Splinters flew everywhere, the door smashing against the floor, the hinges dragging parts of the wall with them, scattering dust everywhere.
“Guess you forgot how doors work, and never bothered to remember how.” Ceres said, not turning around to face the intruder, without really needing to do so, Winter crossing the room in a blink, grabbing and slamming him against the wall, the back of his head bouncing back and hitting the concrete behind him.
Yet the impact didn’t reach him, softened by the feathers growing from within and across the wall, replacing the surface completely. Wings fluttered against Ceres’s back, as hundreds of faces behind the feathers turned around to stare at Winter.
Faces with big, round, pitch black, bird eyes. Eyes that stared at Winter emotionless, or, as emotionless as the usual expression of an owl could be.
Yet her skin prickled, small feathers protruding from within. Not only from within her skin, but from within her bones too.
They didn't get too deep, Winter's own magical defenses slowing their propagandation and the feathers being more a threat than an outright attack, since she still had Ceres grabbed from the neck. “Quit playing dumb, you know why I’m here!”
Ceres raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Do I?”
Winter tightened the hold on his throat until his smug smile disappeared. She knew how much pressure a human neck could take before snapping, and she still had a small, minuscule margin.
“I believed you to be smarter.” She said, eyes moving left and right for an instant, not missing the other two mages hidden in the room’s shadows. “Guess how hard I'm going to choke you if you don't tell me where Dianthus is. The answer will blow your head clean off.”
“I doubt the clean part.” One of the mages said with a click, the click of a finger pressing against a gun's trigger, yet not hard enough to fire.
Winter didn’t need to look behind the shadow to recognize the mage, since the mages who bothered to keep company to the Mergifari’s Disappointment amounted to a whopping number of two.
Tristan, hidden behind the shadows at her right and Fermidia Sarcos, captain of the Pioneer Three, currently on vacation on her left.
Fermidia was the one pointing at her with a rifle, one without the sigils that kept Winter away from using hers.
Not a step too far for her to easily move away if Fermidia were to shoot, nor a step too close for Winter to lunge at her before she managed to press the trigger.
Now, that didn’t mean that Winter couldn’t take her, not even close. It was simply an observation, one that Winter used to assess each one of their threat levels, and how she should proceed if things got violent.
Tristan didn’t move, nor got up from her seat, yet, next to her, a machine whirled to life, the circular light on its “face” glowing.
Around three meters in height, heavy and bulky, the bronze of its exoskeleton reflected under its own light. On its hands, or, where hands usually tended to be, two contraptions, one for each hand, targeted her position. With multiple metallic cylinders, it resembled a mixture of a nock gun and a turret, with cylinders starting to spin without making any noise.
Winter wasn’t fond of machines, or automatons, as tinkerers and mechanists liked to call the humanoid ones. Not because they didn’t bleed, or show any emotion, but because Winter lacked the skills to understand what they were supposed to do. To her, fighting a machine was like fighting a surprise box.
Until it fired, she didn’t know what to expect. Bullets? Poison gas? Electric shocks? Confetti? The spinning, hollow cylinders looked like gun barrels, but, to her, most cylinders looked like gun barrels, and she wasn’t going to make a mistake by following her own bias.
But, at least she knew that the more humanoid an automaton was, the more they moved like humans.
The size, weight and lack of most joints means it’s slow. Then, I need to take Fermidia down first, then the robot. Udulluay is impossible to kill, but not a heavy hitter, so I can simply protect, and Tristan won’t be a problem without the machine.
The thought made her smile. What a joke of formation, not even a single tank to restrain her for a few seconds. Not like Ceres could afford anything better.
“Aren’t you smug?” Fermidia said. “You’re not a block of ice, able to float even after crashing down.”
“I'm confident in my chances.” Winter said, not sparing her more than a small side glance… and not really understanding the ice metaphor. “I can cut your arm off before you press that trigger.”
“I'd like to see you try.”
“You won't get to see it.” Winter clarified, taking another short glance at Tristan, who hadn't said anything yet.
“Don't look at me, I don't do battle banter.”
“I didn't look at you for that.”
I can take them. She thought. “Are you two that hurried in tossing your life away from this…” Raising Ceres higher by the neck, she made a grimace that could only be understood as disgust. “Trash?”
“One woman’s trash, another one-” Ceres started, before Winter strangled him even further.
“The only thing I want coming from your mouth is Dianthus’ location. Nothing else.” She also wanted to know how Ceres even managed to do so, or, who was the one who did it.
When Ceres didn’t answer, Winter simply let out a soft sigh. “I’m not fond of torture, but tongues really get looser when those you love are chopped to pieces and left to bleed ou-”
Fermidia pressed the trigger, yet that wasn’t what cut Winter’s sentence, but she herself when summoning and throwing an ice axe in Fermidia’s direction, breaking the bullet in half and burying itself deep into the rifle’s end.
“As before.” Under Fermidia’s spell, the gun’s wound closed off between spasming seizures, the metal merging back together. Once the spell touched the ice axe, it broke down into white dust.
Even the bullet went back, as if the axe never had hit him, continuing its path towards Winter, who turned Ceres around, making the bullet target his right shoulder.
“As after.” Fermidia said, the bullet disappearing as Winter took a step forward, appearing right where she was before, the bullet crashing against the wall.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
“Again.” The bullet spasmed again in a blue light, going back on its path.
“Echoes.” Tristan said. The automata activated, the silent whirls turning on, as the bullet multiplied in a semicircle around Winter.
I knew it wasn’t a gun! Winter couldn’t help but praise herself, unworried by the rain of bullets rushing against her. “Acerna. Thousand wars armory.”
A silvery circle lit under her, marking the start of the Structuralization. Lines of pure light ran up through the air, drawing silhouettes of swords, spears, battle axes, maces… Every single one of them jolted as their shape became more and more detailed, each one desiring to be the one to be held.
Even when the bullets weren’t waiting for her, Winter made her choice with ease, her hands caressing the handle before switching to a firm grip, unearthing the weapon from the depths of the Primeval Sea into reality. To shape a concept, and construct it.
You will do for today. She thought, before-
Before a pair of cards crossed the air next to her, nailing the real bullet to the wall, making the copies disappear.
The cards didn’t cut the bullet, no. They just held it from each side, pressuring it enough to keep it sandwiched between them, as they remained stuck to the wall with care.
They didn’t even bend, not under the bullet, and not against the wall.
“Luck is certainly an interesting skill to have, isn’t it?” If the room was dimly lit before Winter entered crashing down the door, now the only light came from the cracks under the silhouette of the being, if it could be called that, that was now creeping under the umbral. “Allowing you to be part of interesting situations in strange times.”
“Private situations, if I may.” Fermidia said, turning her body to face Siberiald Ropertti more than Winter. An exact 75/25 partition between each one.
Something she would take offense to, were she unaware of who the monster in front of her was. A monster who had to bend over, tilting its torso to the side so that its size fit the door, one hand touching the upper frame and long, wild hair cascading down its back.
Ready to pounce. Winter noted, squinting at the intruder.
She considered herself the strongest, that was a fact, but strength wasn’t the same as danger, and, right now, the most dangerous mage of the Mergifari was metaphorically knocking at their door.
Tilting his head to the side, Siberiald laughed, as if Fermidia had just told the funniest joke of the century. “Privacy deserves a closed door, under lock and key, doesn’t it?” He motioned to the broken door at the floor, his long, way too long fingers making a wave, the middle one and the index still holding some more cards. “A secret can’t be kept in a hallway, can it?”
“Shut up.” Winter said through gritted teeth. “I have no intention of wasting time on a clown. Leave or I’ll have no issue claiming the reward the Grahams put over your head.”
“Oh? Even if this jester-” He made sure to correct the word a bit too much. “Can save some of your time? Luck cares not for how well hidden secrets are.”
If it had been any other mage, Winter would suspect him of trying to get Arhontissa’s favour and shelter, since the Roperttis had played a big part in the murder of Cornelius Graham, the heir of the main mage family of Charlampia.
But he wasn't any other mage. The only times Siberiald moved were when it was entertaining for him to play a part and nothing else. Just like he had said, he was a jester, an occupation belonging to the king’s and queen’s entertainers. A funchaser.
Siberiald was a kingless jester, with no one to entertain but himself. Or maybe it was simply that normal, well-adjusted mages did not understand his humor. Winter certainly didn’t, and she was sure everyone but his freak show of children shared her feelings.
So, if she were to suspect why Siberiald would offer “help”, the answer was amusement.
Now, if his current amusement included backstabbing, Winter wasn’t interested in finding out like Cornelius Graham did. “I won’t give you a second warning.”
Siberiald laughed, his upper half trembling, twisting and turning the cards around his fingers. “Not interested in using that beginner’s luck?”
Interested in bashing your head in, actually. Winter didn’t answer, having already done the polite thing of telling him to leave two times. Instead, she returned to a combat position, determined to take three mages and a Devil instead of two.
“It’s the answer on the cards you threw?” Tristan was the one speaking this time, to Winter’s dismay. She preferred fighting to conversations any time of the day, so now that she was already in the mood for combat, the constant words and interruptions were bothering her.
“They could be. Good gamblers don’t look at the cards while dealing them.”
Getting up from the chair, Tristan dusted off her dress, turning to Winter. “You won’t feel threatened by a defiance mage walking close to you, right?”
She wouldn’t. Magic and technology matched pretty terribly, so any mage dabbling in both was weaker than any other without their trinkets. Even if she didn’t show it, Tristan should be the one feeling threatened by getting close to her. “Take the jacket off.”
Tristan did so, removing, folding and leaving the brown jacket on top of the chair, before walking towards Winter with her palms open and visible.
Leaving your back open to Siberiald, Winter couldn’t help but notice. A single card thrown and…
It depended on him finding more entertaining the current situation than the alternative. Not like he would have the last laugh were he to try to backstab Tristan. As she had said, Winter was not threatened by Tristan getting close in the slightest, so her focus was still on the clown.
She liked fair fights, and wasn’t willing to let him ruin her moment. If push went to shove, she would protect Tristan.
In fact, now that she realized it, maybe that’s where Tristan’s confidence in showing her back to Siberiald was.
The weaker a mage, the more they schemed to grow.
But her scheme worked, reaching the wall without anyone stabbing anything into her back, raising her hand to remove one of the stuck cards.
“Don’t recommend the upper one, answers don’t tend to be on the surface.” Siberiald said. “Gambler’s tip.”
If the choice had been hers, she would’ve picked the upper one. But, Tristan listened to the advice, picking the lower one, letting the bullet they were retaining fall to the ground, clicking carelessly as it rolled across the floor.
She turned the card in her hand, looking at the picture. “Judgement.”
Judgement of who? Dianthus’? There were some mages who enjoyed playing vigilante, but the one who did it killed an official mage in an instant…
“Don’t try to be the one guessing it, just give it to Carthagia.” The underlying mockery of Ceres' tone made her want to strangle him again, but he was right. If the card was correct, Carthagia would know the answer.
And if they lied to her, well… next time she wouldn’t bother asking.
And so, with the card in hand, Winter took her leave, Siberiald stepping back to allow her passage, both of them not taking their eyes off of one another, at least until Winter got far away enough.
Massaging his abused throat, Ceres leaned against the wall, Udulluay appearing from within the wall to rest on his shoulder. “The smell of blood brought you here. Searching for someone?”
Siberiald grinned. “Why, yes! That girl you took, I expected this intense blood smell to belong to her after her little vacation! Alas, you can’t always win, and this one gamble was my loss.”
“But a true gambler never stops playing.” Siberiald continued. “Every try gets me closer to the jackpot. Enjoy my interference as a lucky encounter.”
“Will do.”
Since Winter left, and they made sure Siberiald had really left, Ceres spent some seconds recovering his lost breath and calming his throat, before going to the other part of the wall, picking up the other card.
“Which one is it?” Tristan asked, putting back her jacket.
“Guess.” After Tristan guessed by lifting a big wrench, staring straight into his eyes, he cleared his throat and rectified. “The Moon. Not an answer about the past, but about the future.”