A Promise of Fire
Chapter 9
Screams of terrified civilians filled the temple foyer as loud bangs rang through the hall. Mothers coddled their children, afraid that the fae had finally reached the temple doors. Men armed themselves with whatever they could find and prepared for the perceived attack. It took the combined efforts of all the maidens to assure the people that as long as Lady Liza kept the sigil active, they were safe.
However, Emli knew that Liza couldn’t keep them protected forever. The night was still far from over, and eventually Liza’s Aether would wear out. She watched the Maiden Superior pray atop the dais and thought that she could help somehow. After all, Emli could cast Aether too. Though she wasn’t as strong as Liza, if she could give her as much as an hour to rest, perhaps that could increase their likelihood of survival.
As a new maiden, Emli wasn’t officially sanctioned to practice the Aethereal Artes, but that hadn’t stopped her in the intervening days; she worked to maintain that strange feeling of being pulled through the river to the point she believed she could pull out her Aether without hesitation, though for how long she could control it she didn’t know.
It would still be another decade or two before she’d be allowed to officially train in the artes, and even then, only if she was deemed acceptably gifted and wanted to pursue the title of Maiden Superior one day.
But Liza wouldn’t condemn her for using Aether in an emergency like this, would she? She’d understand.
“S-Sister,” said Benjamin tugging at her skirt, “Are we gonna be alright?”
“Yes, of course we’ll be,” she said tentatively. There was another bang from outside, and the young Adel broke down in tears.
“Y-You sure,” asked a crying Benjamin. Emli wiped the tears from his cheek, but she dared not answer.
“What about Emecar,” asked Malinda. “H-He’s been gone a long time now.”
Emli bit her tongue. She’d been trying to focus on the issues at hand, and not Emecar, but Malinda was right; he’d been gone for more than an hour. “I don’t know, little one. I truly don’t, but I have faith; faith that he’ll return, and that Liza will keep us safe, and that—”
The banging continued, louder than before. Emli watched as the other sisters tried their best to dissuade the anxious crowd that there was nothing to fear, but Emli though she heard something coming from outside: voices pleading to be let in.
The civilians grew restless, horrified of whatever await them beyond the door. They believed it to be a trick, and it became clear that nothing the sisters said to them could convince them otherwise.
Was it a trick, though? The thought crossed Emli’s mind, and it most certainly crossed the minds of the other sisters, but what if it wasn’t? Liza’s prayer kept the fae out, so even if it was just fae trickery, they wouldn’t be able to enter.
Emli looked at the children and said, “Be calm little ones. I’ll be right back.”
She made her way to the temple foyer where Magda and Lucie did their best to try and calm the terrified crowd.
“Don’t fall for their trickery,” said one man.
“It’s all fae work,” said another.
A human woman coddling her children saw Emli make her way to the door and shouted, “Please, sister, don’t do it!”
“Do not worry,” said Emli. Her voice was unexpectedly calm. “The temple is protected by the will of the Maiden Superior. There is no risk—"
“Of course there’s a risk,” shouted an Elven man. “Fae are assaulting our city, sister, and I will not risk the safety of my family all so you can save some inférals, understand?”
“Monsieur,” Emli tried to say calmly, though she doubt it sounded the way she’d hoped, “those people need help, and as a Maiden of the Galdic Lineage, it is my sworn duty to protect them!”
“It’s your duty to protect us,” said a woman with dark violet skin and long silver hair. “We’re your kinsfolk, not them.”
“They’re a bunch of foulblooded cur,” said another man.
A crowd began to form around Emli, and no matter what she said, the people refused to listen. They bombarded her with shouts of condemnation, claiming that she cared not for the people already safe; they demanded the door remain shut, and that the fae were using trickery to somehow maneuver around the Maiden Superior’s ward.
“That’s not possible,” shouted Emli. “I’ve dealt with fae before, and I assure you all that the Maiden Superior’s protection is more than enough to keep us safe!”
Her words didn’t seem to affect the crowd at all. Emli tried to force her way through the civilians, but their restlessness and anxiety began to turn to aggression and hostility; one man threatened to throw her outside if she opened the door, another said he’d break her arm if she so much as touched the door.
Emli straightened her posture and spoke calmly: “On the honor of Sindelle, and the honor of the Lord High Lord himself, I assure you this is no trick. If I am wrong, then I give my blessing as Maiden of the Galdic Lineage that you may burn me for heresy.”
The crowd didn’t seem sure, but a maiden’s blessing was binding; if she said so, then so it would be. Nervously, they stepped back and allowed Emli to open the door. From outside, another crowd of nearly a dozen scared and hurt civilians flocked into the temple. The last to enter were two men–battered and bruised–who collapsed to the floor in exhaustion.
Once everyone was inside, and the door firmly closed and locked, a red-haired human woman armed with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other let out a heavy sigh and said, “T-Thank you, sister.”
Emli looked down at the two exhausted men huddled on the floor: one was a massive man with sandy blond hair drooped in front of his face covered in a dozen bloody scars and lacerations, and the other was a man with black hair and a hooked nose who looked only slightly less haggard.
Emli curtseyed to the woman and said, “It is my duty, mademoiselle. Pray tell, what is your name?”
“Abigail Levett; these here be Tomlin and Oliver,” she said.
Emli waved for Sisters Magda and Lucie to come help, and they quickly rushed to help the injured Tomlin back to the maiden’s quarters where Sister Claire had been tending to the severely injured as a makeshift infirmary. When asked, Oliver refused help, and insisted he was strong enough to stand on his own.
Once Tomlin had been escorted out, Emli turned her attention to the swords in Abigail’s hand and on Oliver’s hip. “You two are mercenaries, aren’t you?” Oliver nodded.
Perhaps they’d know…perhaps they’d seen him…
“I-I was curious,” she said clutching her stomach, “if you two know about Rukifelth Asphodel and Emecar Valen and if you’ve seen them this night.”
“We do,” said Abigail.
“We saw Rukifelth just before this all started,” said Oliver. “That was a couple hours ago now.
Emli waited on bated breath for more. When it was clear he had nothing left to say, she asked, “And Emecar?”
The two mercenaries exchanged unsure looks with one another before Oliver said, “We thought he was here. That’s what Rukifelth told us, anyway.”
“Yes, he was here,” said Emli. She held tight to her skirt to keep her hands from trembling. “He ran out over an hour ago looking to help anyone trapped outside. I-I was hoping you’d seen him on your way here.”
Abigail shook her head. “Didn’t see nothin’ but fog, sister. If not for Oliver, we’d ‘ve gotten lost for sure.”
Emli’s heart sank. She wanted to believe that Emecar would be alright–he had to be–but fear slowly began to warp her mind. Was he gone? Had he been taken by the fae? Emli bit her knuckles to try and distract herself from that lingering fear. No, she couldn’t waste time thinking about that; she had a duty to her temple. If Emecar really was gone, she’d have to worry about that later.
And yet…
She gestured for the two mercenaries to follow her into the temple’s sanctum where they could rest their legs for the time being. Once inside, she stared upon Lady Liza. The violet Aether that swirled around her continued to shine bright, but there was a moment were Emli was sure she saw it waver.
How much longer could she hold out?
Her hands trembled, and Emli felt a tight knot form in her stomach. She couldn’t just sit idly by and let Liza do this alone. She stepped upon the dais and said, “Madame, you need to rest.”
“This is my duty, Sister Emli,” she said sternly.
“But madame, I can help,” said Emli. “You can’t hold out for the rest of the night; if you let me—”
“You are to keep the people within this temple safe and under control, Sister Emli! That is your duty, and this is mine!”
Emli wanted to argue–to tell Liza that she could use the color of abjuration too–but it would do no good, and she knew that. Before stepping off the pulpit, Emli knelt beside Liza and offered a small prayer of her own.
Elf-Mother, Father of Sunshine, Mother of Moonlight, any voice on high; keep the people of this city safe. For all who seek shelter in our walls, allow them to see the coming dawn, and for those not fortunate, guide them gently to the world beyond.
As she looked upon the statue of Galdane, Emli remembered her dream from several nights past: the man wreathed in radiant flames with golden eyes.
Why is he so damned stubborn!
Rukifelth guided Asta through the darkened streets and alleyways while her song kept the fae and fog at bay. Though her song was incredibly helpful, Rukifelth couldn’t shake that something felt off putting about it. Though her Aether appeared normal at first, Rukifelth noted that the color was darker and almost ink-like.
He quickly turned Asta down a corner, one Rukifelth knew like the back of his hand; they were on the last stretch to the temple, only a few more streets, and they’d be there. Off in the distance, he thought he saw the violet light of Aether glowing from the temple’s spire that shined like a beacon of hope through the fog.
“C’mon, we’re almost there,” he said. He tugged her along, but Asta slowed and came to a stop. “What are you doing? We’re—”
“thERE yOu ARe, My dEAr.”
Rukifelth felt a horrid chill run up his back, and his hair stood on end. He quickly turned to see–only twenty or so paces away–the looming silhouette of the Kintelgas emerge from the fog.
“YoU DIdn’T tHInk We cOUldN’t See yOU BeyONd tHaT liTTle SonG, dID yoU?”
“YoU Can’T USe oUr oWN tRIck aGAinSt Us.”
“We cAN seE rigHT thRouGH iT.”
“YoU’Ve sTilL mUCh To LEarn.”
“NoW, iT’S tIMe To ComE hOmE.”
Rukifelth stepped forward and put himself between Asta and the monster. If it was here, then that would mean Emecar was…
No, don’t think that. Don’t even start to think that. He’s fine. He has to be.
Rukifelth brandished his sword and parrying dagger and turned to Asta. “To the temple! Quickly!”
But Asta didn’t move. She stared straight ahead as if hexed by the fae.
Before he could say anything more, the fog began to swirl around Rukifelth, and he felt the sharp cold bite his legs. Frost formed around him, and as he tried to turn back, his movement grew sluggish.
He looked to Asta and shouted for her to run, but before either of them could move, the ground beneath them erupted into shards of glass-like ice that tore into Rukifelth’s body. He howled in pain and collapsed, but he saw Asta had somehow evaded the attack, almost as if the fae had ignored her.
“Go,” he shouted through gritted teeth. “Get moving!”
Asta tried to back away, but ice began to form around her ankles. The Kintelgas stomped forward, it’s dozen eyes uninterested in Rukifelth and focused solely on her. “no MOre RuNNing, mY DEaR.”
The Black Beast pounces!
A wave of anger surged through Rukifelth; red and blue Aether coiled around his body. His muscles grew stronger, and his body grew lighter; he bolted to his feet and lunged forward, his sword carrying with it all of his fury and rage. The sabre cut deep into the Kintelgas’ hide, and it gave a bellowing scream of pain.
The scent of blood lingered in Rukifelth’s nostrils, and the image of the Black Beast rampaged in his mind. He swallowed the pain of his injuries; he would deal with them later. For now, he had his target in sight; kill the Kintelgas, and the fog dies with it.
He turned to Asta–who’d barely managed to free herself–and shouted, “Go,” before turning back to face the massive fae. The Kintelgas swung with its four arms, each lashing at Rukifelth who easily bucked and weaved around the attacks despite the icy ground beneath his feet.
“It’S tHiS oNE agAin!”
“i DOn’t LIke tHIs CreAtuRe!”
“FilThY moRtaL!”
“DO wE KEep Him?”
“nO! WE dON’t wAnT hIs KInd!”
“tHEn lEt uS Be riD oF HIm!”
The dozen mouths on the Kintelgas opened and began to sing a horrible song: the air grew colder, the fog grew thicker, and the ice loudly cracked. From the fog lunged a pair of childnappers, and from the sky descended a swarm of familiars. Rukifelth gnashed his teeth and swung his sabre wildly; red Aether burst forth from it, slicing into the attacking fae, before they could get to close. One childnapper fell, then the second, but two more replaced them; he cut through the cloud of familiars, but soon a new cloud reformed.
No matter how many fae he killed, the Kintelgas could just summon more, and though his strength and speed were great, he couldn’t last forever. Rukifelth’s heart pounded; if he really wanted to kill the Kintelgas, he’d need to let go of his fears and embrace all of his anger and hate.
The Black Beast thrashes against its bonds; it rips, it tears, it bites! They scream, they cry, and you watch!
Rukifelth’s vision went red—his breathing heavy—as he charged the fae. His body warped and writhed as he felt himself growing with power he’d long since forbid himself from using. He cleaved through the fae as if they were nothing; his anger and rage boiling inside of him, and with each swing of his sword, it burst out of him in a wave of blood red Aether.
But in his rampage against the lesser fae, Rukifelth hadn’t realized that the cold chill was gone; he’d lost sight of the Kintelgas. His eyes darted from side to side, eagerly searching for the monster’s shadow in the fog, but there was nothing there except the littered, sizzling corpses of fae.
And then he remembered: the Kintelgas wasn’t after him; it was after Asta. Rukifelth spun around to the sound of Asta’s screams off in the distance, and his eyes widened.
Rukifelth tried to leap away, but his feet slid across the slick ground, as a jagged spire of ice burst from the cobblestone street and embedded itself into his shoulder, narrowly avoiding his heart. He screamed in pain as the ice pressed him back to a nearby wall. Pulsing from within the ice, Rukifelth saw what looked like small black tendrils of ink-like Aether.
The ice began to spread around Rukifelth’s shoulder to his chest and then neck. His body writhed in pain as it felt like thousands of blades dug into his flesh.
“JuSt aS We THougHt.”
“A diSGusTing bLIghT oF a MOrtAl.”
“kiLL iT aNd BE dOne!”
The shadow of the Kintelgas emerged from the fog. Its mouths chattered and sang their terrible song as Rukifelth felt the ice continue to spread throughout his body. Try as he might, the pain blocked all thought from his mind; he thrashed about, desperate to try and shatter the ice, but his strength had been seemingly sapped by the pain, no by that strange blackness within the ice.
As the Kintelgas reached forward with one of its long, gnarled arms, another haunting voice permeated the fog: “AbRUh bEKh!”
More than a dozen black, ink-like tendrils wrapped themselves around the Kintelgas, and before the creature could utter a word from one of its dozens of mouths it was pulled back into the fog and vanished.
With the singing silenced, the ice that covered Rukifelth’s body weakened and cracked. He imagined the Black Beast once more, and with his enhanced strength, ripped himself free of his icy prison.
Though free, Rukifelth’s body was crippled with the intense pain of frostburn, and the wound of his shoulder oozed with blood. He clasped the gash and gritted his teeth hoping he could force the wound close as he’d done so many times before:
Lick your wounds! Heal yourself! You are stronger than this!
Yet nothing.
He writhed on his knees, unable to stand. Rukifelth felt the pain seer through his legs and arms, and he struggled to even keep his hand clasped to his shoulder or gripped to his sword, but he refused to lay helpless. Whatever it was that dragged the Kintelgas away wouldn’t keep it away for long, that much he knew, but he had an opening, and he was so close to the temple. If he could just get there, he could have Liza heal him, and then he’d be back in shape to fight the Kintelgas when Emecar arrived.
Emecar…
Rukifelth struggled to his feet when he saw something run at him through the fog. He reached for his sabre but quickly stopped when he saw it wasn’t a fae like he feared, but Asta.
“What are you doing here,” he said. “I told you to get to the temple!”
“A thank you would suffice,” she said.
“A thank you? For what?” That’s when he saw–swirling around her just like Aether–were those same black ink-like tendrils: black Aether, the color of the occult. “So that was you?” He scoffed. “I knew you were no good.”
“You’re one to talk,” she said. Her face was distant and afraid, but before Rukifelth could say anything, the roar of the Kintelgas filled their ears. There was no time for bickering. Asta slung Rukifelth’s arm over her shoulder, and the two began to run.
They were so close, thought Rukifelth. The once weak glimmer of violet Aether he could once barely see had grown brighter and brighter. And then the singing returned.
Asta screamed; she clutched her head and collapsed to her knees, speaking in complete gibberish. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and wisps of dark red and black Aether began to swirl around her. Rukifelth tried to get her to stand and keep moving, but her skin was hot to the touch.
His eyes darted around the fog, and he could see the shadows of fae close in around them. “C’mon! We’re almost there! Keep moving!”
The fae loomed closer. “thERe’S nO uSE ruNNing. TheRe’s NOwheRe tO gO! geT THem! GEt tHEm! Don’T LeT thEm Get aWAy!”
Rukifelth turned back to the temple; it was only a hundred paces away, he guessed. He bit his lip and wondered if he could drag the girl the rest of the way, even if her skin did burn like hot metal, but he couldn’t outrun the fae in his current state. His body still burned with frost, and his shoulder screamed in agony. Regardless, he’d have to try.
Fae began to descend upon them from all sides, and as Rukifelth grabbed Asta’s arm, the Aether swirling around her completely turned black. Her eyes snapped open, and she shouted: “UhL aRAn KEr’HUs uHl! uhL ARan Ker’Hus sHAra!” Rukifelth stared in disbelief, unable to parse whatever it was she was saying. It certainly wasn’t old Galdic; it wasn’t any language he’d ever heard before, but it sounded just like the words in the Kintelgas’ songs.
“RAhzOl zaZGat ZoL!”
The black Aether sparked, erupting into a massive cone of blistering flame. Rukifelth collapsed to the ground and stared as the flames incinerated the fog and all fae within. Once the fire had ceased, everything–both fae and fog–were gone. Asta stared straight ahead, dazed, and then fell to the ground unconscious.
Rukifelth stared ahead in utter bafflement and was only brought back to his senses when he heard the roar of the Kintelgas: “DOn’t Let hEr geT aWAy!”
The fog began to reform itself and close in around them as the chattering of fae returned, creeping around alleyway corners and over rooftops. Rukifelth quickly scrambled to his feet and rushed to Asta’s side; her skin no longer burned, but instead felt lifeless and cold. Despite the numbness in his arms and legs, he lifted her up and started to run.
“C’mon, girly, just a little further.”
Rukifelth carried her beyond the ward of the shimmering violet Aether and onto the temple gardens. Blood poured from his wounded shoulder, his head spun, and he nearly collapsed, but he had to keep pushing. From behind, he heard the frustrated screams of fae as they desperately tried to claw their way past the ward.
He staggered up the temple steps, and finally collapsed; his legs had gone fully numb, and his head pounded viciously. He reached up and weakly pounded on the door, afraid they wouldn’t hear him; he could hardly shout, but luckily after a moment, he heard some commotion on the inside. Rukifelth couldn’t make out the words, but he was happy to know that there was a least someone still safe inside.
After a long and arduous conversation, the door opened, and there stood Sister Emli who gasped at the sight of him. He pointed to Asta and weakly said, “G-Get her inside. Hurry.”
Emli gestured for Sisters Magda and Lucie to come help take Asta while she helped Rukifelth to his feet. Once inside, Rukifelth could see just how dire the situation was: within just the temple foyer itself there had to have been at least fifty or so people—elves and humans alike—and he could only imagine just how many people were hiding inside the sanctum.
His head spun as Emli Guided him through the foyer and down the halls. “Liza,” he said. “I-I need to speak with L-Lady Liza.”
“I’m sorry, Rukifelth, but she’s busy. We can’t distract her at the moment,” said Emli, sitting him down and tending to his wounds.
Rukifelth tried to shake her off and head for the sanctum himself, but his legs gave out as he tried to stand, and he collapsed to the floor. His head bounced off the floorboards as his arms failed to catch him, and the pounding in his head grew even worse. Emli tried to calm him, but Rukifelth refused her help and kept pushing forward.
He wasn’t sure if his words were audible, but he tried to say, “I need to tell her about the girl!” His body grew numb, and his vision hazed. He heard a faint commotion coming from nearby, but he couldn’t make out who was talking or what they were saying. Rukifelth tried to look up at Sister Emli who was speaking with a few others whose faces he couldn’t make out, but they looked strangely familiar.
As his vision faltered, Rukifelth couldn’t help but notice that there was still one person missing from the crowd: Emecar. His vision faded, and he whispered, “Please, come home.”
Fae swarmed the streets outside the city-watch garrison. Screams bellowed through the night sky that would haunt the city for years to come. Watchmen fought valiantly, armed with only their muskets and cudgels, but were outnumbered more than ten to one. It was only through the strength of Vaan Grisdel, captain of the Lionbrand Mercenary Troupe, that they survived as long as they had.
Blue and yellow Aether swirled around the captain, enhancing his already superior combat prowess. The color of transmutation gave him the strength to cut down the fae without so much as breaking a sweat, the color of divination allowed him to shoot fae out of the air without so much as a glance, and together the colors gave him the speed and dexterity to reload his pistol in seconds, far faster than an average mortal.
But Grisdel was a lone adept facing off against a sea of fae, and he knew it. With his enhanced senses, he could ignore the illusory cries of the fae and hear the desolate cries of the civilians begging for help that would never come.
Why were fae attacking the city, he wanted to know? In his century of experience, Grisdel had never seen a fae attack of this magnitude before, especially not in a city as densely populated as Lionbrand. His only guess–his fear–was that the sins of his people had finally caught up with them. Their nation had committed crimes against the gods themselves, and he feared they were now paying the price.
From behind, Grisdel heard Lieutenant Vechelot—emblazoned with her own yellow and violet Aether—call out to him, warning him of three large fae descending from above. Grisdel’s eyes shot up, and he peered through the fog; he could see not only dozens more hand-like fae, but a massive swarm of the winged beasts as well.
He called out to the other officers and ordered them to fall back; there was nothing more they could do against such an attack. Unfortunately, the fog seemed to inhibit his speech; while the color of divination allowed him to hear through the fog, it seemed the others weren’t so lucky. The swarm of fae descended upon them, and any who didn’t hear Grisdel’s words were caught unaware by the cloud of fae and dragged away, their screams joining those in the distance.
Captain Grisdel did his best to cover for the officers who heard him and sprinted back to the garrison. After they all scrambled inside, Grisdel slammed the door shut and began barring it.
“Such wasted potential,” whispered Vechelot. Grisdel sneered at her; how could she be so callous about the loss of her officers? Did she really see them as nothing but latent potential? No, perhaps she wasn’t talking about them. Perhaps she was talking about him: the dishonored crownsguard turned mercenary.
He shook his head and said, “What do we do, lieutenant?”
The expression on her face made it clear that she didn’t know. She sighed and said, “We stand our ground here and hold down the fort until daybreak.”
Something heavy crashed into the garrison door, and nearly knocked it off its hinges. Grisdel and a small group of officers did their best to hold the door shut, but unfortunately Grisdel was the only one with the strength to actually hold anything. From outside, the captain could hear the frantic cries of civilians, but a quick flash of divination revealed them all to be a trick.
Vechelot ordered several of her officers to go grab anything they could use to barricade the doors. For nearly fifteen minutes, Grisdel held the door shut as young officers–many of whom had never seen a battle in their lives–frantically helped to keep the garrison safe. Those civilians lucky enough to find shelter within the garrison’s walls offered prayers to the gods: humans pleaded to Azuhiel to send a light to purge the darkness, while elves conducted makeshift Restings to Sindelle in preparation of their demise.
From deep within the garrison, there was another loud crash; a window shattering. Gunshots rang out, and everyone–civilian and officer alike–knew that the garrison wouldn’t be safe for long. Grisdel wanted to help, but another bash at the front door forced him to stay. Until the door was properly barricaded, there was nothing he could do.
Lieutenant Vechelot turned to three of her officers and said, “Report to the administration hall and assist Commander Dior and his platoon. The rest of you, keep barricading this door so we can free the captain’s hands!”
Grisdel gritted his teeth; he was powerless, just as he was all those years ago. His chest ached as he recalled the betrayed looks on their faces, and the cold words of his superiors resigning those people to their fates.
Then, there was silence. Outside the garrison, Grisdel couldn’t hear the screams of the fae; in fact, the only sounds he could hear were the prayers of the scared civilians and mutterings of nervous officers.
It has to be a trap. There’s no way this is all over, not that suddenly.
Grisdel closed his eyes and concentrated on what lay outside. He felt his Aether pulse within as yellow wisps of light began to swirl around his eyes and arms. He felt every heartbeat, every breath, and every blink within a hundred feet, and yet outside, he could only sense the presence of the fog, but no fae.
He opened his eyes and took a step back from the door. An officer asked, “I-Is it over, captain? Are w-we safe?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that just yet, but…” Grisdel shook his head. Once again, he concentrated on what lay outside and tried to extend his foresight even further. His vision was pulled from his body until he looked down at the city from on high. A thick layer of fog covered the entirety of Lionbrand, and Grisdel could see the fae all skittering away and converging in a singular direction: west-northwest.
What’s in that direction?
Frantically, Commander Dior and more than a dozen wounded officers and sergeants arrived in their small hall at the front entrance. The commander looked worse for wear. Unlike Lieutenant Vechelot, Dior was a man of action–willing to throw himself into the heat of things–or so he liked to claim. In reality, Grisdel assumed he’d been caught unaware and was forced to fight. If Dior had it his way, he would’ve stayed back and gave orders, as was the duty of the commander.
He cleared his throat and said, “Lieutenant, Captain, report!”
“It seems the fae are planning an attack, Commander,” said Vechelot with a quick salute. “We can’t let up; not just yet.”
“No, that’s not it,” said Grisdel. “They’re moving west-northwest.”
“Towards,” asked Dior, but Grisdel shook his head. The commander seemed relieved for the time being and stood with his head held high. He gave the order to his officers and sergeants to fortify their defenses for when the fae returned for another attack.
Grisdel stood by the door watching as the young men and women of the city-watch frantically followed their orders to a tee. Meanwhile, he was lost in thought; what could possibly lie west-northwest from their location? Why were they even in the city at all? He reached into his coat’s old pocket and pulled out a pendant baring the symbol of Singard’s royal crownsguard: the face of an owl, one eye of citrine, one eye of sapphire: each illuminated with dormant Aether.
He focused once more, this time thinking of his troupe: Oliver, Abigail, Tomlin, Diantha, Radiguet, Nadine, Gervais, Hector, Rukifelth, Emecar, and more. The owl’s citrine eye glowed, and Grisdel felt his vision once again pull out of his body and into the city. He tried to sense their locations, and while there were a few he could feel scattered throughout, there were many he could not. His heart sank as he thought about their fates. Should this night end, how many would he see tomorrow, or the day after?
His senses found a group–four of them–all centered in the Galdic Temple. Surely, that would include Emecar and Rukifelth, he thought, but the other two he was less sure of.
The temple’s a safe bet; decorated with wards and the Maiden Superior’s…
Grisdel’s eyes shot open, and he tucked the pendent back into his pocket. “The Galdic Temple,” he said. “That’s where the fae are heading; west-northwest!”
“What? Why,” asked Vechelot.
“I don’t know, but I sense that’s where they are headed.” Grisdel turned back to the door and began moving that which the officers had been using as a barricade. “We’ll need to move quickly; against a swarm of fae that size, not even the Maiden Superior will be able to hold it off forever. I’ve a feeling a few of my men are there, so I won’t request much, but—”
“Captain, stop,” ordered Dior. Grisdel did just that. “I need you here, Captain Grisdel. Should those creatures return, I’ll need all the man power I can get.”
“You’ve more than two dozen officers stationed at this garrison,” said Grisdel. He looked across the scared faces of the civilians, many of whom stared up at him like he would get them all killed. He turned back to the commander and said, “In addition to yourself and Lieutenant Vechelot, you should have at least one more adept; surely, you don’t need me.”
“Captain, I ask you as a sign of respect–as a friend and companion–to stay and help.” Dior’s expression turned sour. “But if you disrespect me, then I say instead: I command you to stay at this garrison and help protect these people!”
Protect yourself, more like it.
Grisdel scoffed. “You may outrank me in an official capacity, commander, but you forget that I’m a mercenary, not one of your officers. As such, even if I was under your direct command, as per standard license, I am free to break agreement at behest of the troupe’s captain should the client’s request go above my line of duty at the cost of a null payment. As captain of the troupe, well…” He stared at the commander; both of their expressions unwavering. Grisdel continued, “Keep secure all exits and windows; don’t spread your numbers too thin; keep a constant watch on all civilians. Do all this, and you’ll hold out for the night. I know you can do this commander.”
Dior sneered and fiercely clenched his fists, but he said nothing. Grisdel gave the people of the garrison a bow, reassuring them that they’d be safe in the commander’s care, and then rushed outside. As the door closed behind him, he could hear Vechelot order her officers to barricade the door again.
The night air was eerily quiet. Though the fog still hung heavy over the city, there were no screams nor skittering fae, only the confused cries of civilians. Grisdel stepped out into the barren streets, reloading his pistol with what little gunpowder he had left. Off in the distance–west-northwest–he could sense a growing commotion: faint shrieks and screams.
Though he couldn’t fathom why, the fae were converging on the temple. He tucked his pistol into its holster on his hip and ran into the fog.
Asta’s eyes shot open, and she quickly bolted upright, afraid and unaware of where she was. She breathed heavily, and her forehead was covered in sweat. The room was dark, cluttered, and noisy; she laid on a dingey old cot on the floor with the only a dim violet light lighting the room.
“Careful now, mademoiselle,” said a calm voice. “You don’t look too good.” Asta turned and saw a young Galdic maiden with bright orange curls and amber eyes. She looked even younger than she.
“W-Where am I,” she asked.
“The Galdic Temple. Don’t worry, you’re safe here,” the maiden said. Her voice was soothing and sweet, and despite the incredible stress and anxieties going on outside the temple walls, she held her composure well, but Asta could see what hid beneath her calm demeanor: she was terrified; afraid that at any moment the fae would barge into this most sacred place.
Asta looked around and saw–kneeling at the far end of the sanctum, atop the temple dais–was a single maiden uttering a prayer and surrounded by wisps of violet Aether. Along the walls was the arcane sigil of protection used to keep out otherworldly creatures and invaders that illuminated the room.
As she tried to stand, the maiden stopped her and said, “Please, mademoiselle. You were in rough shape when you arrived. Don’t strain yourself.”
“T-That man I was with,” said Asta, “the human; what happened to him? Where is he?”
“Rukifelth is resting with the other wounded. He’ll be alright, but he needs his rest, much like you,” said the maiden.
Asta sighed and laid back down on her small cot. She stared up at the mural on the ceiling lit by the weak light of the sigil. She was glad that he was alright, though she was afraid of what he had seen; that strange power of hers that cursed her wherever she went, he’d seen. Would he say anything?
Then again, she’d seen some things of him that perhaps he’d like to keep hidden.
Asta’s tongue still burned with those awful words: “UhL aRAn KEr’HUs uHl! uhL ARan Ker’Hus sHAra!” Despite never hearing those words before, Asta somehow knew what they meant: “I will not let you take me. I will not let you take anyone.”
Wytchsong? But I’m not a wytch. I’m not! I’m me! Just me!
Was that true? She hadn’t felt like herself in a long time. In truth, she’d been scared of who she’d been becoming, but what else could she do. That girl she was long ago was gone.
Asta rolled over and struggled to remember by what name she even went by anymore. Lochren? Yes, the name of her old governess. Asta Lochren was her name, not…
The maiden wiped a tear from Asta’s cheek and asked, “Are you cold, mademoiselle? I’m sure we can rustle up a blanket from somewhere in this old temple if you’d like.”
“No, you’ve done enough.” Asta closed her eyes and held herself tight. “What do I do,” she whispered.
“You needn’t do anything. We’ll take care of everything; such is our duty. You need just stay here and rest.” The maiden’s voice was firm and confident, much older than her age would assume. However, Asta was an expert on lies; she could hear the fear in the maiden’s voice. She was afraid–not of the fae–but of something else. The maiden rested her hand on Asta’s shoulder and said, “I promise, everything will be alright.”
“You what?” But the maiden had left to tend to a group of human children.
Promise? Why did that word sound so strange when she said it? It sounded like the words of someone else. No, it sounded like that other human who came to her rescue: the man with the red hair. Asta looked around the temple, but didn’t see him; was he gone? Was he just another poor soul lost to the fae?
Asta closed her eyes, and the maiden’s words slowly faded. She tried to remember better times–simpler times–before all these fae took over her life; back when she was just a girl who wanted to sing. She remembered entering Adam’s parlor as he sat as his piano, fluttering away on the keys. He had such an articulate way of playing: his precision wasn’t perfect, but it gave way to the little flourishes that made his playing truly special. It was so unlike anything she’d ever heard an elf play; something that only a human could perform.
Tears trickled down her cheeks as she sat on the little stool behind him and just listened.
“G’day, darlin’,” he said.
She laughed. His natural Rudanian accent was always such a delight to hear. “G’day to you too.”
He looked back at her and gave that crooked smile that she thought was oh-so charming. “Say, is somethin’ the matter? You look like you’ve been cryin’.” Asta touched her cheek; had she? “You thinkin’ about’cha ma again?”
“Y-Yes, that’s it,” she said holding back more tears.
Adam took her hand gently and said, “Don’t worry, she’s proud of you. I know it.”
Asta knew it wasn’t real, but just imagining Adam’s face forced her to smile. She’d never met a man like him, someone who understood her in a way that no one else could. She couldn’t imagine an Elven man treating her in such a way; no, there was something chivalrous–charming, perhaps–about humans that made them act in such a way.
He turned back to his piano and began playing. “Care to sing a little song for me?”
Asta stood as he began playing an uplifting tune; she instinctually tapped her foot. She loved it: so bombastic and full of life. She began to sing of a mischievous girl who’d sneak out at night to be with her lover, and as she sang, she felt her spirits lift. In that moment–just a moment–she forgot all of her worries.
“Say, why don’t you ever audition for the operas at the Brochard Hall,” he asked moving onto the next verse. “They’re awfully fond of new talent, and I’m sure they’d just love you.”
“Oh, darling, I’m so awfully shy. I couldn’t possibly audition,” she said giddily. “Not unless you were my accompanist, that is.”
“M’dear, you don’t need me. You’re brilliant just the way you are. Never forget that.” Adam turned to her and smiled; his fingers never missed a note. “You’re gonna shake the stars, you are!”
As they performed the second verse, Asta heard a sudden strange knock behind her, and Adam stopped playing. Asta blinked, and suddenly there was nothing but silence. She stood center stage before a dark, empty auditorium. She looked back to the piano and saw Adam, sitting at the ready, his fingers gingerly on the keys.
It was exactly as she remembered; exactly how she feared. Blood trickled from his fingers onto the white keys and down to the stage floor. Asta touched him, and his body collapsed onto the keys with a chaotic thumb. Asta screamed as blood dripped from his eyes like tears.
Again, he was gone.
Asta collapsed to the ground, holding Adam’s lifeless hands as she sobbed. She then heard a lone clap echo from the audience. “wEll DonE, MadEMoisElle, WEll doNE! YoU’ve trULy pROveN YOurSelF, hAveN’t You.”
That voice haunted her; it rang in her ears like a knife grinding against cold stone, and a horrible chill ran down her spine. She stared down the auditorium aisles where she saw a single shadowy figure walk towards her. Behind it billowed dozens of dark tendrils, and further behind–looming in the dark–she saw the silhouettes of three massive, four-armed creatures.
“CoMe hOMe wiTh uS, DEar sISteR,” the voices said in unison. The lone shadowy figure hovered towards her, as if walking on invisible steps. “no One nEEds geT HuRt aNYmoRe.”
It reached out with one of its shadowy hands, and Asta’s eyes quickly shot open. She stared at the ceiling–to the mural of Galdane and Sindelle–as tears whelmed her eyes, but they were not tears of fear or sadness, but anger. Asta staggered to her feet, fury bubbling inside of her waiting to be let out.
She stomped through the temple sanctum as the voices of the fae continued to linger in her mind, taunting her. She made her way up the dais where the Maiden Superior was praying. Once up close, Asta saw the sweat dripping down the maiden’s forehead, and her eyes strained to maintain the prayer.
The young maiden from earlier shouted for her to get down, but Asta ignored her and said, “Let me help. It’s just basic abjuration, isn’t it?”
The Maiden Superior glared at her. “What?”
Asta looked around at the arcane runes and glyphs along the walls, admiring the skill required to keep them all active for as long as the Maiden Superior had. “You need rest; this night is far from over,” she said. “I should be more than capable of keeping this sigil active for at least an hour, maybe two. In that time, you can get your strength back.”
From behind, Asta heard the young maiden whisper to herself, “You’re an adept?”
Asta turned to her and said, “I’m familiar with the Aethereal Artes, yes.” She turned back to the Maiden Superior. “However, I am not officially sanctioned. Will that be a problem?”
The older maiden glared at Asta; her eyes filled with a determination similar to Asta’s anger. This woman would listen to her, that much she was sure, though she thought it may require a bit more persuasion if she dared risk it.
“Lady Liza,” said the young maiden, “this girl is right: you’ve taxed yourself, and you need rest. Please, you’ve been praying for nearly—”
“That’s enough, Sister Emli,” said Liza. Her Aether was beginning to waver, and the sigil of protection briefly flickered as she broke concentration. Her breath trembled as she said, “Young lady, this temple–everything within its walls–is my responsibility. I’m not going to risk some untrained adept to protect those who are under my roof. How do I know you will not falter?”
“I suppose you wouldn’t, but what choice do you have” said Asta holding her head high. She looked across the sigil on the walls, and then down at the glyph the maiden was praying upon; its light began to weaken, and Asta knew the maiden wouldn’t be able to keep up the ward much longer. Asta knelt down and gently pressed her fingers to the red carpet. She felt the lingering pulse of Aether on her finger tips and said, “Allow me an hour. I can hold out that long.”
The younger maiden, Emli, looked to her Maiden Superior and said, “Please, madame, this girl came with Rukifelth. I-Id be willing to believe she can do as she says.”
But the Maiden Superior didn’t seem phased. She stared at Asta, her eyes boring into her and trying to read any minute expression that could bring her doubt. Asta could see that the woman was wise in her ways, and that she’d been spurned by recklessly accepting the help of a stranger before. Asta figured that the only way to convince her was to do something drastic.
She took a deep breath and felt the blood rush through her veins; Aether pulsed from her body and soul, and as she exhaled, Asta felt the inky blackness of Wytchsong on her tongue: “leT Me hELp.”
At first, Asta was afraid the maiden had seen through her deceit or that she could hear the fae influence on her tongue; her gaze was firm, but after a moment, the maidens eyes briefly glossed over, and her head drooped. She stumbled, and Emli helped her keep balance.
Liza rubbed her eyes and looked up at Asta. Had she gone too far? Had the woman realized what she’d done?”
“Y-Yes,” said Liza weakly, “you can help. Just for a moment. P-Please, be careful.”
Asta let out a sigh of relief as Sister Emli guided Liza off the dais. She knelt beside the glyph on the floor; she thought about Adam and one of his favorite songs. She sang, and violet Aether swirled around her and into the glyph. The sigil of protection along the walls of the sanctum ignited with a new reverberating intensity; the runes seemingly crackled like lightning, and the sanctum was bathed in violet light.
As she sang, Asta heard the voices echo in her head: “ComE NOw, My dEAr. enoUGh oF tHEse gAmeS. COme hOme wITh Us, aNd yOU’ll bE wHOle aGAin!” She ignored them and continued to sing. “We’LL gIve yoU One hOUr. if yOU Are noT Out wHen tHe tIMe iS Up…”
Asta’s breath caught for just a moment as rage filled her heart, but her song continued through gritted teeth.
I will not let these Wytches win!