To keep an evil quiet and safe

What terrible power unlocked in its place?

Hawk rolled reflexively, sweeping his sword up as he did so, and heard and felt it slide off something metallic. He was on his feet a second later, swinging again, and suddenly found himself locked in battle with a furious black thing.

It took him a few seconds to realise that it was Mekka.

“What!” he gasped. “Mekka!”

The Angel was fast. So fast that Hawk was forced to defend himself desperately, and could barely parry the blows. Mekka struck at him high and swift, like a snake, aiming for his unprotected head and neck.

He was clearly intent on killing Hawk.

There was no time to work out what was going on, or what the hell had gotten into his friend. It took all of his concentration and skill to fend Mekka off, and he already knew with rapid certainty that it wasn't going to go well.

Either Mekka was going to kill him, or he would be forced to slay the Angel.

He felt himself starting to panic, and gritted his teeth, trying to stay focused. He was an experienced soldier, not a trainee.

But Mekka was a level above.

And if he'd really slain a Seraph…

Hawk leapt a sudden slash aimed at his legs, and this left a rare opening. Hawk could have aimed a blow at Mekka's head, but he held back.

I can't kill Mekka!

Mekka's knife – the trigonic dagger – glanced off Hawk's breastplate. Hawk stumbled. He was losing control…

He parried another blow awkwardly, with a cry of despair, but immediately found the dagger slashing at his face again. Unable to bring his sword around in time, he lifted his left arm, trying to protect his face with his gauntlet.

But it was his old gauntlet, made of simple steel, and was no match for the black dagger.

Pain ripped through his arm.

And suddenly, he found himself on his back. He didn't know how; perhaps Mekka had tripped him. And the Angel was on top of him faster than Hawk could think, he had only a second to glimpse Mekka's terrible, wild expression before the black dagger plunged down–

A flash of white light filled the world.

Hawk was sure he was dead.

He certainly wasn't breathing.

A few seconds later, the light faded and was replaced by a shrieking roar, and Hawk felt a sudden, scathing wind tear across his face, like claws of ice.

Gasping for breath, he struggled to peer through eyelids suddenly clogged with frost, but saw only darkness and whirling white snow. There was a silvery, shimmering trail in the air in front of him. With an effort, he turned his head to follow it, and saw Ferrian standing at the end, eyes ablaze with light, his Sword of Frost held out in front of him, the Winter raging around him.

A long moment later, the wind finally died away to nothing. A few remaining snowflakes drifted down to settle on Hawk's face, softly. Above him, the darkness fell away to reveal a dusky sky, dotted with stars blinking sleepily awake.

Ferrian was suddenly at his side, his eyes returned to normal. Or at least, Hawk thought numbly, to their usual silver hue.

“Hawk!” Ferrian cried, his face, dead though it was, full of concern. “Are you okay?”

Hawk blinked. His eyelashes were crusted with frost. He felt sure that the rest of him was, too.

Ferrian helped him to sit up.

“Yeah,” Hawk managed. “F-fine.” He wasn't entirely sure that he was, but it seemed the best thing to say. “M-Mekka...”

Ferrian looked away, then sprang to his feet and ran off into the debris, several yards away.

Hawk pushed himself to his feet, ice crackling off him, and staggered after. His feet slipped, and he almost went down again; the ground was slick. Looking around in a daze, he saw that much of the plaza was now covered in snow: a pale and ghostly blanket in the fading light.

He dropped to his knees beside Ferrian.

The boy was bashing and hacking furiously at a large, shapeless chunk of ice in front of him, with his Sword. Hawk watched in confusion for a moment before horror seized him.

Mekka was encased within.

Hurriedly, Hawk lifted his own sword – which was still, somehow, in his hand – and helped Ferrian crack the ice. As quickly and carefully as they could, they scooped it away from the Angel's face and chest.

Ferrian slumped back on his knees, his Sword dropping limply by his side. “Oh Gods,” he whispered, staring at Mekka's lifeless form. “I… I've killed him…”

Hawk sat heavily beside him, still clutching a handful of ice. He let it trickle out of his fingers to the ground, along with his own sword. Mekka's skin was bone-pale, his lips blue. His good eye was closed, the other hidden, facing the ground. His clothing and hair and feathers were stiff with ice.

Hawk put his head in his hands, feeling his heart plummet.

“It… it's my fault,” Ferrian said from beside him. “I… I shouldn't have given him the dagger…”

Hawk was grief-stricken. He didn't know what to say, so he just shook his head.

“I knew,” Ferrian's voice broke. “I knew that something bad was going to hap–”

Mekka jerked suddenly, startling the life out of them – well, out of Hawk – and they both lunged for their swords…

Half-coughing, half-retching, the Angel began to shiver violently.

“Mekka!” Hawk gasped.

Stunned, they abandoned their weapons and scrambled to help him up, and break the rest of the ice off him.

“Gods!” Hawk exclaimed, and gave a laugh that came out as half-sob. “You're alive!”

Mekka shook so badly that his teeth rattled. “H-Hawk?” he whispered, through frosted lips.

Hawk shook him – in anger, but mostly relief. “You… you tried to kill me, man!”

Mekka's lips trembled. His eye blinked rapidly. Then he lifted his hands and put them to his face. “I… k-killed… I k-killed...”

Hawk's expression softened, and he shook his head. “You didn't know what you were doing,” he said. “It was that damned dagger! It got to you!”

Mekka shook his head jerkily.

Hawk sat down beside him, squeezing his shoulder. Ferrian hurried back to them with a couple of gold-threaded blankets that he had salvaged intact from one of the ruined market stalls, and draped them around Mekka as best he could. Then he moved away again, crouching now and then as though searching for something on the snowy ground.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for the dagger!” Ferrian called back.

Li came up to them, and knelt in front of Mekka. Amazingly, she wasn't covered in frost at all; she must have found a place to hide. She seemed unfazed by what had happened.

“Look, Mekka!” she said, holding up a black feather. “I lost your feather, but I found it again!”

Hawk leaned forward, admiring the feather. “Wow, Li! Mekka gave you a feather? You must be a special lady!”

Li smiled.

“Can I see it?”

Li hesitated, but gave it to Hawk.

Hawk whistled, turning it around in his fingers, then leaned forward again and stuck it in her pigtail. “Awesome!” he said. “Now you're a princess!”

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Li beamed at him, then turned to Mekka and blinked. “Why are you crying?”

Looking at Mekka, Hawk saw tears trickling down his face, a barely discernible glimmer in the half-light.

Hawk put his hand on Li's shoulder, and leaned in as though imparting a great secret. “I think he just realised that not everything in Arkana is bad.”

Mekka let out a broken sob. Then he reached out and pulled the Angel girl into a tight embrace.

Hawk tensed, but the black-winged Angel merely sobbed into her shoulder.

Hawk allowed himself to slump with relief and exhaustion. We're all here, and in one piece, he thought, lifting his head to stare at the deepening blue of the sky. We're all okay.

For now.

Ferrian stood staring down at the two blades in his hands.

In his left, he held the Sword of Frost; long and silver, bright and reassuring. He was still amazed that he had managed to direct the Winter so effectively… and without killing or seriously injuring anyone. He could hardly believe that Mekka had survived.

Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the other blade.

Just touching it was loathsome. Where it came into contact with his fingers and palm, even through the bandages, he felt a burning, prickling sensation that was almost painful.

He gazed at the trigonic dagger bitterly, wishing he was strong enough to crush it to pieces in his fist. But he wasn't. It couldn't be destroyed, and disposing of it hadn't worked. The thing seemed to have a mind of its own; a sense of self-preservation. It was insidious.

The only remaining option was to put it somewhere safe.

He looked again at the Sword of Frost.

“Hey, Ferrian!”

He glanced up. Hawk was frowning anxiously at him, apparently having guessed his intention. “You sure that's a good idea?”

“No!” Ferrian called back. “It's a terrible idea! But I'm going to do it anyway!”

Ferrian wanted nothing less than to turn his beautiful Sword of Frost into a monstrous, reality-slaying weapon, but he was left with little choice. His Sword had been fashioned specifically to hold the dagger, after all. He had no idea what the hell Arzath was thinking when he had made such a terrible thing; how much had the sorcerer hated his brother, to want to destroy him in such a horrifying way?

But if the dagger was locked into his Sword, its power would be subdued by the silvertine, balanced out. It would no longer be able to worm its way into anyone else's mind or body.

And only Ferrian could use the Sword.

He wasn't sure he wanted to, after this.

But it was the way it had to be.

Without another word, he turned and began walking away from the others, his boots crunching on the snow.

He didn't want to be anywhere near them when he did this.

He passed the fountain, and the ruined stone Seraph, stopping near the steps at the edge of the plaza, where he had entered with Hawk. Pausing, he looked around.

There was no one else to be seen. The Angels had all fled, perhaps into the forest. Somewhere not too far away, crashing and rumbling sounds could be heard as the Dragon continued to devastate the city. Most of the spot fires in the vicinity had been extinguished by the Winter, leaving the plaza a cool, dark space surrounded by flame-glowing towers.

At least I'm already dead, he thought. Killing himself wasn't something he needed to worry about. Except that he had come to realise that there were worse things than death.

And he was possibly about to experience one of them.

Forcing back his growing fear, Ferrian positioned the trigonic dagger over its matching recess in the hilt of his Sword.

Then he pushed it in.

As last time, he felt a resistance that became stronger the harder he pushed. An eerie, keening whistle emanated from the opposing blades, and they shivered in his grasp.

But this time, Ferrian didn't hold back. Determined, he shoved at the dagger with all his strength.

It snapped into place with dramatic suddenness.

He could have been satisfied with that. The dagger was in place, snug and safe inside the hilt. But he wasn't.

Instead, he kept his hand pressed on the dagger, curling the fingers of both hands tightly around the handle of the Sword.

He needed to know exactly what the magic did, what it was capable of. He couldn't go swinging this Sword around, tearing holes in existence, without knowing what he was doing, or how to control it.

Turning the Sword point-downward, he rammed it into the white stone at his feet.

Now was a good enough time to find out.

He summoned the Winter.

It came in a powerful rush, flooding through his limbs in freezing streams. His hair and clothing whipped as a gale rose up around him. He controlled it, pulling it tightly around him like a cocoon, until it turned into a fierce whirlwind of ice.

Then he sent it into the blade.

Once again, he jerked as though something had slammed into his gut, and an accompanying wave of nausea passed through him, thickening into a terrible sense of dread. The Sword quivered in his grip with increasing violence.

Gritting his teeth, Ferrian clung to it, forcing himself to concentrate, to hold control, to endure what was to come.

A darkness seemed to fill his head, something massive that slowly expanded until he felt his skull might break trying to contain it. There was a metallic shriek, becoming louder and louder, so unbearably loud that it pierced his teeth… The Sword's trembling vibrated through his whole body; he could feel his bones rattling…

It was all he could do not to release the Sword… he felt the weight of the entire universe crushing him… smashing him into pieces of dust floating in infinity…

The horror almost overwhelmed him.

And then… darkness.

It was a different kind of darkness; empty, quiet, painless, soundless.

Peaceful.

Ferrian looked around carefully, wondering if he was inside his own mind. But normally, his mind was white.

This was something else.

No matter where he turned his gaze, there was nothing to be seen, heard, or felt. Nothing but impenetrable blackness.

Am I inside the Sword?

He had no idea, but it seemed as good an explanation as any.

And suddenly, as though reacting to the thought, something changed. He blinked, and found himself in a room full of mirrors.

Surrounding him were thousands and thousands of facets, as though he stood in the middle of an extraordinarily large gemstone. Each one of them reflected Ferrian.

Gazing in wonder, he turned around in a circle, and thousands of Ferrians turned with him. But after a moment, he noticed something odd.

Not all of the reflections were identical.

Eyes widening, he looked closer.

Most of them looked as he would expect them to: like a silver-eyed corpse. But some of them… some of them were not dead!

He had almost forgotten what he looked like when alive, but there he was; his living selves staring back at him with equal astonishment. Some of them wore different clothing, or had wounds or scars or other superficial differences, but they were all undeniably him.

Behind all of the reflections was a familiar scene; he recognised the curved steps and white buildings of the plaza, ghostly pale in the evening dusk. But things were different there, too; in some scenes, the market was in ruins: in others, it was intact. In some, the Seraph loomed behind him, very much alive. In others, the courtyard was entirely empty.

And his companions?

Ferrian peered closely.

Yes! There they were! Hawk and Mekka and Li, right where he had left them. Except… some reflections were missing one or the other or all of them. And…

Gasping, Ferrian stumbled backwards.

In some of them, Hawk was dead.

In some of them, Mekka lay in a gleaming pool of blood. Or frozen stiff among the debris, having never recovered from the Winter.

In some of them, Li–

Ferrian looked away abruptly, squeezing his eyes closed, not wanting to see.

Realities, he thought in shock. Alternate fates. So many of them. It was as though anything were possible, as though everything existed at once. He was dead, but he was alive at the same time, and so were all his friends, everyone he knew…

The thought trailed off. Opening his eyes, he began hurriedly searching the reflections, running this way and that. The room spun around him as he went.

Finally, Ferrian found what he was looking for, in a facet below his feet. He dropped to his knees on top of it, staring intently past his own image, into the background.

Mekka sat there, hunched over with Li. And beside them…

Beside them was not Hawk. There sat a young winged man only a few years older than Ferrian, his wings white as the snow around him, patterned with copper markings, so much like his little sister.

Aari.

In this reality, Aari was alive! He hadn't been murdered.

Ferrian reached out and gently touched the image. Aari and Mekka and Li, sitting together.

I can make this happen, he thought suddenly. I can bring him back. I can bring ANYONE back! Even myself!

And then he realised the true power of the Sword he had created: to change reality, to shape the fabric of existence to his own will.

He could choose any of these realities, and make it be. They were all as real as each other. He need only determine which one he wanted to live in…

For a moment, incredible hope surged within him, but then it faded as a dark shadow of doubt swallowed it up. Where had Hawk gone, in this scene?

Was he somewhere else? Had Ferrian never met him? Was he dead? Had he… never existed??

Pushing himself to his feet, Ferrian staggered away. He could change anything he wanted, but what would the consequences be? If he brought Aari back, would someone else die in his place? Was Cimmeran still alive in that reality? Would he murder someone else, instead?

Ferrian shook his head in despair. He could not make a decision like that! No one could!

He spun, looking desperately for a way out, then realised with growing horror that he didn't know where he had come from.

There were hundreds – perhaps thousands – of reflections that looked similar to his own world. How was he to know which one it was? What if he went back into the wrong one??

The facets reflected his panic back at him, amplifying it. Backing away, he turned and started running in a random direction. The facets spun around him. He couldn't tell if he was running anywhere, but he had to get out of there…

“Help!” he screamed. “DRAGON! Help me!!”

There was no answer.

“Dragon!”

The White Dragon did not respond.

Ferrian ran in desperation, trying to think what to do. Should he try using his magic? What if he accidentally fell into one of these realities… a terrible one? What if he HAD to choose, if that was the only way to get back out? What if he could never find his original world again??

Devastating thoughts ran through his head, and then his footsteps began to slow.

Something was changing around him.

One by one, the facets were going dark. The further he went, the more of them showed no reflections, but were simply black.

He stopped dead as an awful thought occurred to him. The facets were still there, they were just voids, showing nothing at all.

Perhaps these were worlds in which Ferrian himself did not exist!

Struck with profound horror, Ferrian backed away from the inky patches. Turning, he careened off the walls, terrified of plummeting any moment into a life that was not his own, or worse, extinguishing his own existence…

“Help!” he sobbed. “I don't know how to get out of here! Dragon! Please!”

He fell to his knees, putting his face in his hands. Around him, a thousand versions of him did the same. Why did he put the damned dagger in the Sword? He knew it was a stupid idea, but THIS?? Now he was trapped inside his own Sword!

Arzath was right! I shouldn't mess with things of which I know nothing! It was never my Sword to begin with! I'm not a sorcerer – I'm just a dumb kid! I only wanted to stop the Winter from happening…

He sobbed, though he had no tears.

And then a small white light sparked deep in his mind. It grew, and grew, until it encompassed everything, and burned all of his thoughts, and his grief, and existence away...

Ferrian!

He wasn't sure if he had really heard his name being called, or merely imagined it, until he felt someone trying to shake him awake.

“Ferrian! Get up!”

It was Hawk's voice, and it sounded urgent.

Ferrian blinked his eyes open, and found that he was lying face down in the snow. The mirrored room with its terrifying infinite realities was gone. It felt strangely distant, like a dream…

“Kid, you gotta get up NOW!” Hawk insisted.

Ferrian started to push himself up, but the Freeroamer grabbed his arm and yanked him none too gently to his feet.

Hawk needed no words to explain, however. He simply pointed.

Ferrian looked… and froze.

The Dragon had landed in the central plaza and was slinking along the edge of it, huge fiery eyes pinned directly on him.