Abandon all hope when you glimpse red. A message sprawled onto the ground of Line Lord Farhaid Brutus Cicero’s chambers, written in blood.

  “What in Morterran’s Hell is going on Dylon?” Atilan Itterarkh demanded, as he stalked up to that arrogant little twat. The Banishments were one thing, a horrible blight that the cogs of the world refused to let slow, but this was worse. Hundreds of prisoners, a single ship, and what looked to be a crowd ready to kill. This was reprehensible, and if nothing was done, blood would be shed.

  Dylon, though, looked entirely unconcerned as he shrugged. “A Banishment is what is going on Sir Vessel. Aren’t you back early from your little island?”

  Atilan took a step towards the elf, and saw his two mercenaries take a few steps towards him. Atilan did not deign to glance at them. He continued to stare at the young elf’s eyes, until Dylon broke away. “What is happening here?” Atilan demanded again.

  “Nothing!” Dylon shouted with a wave of his hands. “War prisoners are being taken in from Groloth, so we have a lot of people, more than we expected. Satisfied?”

  Atilan raised an eyebrow. Many of them did appear to be from the north, with those broader shoulders and squarish features. They were tough folks up there, in both Lusamyre and Groloth. “That doesn’t explain the crowd. I have seen anger, I have seen riots. They are close to breaking Dylon.”

  Atilan did not miss the elf scurrying behind his two toughs. “They are upset because someone close to the Red Wraiths is being banished for treason,” Dylon held up a hand to forestall Atilan’s question. “He was spotted sneaking around right after Duhnlaid was murdered. No, you may not interrupt the banishment to speak to them. Besides, Jehan wants to talk to you.”

  Jehan, never was it a good time to speak to him. That meant Judge wanted something, and yet didn't have the supposed time to talk to Atilan. More than likely Judge just didn’t want to give Atilan the chance to wrestle more information from him. The High Lord of Sending and Grand Chamberlain to Her Lady Dragon was a demanding friend. Yet, something felt off, Dylon was hiding things from Atilan. He was no master at deception, a mere amateur. He had lucked out to be scooped up by Jehan and Judge, whatever machinations they drew him into, it would be far beyond what Dylon would have accomplished on his own merit.

  “Perhaps I will speak to Jehan before I return home. Goodbye, Dylon,” and Atilan stalked away. If he wanted to decipher what was happening, he would do so on his own. And yet, as he began to circle the edge of the crowd, trying to take notice of the protest’s pulse, he felt conflicted. He had so much to do. Duhnlaid was dead, Jehan wished to speak to him, he had to make contact with Therothere, and there was the note in his pocket. He fingered it. The blood was dried, but he could imagine the heat of it from when he first plucked the letter from his floor.

  He ignored it. Much as he wanted answers, wanted to pry into Duhnlaid’s demise, as the High Father’s Vessel, what else was his purpose other than helping people?. There was only so much he could do, he had tried to stop these Banishments, but found he lacked the power or influence to end it on his own. But here, as he watched the gathered crowd, saw the bubbling hatred of the protestors as they hurled insults at soldiers, he knew his purpose. He figured if any one man could have a chance at making peace and delaying tensions, it would be him.

  Then, a horn blew from gathered soldiers, and Atilan saw his chance at resolving this with words lost in a single moment.

  ***

  A bell rang. It was loud. There were so many people. Gwynfor tried to look past them, but they were so tall. There was shouting. People seemed so angry. Gwynfor tugged at Lydia’s dress. “Why are they so angry?”

  Lydia did not look at her. Did Gwynfor do something wrong? Lydia wasn’t talking either. Gwynfor tugged again at her dress. “Lydia–”

  “They are angry, because they are taking people away.”

  “Who is taking people away?” Gwynfor asked. She still strained to look over the adults who stood in front of her. She could barely see past them.

  Lydia knelt down, and held out her arms. Gwynfor crawled into her grasp, and felt herself lifted up. She was so high. The wind blew against her face. It stung with cold. Above, she could see now. There were scary looking people covered in metal. She knew what they were, her mom had told her about them. They were called soldiers. They were supposed to protect her. She blinked. Many of them seemed to make a line and behind that, more soldiers were shouting at people who were tied up. The people looked hungry, maybe Gwynfor could bring them some bread.

  “Hey, why is Iodal with them?” She pointed to her friend. She was a month older than him, and her ears were already pointed, unlike his. He was shivering, and looked scared. He shouldn’t be scared, there were soldiers to protect him.

  Lydia was silent again. Gwynfor wondered why she took so long to answer questions, her dad never waited so long to tell her things. “He is being taken away,” Lydia finally said.

  “Oh. When will he be back?”

  Lydia didn’t answer. Gwynfor flinched as beside her, two people yelled very loudly. They shouldn’t do that, dad always said yelling made you weak, and you shouldn't be weak. She wrapped herself closer to Lydia.

  “Do you not know when?” Gwynfor asked, poking at Lydia’s head.

  “Hey there tyke,” another voice said, as Gwynfor felt a hand roughen up her hair. She smiled, seeing Malcolm. He was always nearby, helping Lydia and Gwynfor’s parents when something broke. He smiled and showed off the gap in his teeth. Gwynfor squealed, he looked so funny with that tooth missing. Gwynfor had lost a tooth recently, and smiled to show him her missing one. He grinned back, but stepped away. He looked at the people behind the soldiers. Why did he look so sad?

  “Iodal is being taken away!” Gwynfor said, wanting to share her new knowledge.

  “Is he now?” Malcolm said, staring at the ground. Why did his voice sound different? He was not meeting her eyes either. Everyone was being weird today. Did she do something wrong?

  Gwynfor pointed ahead, where a big boat began to have people walking off it. “Look, there’s people!” They didn’t look very nice, their clothes were yucky looking, and they seemed dirty. How can you be dirty when you spend your life on water? “Is Iodal going to be on the boat?”

  “Yeah kid,” Malcolm said, his voice still sounding funny, as if he was having trouble talking.

  “Are you okay Mally?” Gwynfor asked.

  Lydia’s hand ran down Gwynfor’s cheek. It was cold. “He is having a hard time Gwyn.”

  “Oh, why is that?”

  “Because…” Lydia trailed off. Gwynfor saw her look at Malcolm. Gwynfor knew Lydia was trying to hide it, adults always tried to hide things from her, but she was smart, she never missed what they were talking about.

  Malcolm sighed, “Iodal isn’t coming back Gwyn. Not ever.”

  That didn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t he come back, Iodal was her friend, they were supposed to be playing together in a few days, Gwynfor remembered her mom making plans with Malcolm. “Is this a joke?”

  “I wish it was,” Lydia said.

  ***

  “LYDIA!” Gwynfor bellowed, as she saw the Lusamyre’s axe fall like a guillotine towards Lydia’s neck. Moving like the wind, Lydia leapt back, the axe missing her neck by an inch. She sprang back on her hands, and catapulted back to her feet.

  “WRAITHS! TO ARMS!” Her voice seemed ethereal, echoing loudly across the plaza. “Malcolm, crossbowman! Gwynfor…” Lydia leapt out of the way from the next strike of the axe. “Go get your friend, we’ll break the lines!”

  Then, there was a horrible twanging sound, and screams of pain arose behind them. Gwynfor turned and saw a half-dozen protestors lying on the ground. Three of them did not move, the other three writhed and screamed in pain, heavy bolts burrowed into them. Atop the roofs, the soldiers were reloading their crossbows. This was no longer a protest, this was a battle. Gwynfor’s legs nearly gave out from under her with that realization. Malcolm grabbed her shoulder.

  “Oi, no getting sea-legs girl,” he growled, but there was a reassurance to it, a firmness in the tight grip he had on her. “We’ll survive.” He let go and made a rude gesture at a nearby soldier. As the man was reacting, Gwynfor saw another wraith dart in from nowhere and plunge a sword into the man. He fell with a scream as Gwynfor yelled herself. They were killing people. Dead, people were dying.

  Then, she heard the child crying among the damned. It was loud and sharp, like the song of a sparrow amongst crows.

  And the fire burned in Gwynfor again. Iodal, Willow, another child. Anyone not their own could be taken, trampled over for their industry. She drew her own dagger, and with it felt the guise of the wraith envelop her. Tonight, she would do what was necessary to survive and to save Willow. Malcolm handed her something, it was a bottle of brackish liquid that glowed with a faint light. He held one in his own hands, and two other wraiths–Gwynfor thought they were Kelan and Vel based on their heights and body-shape–held one as well.

  “On my count, toss them at clusters of soldiers, make sure to aim them FAR away from any friendlies,” Malcolm said. “Gwyn, we need the soldiers stopping us from reaching the damned to run. You get them.”

  “What is it?” Gwynfor asked, the thing felt hot to the touch, even through the glass and a cloth wrapping around it that extended up into the bottle itself.

  “Hell made manifest,” he said. “Ready?” He paused as he looked at her. “We ain’t letting them take another good one Gwyn.”

  Gwynfor nodded, worry fossilizing into resolve. The others nodded around her. They were each turning into different directions, aiming for different spots. It was pandemonium already. People were screaming, running, fighting. There was another twang from the rooftops. Four more people fell.

  “One!” Malcolm shouted, as he eyed a group of soldiers that had bowled over a group of ten protestors and were kicking at them. A few watched from a distance. The Wyvern Guard had corralled about a dozen prisoners onto the ship, and more followed on the gangplank. Gwynfor was feeling sick.

  “Two!” The crossbowmen were reloading, bodies piling up as people attempted to flee. Gwynfor had been wrong about their number, or maybe more had appeared. At least twenty soldiers now loomed atop the roofs, loosing their death upon a crowd trying to flee.

  “THREE!” Malcolm bellowed, and cast his bottle upon the group he eyed, keeping it twenty feet away from the damned they were hurting. Gwynfor hesitated, then tossed hers at the line of soldiers with their shields raised, stopping any from passing them.

  The bottle burst upon the ground, and there was a bright flash of light.

  Gwynfor felt sick at the sight.

  ***

  The door to the church was open. It always was, never to be closed to anyone. Of course, that did not mean the gate that surrounded the church had to be left open–a fine distinction many of the grand temples to their faux god abused. For if they let anyone in, then they would have less to spend on finery, art, and foods for themselves. The Red Wraith strode in through the front door. There was no turning of her to ash, no smiting her from the heavens. In fact, nothing happened. She spat on the hallowed ground. Then, she kept walking. The walls of the church were lined with art and mosaics, marbled columns held aloft the curved roof, as she slowly made her way down. She did not hurry, there was no need to. The Red Wraith passed by many people on the way, and aside from brief glances back, no one seemed to notice her.

  Never noticed, never worried, right until the moment when the screams began. That was their favorite part. Those initial moments after the blood began to fly and the fear set in. It was always fun to see how people would react. Would they bargain with the nothingness their eyes refused to acknowledge? Would they blindly fight, praying to their high father for his protection–a protection that invariably failed to come–or would they give up and accept their deserved fate. Those were the only ones the Wraith would give a clean death.

  Few chose that option. Humans would rather claw and scrape and sacrifice anything to gain an extra second of life or power, no matter what they had to burn or betray. She entered into a large hall, filled with pews. Towards the back, where the common folk were to sit, the pews were made of hard wood and thin. The front pews were cushioned, and the ones right beside the raised dais where the pastors and elders would preach were elaborately carved and ordained with feathery looking things that would make clouds jealous for their softness. They must replace those frequently to keep them soft after the asses of the holy squashed them.

  Passing by one, she couldn’t help but draw a blade and leave a sign of her coming. So what if it revealed her before the proper time? That would only serve to make her night all the better. She climbed up onto the dais. Few would ever see that it was carved with an intricate pattern of wheels connecting to one another and spinning round and round. Only those who stood atop, or looked down at it from one of the few balconies would be able to view it. All that hard work, and for what? Behind the dais, was a door. That door would lead to her goal, to her mission. Elder Duhnlaid had just been the bait. She wondered if the proper fish had been caught in their net.

  The door creaked as she opened it into a dark hall. It was frigid. Here, the church butted against Iron hill and dug into the stone itself. These were the oldest rooms of the building, left by the dwarves who once lived here, so many centuries ago. She felt a kinship with these rooms, they were primal, bereft of decoration. They were more tunnel than corridor. She traced one wall with a hand, as she glided down it, at a slight angle downward. It was rough, with occasional runes carved into it, their meaning long forgotten. A light was in the distance. She no longer needed light to see, but light meant people.

  She began to move more slowly. Most would not bother looking for signs, but her targets must have been dreading her, fearing her. They might be ready, might look for the red in their eye’s corner. That would be all the better, but best not to make it easy for them. Each footfall was silent. It was all too simple to move quietly, she often wondered why others struggled. Even before her curse, it had been an easy thing to move without sound.

  The light came from a burning fire in the center of a squarish room at the end of the tunnel. Smoke filled the hall leading towards it, wafting with the smell of sage and other pungent herbs. It smelled of ritual practices, the kind of the old world, before the day of man. Four people in black shawls stood in the room, wheels of silver and bronze adorning them–inquisitors.

  A sudden chill ran past the Red Wraith. It was a cold native to the otherside. A smile came upon the Red Wraith. At the back of the room she faced, stood another door, and behind it, a voice spoke.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  “They are here.”

  Ghosts appeared around her, stains upon reality, and their incorporeal forms pointed outstretched fingers in her direction. The inquisitors drew blades, as around them double-helix spirals of bronze and silver shone in the air around them.

  Finally, a chance to test her new weapon.

  ***

  The brackish bottle erupted into fire. It burned like molten gold and black smog and smelled of rust. It seemed to drag itself towards the person nearest it, and when it reached them, it clung to them like iron filings to a magnet. The soldiers she threw her bottle towards were doused in the thing in moments, and quickly fell upon the ground, desperately rolling and scraping, trying to douse the fire from their bodies.

  It did not work. The air soon was thick with the smell of metal and rust and burning meat. Gwynfor fell to the ground, her stomach heaving. More screams filled the air, and no longer was it just the protester’s terror.

  “WRAITHS! TO THE CROSSBOWMAN!” Malcolm shouted.

  Gwynfor’s eyes were closed, and yet she could still see the soldiers writhing upon the ground. Dead and gone. Gone. A life lost just like that. Something hit her, and threw her to one side. Blinking, Gwynfor forced herself to focus, everything quickly pinpointed to a bolt dug into the cobblestones right where she had just been.

  “Are you mad girl?” Malcolm hissed. “On your feet. Lydia’ll kill me if I let harm come to you.”

  “Sorry,” she sputtered, staring at the crossbolt. She had nearly died. And she might still. She gripped her dagger. Ahead, Lydia was fighting the Gravimancer, never stopping. To stop moving against one of them would allow a Gravimancer to affect you with their magic, and likely meaning a grisly end via plummeting from a hundred feet skyward.

  “I got to deal with those archers if we want a chance, you gotta save your friend. I believe in you girl,” Malcolm said, and Gwynfor felt another of those horrible bottles pressed into her hand. “This be a dark night, but day’ll look all the brighter after. Go save your friends. Vel, Ben, with her.” And with that, he turned and ran towards the back of the pavilion, joined by four other wraiths, their gazes set upon the archers.

  All around was the grim caterwaul that seemed to eat away at the soul like acid. Death and battle was the reality, and Gwynfor was a mere novice here. But she had her own job to do. Trusting Lydia, Malcolm, and the other Wraiths, Gwynfor ran towards the damned, two wraiths following her. She was glad it was Vel and Ben, they had never much cared she was an elf. They too had lost friends to banishment, and so it did not matter to them what one’s ears looked like. They wore weapons now, and looked ready to kill. Their cloaks of crimson billowed behind them as they ran through the night.

  In the chaos that had arisen, many of the Wyvern Guards had moved forward and replaced the mere soldiers who served as the line between protestor and prisoner. The soldiers in turn were trying to control the damned, and get them onto the Salty Pelican. Gwynfor saw the child near the center, who had gone white from terror. Willow, she couldn’t yet make out. She hoped Mother Luck hadn’t forsaken her and sent him to the ship already. Her footsteps pounded on the cobbles, towards the child, towards the line of soldiers, towards battle.

  There was barely thought in her mind, pure adrenaline and instinct ruled. Lydia and the other Wraiths had practiced and trained, but few of them had ever actually been in battle. Gwynfor had been in some scrapes, had fought other kids, but nothing like this. It was noise and chaos and overwhelming. But her fear and emotions had fled and abandoned her for the moment, and had left only dedication in their wake. She would save the kid, she would save Willow.

  She reached the soldiers. Protestors were screaming at them, throwing rocks. Others were running. In response, shields bashed at people who got too close, and spears prodded outwards. Behind them, others were running, as more bolts were falling into the crowd. The stench of blood was coating the pavilion. Gwynfor swapped her dagger for her sling, and tossed a pebble at one of the soldiers. It struck him in the chest, sending him reeling back, face grimaced.

  He met her eyes, his bearded face a scowl. “OUR KIN ARE NOT YOUR PRISONERS!” Gwynfor bellowed, as she readied another sling. He reacted as she hoped, breaking from the line. He rushed forward, spear aloft, coming at her. Primal fear of prey confronted with predator coursed through her, demanding she flee from him, but she held firm. Beside her, Ben drew his sword and rushed the soldier, as she threw another stone. He blocked it with his shield but failed to block Ben. A slash to the soldier’s side sent him to the ground, as Vel dashed forward and wrestled the man’s spear from his hand.

  Around them, other protestors saw what they were doing, and rushed forward like a tidal wave. A single weak link in the chain of soldiers had opened the floodgate. Now people rushed towards the damned.

  A horn was wailing, and Gwynfor saw through the mist, Dylon playing the cursed thing, his face contorted with the effort. And then, the soldiers no longer used the shields as their weapons. At once, Gwynfor watched in horror, as they aimed to kill. The people pushing against the wall were met with the points of spears, ran through and left crying and screaming on the ground, their crimson wetting the cobbles.

  “MONSTERS!” She bellowed, and others joined the call. She snatched a fallen spear from the ground and twirled it around, bashing a soldier who had been pulled down by a group of five people. He fell with a groan, as they continued to beat him.

  Ahead, people rushed towards the damned, still coralled by the Wyvern Guard. They seemed untouchable, as each person who neared the prisoners came face to face with death. Spears and swords and axes rent body from spirit, and people fell away screaming. Prisoners yelled and wailed and shouted, some demanding salvation, others praying for them to give up. The Wyvern Guard did not speak, merely killed.

  They needed to get past them, cut free the shackles of the damned. Only then, would they have enough numbers for this to matter. Gwynfor glanced behind, and saw bodies piling up. The crossbowmen were efficient in keeping those who tried to flee from escaping. Other wraiths had neared them, but it was not enough to stop the bolts yet. She hoped Malcolm was okay.

  Then, she saw something flying through the air. Ben, in the midst of fighting a Wyvern Guard who had moved to try and cover the hole left in the line, failed to notice the figure hurtling across the sky. Gwynfor, realizing too late, called out “BEN! BEHIND–”

  Before she could finish the sentence, the Gravimancer landed, and his axe struck Ben in the shoulder, splitting him down the middle like firewood. A final gurgling scream of pain left his lips and he fell dead.

  Then, Gwynfor’s stomach dropped, and she felt her feet lift from the ground, as if she were falling. Twisting, she tried to grab onto anything, but found nothing. Her mask and hood slipped off, the porcelain smote upon the ground. She hadn’t been moving, had been stopped in shock, and all around her, she saw five other people shooting into the sky. And the Lusamyre was smiling and laughing–sweat beading down his face and long mane of hair–as if this were the time of his life.

  What a horrible day.

  ***

  Atilan stared at the spreading black and gold flame with a mixture of disgust and awe. Where had supposedly ill-equipped and simple protestors acquired Dragon’s Breath? Atilan had little time to ponder, lives were in danger–on both sides of this conflict. Questions had to be asked, but there would be time later.

  The liquid fire was moving as if alive, heaving itself through the pavilion, latching upon whomever was nearest, though mainly soldiers. Around him, silver, bronze, and gold light flared into existence, as twisting double-helixes orbited around him. He ordained the Strands forward, as he ran past a clutter of seven soldiers clustered and burning on the floor. With a flick of his hand, several Strands of gold flew out towards them and began to strike the people upon the ground. At the same time, bronze Strands grappled with the Dragon’s Breath, and began to vanish it into nothingness. Silver Strands rebuilt the ground that had burned away, while the Gold repaired injured bodies. Not all he attempted to make whole recovered though. Even the High Father’s mortal hand could not heal death.

  In the center of everything, a hulking beast of a man with a wild mane of hair carved a path all his own. He was laughing and roaring, and waving his axe as if it were nothing to him. Most who came into his path soon met their end, friend and foe alike. A Lusamyre in the throes of battle would not care to discern ally from enemy. Only a single person stood to face them, an older elven woman–wait. Atilan knew of them. They were Lydia Thyshar, once a close ally to the current Dragon, but in recent years their relationship had soured since Arrietty refused to keep promises made to the elves who helped her take the throne.

  This day was becoming more and more interesting.

  The two of them were fighting, though perhaps it was more accurate to say Lydia was annoying the Gravimancer, keeping him occupied.

  A mage from a Noble House complicated affairs. Were it just Dylon, Atilan could smooth things over. Judge had need of Atilan, but Lusamyre was no friend to himself. Oh well, he never was very good at making friends. Atilan sprinted past soldier and protestor, whatever else was happening, he figured answers could be found in this fight. He dove into battle, as Lydia danced back from a swing of the axe. Gravimancy really was unfair, the weapon moved through the air as if it were weightless, but Atilan knew it could strike with the force of a thousand stones if timed correctly.

  Lydia glanced at him, and he smiled at her, as he drew his own weapon. It was the horn of a Unicorn, fashioned into a sword. Light flared out from it, silver in color, creating a kaleidoscope of silver and gold as his own internal light battled with the horn’s.

  “Have you a moment to answer some questions?” Atilan asked as he lunged and landed a strike on the Gravimancer’s side. He howled in pain and frustration and laughter, as he swung his axe in a return riposte. Silver light flashed, a wall appeared between Atilan and the weapon. It crumbled behind the axe’s force, but stopped the blow from reaching him. Bronze light vanished the larger pieces which would have struck him.

  “Are you crazy!” Lydia responded, still moving as the Gravimancer turned back towards her.

  “STOP PLAYING GAMES!” the Lusamyre bellowed.

  Atilan began to lift from the ground. Silver light flashed and metal chains held him in place, firmly kept to the ground. He glared at the Gravimancer. “I have questions for you as well.”

  In response, the Gravimancer growled to himself. “You arrogant preacher boy. Fine, ask your questions of this one.” Then he turned and leapt a hundred feet. It really was unfair what you could accomplish with Gravimancy. One as big as him shouldn’t be able to move with such grace. In the distance, Atilan saw several people fall skyward.

  “GWYNFOR!” Lydia screamed, staring at one of the people. They looked to be a young woman, much too young to be in battle, to be lost. Far too many people died young. Atilan grimaced.

  “He has answered my question without it being asked.” Silver Strands shot ahead, and pillars appeared to help catch the falling people. “For now Lydia, you have an ally.” He began to race ahead. Lydia followed. Hopefully, he would not regret picking this side so quickly.

  ***

  Gwynfor did not know how she was alive, but it appeared Mother Luck was smiling at her. She held onto the pillar of stone for dear life, but her arms were screaming at her. If she lived through this, she promised she would work out her arms a bit more.

  The Lusamyre was no longer laughing, and open fury etched his face as he glared at the pillars of stone.

  “Damned preacher boy,” his words were like thunder, as he raised his axe. He looked at Gwynfor. “Why if it isn’t the leafer’s favorite pupil.”

  Gwynfor felt her face pale. He charged forward and with a heft of his axe, Gwynfor saw the pillar crack. Her entire body protesting, she pulled herself up, an odd thing as it brought her closer to the ground, and used the momentum to throw herself forward. She grappled onto the Gravimancer’s head clawing and scratching to hold on.

  “ARGH!” he screamed, as he dropped his axe. His own meaty fingers fought at her, she felt him trying to pry her off. She tried to climb down further, but she could barely hold on, her arms shaking with terror and weakness. Then, her fingers slipped. She saw triumph in his face for a moment. In a final act of desperation, she scrambled to grab anything, and one hand managed to grab his own. She was held in the sky, and her only tether from being thrown into the endless stars, was the hand of the one who controlled her. He smiled, and began to spin. She held on, but realized what he was doing. He threw her and she began to fly, spinning and falling up.

  Then, a hand grabbed her. She saw a woman, not much older than herself, dressed in plain clothes, a terrified look on her face, holding onto Gwynfor’s fingers. Gwynfor recognized her, the mother of the child stolen away for Banishment. Their eyes met, and Gwynfor saw tears and fears and fury in her gaze. Gwynfor pulled herself down, securing a better position.

  It barely mattered, she saw the Gravimancer sprinting towards them. The crowd broke for him. He was smiling, enjoying this. Gwynfor knew he could just send the mother skyward, could have leapt here in a second, had thrown his axe at them. But, he was a predator, and he reveled in his approach.

  “You’re too heavy,” the mother gasped, straining backwards to try and pull her back to the ground.

  Footsteps got closer and closer. Gwynfor could see the fear in her savior’s eyes.

  They would die in a moment if the Gravimancer wasn’t stopped. Taking in a breath, Gwynfor let go with one hand again. She felt her stomach drop as she slid back an inch, feeling the open sky above her like a yawning pit demanding her to fall into. She grabbed the vial of brackish liquid with her hand, and shifted. It was an awkward angle to throw the thing, and it was the last action she wanted to take, but she would not die. She tossed the vile thing at the Lusamyre.

  Then, in the midst of that bright flash, Gwynfor felt her fingers slip.

  “NO!” The woman said. Gwynfor saw her leap forward. For a brief second, their hands grasped upon one another. But she was sweating too much, her arm too tired. She slipped from her grasp and felt her body fall towards the sky.

  She scrambled, grabbing, clawing for anything to grab hold of.

  There was nothing. She twisting, falling, stars above shining, fires below burning.

  Then, she stopped abruptly, a harsh tug against her head. In her fall, her hood had fallen, and now a hand gripped around her scarf, still half-mended by Lydia earlier in the day. Caistlin held her, his body trembling with the effort of preventing the sky from claiming her. A sudden calmness fell upon her as she met his eyes.

  “Hold on,” he croaked, and heaved. She drew closer to the ground.

  The Lusamyre’s voice howled in fury and pain, a ghastly thing that seemed to silence all other sound.

  Gwynfor grabbed Caistlin’s arm and clawed up, climbing him like a rope to the ground. The mother rushed to help, pulling her towards them. Then, suddenly, Gwynfor felt sick to her stomach, and everything seemed to turn upside down. She crashed into the ground, the sway of the Gravimancer lost from her.

  She was alive.

  What a day it was.

  ***

  Gwynfor was safe, Lydia saw Caistlin, hoist her to the ground, saw Gwynfor’s quick thinking at throwing the Dragon’s Breath. She saw the side glance from the Vessel when she did that. Questions there would be later. She was not looking forward to it. For now, she would focus on survival. Ahead, protestors had broken in and reached the damned. The battle was being fought there now. People still fell and died, but some of them were freeing the prisoners. Chains were smote and freedom was being sung. It was a beauteous thing in the midst of such an ugly battle.

  Even more beautiful was the sight of the Lusamyre writhing on the ground. She thought she knew him. Harold Lusamyre, a brutish man who fought in more battles than most mercenaries. Death and suffering were his calling, and battle was his blood. So to see him reduced to a blabbering mess on the ground would be a wound to his ego beyond the physical pain. The dragon’s breath seemed to wrap around him like vines. The old stories said it was a living thing–though back then it was called something different. Its old name was lost, replaced by the advent of humanity’s arrival.

  Lydia looked at Caistlin. “Are you not Dylon’s man?”

  Caistlin shrugged, and smirked, showing his crooked and missing teeth. “I am doing my job, as demanded of me, nothing more.” His words smelled of secrets unspoken and double meaning.

  She ignored him, kneeling beside Gwynfor. “Are you alright child?”

  Gwynfor held her, and Lydia heard tears and laughter sniffling from the child. “I’m okay.” Lydia thought Gwynfor’s words of the fox. “Ben, h-he is…” Gwynfor trailed off, but Lydia could see where her eyes rested. Lydia had seen worse corpses.

  “Look away child,” Lydia said, pushing Gwynfor’s head away.

  “Have you seen Willow?”

  “WATCH OUT!” Atilan shouted.

  Lydia turned in time to see an axe hurtling towards them, and saw silver spring forth into a barricade barely in time. The axehead stopped a foot from them, the shaft encased in stone. Behind it, she saw golden light coming closer, and bringing with it the stench of burnt meat and the sound of manic laughter.

  The stone shattered, as a hand wrapped around the axe and wild eyes glared at them. Spirits below, how was Harold walking? He looked like he belonged to the otherside, fire wreathed around him, flesh melting. Then, she noticed it. Where the flesh was sloughing off him, fur peeked through. His face seemed to elongate as he laughed and burned and morphed into a howling cackle. He seemed to grow, even as he should be melting by the dragon’s breath.

  Atilan strode forth, Unicorn’s horn held aloft. He stared down the Lusamyre, as the liquid flame began to fall from the unholy apparition that was emerging. The Gifts spirits gave were potent things, but each one could be perverted, turned into something they were never meant to be. For Gravimancy, the Lunapine wolves were the spirits who granted the Gifts. Harold though was no regular Gravimancer. He had blasphemed and made himself into a Lycanthrope.

  “By the will of the High Father,” Atilan began to say, silver and gold seeming to burn the air around him, “I will find for you either redemption, or destruction. It is your choice.”

  The werewolf howled and leapt towards Atilan. Lydia drew her sword, staring at Gwynfor. The poor child seemed frozen. Lydia embraced Gwynfor, and saw Caistlin still nearby, looking neither surprised, nor scared. She would have to watch that one. “Go girl, save Willow, I will help Atilan with the cursed one.”

  Gwynfor seemed to come alive with Lydia’s words, nodding, as Gwynfor looked at one of the other protestors. They seemed to be just as terrified as Gwynfor. “HURRY!” Lydia screamed, as behind her, she heard the roar of the unholy spirit. Gwynfor ran. Lydia turned to fight a monster.