be our last night on this wretched continent.

  “Hey Raiten!” Kiren greets cheerfully, still focused on drawing in his journal.

  “Hey—” I pause a step. Breathe in. “Kiren, I wanted to—”

  “Wait before that, check this out!” He turns the journal around and shows me the drawings. They are… hexagonal shapes. Rigid and structured. And they make a pattern connecting to each other, almost rounding out in very intricate three-dimensional drawing.

  “What is that?”

  “A shield complex. Something I’ve been thinking of for a bit now.” He points to the hexagons. “Remember when we were trapped by the Lady? I had to use one large shield to encompass our area. But that took so much energy. And eventually she broke that.”

  “So, what will these do?”

  “Rather than making one big shield, I can make a bunch of smaller, hexagonal shields that connect to each other. That way, when the enemy breaks through one of them, the entire shield doesn’t shatter and I can instead replace that singular breakage with a new shield.”

  Huh. “That’s pretty incredible.”

  “I know! I didn’t come up with the whole idea myself—there were a bunch of mancers who theorized similar Aegis’s like this. But, I think the hexagonal shape will work the best. It has to. Saegor needs me to use it tomorrow.”

  “For his secret part of the plan that he has no intention of telling us?”

  “Exactly.” He says it with such confidence and trust in Saegor, that I can’t but sigh. Maybe it's better if I don’t find out what he thinks—Kiren pokes me. “Are you alright? You wanted to talk about something?”

  Well, might as well. “Listen, about the night we played Liar’s Dice. I—look, I’m still on your side. I still want to fight with you guys. And… I hope that whatever the witch does or did doesn’t fray any of our trust—why are you laughing?!?”

  Kiren is giggling like a little shit.

  “It’s not funny.” I frown.

  “No no, it is funny. You wanna know what your problem is, Raiten?”

  “No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  He stands and clasps a hand on my shoulder. “You think too much.”

  “Do I? Sometimes I feel like I don’t think enough.”

  “That’s what someone who thinks too much would say.”

  “I—” I pause. “Fair point.”

  “I was wondering why you were avoiding me all day. Raiten, honestly, do you think I care how you feel about the witch?” Before I can answer, he cuts me off, serious now. “Because I don’t. I know you’re still with us. Hells Raiten, you saved my life. Of course I trust you.”

  Oh. I really am an idiot, aren’t I?

  Why was I ever worried?

  This is Kiren.

  I sigh. “Thank you.”

  “Of course. Next time, don’t hide away from me like a scared kid.”

  “I wasn’t scared—”

  “‘I wasn’t scared,” Kiren mocks in a deeper pitch, doing a bad impression of my voice.

  “Shut up.” I punch his arm. He laughs again. Even I start chuckling. We sit back down by the fire and he closes up his journals, packing them away now.

  “Do you know why I approached you initially? At the start of our journey?” he asks all of a sudden. I shake my head. He stares into the fire, warming his hands by it now. “When Zyla and I entered the academy, everyone else was older than us. We were loners. And, despite my attempts, no one really wanted to talk to me. Even in our village, there was no one else our age. No, for our entire lives, it was just us two against the world.”

  Right. That’s how I often felt with Hui. Though I don’t think she ever saw it the same way. I think for her, it was Hui against the world.

  “All my life, I wanted a brother. Someone to fight with, to play games with. I think Zyla knew that and as a result, she kind of became an older brother for me. She played rough with me and did all the things I wanted. And I’ve always been thankful to her for that but—”

  “It’s not the same?”

  He nods. “Is that selfish?”

  “I think we can all afford to be a bit selfish.” I stare at the contours of flames and they stir up dark memories of the past. “I wanted a brother too. I think I almost had one. Before everything happened.”

  We sit in silence after I say that. At first, I think I killed the mood. But then, Kiren stands up and takes out his writing implement. He sticks the end into his hand and presses, letting blood welt in the palm.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, worried at first that he’s committing some sort of arcane ritual like Saegor might do.

  Kiren hands me the implement. I take it hesitantly. He opens and closes his bloodied hand.

  Understanding dawns and I stick the pencil in my own palm, trusting in him.

  Then, over the fire, he holds his hand. The red blood looks almost transcendent in the orange of the flame.

  I clasp his hand with my own bloodied palm.

  “We may not have been related, but we can make ourselves brothers in blood,” He says, squeezing my hand now. Some of our intermixed blood drips over the flame, sizzling.

  I squeeze back.

  “Brothers?” Kiren asks.

  I smile. “Brothers.”

  “Brothers!!!” a very annoying voice interjects. And from the left side of the flame, comes up the big hammerhead himself. Umbrahorn smiles, teeth barred, before putting a fin on top of our hands.

  “No one invited you.”

  “Fuck you Raiten, I’m a part of this as well.”

  “Then where’s your blood?”

  “Great spirits don’t bleed. And even if we did, I’m sure the color of our blood would be much more graceful than yours.”

  “What? Vomit green?”

  “Kill yourself Raiten.”

  “Fuck you too, dumb hammerhead.”

  Kiren starts laughing again. Umbrahorn as well. And this time, I too laugh fully. And our jubilation carries away into the night, like the sparks rising from the flame—fiery and free.