Chapter 49 – Everything Is On Fire and It Is Somehow Still Not Palmira’s Fault

Palmira stepped into the arena warily, her nerves sending sparks dancing between her fingers. She’d sparred—even fought real enemies before—but something about doing it in front of a crowd was making her feel more nervous than when she went on her first quest.

As he wasn’t going to be as useful in this fight she had slid Morte into the holster at her back to allow her to hold Malocchio with both hands. The mace was heavier than it used to be, on account of whatever Tintinnia had done to it, though hopefully it shouldn’t throw her off too much.

The arena still burned from his previous match, red-hot dust and sticky, smoldering flames left the air shimmering from the heat. It would likely be sweltering to anyone else, but in this her immunity to heat saved her once again. Far across from her the man she’d be fighting stood calmly amongst the fading inferno, raising an unconcerned eyebrow at her approach.

“Do you have any advice?” Palmira asked Morte, nervously eyeing her soon to be enemy. “I could use a bit of advice right about now.”

“Oh, certainly, there are many things I could tell you,” her staff agreed easily, his tone light. “But I’m not going to. You’re in this one alone! Good luck~”

“Wait, what!?” she hissed, twisting her neck to glare back at him. “What do you mean you’re not helping!?”

‘Disdain. Traitor.’

“Oh, don’t be like that. I’ll still act as your catalyst, don’t you worry. But this battle is—pardon my trampling of your guildmaster’s ambitions—as low stakes as it gets, at least for you. The only thing you personally stand to lose here is pride. As such, I think this is the perfect opportunity for a test!”

“Really?” she groaned, frustrated. “This is important, Morte!”

“I agree. Which, again, is why I’m not helping you. I’ve helped you a lot ever since you liberated me from the bargain bin, but I think it’s time for you to start standing on your own two feet. So nothing from me, not today! Win or lose on your own merits, not as the student of the illustrious Morte but as the powerful Palmira di Firozzi, destroyer of dukes and arsonist extraordinaire.”

“I hate that you’re making sense,” she grumbled, flushing in both anger and embarrassment at how he described her. “What about you Malocchio? Are you still with me or are you gonna be silent too?”

‘Agreement. We will stand by Our Lady always.’

“See, that’s why you’re my favorite.”

“Hey!”

“We shall now begin the next battle!” The referee’s booming shout caused her to jump. It was so much louder down here. “On the red side, Giacomo of the Ambrosi Famiglia’s Rodina Guild! And on the white side, Palmira of the Firozzi Famiglia’s Rosa Dominae Guild! The battle will continue either until one of them is unconscious, surrenders, or I personally call the match!”

The crowd roared, and it was all she could do to ignore them. Instead she kept her eyes locked forward, focusing on the man she needed to defeat.

“Goddess, did they really send a child to fight me?” her opponent grumbled, looking more put out than anything. “Please tell me you’ve just run out of adventurers and you’re all they have left. I think I’ll be insulted otherwise.”

“Hey!” she snapped, anger stirring in her breast at his words. She focused on it, preferring the heat of rage over her nerves. “Who cares how old I am, I’m more than able to kick your ass!”

“READY!”

“Look kid, don’t take this the wrong way, but this is a lose-lose scenario for me,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Either I win—in which case I’m known as the guy who beat up a child—or I lose—in which case I’m known as the guy who got beaten up by a child. Either way I don’t come out of this looking good.”

“Sounds like you’re more worried about your image than the fight.”

“We’re adventurers, kid. Everything we do is about image.”

“BEGIN!”

Despite his spoken reluctance, the man didn’t waste a second. His arms rose, and she saw flecks of light glint from his charcoal bracers as the flames rose with them. The sea of fire around her reignited, converging on her in an instant in a wave of molten death.

Damn. He really was ready to burn her alive, huh?

“As I thought,” he hummed, just barely audible under the inferno in her ears. “A fire mage. Or at least someone immune to fire. Maybe they aren’t underestimating me as badly as I feared.”

“We aren’t underestimating you!” she snapped at him. “It’s you who’s underestimating me!”

Rather than reply he charged her, the much larger man barreling down on her in an instant. But with his theatrics he’d given her enough time to prepare. With tendrils of flames dancing around her feet she ducked, dodging beneath his wide grapple. Pivoting the moment she was clear of his arms she brought her mace down on his hip with a shout, only to barely miss as he spun away.

‘Mind your footwork!’ Anima’s voice echoed in her mind, reminding her to properly plant her feet after a maneuver like that.

‘Mind his footwork,’ Teresa’s voice followed, and she looked down just in time to barely dodge a kick to the face.

She ducked beneath it, though that just let him bring his foot down on her shoulder instead. She winced at the pain that ran down her arm but managed to stay standing, if only just. Her opponent on the other hand was unbalanced, bouncing away on one foot after she didn’t crumble from his strike.

It was an opening, and she intended to take it.

Palmira darted forward, swinging her mace at his flailing leg. Grimacing, the man was forced to launch himself back to avoid the blow, letting himself fall to the ground with a grunt. He rolled back to his feet in an instant, using his longer limbs to create space between them before she could capitalize on his blunder. For anyone else this would be enough, as a normal mace wasn’t a long-range weapon.

But her Malocchio wasn’t a normal mace.

There was a quiet ‘click’ as his head unhinged itself. Then it shot forward like a viper upon a mouse, the cube of spiked steel slamming straight into her opponent’s foot.

Giacomo swore loudly, gunky dark red flames spluttering to life around his legs in an attempt to force Malocchio away. Unfortunately for him this was her mace, and so rather than avoid the fire they simply ignored the heat. It continued to move on its own, circling around his legs in an attempt to use the cord which still connected it to the shaft to tie them together.

But her opponent was faster than she’d expected. Though it looked painful he leapt on his injured foot, managing to barely escape the trap and stumble even further away.

Malocchio tried to give chase only to reach the end of his cord, the whole line going taut before snapping back to her, the head smoothly returning to its original place.

Giacomo continued to backpedal even after, heaving great lungful’s of air as he regained his bearings. His gaze was a great deal warier now, something which caused a feeling of pride to smolder in her chest.

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting that,” he said at last, favoring his good foot. It was a bit hard to hear him from so far away, but she was pretty sure she got the gist. “But if one injury were enough to stop me I’d have died years ago. So, sorry about this kid, but I’m not going to hold back anymore.”

He brought up his hands, bracers seeming to almost glow in the flickering light, and the fires surrounding them changed. In an instant they grew leagues hotter, the air beginning to warp and flicker as the smoke pouring from them became thick and dark.

For a moment she thought he was about to subject her to illusions similar to what Asu Rana could do. However, as the smoke grew ever darker she realized he was doing something much simpler.

The heat didn’t bother her and the fumes didn’t suffocate her, but she still needed to see. And as the smoke billowed around her she suddenly found herself completely blind.

This… was not good.

Crap. Okay, what did she know about fighting blind?

Nothing. Excellent. Okay, she presumably only had a couple seconds before he attacked her again. What else could she do? Flail wildly? No, he was too skilled for that to work and likely had some way of seeing through his own smoke if he were doing this. She’d need to learn how to do that later, if only because it would be really cool if she could pull this off against someone else.

Damnit, nothing else was coming to mind! All of her normal tricks involved setting someone on fire, something he was immune to! If it were night she might have been able to use the stars to divine her way through this, but—

Wait. Could she…?

She had a spell that let her see the stars. She wasn’t all that great at it yet, but it was meant to help her study the cosmos no matter when or where she was. But would it actually work with her divination?

Screw it, she didn’t have the time to waste thinking on this. Clenching her jaw she forced herself to calm down, focusing on her eyes. It was hard, and maybe it was just the fact she was panicking but it felt like it was taking way longer than normal.

But then it happened. Stellar dust ignited in her irises as the cosmos bloomed into full view before her mortal eyes. The darkness seemed thinner than normal, as grey ghosts stared back between flickering stars. In the distance she felt more than saw something big and angry pulse, like the soul of a dead god raging in silence against all who came near.

All of this she ignored, because she could only focus on one thing.

It didn’t work.

Shit.

That’s right, she needed to see both the stars and the smoke for it to work properly. How could she have forgotten—!

Then an idea crossed her mind. Did she need to use both of her eyes to see the stars?

She didn’t have time to consider it further. Without hesitation she dropped the spell in her left eye while keeping it active in her right. The now inactive eye throbbed at the sudden absence and she felt herself going cross-eyed as the two wildly different sights blurred together.

But that didn’t matter, because the stars and the smoke began to move.

The excruciating pain in her eyes didn’t let up, but a wide, unhinged grin stretched across her face as a prophecy wrote itself in the stars just for her.

It was a prophecy of her getting punched in the face.

She got punched in the face.

Palmira swore as her head was knocked back, her cheek igniting with pain from the blow. She flailed wildly with Malocchio in the hopes of forcing the man back as metaphorical stars joined the literal ones in her vision. She nearly dropped the spell from the pain and shock, but she just barely managed to hold on.

Which was good, because it meant she was able to see her opponent run around her flailing mace, attempting to take out her knees from behind.

If her previous understanding of the spell was right, she only had a couple seconds before the prophecy caught up to the present. Which meant she needed to move, now.

Palmira ran forward, changing her flailing from in front of her to behind her. She saw a rough silhouette she was pretty sure was the real him stumble away from her, though with how messed up her vision was right now she couldn’t be sure. Instead she focused on her spells, using them to keep one step ahead.

He seemed to be focused on trying to get behind her. After a few dodges she realized he thought she was just seeing through the smoke, not seeing the future, because he kept firmly to her blind spot no matter what. Not that it was helping him that much. Every few seconds the stars would show him sneaking up on her before she caught him, which instantly shifted her prediction as he reacted to her reaction.

It was disorienting how often the lights shifted, only holding shape for a second before changing again. Simply knowing the future caused it to instantly change as her reactions to his reactions to her reactions rewove the tapestry of fate every few seconds.

This wasn’t getting them anywhere.

He couldn’t hit her because she could see the future but she couldn’t see far enough to truly counter him. Her own foresight was messing with her ability to fight. She could see exactly what he was going to do but the second she tried to stop him he was no longer going to do that.

It was maddening in a way. She suddenly understood why so many old stories were filled with insane oracles, because if she had to deal with this all the time she would definitely go crazy.

Though it wasn’t the instant win she was hoping for her foresight was the only thing keeping her in the match. She’d need to do the rest on her own then.

She considered what she knew of him in the brief moments between their clashes. He didn’t have a weapon and he kept closing the distance so he was probably a grappler, but one of his feet were broken so he was favoring his left—no his right! That was her left—side. Could she try and do something about that? But she wasn’t able to fight him directly…

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

Palmira glanced down at her mace. Specifically, the twin tails he had wrapped around her arm.

“Malocchio,” she whispered between gasps of breath. “How long can you make your tails?”

‘Consideration. As long as Our previous attempt to immobilize our Enemy. They are connected to the same place.’

She assumed, but it was good to have that confirmed. “Send your tails down to the ground. When he gets close, try and hit his bad foot.”

‘Understood.’

The tails then extended further up her arm, snaking beneath her armor and down her legs. She grimaced at the uncomfortable feeling, but she ignored it in favor of her visions. Her opponent was coming in for another attack, and this time she was planning to let him get close.

She waited until the last second, until he was right on top of her. Then with mere inches to spare she barely ducked under his punch. As she did she felt Malocchio’s tails strain against her leg, and there was a confused shout of pain somewhere in front of her.

She saw what was going to happen before it did. Rather than stab his foot like she’d expected, Malocchio had instead tied up his bad leg and yanked, causing the man to fall on his ass. He’d be stuck there for a few seconds, trying to free himself from Malocchio’s living tails. Then she’d kick him in the head.

Palmira waited patiently for him to fall, waited for him to busy his hands with trying to free himself, and then walked over and kicked him in the head.

As he was reeling from that she stomped as hard as she could on his shoulder and pushed her mace against his cheek. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough for him to know she definitely could have if she’d wanted to.

He froze, before letting out a tired sigh.

“Fine,” he grumbled. The smoke enveloping them began to thin, slowing allowing her to see again. “You win, you violent little brat.”

“You punched me in the face,” she shot back, her heart racing. The victory barely felt real. “You don’t have any room to talk.”

“Heh, no, I suppose I don’t.”

As the smoke finally cleared and the rest of the arena was able to see what was going on, the referee finally called the match. Grinning, Palmira slowly let the spells leave her eye, pleased with herself despite how much if felt like her pupils were trying to murder her brain.

She let the man up, deciding to be a good sport and offer her hand. From what she could see the right side of his body was pretty bruised, though once he was untangled he was able to get back to his feet with only a little help.

“I can’t believe I lost to a kid again,” he grumbled, gingerly poking his shoulder. “Ah, well, good fight. Make sure you beat the next couple guys, yeah? I’ll be pissed if I’m the only one to lose to you today.”

“Don’t worry,” she blinked heavily, focusing and unfocusing her eyes. Something she could only see with her right eye was waving at her. “If they’re all as weak as you it’ll be a breeze.”

“Hah! Don’t get too cocky kid,” he scoffed, smirking down at her. “You’ve still got some growing to do before you can make boasts like that.”

They fell into a somewhat comfortable silence as they waited for the healers to approach. With the adrenaline draining from her system she felt any anger she’d felt at the man go with it. Or maybe it was just the pain in her eyes overshadowing everything else.

“…Hey, I do have a question though.”

“Huh?”

“Why didn’t you try and wrestle control of the fire from me? I was waiting for it the whole time but you just never did anything about it.”

Palmira stared at him through her throbbing eyes.

Damnit, why didn't she think of that?

--

“You did well.”

Palmira jumped at Morte’s sudden words. She hadn’t expected to hear from him again until she finally lost. With a shrug of her shoulders she pulled the staff off her back so she could properly look him in the face.

“No thanks to you,” she scoffed without any heat. Her next opponent was taking a while to get here—due in part the fact the Rodina still used the stairs—but that just gave her time to calm back down.

“I’m aware, and impressed! I thought for sure you were going to lose.”

“What!? You were betting against me? What kind of teacher doesn’t believe in their student?”

“An incredible one,” his empty sockets seemed to faintly glow with mirth. “After all, I taught you everything you know~”

“Don’t steal credit, you bastard,” she rolled her eyes, noting that her next opponent seemed to have finally arrived. “You taught me a quarter of what I know, at best.”

“A quarter!? At least say half, a quarter is far too little!”

‘Disagreement. A quarter is too high. One eighth is more accurate.’

“Gah! Attacked on all fronts, is this how kids these days treat their elders?”

“Nope, just you.”

“You’re killing me Palmira. Look at your old teacher, you’re killing him. I’m skin and bones, without the skin! Is this what you wanted?”

“Oh no~” she droned. “I can’t believe my teacher is dead. Now who will keep me up at night with pointless rants about long dead historical figures?

“Hey! They aren’t pointless! I know you love my lectures!”

“Such a shame. Sometimes, it’s like I can still hear his voice.”

Any further banter was cut off as her new opponent finally arrived. She locked eyes with him, evaluating the man she’d be fighting—

Wait. She knew him!

“You’re that guy!” she blurted out, pointing at him in shock. Unfortunately she didn’t have a free hand, so she ended up hefting Malocchio at him on accident. He raised an eyebrow back at her, confused. “The one with the talking spear!”

Whatever he’d been expecting her to say, it clearly wasn’t that.

“What? How did you—I mean, my spear doesn’t talk!” he spluttered back, thoroughly caught off guard. His hand moved to grab the polearm on his back on instinct. “Why would you say that?”

“Don’t try and lie, you just admitted to it!” she snapped back, more animated than she really should have been. But this had been eating at her for days and she needed this to finally get resolved. “How do you have a talking spear? Did Tintinnia make it for you?”

“Who?”

Palmira squinted at him as though that would somehow convince him to talk. She looked him up and down, memorizing his appearance as best as she was able. As she’d noticed a few days ago he was an unfortunately very pretty half-elf, with dark curly hair which fell to his shoulders. His black leather armor contrasted sharply with his alabaster skin, which was a shade somewhere just above Johanna’s. His dark eyes stared back at her warily, narrowed beneath thin eyebrows.

“I know I heard it,” she told him slowly, locking eyes. “It was back at the market. She… uh, she said something. I don’t remember. But I do remember her voice! A woman was definitely talking!”

He looked like he was going to continue to deny it, only for someone else to cut him off.

“It’s fine, dear. You can let her know, she doesn’t mean any harm.”

The voice was soft yet firm, a gentle brush against her mind compared to Morte’s imposing presence. It was like a whisper on the wind, as fleeting as a song yet equally unforgettable. It was almost… familiar.

She’d heard it before. Knew it from somewhere other than that one day in the piazza. But where?

The man across from her grimaced. Then he sighed, and without anymore hesitation pulled the spear from its spot on his back, holding it up between them.

Simply calling it a ‘spear’ was an insult to its beauty. The weapon was a work of art, an ethereal and almost timeless quality exuding from its mere presence in a way that no mortal weapon could ever hope to match. The shaft was a bleached bone-white, painted from top to bottom with vines of red, blue, green, gold, and silver which poured down its entire six feet of length. Attached at its end was a spearhead of what looked to be pure silver, held in place by a pristine skeletal hand.

“…Goddess above, is that really you?”

Palmira blinked. That wasn’t the woman. That was Morte.

“Is that…?” the woman whispered, shock and horror painting her voice. “…Oh, my dear friend, what have they done to you?”

“Nothing I probably didn’t deserve, even if I’d rather it have never happened.”

“Morte…?” Palmira glanced down at her staff. “Do you know this woman—uh, this spear?”

“Indeed I do, though its been so long I didn’t recognize her. I suppose you could say we were colleagues, once upon a time.”

“Colleagues, huh?” the woman bounced back admirably, masking her mournful tone with schadenfreude “Is that what they call it these days?”

“Wha—Don’t say it like that, you’ll give her the wrong idea!”

“Oh, are you saying you didn’t use me like a tool? That you didn’t spend all of your free time running your fingers up and down my body, covering me in fluids—”

“Gah, stop, stop! Fighting, she’s talking about stabbing people to death! Why are you always like this…?”

“What is going on?” the half-elf muttered in confusion.

“This is amazing,” Palmira murmured, awed at someone turning Morte’s own Morte-ness back on him.

Unfortunately, any more conversation was cut off as the referee suddenly reminded them that they were still in the middle of a tournament.

“We shall now begin the next battle! On the red side, Johan of the Ambrosi Famiglia’s Rodina Guild! And on the white side, Palmira of the Firozzi Famiglia’s Rosa Dominae Guild! The battle will continue either until one of them is unconscious, surrenders, or I personally call the match!”

Ah, so Johan was his name, neat.

…She probably should have asked that before, now that she thought of it.

“…So, Morte, huh?” the woman’s voice murmured slyly as the two living members got into a ready stance. “Is that what you’re calling yourself now?”

Palmira blinked. “Wait, is Morte not your name?”

She let out a scandalized gasp. “Lying to the girl? For shame! And with such a low effort pseudonym to boot.”

“At least he gave her something to call him. It. Whatever they are,” Johan grumbled, scowling down at his spear. “You still haven’t given me anything to call you.”

“READY!”

“Hah! You’re just as much a hypocrite as ever! Calling me out for half-assing something you didn’t even attempt, are you?”

“That’s because you aren’t ready to know my name yet, Johan,” she consoled him gently. “Though you’ve wielded me quite a while without dying, so I suppose you at least deserve something to call me by. Hm… I know! How about Vita, that’s quite the lively name, don’t you agree?”

“What!?” Morte yelped at the newly christened Vita. “Hey, you can’t just steal my ideas like that! Palmira, tell her she can’t do that!”

“It’s nice to meet you Vita,” Palmira nodded politely at her. “I’m going to be beating up your wielder now though, I hope you don’t mind.”

“You’ll try dear, you’ll try~”

“BEGIN!”

“Finally,” Johan muttered under his breath.

Then he was a upon her, the silver spearhead aimed directly at her shoulder. She let out a yelp as she barely spun out of the way in time, remembering at the last second to reignite the flames around her feet. Ducking low she sped forward, aiming a swing of Malocchio at his shins. He managed to jump out of the way though, before bringing the blunt shaft of Vita down on her back in a thunderous blow.

Palmira yowled at the sudden pain that sparked up her spine, a wisp of flame accidently shooting out her mouth. Stumbling forward she growled, before suddenly remembering that the guy she was currently facing wasn’t immune to fire.

Raising Morte instead, she pointed it at her opponent and ignited his skull.

His skull remained stubbornly unignited.

“What!?” Palmira yelped, confused. She didn’t have much time to worry on that though, as her opponent was already charging her again. She tried to dodge but overestimated her own speed, getting clipped in the side instead. She glanced down and realized with horror that her feet also weren’t on fire, meaning she wasn’t even getting her normal speed boost. “What’s happening!?”

“Anti-magic!?” Morte shouted, for some reason sounding offended. “That’s bullshit! I thought that was a lost art!?”

“Have you forgotten just who you’re fighting, my dear?” Vita chuckled slyly. “Besides, you’re one to talk. Unless you haven’t been teaching your own wielder forbidden magics?”

Her staff spluttered as she continued barely staving off certain defeat. She was completely on the defensive at this point, unable to do much more than dodge or parry. His spear simply gave him too much range and he wasn’t leaving her enough time to use Malochhio’s own range without risking injury.

Or maybe she was just thrown off by her lack of magic. She’d had her fire as long as she could remember. Even against the other fire mage it was still there. But now she felt almost hollow, a weakness throughout the whole of her body that she could never before remember feeling.

It was awful. No, more than that, it was terrifying.

He stabbed at her again, and she dodged, only to realize too late that it had been a feint. Unbalanced, she could only watch as Vita came hurtling towards her, unable to do anything to stop it.

“Alright, no, enough of this!”

A ghostly hand caught the spear.

Both Palmira and Johan froze in shock, neither having expected that. Or maybe it was the fact that the hand wasn’t connected to a body.

A ghostly arm extended from the top of Morte’s skull, tightly gripping Vita’s spear just beneath her own skeletal wrist.

“You can do that!?” Both Palmira and Vita shouted at once.

“Normally, no!” Morte replied cheerily. “But this is a special week, and I happen to have a master’s understanding of necromancy. So for today and today only, I’m going to lend Palmira a hand!”

‘Query. You stated earlier You would not help Our Lady in these trials. And yet now You decide to assist?’

“That was then and this is now!” he shot back. “If they get to cheat we can cheat too!”

“It’s not cheating you ass,” Vita grumbled, though without much heat. “Fine, I’ll allow it if you teach me how to do that later.”

“No promises~”

Johan simply stared at the collection of living weapons before him, brows furrowed. “This isn’t how I’d though this was going to go.”

“It rarely is,” Palmira consoled him, before attacking.

With his spear held in place he was unable to block or dodge, so with a roar she awkwardly stepped around his spear and swung Malocchio at his open hip.

Unfortunately while he was nominally disarmed he was not dislegged, and while she was distracted attacking he kicked her in the sternum, knocking her away.

She gasped in pain as she was launched back, falling and dragging Morte with her. His ghostly hand lost consistency, letting Johan free his spear. He went to stab her while she was down, but though she and Morte were disoriented Malocchio wasn’t.

The head of her mace fired itself up at him, forcing him back lest he risk getting brained. It gave her enough time to get back to her feet as his head continued harassing the half-elf, trying to tie up his arms like they’d done to the previous fire mage’s legs.

But Johan was either more skilled or simply had the advantage of a living weapon of his own and was easily able to keep himself from getting bound. Then, as Malocchio overextended he swung his spear, the shimmering spearhead slicing almost completely through the cord attaching the head to the shaft.

There was a near-debilitating throb in her skull. Within seconds Malocchio had recalled his head, returning to his normal mace form.

Or at least… mostly. His head was at a weird angle and one of his eyes seemed stuck half-open.

“Malocchio?” she hissed, putting more distance between her and her opponent. She tried to light another fire, but only got a few sputtering sparks for her trouble. “Are you okay?”

‘Query. Negative. Concern. We are fine.’

“Shit,” she muttered. “I need to get you back to Tintinnia.”

“That’s quite the weapon you’ve got there,” Johan called out to her. They were circling each other slowly from a distance, waiting to see who would make the first strike. “My spear—uh, that is, Vita—tells me it looks new, unlike your staff. Though seeing that staff, and how our weapons seem to know each other so well, I have to ask… were you chosen too?”

Palmira blinked. “What?”

“Vita came to me in my darkest hour and showed me the path to the light,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her. He might not have, they were pretty far away from each other now. “I may have been born cursed, but with a holy weapon like her at my side, I can see the path to redemption, however murky it may be. For the longest time I thought it was my burden alone to bear, but if there’s more people like me, like us out there in the world…”

“Um, look,” she cut him off awkwardly. “This sounds deep and all, but I wasn’t, uh, ‘chosen.’ I found Morte on sale at the back of a weapons shop. I didn’t do… whatever it is you think I did.”

Vita cackled in the half-elf’s hands.

Her words seemed to throw him off whatever speech he was building up to. “…Oh. But, its fate, wouldn’t you say? That you found such a powerful relic that day?”

“I’m actually pretty anti-fate,” she informed him apologetically. “The magic I’m learning kind of requires that, sorry.”

“…Ah.”

It seemed with that answer he decided to stop talking. Rather, he charged forward instead, a frustrated frown on his lips. His still laughing spear stabbed at her, but this time she was ready. Rather than duck or dodge she brough Morte in front of her and was vindicated to see two ghostly arms launch themselves from his skull to grab at the spear.

The half-elf pulled back in time to avoid the grasping hands, but they did their job in stopping his attack. Once more trying to step into his guard she brought her mace up, only for him to spin the spear on the spot and wack her knee with the blunt end. It hurt and nearly made her lose her balance, but she managed to take another painful step forward.

Johan was a skilled fighter, good enough to dodge not only her swing with the mace but also both of Morte’s arms at the same time.

He was not, however, able to dodge the ghostly foot that followed.

Johan swore as Morte kicked him in the face, stumbling back and for once ceding her the initiative. She grinned savagely, darting forward and finally getting a hit in with Malocchio, clipping his closest elbow with an awkward swing. He managed to avoid the worst of it, though from the way his eyes bulged out in pain it certainly hurt.

That seemed to somehow help him refocus though, as with a roar he shoved her away, making space between them again. He flexed the fingers on the arm she hit, grimacing.

“You’re better than I thought,” he begrudgingly admitted. “Most of the time, when I subdue a mage’s magic they don’t know what to do without it. You’re the first I’ve met to put up a proper fight.”

Palmira thought back to all the mages in her own guild and wondered if the guy in front of her was perhaps a little bit sheltered. Come to think of it, hadn’t she called him an idiot when they first met?

“I think you need to fight more mages,” she told him.

“What?”

Palmira ignored him, instead getting ready for their next clash. She could still fight, though her injuries were starting to mount up. She’d probably lose the next match if this kept up, but that wasn’t as important as winning this one. As she prepared herself the air began to flicker and shimmer between them, the heat of her flames distorting the—

Wait. She couldn’t use her fire right now. Why was the air distorting like that?

She paused, lowering her weapons. “Uh, hey, are you doing that?”

The half-elf frowned in confusion. “No, I’m not. That looked a bit like what Raum does, though. But why in the world would he be—shit!”

The world around them expanded. Then it contracted and spun and twisted into a pretzel and—

Then space itself seemed to explode, and everything went to hell.