Moka opened her eyes, feeling the cool air brush against her face. The breeze carried microscopic beads of moisture that dampened her skin. A heady rush swelled from her chest, rushing to her eyes, causing her to sway on her feet. Half remembered emotions burned in her chest, jumbled and confusing. Each one evoked a blurry image, as if from a dream. The most immediate and intense was a failure so deep her anger, steadfast and loyal, quaked in its presence. She could not avoid it. Try as she might, her mind led her back to that foggy emotion resting in her heart like a sleeping giant. Focusing on it brought images of blood. She could taste sweet copper in her mouth. Pitiful wails, begging for mercy, rang in her ears. A powerful disappointment, backlit by a soft blue glow just in front of her face, crashed down on her, weighing her worth.

Moka faded into herself, immersed in the deluge. She felt a strain of emotion tainting the visage of failure haunting her. It was one she was intimately familiar with. Her anger, her cleansing palate, the all important crutch that let her hobble forward. It raged in her, fighting against the disappointment, trying to quench it in justifications. The anger fed her reasons, ways she had been wronged, stacking them together like a hollow fortress rising to protect her against judgment.

Moka shied away from her own thoughts. She felt her muscles clench. Taking the opportunity, she focused on the sensation of her body tightening with everything she could. It was a futile battle. She could not stop prodding the failure, living in her chest like an internal scar. She relived the sensations in an endless loop, tasting the blood, hearing the begging, feeling the disappointment. Her spine bent inward, like a great weight was pressing down on her.

Something light brushed against Moka’s shoulder, as gentle as a leaf alighting, or a feather landing on her. Warmth spread through her from the point of contact, easing her tense muscles. Her thoughts flashed to her god, Azarus. With her mind distracted, a new emotion took the foreground, pushing the heavy weight of failure aside, but not banishing it completely.

From the depths of failure, Moka felt uplifted, her burdens eased, with the flush of victory running through her. The image of a golden giant with ash gray hair looking down on her brushed her senses. She felt the ghost sensation of being held, reminiscent of being a child. The giant’s eyes were sad, but a glint of determination ran through them. Moka recognized the glint. It was the look of someone who had survived the world and screamed in defiance when everything they loved was ripped away. A kindred soul. Even then, basking in the warmth of triumph, in the back of her mind, Moka could feel it, the anger, waiting for an excuse to slip its leash.

Looking down at her palm, Moka clenched her fist, closing her fingers until her knuckles were white. It felt strange, like she was holding the handle of a tool. The sensation shifted. Her fingertips betrayed the familiar sensation of plunging a blade into flesh. Slight resistance, followed by a gliding smoothness. She knew it in her bones then. That she had stabbed the hand that held her, supported her. She hissed, her ears flattening.

Another hand reached out, touching her shoulder where the feather fell. With a jolt, the jumbled emotions filling Moka fled. She tried to hold on to them, desperately clawing at them as they faded from her consciousness. Deep in her stomach, she felt certain they were important. If she could follow that thread, it would lead somewhere dear to her.

The emotions slipped through her grasp, there one moment and gone the next. A honeyed voice, peppered with notes of rising panic, broke through Moka’s focus. Her mind seemed to snap back into her body. She snarled at the voice, turning to face it. A beautiful face greeted her. High cheekbones, full lips, and a sharp jaw, framed by long, pointed ears and a stunning mane of hair were all secondary to the elf’s eyes. Deep green eyes bore into Moka; faded to gray rings at the edges, with flecks of gold running through the green like sunbursts.

The elf’s eyes narrowed at Moka’s bared teeth. She tossed her hair over her shoulder. At first glance, her hair looked dyed, blonde on top, a dark gray beneath. As the low light ran through the strands, the blonde turned to gold, and emerald refractions shone through the gray. Her mouth opened, revealing pointed, pearly white teeth. They were not nearly sharp enough to rival a goblin’s fangs, but better than what Moka expected.

Contrary to her appearance as the living embodiment of the elvish claim to beauty, her words were blunt, like she was speaking to an equal, or a friend. An annoying one.

“Snap out of it, you stab-happy goblin. Things are strange and I need answers I suspect you have. Or, at the very least, can shed some light on.”

Despite her snappish words, the elf’s voice was smooth, bright by nature, with a husky undertone.

Several things clicked into place for Moka. This was Carwen, the bratty elf she had almost killed on sight. Her mind caught up. The last Trial felt like it had been days ago. Danara. The goblins. Strange events, like a bloodthirsty monster splitting into two amicable hobgoblins. Or an elf falling from the sky to confess his feelings.

As soon as her mind cleared, a screen snapped into place in front of Moka. A sense of familiarity washed over her. This happened last time. A brief description of her mission, and an outline of the tools her god had given her to complete it.

Moka felt the sturdy fabric of her bandolier beneath her fingertips. She could not remember reaching up. Excitement and apprehension filled her in equal parts. Her god’s gifts were powerful. Maybe too powerful for someone like her.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out, Moka straightened up and moved from side to side, shaking her arms and legs as she shifted her weight. The reminder of her situation had helped soothe the anger of her loss and bring her into the moment. Deliberate and slow, she closed her eyed and reopened them, meeting Carwen’s questing gaze. She could have sworn the elf’s eyes used to be orange and red, not green and gold.

“Do you need me to teach you to read?” Moka waved a hand at the screen, her lips twisting into a mocking scowl. “This explains everything.”

Carwen gaped, then spluttered.

“You know what I mean! What is this thing? An illusion? What does it mean? Where are we, and what do we do now?”

Moka side eyed the elf, relishing in how her voice became higher pitch near the end of her rapid-fire questions. Smothering a smirk, she scanned the screens, picking out the important information. Azarus had tasked her with changing a hero’s fate. It was an enormous step from saving a village, but she was in no position to complain. Her life belonged to him now. Thankfully, he had seen fit to grant her new abilities. One stood out.

Moka swiped away the screen, taking a moment to scan her surroundings. They were in a rubble-strewn alley, half the wall collapsed near one end. Dark clouds loomed overhead, seeming to press down on her. Beads of water danced on the breeze, stinging her face with their icy touch. Far in the distance, the cloud cover turned to an angry orange.

Taking a few steps to the end of the alley, Moka peeked her head out. Behind her, Carwen’s grumbling had turned to a contemplative silence as she read something on her screen. Beyond the boundaries of the alley, Moka found a war-torn city, built with strange, yet familiar, technology. Everywhere she looked, cogs and gears clicked along, furthering an unseen agenda. Nearby, a broken gear, bent out of alignment, was chewing its way through a wall, the hewn stone unable to stop its mechanical might. Her grandpa would have loved this place.

Moka swiveled her ears, catching the sound of distant, clamoring voices. Her eyes narrowed, a feeling of certainty filling her. Their hero was there, she knew it. She glanced down, eying her empty bandolier. Saying a silent prayer, she crept back into the alley. Ignoring a scowling Carwen, Moka pulled on one of the new knots in her soul. She followed its guidance, raising her right palm toward the sky and bracing her arm with her opposite hand. Power burned through her veins, enhancing the Spell. It built in her until it was near uncontainable. With a roar, she yelled her intent to the sky.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

“[Summon: Airdrop]!”

Power flowed from Moka’s body, leaving her drained. Runic circles, crafted out of a line of light, appeared above her palm. Her eyes swam as her lagging brain tried to decipher the images she was seeing. Next to her, Carwen gasped, rushing forward to grab her in support. Moka let out a half-hearted growl, but did not shove the elf off.

A thin beam of concentrated red light shot straight up from the spell-circle, connecting it to the cloudy sky. Steam rose in a small column from Moka’s hand, the red light vaporizing the moisture in the air. The light existed for all of three seconds before vanishing, like a fishing line being pulled beyond the clouds. As soon as it was out of sight, the circle snapped shut, leaving a blinking and dazed Moka to lean into Carwen’s arms. She sagged there for a moment, then the dizzy spell passed.

With a grunt, Moka stood straight, freeing herself from Carwen’s grasp. She ignored the elf’s questions, staring at the spot in the clouds where the light had vanished. Something was coming, she could feel it.

“Moka! You cannot just ignore me.” Carwen placed herself in front of Moka. She loomed over the goblin to block her vision, sunburst eyes catching the low light. “You brought me to a new realm to do a vague task, while your god alters my very being! At least tell me what you’re doing, and why! You owe me at least that much decency.”

In the back of Moka’s mind, rising from the depths of her psyche, the anger awakened. It rose in her throat, lashing out with accusations, definitions of decency that the elf surely did not fit. Moka gnashed her teeth, biting back the harsh words as memories of hollow violence sprang to mind unsummoned. She broke eye contact, closing her eyes to take a deep breath.

Letting it out, she opened her eyes and leaned to look around Carwen before she could react. She spotted a curling tendril of cloud reaching down from the cover, right where the light had gone. In her vision, a dark spot was growing larger by the heartbeat. A second later, Carwen’s scowling visage filled her sight once more.

Moka grabbed Carwen’s collar, briefly noting she had changed clothes at some point. Pivoting on the ball of her foot, Moka swept Carwen’s feet from beneath her, leveraging the taller elf over her extended hip to toss her to the side. With a curse, Moka leapt forward, off-balance and stumbling after Carwen’s flailing figure.

Carwen hit the ground with a string of expletives, white light gathering around her palms as she sat up. Moka slammed into her, sending them both sprawling and dissipating the light. Behind them, an impact shook the cobblestone street. Moka rolled off of Carwen, who was using her knees and elbow to display her opinion of being unceremoniously tossed. Half distracted by fending off the disgruntled elf, Moka examined the ‘Airdrop.’

It was a medium-sized crate made from what looked like dark wood bound in brass, with copper symbols embedded into the sides. A sheet of material draped across half the box, connected to rings on the side by thin chords. The side facing Moka displayed a stylized set of gears, locked in an eternal dance. Moka felt her blood rising, a tingling thrill starting from her toes, her earlier anger forgotten.

A sharp tug on Moka’s ear brought her back to the present, reminding her of the irrate elf in arm’s reach. She whirled to glare at Carwen, her mouth open to snap at her. However, when she met Carwen’s eyes, something there caused her to hesitate. Beneath the anger was a wild fear, like a child lost in the woods. It struck a nerve. Moka looked away, suddenly unable to face her new companion. She rolled off of Carwen, making a space between them. After a moment, she forced herself to mumble a half-hearted apology.

“Sorry, I-” Moka stumbled over her words, not willing to admit to, or explain, the odd images and feelings she was struggling with mere minutes ago. Her mind spun, trying to remember what Carwen had asked her. “-was testing a new ability. [Summon: Airdrop]. I don’t know what it does, but I think it will let me make more grenades.”

Moka glanced over to Carwen. The elf caught her looking and glared, her lips set in a bitter line. She leveled a finger at Moka, jabbing it in her direction.

“I hardly think more weapons are our current priority. They are a double-edged sword, at best. We need to scout the area and find this hero, then we can move forward.”

Standing up, Moka shot a hard-eyed smile down at Carwen. In her moment of guilt, her anger supported her, blunting the harsh edges of the emotions that hurt, like it always did. She flipped her hair over one shoulder, doing her best not to look smug.

“Exactly what I would expect from a soft village elf, hidden safely away in your forest.” Moka patted her bandolier, meeting Carwen’s tightening expression with unwavering intensity. “What happened to the girl who would rather die than be captured? Or was it an act?”

Carwen’s eyes narrowed, her brows pulling down and together. She opened her mouth to speak, but Moka was already turning away, going to inspect the crate that had almost killed them. Turning her head, she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

“Get familiar with His gifts. Once we set out, I doubt there will be another chance.”

Moka traced her fingers along the copper gears adorning the crate, deliberately tuning out Carwen’s retort. The burning knot in her chest insisted she had won the exchange. There was no need to hear the annoying elf’s retort, or acknowledge the hurt in her voice.

Taking a moment to remove the parachute from the box, Moka appreciated the craftsmanship of the crate. It fit together with mechanical precision, each piece of brass and copper exactly as it should be, with no deviation. After a few seconds, she found a latch securing the lid of the crate opposite a pair of brass hinges. With a grunt, she unlatched the lid and pried the crate open, her god’s gift of might making it simple work. Inside, she found several smaller boxes, packed tightly with loose straw. Not stopping to gawk, she began taking the boxes out of the crate and lining them up in front of it. Once they were all on the cobblestones in front of her, she closed the crate, intending to use it as a makeshift workbench.

As Moka slung her rucksack off her shoulders, preparing to unpack it as well, a light blossomed behind her. Her shadow stretched out in front of her, rippling over the rubble like the second coming of Danara. She whirled, yanking her [Ironthorn Staff] out of the strap that bound it to her bag. Staff raised and a war cry on her lips, she settled into a familiar mindset. Cold certainty of what came next, with a belly full of fire that would let her do what needed done, no matter who stood in the way. She could taste sweet copper on her tongue like the memory of a bittersweet meal.

She found Carwen cackling with her arms raised like a witch over a cauldron. A spell-circle glowed at her feet, illuminating the lower half of her face and leaving the rest in shadow. Her robes flapped in a wind Moka could not feel. Moka hesitated, keenly aware that showing more interest in the abilities Azarus granted the elf may have been a good idea.

A gauntlet hand reached out of the circle, sparks of fire dancing along its fingers. An armored arm swiftly followed, reaching back down the way it came to push against the circle, like a swimmer climbing to shore. Moka prepared to use [Triple Strike] as the second arm emerged, followed by a helm. A chill traced down Moka’s spine as she saw the antlers attached to the helm, like the ghost of a memory whispering warnings in her soul.

Carwen’s laughter bounced off the walls of the alleyway, the sound lengthening and distorting until it sounded like screeching metal in Moka’s ears. The armored figure clawed its way up from the spell-circle embedded in the ground, rising unnaturally tall and thin, with long arms that hung down near its knees. A cloud of embers hung over it like a cloak as it loomed in place, clawed fingers twitching. With a sudden jolt, it moved, dropping to one knee in front of Carwen, the embers turning to ash and dispersing in the icy wind. Horned helm bowed low, its voice came out in a sing-song cadence, contradicting its deep, rasping tone.

“Mistress, I come to serve. Guide me, and I will not fail you until my heart beats its last.”

Moka stared wide-eyed at Carwen, her palms slick on the haft of her staff. The elf’s cackling had faded to a wild-eyed grin. She shot Moka a narrow-eyed look, her chin tilting up. Glancing back at the kneeling figure, she spoke, clearly meaning her words for them both.

“You have come in a time of great need, my servant. I have bound myself to the god Azarus and his champion. In his wisdom, he has granted me you, to be my aid, where others falter and fail.”

Deep in her chest, Moka felt a rumbling, fighting to get out. It leaked through her lips, coming out as a growl. She shot daggers at Carwen with her eyes. If she had a little more patience, Moka would have cleared up everything. To invoke Azarus and imply she was failing was a step too far.

Carwen met Moka’s eyes. Her sunset eyes were gone, but now her green, gold, and gray eyes burned with visible luster. She raised her hand like a sword, her words echoing with hidden power. With a dismissive turn of her body, she gave the kneeling figure her full attention.

“Through fire, unquenchable by blood, I call you to my service. What say you?”

At her feet, the figure let out a low hiss, its antlers trembling. Several paces away, Moka readjusted her grip for the umpteenth time, preparing to skewer Carwen’s pawn at the slightest misstep. A cold wind blew through the alley, carrying distant cries and promises of what was to come.