Kanla Park was on fire.

Ruban stepped on the accelerator, blinking to clear his vision as the battered old SUV hurtled towards its destination. The smoke had turned the cold night air murky, making it hard to see despite the vibrant lights of the nearby Select City Walk.

He parked near the edge and stepped out into the matted, sooty grass of Kanla Park.

His right hand rested lightly over his sheathed sifblade, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. He clasped his pistol tightly with the left. He didn’t know which one he’d need to protect himself tonight.

At least the damage wasn’t as bad as it’d seemed from afar. A few tarp-covered carts smoldered near the edge of the park, the acrid stench of burning plastic mingling uneasily with that of scorched vegetation. A children’s slide and climbing frame, situated further into the park, had also been set on fire.

But most of the smoke came from the large, blazing torches carried by the so-called protestors. A handful of the braver ones waved them menacingly at the lone, injured vankrai hovering in the air.

Three white-clad men lay prone a few feet from the Aeriel. Two of them were clearly dead, their bodies carrying the telltale scorch marks of an energy-shell. The third man, large and balding, spasmed and twitched convulsively in a pool of blood, presumably his own.

As Ruban watched, one of the torch-bearing protestors lunged – going straight for the balding figure bleeding out on the floor.

Flapping its injured wing, the vankrai dove after him.

Ruban sprinted after them both.

He’d finally caught a glimpse of the item that had the protestors and the Aeriel so riled. Caught in the dying man’s spasmodic grip, a reinforced sifblade glinted in the moonlight.

The first to reach his target, the white-clad protestor extended a hand, thin brown fingers closing around the carved, metallic hilt of the sifblade.

A few seconds passed as he struggled to extricate the reinforced sifblade from his dying comrade’s grip. The balding man groaned and twitched. More blood poured from his hand as he clenched his fingers tighter around the blade.

A pale, slender arm – swathed in its diaphanous feather cloak – wrapped around the protestor’s waist. Startled, he lashed out with his torch, singeing the edges of the glittering cloak.

Undeterred, the vankrai dragged him off the bleeding man, his limbs thrashing as he was lifted bodily off the ground.

The protestor screamed, trying fruitlessly to fend the Aeriel off with nothing but his torch.

Ruban darted after the pair and flung a sifkren at the vankrai. As expected, it ducked to keep the sif-lined disk from grazing its already-injured wing.

Ruban leapt into the air, unsheathing his sifblade in one fluid motion. The Aeriel sailed downward to evade his sifkren. Ruban raised his arm and – slicing through an outstretched wing – brought it down in a perfect arc.

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The vankrai screeched, light spilling from the new wound. Both its wings now injured and inoperative, it plummeted to the ground, taking its torch-wielding captive down with it.

Ruban landed lightly on his feet a few meters away, dead grass crunching under his boots.

The familiar, hair-raising sizzle of a nascent energy shell made him whirl around, sifblade at the ready.

One hand raised, the vankrai grinned, a tiny pinprick of light burgeoning steadily on its palm. Its other arm was wrapped tightly around the bleeding protestor, who appeared too dazed to put up much of a fight. Parts of his white tunic were charred, and the left side of his face had sustained significant burns from the now-discarded torch.

Using its captive as a human shield, the Aeriel forged its energy-shell. Its injured wings were drawn protectively around its slender frame.

Before the Aeriel could take aim and fire, Ruban lunged.

He swung at the vankrai with his sifblade, hampered by the presence of the incapacitated protestor hanging off its arm. Not that the IAW would begrudge him a few dead cultists, especially if it was one of the rabble-rousing HAVA members. But Ruban took pride in keeping civilian casualties to a minimum during his Hunts.

Panicked, the Aeriel released its half-formed energy shell. It grazed Ruban’s shoulder, before zipping past and detonating harmlessly against a defunct swing set on the other side of the park.

Ruban reeled back with a howl, his shoulder throbbing.

Discarding its captive, the Aeriel charged at him. Ruban parried its attacks, vision still hazy from the stinging pain in his shoulder. Despite the fleeting contact, the energy shell had burned through several layers of cloth, skin, muscle, and tissue.

The Aeriel seized Ruban’s throat with its claw-like fingers, hoisting him off the ground. Its other hand gripped Ruban tightly by his injured shoulder. The pain impaired his dominant arm, making it impossible to use his sifblade.

Grappling desperately for breath, Ruban swiped at the Aeriel with the butt of his pistol. The momentary distraction gave Ruban the opportunity to entangle one leg with his opponent’s. Using this as leverage, he swiftly retracted his other leg and plunged his knee deep into the Aeriel’s gut.

With an agonized screech, the vankrai reeled back. It released Ruban, exhuming the sharp nails that’d buried themselves into his skin.

Coughing and wheezing, Ruban stumbled back. He flexed his right arm, testing his grip on the sifblade. His fingers shook slightly with the strain, but it’d have to do. He’d worked with less.

The vankrai straightened once again, unfurling its wounded wings, its movements sluggish but determined. All that sif was taking its toll on the creature, slowly sapping it of energy.

Haltingly, it began raising its right hand. Light flickered tentatively on its outstretched palm.

If he didn’t act now, the opportunity would be lost. Ruban gritted his teeth and pulled back his own arm, feeling the skin crack on his burned shoulder. Sending up a prayer to any deity that might be listening, he hurled his sifblade at the vankrai.

The Aeriel’s body jerked. Its raised hand clutched futilely at the air for purchase.

The hilt of the sifblade sticking grotesquely out of its chest, it sank to its knees.

A cheer went up behind them, reminding Ruban of his white-clad audience still gathered near the edge of the park.

The Aeriel groaned, pulling futilely at the blade buried in its chest. Light spilled from its many wounds, momentarily illuminating the devastated greenery around them.

Then it collapsed, satiny-silver hair spilling across the bloodstained grass.

Ruban darted forward to pull his sifblade out of the fallen Aeriel’s chest. Wiping the blade on his trouser leg, he sheathed it.

Next, a moment’s search revealed his only remaining target. He strode up to the balding man and ripped the reinforced sifblade out of his stiff, gory fingers. If by some miracle the man was still alive, Ruban would happily leave him to the tender mercies of his fellow cultists.

As he turned to walk back to his car, a haze of white filled his vision. Instinctively, he tightened his grip on the reinforced sifblade, shoulders relaxing and feet drawing apart as his body adopted a combative stance.