The only reality is contrast. Heat and cold. Silence and a gentle, perpetual hum. Light, and dim fog. I shift my position, ever so slightly, the first movement I’ve made in hours.

This outcropping is an arm-length short of being a death sentence. Cramped, jagged, and coated with a thin veneer of ice, I’d thought climbing safely onto it would have been the worst part. But pressing against the chill for hours, feeling every muscle in my body ache with the strain? Staying still is so much worse.

Not for much longer now.

The winding pass below still looks empty. More than that, it looks untouched. Snow from the mountain slopes has crept over its ancient, paved stones, and from the birds eye view it would surely be invisible. But here, hidden just above, I can feel the gentle, monotonous reverberations of an approach.

I spend a moment trying to make an estimate. It’s a sensation I’ve felt over, and over, and over, and it’s almost as natural as sound or smell. More than a dozen – I’m sure of that. And fewer than a hundred. I carefully let a breath escape my throat through the corners of my mouth. This is it.

One last movement; I bring my ally to bear. Paired with a bone-white cloak, its radiant heat has kept me from freezing to death since I climbed up here. I unpin it from beneath my body, eking it out in front of me.

The barrel overhangs above the outcropping, its hand-painted camouflage hopefully enough to shield it from view. I push myself back just slightly, bringing my eye level to the scope. One hand holds the grip, the other performs all the steps I rehearsed in my head a thousand times, one-by-one.

First I brush the two cables to the side, both hot to the touch. Then I knock a boot against the charge pack and plasma pack – they’re both still there, of course. Then I gently turn the power valve – my ally’s droning hum grows noticeably louder, approaching a growl. I wince and pause; is it too loud? After a moment I realise it’s too late to matter and continue. Third, I twist the heat sink valve down. The swirling yellow glow of the weapon’s radiant heart coils inward, and the chassis grows hotter. But in this climate, I can cling to hope that the surrounding cold will be enough to prevent overheating. Next I move the fire control gauge up, up, up, till I know the recoil will only just fall short of breaking my shoulder with every shot. Finally, I gently move the rifle in my grip, swinging it deliberately and ensuring I’ve got the range of motion I’ll need to cover every snowflake across the pass. Everything is ready. I grip the trigger.

Now the final countdown begins. Minutes pass, and the gentle rumble of distant marching grows stronger. It’s a thrum, then a roar, and finally it echoes off the very stone surrounding me.

They’re here.

My breath stills, almost to nothing. I blink hard and press my weight down onto my position. My ally waits, more patient than I, and far less frightened. Its faint glow tries to reassure me. Despite all appearances, there is a fire within that burns brighter and hotter than the best mages of the continent. I cradle a god of destruction up here on this mountainside.

It’s time to let it rain down.

Below, my targets finally come into view. I count the lines as quickly as I’m able. Fifty. I’ll have enough shots, provided I don’t miss a single one.

They’re taller than I’d expected, and from ground-level I know that they must be massive. They wear helmets, and bulking black armour polished to a sheen, yet it doesn’t seem to reflect the light properly – rather absorb it. Between the gaps of that armour though, grey skin bristles with brimstone-red veins of fire. The cold, so I’m told, will weaken them. One of very few advantages I hold. Slowly, their company files into the pass, until every one of them is within field of view.

I shift, and take aim, leading my first shot on the head of their procession. An even taller being. They’re not of the same species as their subordinates, and the pressure in the air has noticeably risen. They’re a potent magic user then. One chance; mess it up, and I’d be dead before I could fire again. I have to hit. It has to be clean.

Now I choose to still my breaths entirely. I hold, preparing to breathe out again only as I lift my finger from the first pull of the trigger.

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I countdown in my head.

Three. Two.

One.

I squeeze my finger.

My ally screams to life. The world before flashes, so bright that the mist across the mountaintops seems to evaporate for an instant. Plasma explodes forward in a concentrated bolt of broiling golden light. It screams through the icy air, arcs across a hundred meters before I’ve even let slip that next breath. Down, and down, and down it hurtles. Heads below barely tilt as the light flashes across them.

Then the shot lands, shattering into my mark with a thunderclap. Even from here I can see the plated metal of their helmet burst like the skin of an orange peel. They fold into the snow as the plasma burns into them.

For exactly one second, every other monster in that group is stunned. The realisation dawns. A chorus of shouts follow. But I make no such hesitations. The next shot is already out.

Another hit, it barrels into its target, the force knocking them off their feet. I fire again, the enemy just now beginning to scramble; another few moments until they find my position.

I shoot again, and again. A mechanical methodology now granting me a brief verve of calm as I fire into the ranks. My shoulder stings each time, my eyes water as I dare not to blink, my lungs burn as I measure my breathing in short, shallow movements. But none of that matters. My focus lies only with this beast in my embrace.

Bolts of plasma launch out as a volley now, my aim untarnished. Enemies run as chaos spreads, their comrades falling one-by-one. Their armour buckles, their flesh burns, their lives extinguish. Snow gently simmers into steam around their fallen bodies.

By the twelfth shot, some are in shallow cover, others are pointing in my direction, and a few prepare for a counter. I fire the thirteenth shot. This one whirls, its victim raising an arm to shield the blow. So it takes his arm instead, disintegrating flesh and bone. He cries aloud. I grimace – but he’s down for the moment.

I pick a new target, a soldier looking straight towards me, hate bubbling in his onyx-crimson eyes. He raises an arm too, but this one is outstretched in offense. Light crackles at his fingertips, and I launch the killing blow before he can complete the thought. It strikes his heart – his face contorts as he steps back and topples.

But he wasn’t the only one. I swing to the next target, a little too late. The fifteenth shot leaps out just as an incoming fireball slams into the rock above me, shy by a few meters. Its caster is dead before he can make another attempt, but more prepare to follow-up. So I do the only thing I can. I coil my form tighter, hug closer to my perch, and start shooting faster.

The ambush becomes a battle. I unleash a torrent of golden destruction. My enemies respond with channelled crimson flame.

But I’m accurate, I know my skill. Every time I pull back the trigger and feel that recoil, I know the scales tip further in my favour.

They are wild, and chaotic. It shows in their magic. Hits go wide again and again, my small profile from their angle almost impossible to catch. But even as stone blasts apart I can feel the heat. I can smell the sublimating snow. A lucky strike will roast me alive.

I still my shaking limbs. I clamp down my teeth, catching my tongue and tasting blood. I keep shooting. Aim, squeeze, repeat. Tovesteon rips its way from my rifle into the sky, and it doesn’t dare to stop until it smashes onto the crowd below.

They’re full of rage. But less so than my rifle. Every component was fashioned. Every strip of metal carefully forged. Every rune carved. And in every single part of that slow manifestation, its creators had thought about their burned homes. They’d remembered the faces of their loved ones frozen in fear, the sound of their bodies breaking. The smell of blood, their own, and their comrades, and their people’s. The sight of their lives spilling out like entrails onto the floor of a charnel house. And with that every thought and memory, their anger had burned itself into the flesh of my weapon. This is more than just a rifle, or an ally, it’s a tool of retribution.

So I keep firing, and the flames fly past my head, closer and closer, but fewer and fewer.

And then I pull the trigger, and it clicks. Empty. At last, I suck in a deep, desperate breath, coughing, and sputtering. My heart pounds in my head, the only sound left. I peer out over the lip of my sniper’s nest.

Bodies lie still in the snow. Only a single demon stands, the one who sacrificed his arm. He swings on unsteady knees, a creeping horror gripping him. Instead of the slow but certain regeneration, his limb remains missing, the remnant plasma still eating away at him. He too topples, bleeding among his comrades as he waits for a death he cannot escape.

At last, I push myself up on shaking arms, and sit on my outcrop. Below, the mountain pass stinks of death. But from up here all I can feel are the chill winds kissing my face, and a steady, unspoken satisfaction resting in my chest.