“Tyros!” his closest friend and second in command screamed across the raucous dance of blades, “Go! Their fleet is done for, those that haven’t retreated are captured, this is the only crew left!” he slammed the hilt of his sword against the Pyrryn soldiers neck, knocking the elf out, “Go! Save your daughter!”.

Tyros turned towards the seemingly insurmountable wall of thunder and lightning, battle forgotten. His body was a wreck, he had channelled far too much mana when they were boarded by the enemy. The sheer number of justiciars were enough to overwhelm anyone. Nearly anyone. It had been necessary to use his full strength to save his men, to subdue whoever he could and kill those he could not.

When he had finally realised his daughter was gone, he had pushed himself too hard in his rage. Already his mana channels were fraying at the edges, close to multiple tears throughout his body and restricting his ability to channel much more. Too much stress and they would tear, or worse, rupture.

Starting the arduous process of healing magic with a trickle of his remaining mana, he did what he could physically and staunched his bleeding gut with a firm hand. As he began to very slowly heal, he thought on his precious child.

He’d only gotten to be with his daughter for a single cycle before politics demanded his attention. Before war claimed his life. She was so much like her mother it made him smile to think about. Headstrong and mischievous, she always found a way to get what she wanted, and if she couldn’t through her charm, she’d work hard to make it happen herself.

Her antics bestowing weary smiles upon his haggard exterior many times.

“You’ve got command Nolyn”, he didn’t have the time to tend to his wounds. He needed to save his daughter. He'd already failed in his promise to protect her once, he wouldn't fail now. No matter the cost.

Tyros wreathed himself in an aura of wind, manifesting his magic in a protective armour around his entire body. Visible wisps of air manifested themselves in his aura, casting a barely perceptible sphere around him. Lifting off the ground and protected by his favoured element, he prepared to brave the storming seas. He prayed to his patron Goddess Eyryn for strength and guidance from her winds and storms, to help him last long enough to find his daughter.

The moment he thought his prayer, a series of enormous lightning bolts fired, arcing across the storm wall unnaturally, pointing along the magical barrier towards the north. He turned the direction they shot and launched himself from the main deck, out through the rain and wind, single minded focus on his control and power.

He travelled at a startlingly fast speed, simultaneously and continuously absorbing the incredibly dense ambient mana, channelling and attuning it to himself, his element, then expending it as soon as it came in, to maintain his flight and acceleration. He pushed himself, feeling small tears begin to form in his channels from the mana pumping through them. Clenching his jaw shut through the pain, he continued on.

He watched from above, soaring across the skies as the swirling dark waves cannibalised the debris of ships that had splintered in their grand war just hours earlier, swallowing the bodies of unfortunate souls and wooden detritus. down into the dark maw of its depths.

In the distance he saw a great black ship accompanied by a cacophony of audible screams, launch straight into the face of a wave. The incredible weight of the ocean smashing into the entirety of the ship. Even among the chorus of thunder could he hear the great crack of masts, the rush of water. Stunned he nearly faltered in his flight, the ship lurching precariously close to capsizing.

After a moment, he breathed a sigh of relief. Out the other side of the wave the ship miraculously came, damaged beyond repair but somehow blessedly afloat.

He chastised himself for his relief, his daughter was on that ship. Steeling himself and regaining his focus he flew towards the flooded deck of the ship, the seas growing eerily calm around him as he descended.

Landing on the soaked deck Tyros took stock of the situation. Bodies were strewn across the deck, mangled in the horrifying positions only a contortionist could perform. They were wrapped around and knotted through wooden railings, squashed against crates and walls. No one on the deck had survived the wave. He began to worry his lip as his heartrate increased further. Looking to the hatches he realised that they were all sealed.

It was likely whoever stayed down there had managed to survive, albeit most likely with grievous wounds. Instead of relying on the detritus ridden deck for purchase, the ephemeral sphere of wind lifted him once more, wisps reaching out and brushing anything they could. He floated towards the hatch leading to the captains cabins under the quarter deck, channels fraying and hand still firmly clasped to his gut, staunching the wound as best he could.

Tyros attuned a small portion of his mana towards healing himself again, absorbing even more ambient mana from the dense environment around him, further risking the certainty of rupture by channelling and using so much mana in one go. Tears in his channels spread further, pain ignored. He wasn’t considering himself really, not in that moment.

He needed to be in fighting condition to get his daughter back to safety once he found her, to kill whoever captured her. He put his remaining attention back towards enhancing his blood and his body. Accelerating the process of healing.

He floated on, through the main deck and to the front of the hatch. At a great cost to himself, he manifested a huge blast of high-speed wind and hurled it at the hatch, smashing the wood to pieces. He floated down the steps and into the cabin, abruptly realising who commanded this ship from the coat of arms emblazoned upon the upholstery of a very throne like chair. A black diamond with an eye inside it. He felt his body grow hot, rage boiling his very being. His expression darkened as he recalled the man that had caused his people so much suffering.

Jarrys was Lord-Magister of the Pyrryn Imperial fleet based in Theyryn, bane of the Elves of Tynna, his people. Jarrys had organised and orchestrated great blockades around their ports. Transported countless waves of Pyrryn Justiciars and assassins across the seas, leaving them to wreak havoc. His people were brutalised and starved for not wanting to part with their harvests. Subsisting at best under their rule; after tribute was paid there would be barely anything left. Generations of young grew up with visible signs of malnourishment.

Elders would give up on a round of rationing for their young, dying in the cold months without the sustenance they need or the mana to cast. This man had facilitated and enabled so much pain and now he had taken his daughter.

The reason she even ended up with him on the Eyrie is because of the Justiciars pushing further into Tynna. In the years of trouble leading up to this conflict, they had grown more brutal under their Emperors orders of reprisal. More of their Justiciars and Assassins went missing in the years prior, ships were denied entry into port and tribute was denied by us twice.

Dealing with their own issues back home they had not the resources nor the effort to put into punishing us. Not until their ships followed reports of the few agents that did make it back, finally seeing the brand new capital city on the far side of Tynna from the sea.

Lord-Magister Jarrys and the other Magisters of the fleet were deployed then, the Emperor finally realising his subjects had chaffed far too long under his rule. He had sown ideas of freedom through his iron fist. He had to remind them why they were subjects or risk a coup. Half the fleet turned up during the next moons turn, landing on the beaches. Legions of Justiciars flooded the coastal towns and cities of Tynna, burning where they could and enslaving any Sirin in hiding.

Reminded of the danger his daughter faced under their capture, Tyros sped through the Captains Cabin. He heard sound from the hatch leading to the bulkhead and in his panic, rushed towards it, hoping that he would find her. Risking a full tear, he manifested another high-speed blast of wind at the hatch. Luckily breaking it open in one blast and hovering down the stairs.

If he had been paying his full attention he would have stopped to look around before coming all the way down. A sword covered in flame swung at him from the periphery of his vision, dodging as best he could in the little time he had, the sword cut and burnt his arm as he stopped floating and rolled. Blood spilled from both his wounds, his control over mana being the only thing allowing him to put out the arcane flame on his left arm.

“Tyros” growled Magister Jarrys, “you’re too late to save your daughter” he said with finality. Forgetting his injuries, his anger made him act irrationally. Tyros cast multiple thin and incredibly fast blades of wind at his foe, chopping motions made with his injured arm. His other arm behind his back, he manifested a blade made of wind, channelling as much as he could without rupturing. Like his aura it cast an ethereal glow with wisps of wind reaching for the air around it.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

Jarrys laughed and dodged, manifesting a wall of scarlet flames to disrupt the oncoming blades, he could not stop them but he would slow them, burn them up. It would allow him time he needed to dodge and prepare more spells. In his action however, he had missed the far stronger sword of wind conjured by his foes other arm, the blade whistled down, far more mana invested, straight through the flame. It bisected the Magisters arm from its socket in a whistling flash.

“AGHHHHH” Jarrys yelled out, clutching his wound with his other arm, blade clattering to the floor. Seeing his end coming, in his rage and pain, he cast a massive ball of flame, far larger than he should be capable of. He howled, the pain unimaginable as he sagged to the ground, having killed himself in the process of absorbing and channelling far too much mana. The fireball launched in Tyros' general direction, no will left to control it's course.

Tyros rapidly called the wind he’d manifested to take a different shape, his control allowing him to quickly form that coat of armour around himself, the sphere of wisps an added layer. He felt the tears inside swiftly grow as he rapidly channelled as much as he could, excruciating pain searing through his veins. The flame was far too fast to dodge, far too strong in such claustrophobic quarters for Tyros to come through this unscathed. So he put his arms in front of his face and crouched, head tucked into his knees and prayed.

The flames engulfed him, the entire room went scarlet. Tyros screamed, the flame getting through his protection and starting to burn him. Huffing and sweating with burning patches around his body, he grunted and sobbed through his immense suffering. He focused as hard as he could on extinguishing the flaming mana on his body, converting as much as he could through attuning, absorbing, channelling and then expending it as wind magic that would push away and disperse the arcane flames around him, tears fully formed through every channel in his body now.

Finally, he had found reprieve from the flames that had faltered in the face of his winds. He shook from the immense pain he was in, patches of viscous and raw skin weeping from their burns. He was exhausted from the process. His channels a breadth from beginning to rupture from all the mana he had pumped through them, his mind and energy spent from the effort at exerting so much concentration through said pain.

A wet cough and a gasp sounded from a doorway. Tyros jumped up through the screaming pain, adrenaline pumping once more. Stepping over the corpse of Jarrys, with its burst eyes and bleeding, open veins, he limped as fast as he could into the hold. In the far corner, impaled by a broken pillar dangled the corpse of a Courtesan, only identifiable by her red and gold robes. Next to her laid a panting shape, sprawled in chains.

Seeing his daughter surrounded by a pool of blood he rushed towards her, turning her on her side to clear her airways he got a clear look at the mangled stumps that were once her wings. He turned a shade of white his golden complexion should have been unable to go, turning to his right he threw up bile and blood at the sight. He heaved through his ruby red fringe, dangling in front of his bowed head.

Snapping back into focus, holding in sobs, he tried to focus on attuning his mana to her blood. He sent his mana through her in a wave, however as he started the process it felt like every vein in his body set on fire, like he was ready to burst. He screamed in pain, gritting his teeth he pushed through the burning sensation, absorbing mana and transferring his energy to enhance her blood and body, accelerating her body’s natural healing process.

His veins in his left wrist started to bulge and pulse, angry red lines forming beneath his skin. His burgundy eyes began to shake, the right one bleeding. He stopped then and fell backwards, next to his daughter on the planks. She was blessedly breathing better now and the flow of blood had stopped but she was still so pale.

He was spent, he had no idea what to do. Any more mana expenditure and he’d surely die from the ruptures throughout his body. He needed time, just a moment to breathe, or he would not be able to get her to safety.

He thought then on the situation at home.

No matter his orders, no matter the pain the Pyrryn had put him through, they were still condemning a whole population to death by stopping the tributes of food and gold they sent. And he'd made that clear. When the great volcano that loomed over their city had erupted, we knew it was our time to strike. What little farming they did do was ruined by clouds of ash, thousands of elves and slaves flooding towards the capital for support and safety from the ancient earths flames.

The Pyrryn capital of Pyrrys was surrounded by vast channels, dug to direct lava flows. Built of obsidian itself, the city was made to withstand such a scenario. It was not however, meant to hold an entire landmasses people, nor feed them. By destroying their remaining fleet they had freed themselves. But by doing so had also stopped their only chance at relief efforts.

His Queen was a genius. Her power was in the subtlety of her words, her ego, her silver tongue and her cold logic that allowed her incredible decisiveness. That coldness however, led to a propensity for cruelty.

He had refused initially to take part in the plan; he wouldn’t hold an entire population hostage for freedom, he couldn't believe she would let more people suffer after she had watched her own whittle away. He wasn't the only one. The Queen could see the thinly veiled discontent on the faces of most of her closest advisors every time they met.

And so, Tyros had joined forces with like-minded individuals at court and on the council, hoping to bring their issues with the timing of the proposed conflict and her actions to her personally. To put a boundary in place, to show a united front against anymore cruelty.

She had invited him to a private dinner a day before the proposed intervention, for a conversation about the intelligence we had on Pyrryn military affairs, one in which she had casually slipped a comment about the Pyrryn bounty on Sirin to him and her worries for the poor people that could go missing in the conflict to come. He had served her long enough, politicking among the courts, to understand an overt threat when he didn't hear one. He saw that ever more common glint in her eye, the lack of empathy and warmth, that malevolent part of her that took relish in the power over others lives.

He had thought her cruelty, her dictatorial streak a necessary evil used to regain their freedom. After this conflict he knew what would happen though. He knew that the Pyrryn would end up their subject.

He trained and studied, he rose through the ranks to protect his people. To be free of the Pyrryn and their Justiciars incursions, to work under someone who actively worked towards that goal for all their people, be a part of something greater. To protect his daughter from the Pyrryn Empire's grasp.

That was what made him decide to stay. He knew if he did he would have to fight, but if he ran his Queen would not stop at ending him, that cruel ego providing a healthy dose of vengeance for personal slights, which she would see my desertion as.

He did not sign up to take their oppressors place. He could see from his own people's suffering under Pyrryn rule, just what power did to young tyrants and dictators. But he would rather live under her threats and control with his daughter by his side, than spend the rest of their lives running from her wrath. For now, she was the only chance at a peaceful life.

He had no illusions that peace would be fleeting. Once she became Empress, the world would learn of her ravenous malintent.

He hoped and prayed that his fellow advisors and members of the council would be enough to curb her malicious ambition. He shook his head, clearing his mind of events that he couldn't affect here and now.

Tyros looked to his daughter, her stressed and rasping breathing getting heavier. He picked her up as gently as he could, his own blood from his gut and arm staining her rags further. He bit his lip, blood seeping from his clamped teeth as he fought through the pain of moving and holding another person. He slowly made his way up the stairs and through the hatches. Sparing a cursory glance at Jarrys and whispering a prayer. Even if he hated the man for what he had done to his daughter, he was following orders just as he. All should pass on to the next cycle peacefully.

Once on the main deck he started to flag, he paused, realising how eerily calm the seas and storm wall were. He grew incredibly uneasy in that moment, sensing something was deeply wrong. Beginning to panic, he looked for a small boat to use, a crate, anything to carry his daughter. He would paddle back if he needed too, as impossible as it would be so far out at sea and in such a small vessel.

Finally he spotted a small wooden rowing boat, upturned on the deck and covered by two corpses. He set his daughter down on her side, still unconscious, and went to move the bodies. He stumbled as his vision blurred, unable to risk using healing magic, he had to endure.

He laboriously moved the bodies, dragging the boat ponderously over the soaking deck. Once he reached the broken surface close to the edge of the railing, he turned the rowing vessel over.

Carefully, he picked up his daughter again, flagging once more as his muscles nearly gave in. He placed her in the boat, positioned so as to not affect the raw stumps on her back. He got in next to her, laying down parallel to her and cocooning her as best that he could. He pushed back the hair from her face and couldn’t help but conjure up a watery smile. So much like her mother she looked. Silent tears began to fall as he reminisced.

Clearing his throat and wiping his face he assumed the protective cocoon position again. He fought against the burning pain searing through his bulging veins as he began to absorb ambient mana, channelling it would cost him but he would rather never use magic again than risk losing his child. He would never fail in his promise to protect her again.

He manifested a strong wind through the tears of blood, a firm gale that edged the boat towards the broken railing. Ponderously, it worked its way towards the drop. He prayed once more to Eyryn, to soften their fall and protect her daughter as she always had done. And fall they did, down the boat plummeted, softened at the last second by an updraft. A generous splash set them on the water.

He took a moment to breath then, the rest necessary if he was to channel anything more without dying and get them moving anywhere.

Finally he had her again, he would never lose her after this. He promised himself he’d finally tell her about her mother. She deserved to know where she came from. He looked down at her resting face, caked in drying blood as it was, he couldn’t help but smile again.

Booming thunder struck in that blissful moment of respite, shattering his brief serenity. Huge, tremulous bolts of lightning leapt about the storm wall. His breath caught in his throat as a chorus of high-pitched clicks resounded; hope broken as he heard his doom approach.