Weight of Worlds

Damn this bitch! Ranvir thought, slipping aside a boulder. Saleema came screaming at him, rainbow-sword flashing angrily. And damn that sword. The boulders were bad, but that blade was a nightmare. Deflecting warp was always a nasty affair, even when it wouldn’t change or adapt to its nature.

Es could cut through any defense Ranvir attempted simply by targeting the mana, rather than the space itself. Fortunately, the sword could not manage such a feat, probably. Slipping aside, Ranvir slammed a boot into Saleema’s chest, sending her flying back.

His fingers ached from being pressed into fists, his eyes hurt from the cold wind and lack of sleep, his body ached with a multitude of lesser cuts, his wings sent runnels of pain down his spine with each flap, his ribs throbbed dully with every deep inhale, and still the fight slogged on.

Pebbles rained on him, whistling with speed. Slower than her previous attacks, her focus being split as much as it was. He punched through the salvo. Emerging on the other side, Saleema descended in an overhead chop, a rainbow tail blazing behind her just as a pillar vanished.

Her power surged and so did he. Options abounded. She couldn’t possibly predict how he would dodge. Space, violet and gridded, blurred around him and he emerged underneath a great glimmering shadow. The air didn’t whistle underneath its passage; it roared.

The boulder drove him to the ground. The force of the stone bound his chest tight, bulging, buckling. Loce and he drove their intent towards the rock, destroying the reinforcement bit by bit. Rock cracked, and he rolled onto his side, coughing to seize his body. His chest seemed to fibrillate.

How could she read him like that? How could she figure out where to attack? He needed something else, something to pull out an extra card or shaved dice. He abandoned the coughing fit, barely avoiding the descent of her damned sword.

Damn the bitch! And damn her sword!

Kirs sat by her desk in the tall tower, watching the night lights play out in the distance. This far away, she could almost forget what they meant, what it was for. Yesterday, three people died attempting to interfere with the fight. None of them triplet masters, yet they didn’t even know what, let alone who, had killed them.

Three masters snuffed out in less than five minutes.

There’d been other activity, of course. Near lying settlements had attempted to enter the city, only to find it sealed. The people now stuck milling outside the walls, uncertain if they wanted to stay or leave. None could say where they risked their lives more.

Getting as far away from the capital as possible seemed the smartest choice to Kirs. Both parties seemed uninterested in moving too far away from the capital at this point. Ranvir knew they would be here and have prepared counter-measures, so perhaps he was keeping them nearby. Or perhaps it was some trick of behavior from Saleema. Impossible to say.

There’d been other activity as well. The day before the settlers arrived, someone breached the dome. A small gap, just enough for a single person to squeeze through. Perfectly circular and made in seconds. The breach was too quick for anyone to react, let alone stop them.

The culprit hadn’t yet been found, though Kirs thought she knew who it was. Then again, if she’d been right, she should not be alone in the tower right now. As alone as you could get with a curmudgeon of an old man glowering in the corner. Though with Zubair’s presence, she wished she were all alone.

The only thing the man hated more than guard-duty was himself. And perhaps Saleema too. He wasn’t too fond of Saif, for that matter. It seemed he was hopeful about Kanaan, the other triplet master, though that was a tentative and sensitive feeling, liable to crumble into dust at any moment.

Outside the window, she could see the milling crowds of the tethered who would fight Saleema, should the worst come. Three distinct crowds had turned out. The Sleeping Sons formed the largest mass, though no one fully trusted them after the records of the engagement at the school had come in. The next group was those affiliated with the school and the Queen. Not the largest group, but made up largely of Masters. This was perhaps where another bit of tension emerged from the bands.

It seemed Grev had attached himself to this group, which added Sansir despite his position among the Sleeping Sons. The Ankirians regarded him as a traitor and the loyalist as borderline repugnant for sheltering him, while the loyalist regarded him the same as the Sleeping Sons and understood he would rather flee than risk himself.

It didn’t matter that he was part of the same group as Grev, Dovar, Ayvir, Pashar, Kasos, Morphos, and the students from their school.

The third party was retirees. People who’d initially quit the army and their soldiering days. Many wielded their powers in pursuit of friendlier careers. Some people could earn a lot of money not risking their lives. Yet, it seemed some rare few would rather join the potential fighting than let someone like Saleema ravage the city again.

This group was easily the smallest, yet it seemed they were the best regarded. Somehow, they’d ingratiated themselves with the Sleeping Sons and the loyalist, as well as the general servants. Every day, a few more people joined the group. Kirs suspected very few fully understood what was happening. Many seemed to treat it as an opportunity to network.

The entire square bristled with power, thickly enough that simply extending her soul-sight strained her ability. The air was alive with mana and all their myriad forms. Obsidian and ice, the same shape in large, but the variance of detail so many fold it became an exercise to pick them apart. It was an unprecedented event in the history of this small country.

Yet again, these were unprecedented times.

Between the three groups, a glitter of metal reflected the glyph-lights. Copper cast into intricate designs, gathering space-mana in bucket loads. Every space-tethered spent their morning pumping mana into it as well, gathering as much as they could. They had commissioned five different forges within the city to have it made in time. The ritual should lock her down for a minute, however much mana was gathered would be pumped out in those sixty seconds.

As she peered at the circle, someone stepped across it, heading for the tower. In the descending darkness, she couldn’t make out their features, other than the blond hair. Too tall to be Esmund, anyway.

Below, the door opened and soon he was tramping up the stairs. Looking towards the door, she noticed Zubair tensing. She didn’t notice his soul-sight on the newcomer until it was rebuffed. The triplet master had a moment of stunned disbelief before the door swung open.

Grev looked well. Cheeks rosy from the cold, his eyes, filled with power, glowed white. Pale hair curling slightly. He’d cut it recently, away from the longer fashion of nobles and back to military standard. It emphasized his masculinity, particularly his jawline.

“You look distracted.” Grev’s droll amusement cut through the chill silence of the room. He never once paid the triplet master standing by the door any attention.

Kirs didn’t reply, unable to break the weld sealing her lips together.

Grev sighed and nodded. “It’s him.”

“You talked with him?” The words came tumbling out in an avalanche. Why hadn’t he come to her?

“I did.” Grev sighed, leaning against the wall opposite her, the wood groaning at the pressure.

Zubair had intimated that Es might have been able to kill Dhaakir in a single stroke, rather than the injury he’d dealt the man. Whether that was true or he’d been unable to punch through the triplet master’s defenses, Kirs didn’t know. And that felt almost as bad as him being gone.

Had she really lost so much connection with him? It wasn’t always like that. Once, she could have plucked the thoughts from his brain without effort. This uncertainty, it seemed to ravage her with malice. She bit back further words, watching Grev.

“He’ll fight.”

That’s not what I wanted to know.

Grev’s eyes seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. “I should get back to work,” she leafed through her notes on the distant mana-well, Vednar singular source of power. “I think I might be on to something big.”

She didn’t look up, though she could feel Grev’s judgement bearing down on her.

A gloved hand pulled the papers out of her grip, then pulled her up to look into those pale eyes. White and piercing and compassionate. Kirs swallowed back a sudden burn in her throat.

“It took Master Svenar and Hildrid nearly forty years to forgive themselves and each other. It cannot and will not happen overnight.”

She shook her head free and pulled the paper back. “I think it’s related to a potential fourth-stage advancement.”

Grevor sighed, and in the corner, Zubair snorted. After a few moments, Grev straightened. “Good luck with that.” He left.