Morag’s fist flew toward Oz. He threw his hands up, desperate, though he knew it would do no good.

Ptang!

Oz frowned. Metal? He looked up.

A slender silver dagger blocked Morag’s fist, thrumming from the force of the blow, its two short, outward-pointed crossguards almost making it appear as a tuning fork. A man in all black held it tight, a single strand of silver flowing through his long, dark hair.

Elder Silverfang! Fflyn cheered.

“What do you think you’re trying to do to my disciple?” Elder Silverfang asked, voice as placid as though he’d asked her how she’d like her tea.

“Get out of my way!” Morag growled. She reached to her shoulder and grasped. A sword formed from the air itself and swept at Elder Silverfang.

Completely unphased, Elder Silverfang swept his dagger up and caught the blow between the blade and the crossguard. With a vicious twist, he snapped the constructed sword’s blade. No longer bound, the qi flowed out like blood, and the air sword dissipated in a matter of seconds. “I don’t think I shall, no.”

Underneath them, a guttural growl sounded. A blackened hand grabbed the canvas and tore its way through. The pole shattered below Oz. He jumped off the wolf’s tail as the whole thing came crashing down, landing on the canvas as it mushroomed to the floor, deflating like a balloon.

Naomhan loomed over them. Eyes all white, his jaw slack, the pole still stuck through his shoulder and emerging from his lower back, he staggered toward them. His steps trembled, uncertain. Not a single bit of humanity remained about him, nothing more than an oversized undead.

“Oh? How interesting,” Elder Silverfang commented, flipping his blades about in his hands.

“Even you can’t hold a candle to our Patriarch.” Morag laughed, throwing her hand back toward him.

“I can’t, no,” Elder Silverfang stated, unconcerned. “But that thing is nothing but an oversized monster.”

A thump to the left. Oz turned. Sachairi landed beside Aisling, quickly drawing her into his arms like a small child. Concern flickered over his face as he searched her for injuries, quickly chased by relief. As quickly as he’d picked her up, he set her back down, but he hovered over her, watching, almost like a mother goose.

Oz snapped his fingers, dismissing the glamour. “Sachairi!”

Elder Silverfang turned. “The injured should stay off the battlefield.”

Sachairi snorted. His eyes flickered to Oz. He frowned for just a moment, but understanding glimmered in the depths of his dying-ash eyes the next. He waved his hand, dismissing both Elder Silverfang and Oz. “I’m on no battlefield. I’m merely here to collect my disciple. As long as no one attacks her, I have no quarrel with any of you. Have at it, you lot.”

Morag gritted her teeth. “Don’t make a fool of me! Attack, Naomhan!”

Naomhan lifted his hand over all of them. Both Sachairi and Elder Silverfang watched it fall, completely unconcerned.

Oz tensed. Hey! Even if you guys are fine getting hit, me and Aisling aren’t! I get the Black Blades not caring, but Sachairi, you looked so worried about Aisling moments ago!

A bolt of light shot from the sky, obliterating Naomhan’s hand. The next one landed on his body, and he burned away, screaming and battering his oversized self.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“What? No!” Morag shouted, startled.

All around them, light beams struck the pools, boiling the liquid within away and charring the undead to nothing in the same breath.

“It’s always breathtaking, isn’t it? Our Mages’ Quarter’s united sect weaponry,” Sachairi commented.

“Did you come all the way here to enjoy the fireworks? Ah, I understand now. Even the elderly on the verge of death need entertainment,” Elder Silverfang returned, deadpan.

Oz looked at Sachairi, who ignored the comment, a bland smile on his face, then back to Elder Silverfang, who watched Morag, completely ignoring Sachairi. Do they get along, or hate one another? I can’t tell!

“Do you still hold a grudge?” Sachairi asked, looking evenly up at Elder Silverfang.

“You were my best sparring partner. I’ll never forgive you,” Elder Silverfang returned emotionlessly, a bit of a smile on his face at last.

Sachairi snorted. “You might as well blame this world for backing me into that corner in the first place.”

“Ah, that. I do. What an inane thing to destroy one of our most talented swordsmen over.”

Sachairi nodded. “I can’t help but agree.”

Morag’s face twisted. She charged toward Sachairi. “Ignoring me?”

A bolt of light shot down from the sky and enveloped Morag, locking her in place mid-charge. She struggled against it, her face twisting in disgust, but could do nothing.

Sachairi smiled at Morag. “Ignoring you? Quite, indeed. What do you say, Elder Silverfang? Do you think we’re all wrapped up here?”

“It’ll take some time to finish destroying the undead, but yes. I think we are,” Elder Silverfang returned.

Morag growled. “This isn’t everyone! You think you’ve caught the necromancer? I’m only a pawn! This—”

Her whole body twisted. Blackness enveloped her, even stronger than the light.

Both Sachairi and Elder Silverfang’s heads snapped up. Elder Silverfang grabbed Oz and jumped back, and Sachairi scooped up Aisling and retreated in the opposite direction.

The black light compressed. When it was gone, nothing but a twisted mess of flesh and shattered bone remained of Morag.

Elder Silverfang’s lip lifted. “Cleaning up after themselves? How thorough.”

“There’s more to this,” Sachairi agreed.

“Ah! That’s right. Someone’s possessing Baltair, and there’s someone even stronger than that—someone who could boss around Morag and the thing possessing Baltair, one-sidedly!” Oz piped up.

Elder Silverfang and Sachairi stared at him. After a moment, Elder Silverfang shook his head. “If that’s true, then we’re in trouble. A necromancer powerful enough to easily summon souls into living bodies, powerful enough to push around Morag…”

“It isn’t sounding good,” Sachairi agreed.

“Makes one wonder if this entire camp was nothing but a feint to draw out the sects’ united weapons. They can only be fired so often, after all,” Elder Silverfang mused.

“Let’s hope that’s not the case,” Sachairi murmured.

“I suppose only time will tell.” Elder Silverfang stepped back. “Fflyn, let’s return to the sect.”

“A…about that,” Oz stuttered.

“Fflyn, don’t you have a contract with the library?” Sachairi interjected.

“Right! Yes. Of course. I have to return to the library and inform them I’ve completed the commission,” Oz said, nodding.

“There you have it. I’ll take him back with me. I’m on good terms with the new librarian,” Sachairi offered gracefully.

Elder Silverfang squinted, then nodded, just once. “As you please.” With that, he threw one of his daggers into the air and leaped after it, landing on the sleder silver blade and soaring off into the sky.

Sachairi watched him go, then turned to Oz. He grinned. “So, do you owe me another one, Oz?”

“Er…maybe a little,” Oz muttered.

Sachairi laughed. “How honest. Come, let’s leave the cleanup to the sects. We’ll get you back to safety first.”

“Wait! I have a promise to uphold. I met a half-fey out here, and I told her she could live in my library,” Oz said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Loup!” Oz called.

A wolf stepped out from behind one of the nearby tents. She lifted her nose and approached, a ragged pack behind her. One of the other wolves limped a little, blood staining its flank.

Sachairi snorted. Looking over the pack, he shook his head, a small smile touching his lips. “I’m not sure I have enough room on my sword.”

Beside him, Aisling’s eyes flickered open. She squinted at him. “As if…you’d fly on it, anyways.”

Looking down, Sachairi chuckled. “You caught me! Good thing I brought a flying shuttle, with plenty of spirit stones to power it, too. We’ll all fit.”

“Good,” Oz said, relieved. He looked at the destruction raining down all around them, then nodded at Sachairi. “Let’s get going. Probably better not to linger here too long.”

“No, indeed not.” With a flick of his wrist, Sachairi summoned a strange metal vehicle, not unlike a carriage, though larger and far more decorated. He carried Aisling inside, careful to set her down as quickly as he could, then stood back for everyone else to board.

Once everyone had loaded in, the carriage took to the sky. Oz watched the camp diminish from the window, the smoking ruins of Naomhan’s body slowly smoldering.

This wasn’t the end. Morag wasn’t the necromancer.

Our problems have only just begun.