Khara let the steppehawk fly free again. Nothing had changed about the black-haired elf’s spiritual signature, so the bird would still lead them to their prey. Even if Pirin got stronger, it would be much easier to track him—provided he didn’t veil himself.
She and Ethelvaed rode their horses to the coast of Plainspar, then boarded an Aremir family sloop. They sailed south, following the bird still. It flapped just a little slower than the sloop’s top speed, but with the combined spiritual senses of two Blaze-stage wizards, the bird never left their perception completely.
Golden tattoos now ran up Khara’s arms and swirled around her body, fuelling her with power. She had advanced to Blaze. A pair of tusks reached out from her bottom jaw—her bondmark, making her connection with Paya, her boar, more secure, and boosting her strength overall.
“Where’s he going?” Ethelvaed asked. “Do you know, disciple of the Hand? Why would he be sailing south? There’s nothing there, unless he plans to turn west to Ostanor and take the long road to Rasis Nureans-Ost.”
“I don’t know where he’s going,” said Khara, sitting at the bow of the sloop. “Apologies, but our job is to track and kill, not to figure out precisely what he’s doing.”
“If we knew what he was doing, we could intercept and stop him. It’d be more efficient. You lack intellect.”
“But we don’t know where he’s going.” Khara scowled. “Did your father teach you nothing about manners? Even the Red Hand taught me better manners than you have, apparently.”
“My father taught me everything he needed about ruling. Strength is key, and only strength. Everything else will follow.” He cycled Essence in a fast, aggressive pattern, and his horse neighed. “An Embercore knows nothing about strength. He doesn’t deserve to even steal from us, let alone lead. We can’t always stay three steps behind him.”
Khara snorted at the exact same time as Paya. “He has to stop eventually. He can’t keep sailing and moving.”
“And when he stops, that’s when we pounce? His airship is faster than this sloop. Over a long enough distance, his lead will grow.” Ethelvaed and his horse were pacing at the stern of the sloop, dodging Aremir-employed sailors. “We’d better hope he stops sooner than later, or this plan of yours will fail. As far as I’m concerned, you’re no Red Hand.”
image [https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f3a882_5e221995337243e6a7d4250b55d3aeea~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_280,h_232,al_c,lg_1,q_85,enc_auto/embercore%20sigil.png]
The Red Hand navigated the halls of the Emperor’s palace expertly. He had been here enough times to know the layout.
But the design had also been perfected over the years. Naturally, the long, wide hallways made it impossible for anyone to hide in, and if a mortal was trying to escape, wizard guards with their enhanced bodies could run him down.
The Hand only had the speed of a mortal man. No matter how many guards he cut down or otherwise incapacitated in his wake, more caught up. When one launched a bolt of searing blue wolf Essence past his leg, tearing the flesh open like hundreds of gnashing teeth, it slowed him further.
But all he needed was a few more steps. The windows were just ahead, and beyond them was freedom.
He hop-sprinted to the end of the hallway. Another guard charged him with a sword drawn, but he was a lower-stage guard. A Flare who’d probably just completed his main bodily enhancement.
The Hand sidestepped as soon as he could, but with the wizard’s speed, it was almost at the last moment. The Hand brought his sword down on the man’s back, slashing through with Reign and killing him quickly.
He could kill wizards, no matter how powerful, but he worked best when he could face them one-on-one. Hundreds of palace guards at once? One would eventually get lucky.
The Hand hauled himself up onto the window frame, then turned his sword over and bashed the glass with the hilt. The glass shattered, and, as a trio of palace guards closed in behind him, he leapt from the window. A hundred foot drop awaited him.
There was nothing below him except the wagon- and carriage-filled plaza in front of the palace. It would be enough.
He jabbed his sword into the palace wall as he fell, mustering as much Reign as he could. The sword sliced into the stone, dragging his arms up and tearing up a trail of dust. Palace guards leaned out the window, but the dust choked them. A few unleashed techniques, lighting the dust with bursts of vibrant blue.
Forty feet from the ground, a blast of Essence blasted into the Hand’s shoulder, ripping him off the wall. He plummeted for a half-second, then re-oriented his body midair and rolled. His leg clipped the edge of an ornament on the keep’s outer wall, and he tumbled, then skidded along the ground of the plaza.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
There was no time to waste. He scrambled to his feet, legs protesting in sheer, unbridled pain. Soon, wizards would sprint out the front gate, chasing behind him, and he wouldn’t be able to fight them all off.
He sprinted to the nearest wagon—a cart full of fancy wines for the inner city—and slipped into the back with the most elegant leap he could muster.
The wagon trundled across the cobblestones, shaking and rumbling, and there was no way the driver would hear the Hand slipping in. And once the Hand was out of sight, the wizards couldn’t track him—he didn’t have a large spiritual weight to lock onto.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and flopped down to his back between the wobbling barrels.
There was so much to process, and he didn’t have enough wit left to parse what had just happened.
All he knew was that it was over. Everything he’d hoped for and tried to accomplish had slipped through his fingers like dry desert sand.
image [https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f3a882_5e221995337243e6a7d4250b55d3aeea~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_280,h_232,al_c,lg_1,q_85,enc_auto/embercore%20sigil.png]
Lady Neria’s airship crossed over into the Scar of Reyldaren. The land below dipped, as if someone had dragged an enormous, nation-wide spoon across the surface of the planet. The deeper the land descended, the less life there was. Only dirt, mud, and a few hardy shrubs with purple flowers dotted the land. Pebbles tumbled in the harsh winds, scraping boulders smoothe and turning them glassy. The gusts rocked the airship, making the deck shift and shudder.
The further they flew, the further the ground dipped. Magma poured out of gaps in the stone, flowing across the land in contained channels for a few miles before they cooled. From a distance, the orange of the magma and the purple of the flowers could’ve been mistaken for an autumn forest, but Lady Neria knew better.
The Scar, being so deep, bypassed most of the world’s Ichor channels. Nothing flowed beneath the surface, so the Eane fields were few and far between. Only the tyrrh-shrub could grow, and the wandering bands of men who lived here lived off it. It was what gave them—the Scarlings—their distinctive purple eyes.
The Unbound Lord Two hailed from these lands, and he now lorded over them—as well as Greatsaad and the ashes of Ískan.
“You are certain we can defeat Lord Two?” Three asked.
“With the Ten Emerald Channels pill? I have no doubts,” Neria said. She had given Three the pill earlier, and he would be cycling it as they spoke, both repairing the spiritual damage he had incurred at the hands of Lord One and building his channels back more robust than ever before.
“Will you try negotiating, or will you order me to kill him immediately?” asked Three.
“I will do as I see fit when we land.” Neria folded her fingers. “Theirs is the most prosperous family of the Scar, and though the land inspires hardship, I doubt this Lord Two has known struggle for his entire life. He stands upon the shoulders of greater men. If he dies, he dies.”
“Very well, my lady.”
After a few hours of flight, and an unchanging, barren landscape, Lady Neria’s ship passed over a confluence of two vast magma rivers. A ridge of tyrrh-shrubs grew on their banks, and further up a slight mound was a manor. Compared to the palace of Lord One, it was a hut, but it was still a few storeys tall, with sloped, shingled roofs and blackstone walls. A chimney puffed smoke, even in the heat of the Scar, and the windows glowed orange.
“Set the ship down as far from the rivers as you can,” Lady Neria commanded the captain, “while keeping the manor in sight. I don’t want any accidents.”
“Yes, my lady,” the captain said, bowing his head.
The airship lowered just enough that Lady Neria and Lord Three could jump down to the surface without shattering their knees.
From there, it was a long walk to Lord Two’s manor. Sulfuric fumes leaked out of the ground, and even the furious winds couldn’t blow them all away. Lady Neria resisted the urge to plug her nose. She tilted her head down and marched, stomping across the dark dirt and stone of the ground.
When they reached the door of the manor, they came face to face with two guards of the Unbound family Heuress’ estate. They both wore silver plate armour and purple cloaks, and their eyes shone with a purple hue that shifted like a guttering candle—they were Scarlings. Their Familiars, each a Scarbound scorpion, perched on their shoulders.
The cat-sized scorpions hissed at the approaching visitors first, their magenta exoskeletons swaying and their purple eyes shimmering. Their tails, with a silver dagger for a stinger, pointed directly at Lady Neria.
But neither had tattoos or bondmarks, so they could only be Flares.
“Announce yourselves!” one of the guards demanded. They both pointed their spears. “Friend or foe?”
“I am responsible for the death of Lord One,” Neria stated. “We come to discuss with Lord Two.”
“Apologies, but he is busy,” said one of the guards.
With a flick of her hand, Lady Neria signalled to Three. Two tendrils of green blood-Essence mixture shot out from his sleeves and impaled the two men through the throats before they could protect themselves. They slumped to the ground, dead in an instant.
Three pushed open the doors, allowing Lady Neria inside. He killed three more guards inside with a flick of his wrist.
They only took a few steps into the room before a swirl of purple flower petals rose up from the ground ahead of them. It formed a tornado the height of a man, then condensed into a body, limbs, and a head.
After a second, the petals stopped whirling and faded away into sparks of Essence, revealing a man beneath it all.
Limited-range spatial transport. That was the Bloodline Talent of the Heuress Family.
He wore a magenta robe to match the shade of his scorpion. He was fair-skinned with long, brown hair that blew with the wind—even inside the closed foyer of the manor, where there was no wind. His bondmark was a scorpion’s carapace running across the center of his head like a thin helmet.
“Who are you, and why do you attack my manor?” he demanded. “Speak quickly, for you have already offended this family and clan. If you incite any more offence, you will die.”
Lady Neria raised her eyebrows. “We come with an offer: join us, or die. We have killed Lord One, and we will kill you.”
“You?” Lord Two snorted. He turned around, cloak fluttering, when Three grabbed his shoulder.
“Stay,” Three demanded. “The balance of power has been upset. My Lady’s offer is the only offer you will receive.”