The Sky is on Fire and It's Not Palmira's Fault

The days began to blur together as she settled into her new routine. Each morning she'd break her fast in the low light of the dining hall, leaving as the sun rose to begin her shift guarding the Villa dei Ambrosi. Once her shift was over, she'd return to the guildhall where Rana would continue her training, most of which consisted of just repeating the same attacks over and over again until they became instinct. Come evening, she would normally eat her dinner with Lorenzo and Chiara before retiring to her bedroom, where she would dream odd dreams that she'd not remember come morning.

Before she knew it a week had passed, and she once more found herself standing outside the Villa dei Ambrosi waiting for the moment her shift would finally be over and she could do anything else.

She'd seen neither the Gennarelli nor Tintinnia again since that day. The latter was to be expected—it was a big city, and the other girl had made no plans to meet up again—but the first worried her somewhat, as the lady who'd arrived had seemed adamant on entering. She'd asked Svani about it, but the dwarf had been weirdly evasive.

In the end she just dropped it. Whatever happened, she wasn't part of the Famiglia in the first place, so she felt it was something she could safely ignore.

She'd come to regret that attitude soon enough.

"…The arm of the Automata was pretty mangled, but I figured I could hammer out the dents with a bit of elbow grease. I may not look it, but I was pretty good with an anvil back in the day! So I strapped it down—even detached from the rest of the body, it still wriggled around like worm on a chain—and I started heating it up to make it easier to work."

Palmira leaned against the cool scale of the walls, staring out over the morning crowd with dead eyes. She listened to Morte's story with half an ear, wondering if it was possible to learn how to fall asleep while standing up.

"Of course, that's when it exploded in my face," Morte continued, talking more at her than to her. "It turns out that oil is flammable! Who could have thought? On the bright side though, that did teach me how to make bombs, so I count it as a win-win. Even if I lost my eyebrows in the process."

"Hm," Palmira grunted. Her knees began to buckle as she slowly slid down the walls, but a warning cough from Ester forced her to fix her posture. "Do you think you could teach me how to make some?"

"Oh, heavens no. You spontaneously combust every few minutes! If you want to die, there are less painful ways than keeping explosives on your person."

"Is that how you died?"

It was a question asked without thought. Only after the words left her lips did she realize how personal a question that must have been.

Her breath hitched, and she made to take back the words, but found she couldn't. Instead she was filled with a sudden… curiosity.

It was odd, she realized, that this was the first time she wondered how he died.

"…No. My death may have been pointless, but it wasn't that foolish. I have to believe that much."

She glanced down at the staff, wondering what his expression looked like beneath cloth that hid him away. Then she remembered he didn't have a face. "…Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Fair enough.

Pushing herself off the wall, Palmira began patrolling her section of the wall (which was in reality little more than walking in circles for a few minutes).

It was as she passed by the gate for the third time that she heard a commotion coming from the other end of the piazza.

"Goddess damn them," Svani grumbled, waving her and every other guard in sight over to the gate. "What do they want now?"

Palmira blinked, glancing past the crowds. "Who? The Gennarelli?"

"If only," the beardless dwarf huffed, unhooking his crossbow. Her eyes widened in alarm at the action, but he just gave her a grim smile. "Look alive, kid. Things might be getting messy."

With that ominous warning, Palmira tightened her grip on Morte's staff, staring into the crowd warily. At first, she couldn't see anything beyond the normal city-goers, but then as the crowd began to thin she saw a group pushing their way through.

Soldiers draped in silver and blue, armed to the teeth. Leading from the front was a pudgy man in blue silks, pure, seething rage carved into his face. Sewn into his robes was his Famiglia's crest, six silver circles lined in gold. She recognized it in an instant, as would anyone else in the city.

It was the crest of the Capparelli Famiglia.

Palmira felt her stomach drop, as she began to count just how many soldiers the aristocrat had brought with him.

Still, maybe this was something routine for them? Just some petty posturing between sworn enemies? Hadn't the Gennarelli done something similar last week?

Svani grabbed Ester's shoulder. "Go get Cherven. And anyone else you can grab along the way. Now."

Ah. That didn't fill her with confidence.

There were countless reasons the Capparelli would be here today, and none of them good. They'd been at odds with the Ambrosi for as long as she could remember, and she'd been witness to some less than cordial confrontations between the two Famiglias back when she was on the streets.

She realized with mounting unease that she was now technically a part of that feud. That she'd chosen a side without even realizing it.

But surely the Capparelli weren't going to start something here, right? They were at the heart of the Ambrosi's territory, in one of if not the busiest part of the city. They wouldn't be that brazen, right?

…right?

People stared and whispered as the Capparelli stormed past, and as if by some unspoken signal, they began to slowly filter out of the piazza. The dozens of market stalls and temporary shops were closed up calmly yet swiftly, and the many restaurants that surrounded the piazza dragged tables and chairs inside, changing the sign on their door to 'closed.' Parents grabbed their children and left through the nearest alley, moving past city watchmen who surreptitiously made their way closer to the villa.

Her uneasy feeling only grew stronger.

Cherven arrived a moment later, and for the first time in her life she felt something other than anger or fear at seeing the spider. Unfortunately, the feeling of relief she might have had seeing him was drowned out by the growing dread that was the army at his back. Following him were pikemen and crossbowmen, mages and priests. Those with ranged weapons climbed atop the walls, while everyone else brought spear and shield to bear at the gate.

Palmira found herself gently shoved to the back of their group as Cherven stormed by, stopping next to Svani at the front.

"What's going on," he hissed, mandibles twitching violently. "Why are they here?"

"I don't know," Svani replied. Despite that, though, he looked like he had an idea. "You don't think it's…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Cherven scoffed. "We had him watched all week! There's no way the horny brat would have been able to cause any more trouble."

"Still…" Svani grimaced. "Signor Juliano is cunning, and after Laurence died, you know how he's gotten…"

"Uh, Captain…?" Ester spoke up, drawing their attention. "I couldn't help but overhear, but… were we not supposed to let Juliano Ambrosi out of the compound…?"

"…what?"

Svani stared at him, horrified, while the spider legs attached to Cherven's back drooped in dismay.

"Fuck," Svani hissed, clenching his fists. "We forgot to tell—how did we forget—!?"

"…At least now we know why they're here," Cherven agreed, his voice strangely tight. "…Fuck indeed."

"AMBROSI!" the Capparelli roared, coming to a halt before their small army, red-faced and panting. "WHERE IS OTTONE!? I'LL HAVE HIS HEAD!"

"Calm down, Francoise Capparelli," Cherven recovered quickly, applying a mask of dismissive calm as he turned to glare down at the man. The perks of being a nine-foot-tall spider-man, he towered over even the tallest human. "I find my patriarch is unlikely to part with his head, but it is even less likely when you stomp into our home demanding it so callously. Speak with that flabby mouth you men are so fond of or leave us in peace."

"You Ambrosi swore you'd have better control of your progeny," the Capparelli snarled, taking a threatening step forward. Hands jumped to swords on both sides, but nobody drew steel. Yet. "And yet, I find one of your sons violating my daughter! He climbed through her window and took her right in her bed! I would see him punished! And each and every one of your patriarchs gutted like the fish they love to fuck!"

"Of course you did," Cherven closed his eyes, resigned. "…If the boy you are speaking of is the same one I'm thinking of, then I would say violating is a strong word. Considering we first found out about their little tryst when she was caught sneaking into his room."

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"What she wants is not the issue here—they are not married, nor would any of our Family approve of their union, and yet he has defiled her in the eyes of the Goddess! She is now damned for Hell, and Juliano Ambrosi is to blame!"

Cherven's mandibles twitched violently. "Come off it, Francoise. They're children. Let them have their dalliances. The Goddess is not so cruel."

"And what would you know of the Goddess' words, heathen?" Francoise scowled, taking another step forward. Someone drew a sword, and with a scream of steel-on-scabbard every soldier in the piazza was suddenly armed. "What would you cannibalistic bugs know about the love a father has for his daughter!? My daughter, forevermore shamed, by your patriarch's very own grandson! If you understood, you would not stand here, in the way of vengeance for me and mine!"

Palmira's eyes went wide, and she stepped back in shock—and, perhaps, fear.

She had not signed up for this!

But she found herself the only one to back away, as the rest of the gate guards she'd over the past week come to know raised a shield wall before the gate. Across from them the Capparelli did the same, and the piazza she'd once felt so safe in suddenly felt a step away from becoming a battlefield.

Palmira smelled smoke, and realized that her fingers had begun to burn.

"You cannot win this, Francoise Capparelli," Cherven warned, quietly. "You are outnumbered and outgunned, standing in the heart of our territory, under the shadow of our greatest triumph. Do not be foolish, Francoise Capparelli. Sheath your sword. Return to your home. Kiss your wife and hug your daughter. Do not waste your life in this fit of anger. There are better days to die than today."

Francoise Capparelli hesitated. His face was flushed red with rage and his sword shook violently in his hands. But his eyes took in the piazza—the soldiers standing grimly in front of him, up to the magi atop the walls readying spell after spell, and up even more, at the great skull of Vesuvius, its empty eye sockets staring down at them soullessly.

His sword slowly began to lower. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, furious but resigned.

But then from the distance came the pounding of footsteps. Of hundreds of heavy boots rhythmically slamming against the tiled streets, and the heavy breathing of men and other.

A wave of people flooded into the piazza.

From the north Insanguinte mercenaries marched in from the streets, their blood red chainmail and skull-carved axes marking them to any who knew them. From the south marched the most Holy Hospitaller, the all-woman warrior-priests draped in white and red cloth, wielding hammer and stave alike. And from the east marched the Gennarelli and their House Guard, marked with the crest of the Gennarelli, a green star over a blue shield.

The Gennarelli had returned at last.

And they had brought with them an army.

"Ambrosi!" a voice shouted from the head of the Hospitaller, and she realized with horror that she recognized it. Sinbad raised his sword, his one eye staring at them with grim resolve. "By the power invested in me as Pontefice Assente, I declare your Famiglia excommunicated for the crime of conversatio cum daemonibus. Stand down and relinquish your leaders to the Church, lest the excommunication remain permanent, and the lot of you be forevermore damned to hell!"

Palmira's back hit one of Vesuvius' titanic ribs. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she flattened herself against the great corpse, wishing she was anywhere but here.

"What the fuck did the higher-ups do," Svani hissed, glancing over at Cherven.

"Something stupid," he growled back. "And likely something stupider, if they managed to get caught."

"Well," Francoise Capparelli raised his sword, confidence returning to his posture. "It appears I am no longer outnumbered."

"You don't have to do this, Francoise Capparelli," Cherven repeated himself, and though his voice now wavered he did not lower his sword. "You don't have to do this."

"Oh," the Capparelli patriarch grinned. It was an ugly thing. "I do."

And then with a roar of rage, he charged, and his soldiers followed behind.

They clashed, and someone screamed, and Palmira realized a moment later that it was her.

In the next moment she was blinded, as thick black smoke poured over the piazza. People roared in pain and anger, and then she was nearly thrown off her feet as a hurricane of wind blew away the smoke. Once her sight returned to her she had only a second to regain her bearings, before a Hammer of God descended.

The earth buckled, the tiles that made up the piazza shattering as soldiers on both sides were thrown high into the air. The rest of the Hospitaller raised their own hammers to follow their sister, but the bones of Vesuvius groaned, and stone and earth and tile that had been thrown into the air suddenly slammed back into the ground with just as much force as when they'd left, burying a few unfortunate souls who'd been unable to get out of the way in time.

The drakelings screeched and squealed as their perch shook, hundreds of them taking flight as swords and sorcery clashed below them. They circled the piazza high above, setting the sky alight in their panic. The flames dripped to the ground, setting aflame enemy soldiers—but not the Ambrosi, whose armor was one and all immune to flame.

(Never again, something whispered in the back of her mind. A memory, perhaps, carved into the very bones of the Ambrosi. For so long as we live, Never again.)

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, and she looked up to see a cascade of lights pour over her, as magics of all shapes and sizes blasted out from atop the walls into the crowd. She watched the invaders catch fire and freeze and explode and dehydrate. She watched men and women of all races and ages die by the dozens as magic and might clashed in the piazza.

She wished she hadn't been here today. That this had been one of her days off, or that maybe they'd attacked in the afternoon. She wished that the Capparelli hadn't come today, that the Gennarelli hadn't come today, that the Ambrosi hadn't done whatever it was that they'd done that brought all their enemies here today.

She wished that she could bring herself to look away. She wished that she could just close her eyes, and pretend it was all a bad dream.

"HEY!" someone shouted. She jumped, before realizing it was one of the Ambrosi soldiers, glaring back at her. "What the hell are you doing!? Fight already, damn you—"

He didn't get another word out, before her head vanished in a flash of gore, an axe taking its place. An Insanguinte Mercenary grinned proudly, before she was pushed back by a wave of liquid mercury. It grabbed her legs and picked her up, chucking her up into the flaming sky where she combusted among the drakelings.

"I…" Palmira whispered, her voice little more than a rasp.

"Palmira!" Morte shouted at her, frantic. "I know this is a lot to take in, but you need to move! It doesn't matter what you do now, but you need to get up and move!"

Ah. When had she ended up on the ground?

She stood uneasily, using Morte's staff to push herself up. The battle raged before her as she did, and even as she stood up she wondered what she could do. What she should do.

The crowd of soldiers seemed to pulse, and she watched with morbid awe as Sinbad casually walked through the crowd. She had never seen the man fight before—never even thought of how he would—but that was the best way to describe what he did.

He walked forward. And everyone in his path died.

His back was to her, she realized with an empty sort of detachment. His back was to her as he made his way to the gate of the compound.

…If she attacked him now, could she win? Could she kill him?

Without conscious thought, she raised her staff and—!

She couldn't do it. The fire came, and it burned and it burned and it burned but she couldn't do it.

When she'd been looking for guilds to join, she'd skipped the Mercenary Guilds and Holy Orders. She'd skipped the openings for House Guards and City Soldiers. She'd skipped over them all and looked only at the Adventurer's Guilds.

Because adventurers killed monsters, not men. And even if she didn't see herself as a particularly good person, she didn't want to kill people. Especially not like this.

…And she didn't want to die here for a people she didn't even particularly like in the first place.

Sinbad turned, perhaps sensing the staff aimed at his back. His sole eye met hers, and it was like he was staring into her very soul.

She lowered her staff, and snuffed out the flame.

And knowing not what else to do, she turned and ran.