“It took you a while,” the woman muttered. “Honestly, with how highly he spoke of you, I thought you’d be faster.”

“You didn’t exactly make it easy,” Octavia answered with venom.

“Octavia, do you know this person?” Madrigal whispered, tapping her shoulder.

She nodded. At no point did she relax her grip on Stradivaria, nor did she tear her eyes from the woman before her. “We’ve met once. At least, in person. We’ve…met once, but I’ve seen her more than that.”

Portia raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re referring to. He always made you sound strange. I suppose your world is nothing if not so.”

“You don’t know the first thing about ‘my world’,” Octavia hissed.

Portia only glared. “I know more than I wish I did. Believe me, he was borderline obsessed. If he would’ve just kept his hands to himself, his passion would’ve burned bright for far longer. It was that sparkling curiosity that did him in. Even so, you’re not immune to the same, are you?”

Steady breathing was beyond Octavia. “This isn’t ‘curiosity’. None of it is or was. This is because you people keep hurting everyone I care about. Believe me, I want nothing to do with you just as much as you want nothing to do with me.”

Portia chuckled, an empty gesture devoid of joy. “You surrendered that privilege the moment you took his life. In truth, you surrendered that privilege the moment you first touched that violin.”

The mention of Stradivaria alone was enough to stain her knuckles white. “He lost the chance to stay out of it the minute he picked a fight with my sister.”

For the briefest moment, Portia’s eyes widened. Eventually, Octavia caught the faintest flicker of a smirk. “If there was one person he spoke of more than you, it was Priscilla. I still don’t know what he saw in her. With condolences, it was her terrible luck that their paths crossed in the first place. Had fate steered her another direction, and had their dreaming eyes never met, perhaps they’d both be here today. You and I, as we are now, would not. As it is, though, what happened has happened. That can’t be changed.”

Octavia gritted her teeth. “I don’t disagree with you. It doesn’t change what he did to her.”

Portia tilted her head backwards, coming to rest against the wall with a sigh. “You may paint him as a murderer all you’d like. Even so, he truly was a great man. We may not always have seen eye to eye, but I still believe he didn’t wish to do the things he did.”

“Liar!” Octavia snapped.

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night,” she responded calmly. “I can’t make you think otherwise.”

“Do you agree with what he believed in, then?” Octavia asked, unable to resist the newborn wobble that poisoned her words.

“In truth, I don’t care. My ideals are not his own. It’s as I’ve said. We didn’t always see eye to eye.”

“Then why are you doing all of this?”

“All of what?”

“Everything!” Octavia cried. “Hurting my friends! Hurting me!”

Portia’s smirk was no longer subtle. “A bold accusation. How do you figure?”

Octavia chose every word carefully. “The letters I got, the one with Priscilla’s pictures. Of everything that happened, everything, I know that had to do with you people. You’re the only ones who would…try to use that against me. If Drey was the last person to see her, then he was the last person who could’ve had that picture.”

Portia blinked slowly. “Letters? More than one?”

“I don’t know how much of what else happened was you guys, either, but at the very least, I’m sure of that part.”

“He did say you were smart,” she murmured. “And if I confess?”

“Then I want to know why!” Octavia snapped. “You said you don’t agree with his ideals!”

Portia shook her head. “I don’t agree. I don’t agree, but I agreed to stand at his back. I agreed to witness his sins, heavy as they were. I have no intent to finish what he started, but I can do him the parting honor of tying up the loose ends he left so carelessly frayed.”

The venom in her eyes seeped into Octavia’s blood. “All six of them.”

Octavia braced against the floor. This was rapidly heading nowhere positive. She should’ve known better. For where she was standing, most of her already did. “I won’t let you,” she growled.

“I assure you, this is not a personal slight. I remind you that this is a consequence of your own decisions, for whatever that entails. Had you not taken the path that you did, this wouldn't be happening. This is your fault.”

Octavia’s shoulders rose and fell faster, ire slowly surging in place of adrenaline she’d welcomed moments ago. “You’re not--”

“Octavia didn’t do anything wrong!”

The sudden spirit of wind that stepped forward was jarring, unwavering confidence offered to a sickening stranger. Personal or not, tainted by the touch of SIAR or otherwise, Madrigal didn’t falter. “Nothing is her fault! The only person at fault is you! You, and anyone who hurts the people we care about!”

Portia’s harsh eyes wandered to another Maestra entirely. “You’re the one from Minuevera, correct? I don’t believe I remember your name. I suppose I should offer my apologies for that.”

Madrigal scowled. “My name is Madrigal, silent protector and liberator of the darkness. I won’t let you lay one hand on Octavia, or any of my friends--no matter what it takes to stop you!”

Her bold and steadfast words were lost on Portia. For the Ambassador, they were everything. They were enough to temper racing thoughts and still trembling hands. To drag Madrigal to Hell alongside her was a Hell in and of itself. It was a sweet Hell all the same, for how she didn’t stand alone. Cold on every side, Octavia was warm from within. Versus last time, it was different.

“Know that he would’ve given you the choice to walk away. That’s where we differ, I suppose. He would’ve left that door open. I won’t,” Portia spat.

Octavia met Madrigal parallel, two Maestras left side-by-side. Where Stradivaria touched her shoulder, Lyra’s Repose rose into steady arms. Their tension matched, radiant both outward and upon every string. Portia wasn’t Drey. Two Maestras were more than one Maestra. It was lopsided. To underestimate Drey’s confidants was an incredibly foolish choice, and of that, Octavia was well aware. Still, she carried the upper hand. It was possible. Breathing was working, and already-taut fingers stiffened ever further around the bow.

“Know that he would’ve been content to steal only what lets you fight,” Portia continued, her voice low. “I won’t.”

“We can do this,” Madrigal whispered, echoing Octavia’s thoughts aloud. “We’ll win this together. Don’t give up.”

Octavia nodded, her eyes locked onto Portia’s every movement as the woman parted from the wall at her back. It took until well after she’d leaned forward for Octavia to notice the slits. There was the briefest, faintest instant in which she chalked it up to fashion. The skillful stance that the severed skirt allowed spoke to anything but. Hands once casually at rest behind her fell limply in time with weighted arms, palms still obscured in the shadows. So, too, did the shadow upon Portia’s face cut just as deep.

“Know that he would’ve been sorry.”

And the hands that rose to greet her were more than filled with violence.

“I won’t.”

Portia squeezed the triggers in tandem, her true aim enough to send Octavia diving to the floor. Madrigal yelped, emulating the same as the whistle of bullets overhead matched the boom that followed. They were wide open, made vulnerable by the heart of the armory. It was by sheer luck that Portia’s second, third, and fourth round of shots missed, compromised by two Maestras splitting their flights. Octavia dashed left. Madrigal dashed right.

It was all Octavia could do to dive behind a stray crate, scrambling for what wooden safety she could find. Counting shots was a nightmare, every all-too-close boom leaving her heart threatening to burst in turn. If she took the extreme gamble of peering, she could just barely catch the woman’s onslaught.

Portia’s hands moved independently of one another, her firm and skilled grip on either firearm offering full control over both in tandem. Dual barrels left holes punched in two crates simultaneously, accurately blasting makeshift shelters born of both left and right. Portia’s precision with either hand was horrifying. If she was ambidextrous, Octavia had a new crisis altogether.

“Hiding isn’t going to do you much good,” Portia called calmly, never easing her assault.

Even with Stradivaria hoisted into position once more, shunning her faltering barrier was a risk. Right now, compromised or otherwise, Octavia could cling to a semblance of safety. Should she offer up her light at the moment, she'd be firing into the dark as she unleashed her brilliance. The worst case scenario left a fleeing Madrigal caught in the crossfire, should her own shelter collapse in turn. Her radiant arsenal was an option, pulsing suns and scathing stars settling into her patient solar system. It would leave her straddling two types of focus altogether. Octavia gritted her teeth.

Her eyes darted to Madrigal, parallel to her by a longshot. Behind the safety of another box, the Spirited girl was patient and still. Her eyes were closed, her lips moving silently in time with each resounding burst. Even as the crate at her back jostled beneath the slightest recoil, she never ceased her voiceless repetitions.

When the blasts ceased, she leapt to her feet. Her fingers flew across Lyra’s Repose as she broke into a heated sprint. Born of an armory in place of a corridor, her stormy song exploded. She dashed without hesitation, speedily-woven winds gusting against her back. She was a magnet to Octavia alone, gripping Lyra’s body with astounding force.

Portia was far less distressed over two emptied firearms than Octavia had expected, defenseless as she’d come to be. With an expression utterly neutral, the woman’s eyes trailed a sliding Maestra as Madrigal scrambled behind the cover of a familiar crate. She nearly crashed into Octavia in the process, panting softly.

This was the best Octavia was going to get. From behind her narrow cover, she raised her head above the rim of the box. She readied the bow, her fingers twitching in anticipation of the burn that would seize them shortly.

Portia’s hands relaxed, sending two pistols clattering noisily to the marble below. It was as simple as reaching backwards, clasping yet more at her back. The rack behind her offered differences, granted--new materials, new hues, and new structures that spoke to another age. It didn’t matter. A gun was a gun, and two of them besieged the Maestras yet again.

It was Octavia’s fault for not noticing the rack in the first place, let alone Portia’s positioning. Some came laced with fresh bullets, apparently, and that was infinitely more alarming. So few scattered about the armory were alike in style, if she cared to survey. Exploiting mechanical weaknesses was beyond her, light or not. Octavia knew absolutely nothing about firearms in any capacity. At the very least, Drey’s proficiency was predictable. Slashing steel made sense. This was an entirely new problem.

“I think some of them are already loaded!” she cried to Madrigal, raising her voice above the rhythmic burst of every bullet.

It was unfortunate that Madrigal had opted to come to her rather than vice versa. Her place of safety was rapidly faltering, the weakened wooden shield helpless to absorb an onslaught of shells. “How many?”

Octavia shook her head frantically. “I don’t know!”

“What do we do?”

Peeking out from the left was a mistake. A bullet that grazed far too close to one braid drew a yelp she couldn’t contain. “We have to get her away from the wall!”

“How? If we move, we’re gonna get hit!”

Octavia closed her eyes for a moment. “You can hear when she runs out of bullets, right?”

Madrigal nodded.

“The minute you hear it again, hit her with as much wind as you’ve got. Steer her away from it, and I’ll get her from there.”

“Right,” she answered.

Already, they were six shots weaker, corners of the crate slowly crumbling to the floor below. Time was crumbling away in turn. It didn’t stop Madrigal from closing her eyes again, steady breathing and quiet counting accompanied by delicate placement of her fingers upon Lyra’s strings. Octavia held her breath, lest her panicked gasps impede Madrigal’s hearing. It wasn’t necessary. This time, she heard it, too.

“Now!” Octavia cried.

The moment the explosions halted, Madrigal leapt to her feet once more, Lyra’s Repose singing under her swift movements. The same fierce gale she’d woven before roared to life beneath her yet again. It was with a cry of effort that she forced it to twist with abandon, a tempest born of melodic urgency. The spiraling storm that rippled around her ankles climbed high, nearly level with her chest before bursting forth in full. Portia wasn’t the only one who could aim.

The fearsome wind carved a straight path clear across the room to her current position. It was relentless, the streaming winds fixated somewhere between Portia and the rack of firearms painting the expanse of gray. Just as before, Portia and her emptied weapons were momentarily helpless. The woman once more opted to toss her guns gracelessly to the marble.

The idea worked. That was a good thing. There was little Portia could do but dodge, the spiraling gale crashing down upon where she’d stood moments before. It wasn’t a direct hit. Still, it was more than enough to separate her from the rack she’d stuck so closely to.

Portia had dodged with startling speed. That was a bad thing. It was true that she was notably taller and notably older than Octavia. It didn’t change the fact that her speed put the Maestra’s to shame. Every dangerous clack of her heels against the floor was accented by her lithe body low to the same as she ran. She was faster than Octavia. She was faster than Harper, even.

She’d mastered that speed, apparently. That was a horrible thing. Portia practically rolled against the cold marble as she dove behind a free-standing shelf. She had her pick, given how many crowded the armory. When she arose once more, her hands were filled with guns, and her guns were filled with bullets.

They were all loaded--every single one.

Madrigal was wide open.

With rushing winds still readied, Octavia could only bear witness to fear traded for action. The storm that Madrigal breathed life to anew was personalized, a ruthless vortex that swirled briskly as it kissed the floor. So fast did it spin that it was outright loud, speaking to a volume that challenged the bang of every opposing bullet. Octavia initially fought the urge to scream on the girl’s behalf, staring down Portia’s shots as she was.

To her surprise and relief alike, the true aim of every bullet was shamed by a clinging spirit of wind. Rotating ever faster, their velocity was captured rather than stalled, hastened and augmented in their violent flight. Madrigal was a sponge, safe in her gusting shield as bullet after bullet sank into Lyra’s grasp. Not one shell made it through, orbiting her like the worst of planets.

Her fingers were ruthless, her ballad endless as she gritted her teeth. She braced, practically strangling the strings in one tight palm as her storm pulsed. The sudden burst was enough to nearly throw Octavia to the floor, hiding place or not. She watched in awe as every kidnapped bullet rode the explosive stream forwards. Sailing forth with nearly equal ferocity to which they’d come, roughly thirty shells descended on Portia’s position at once. A hail of violence surged without remorse, sneaking between every crevice of the shelf she called a shield.

Portia was unfazed. Again, she dodged with terrifying aplomb. She rolled and arose once more into a dead sprint that was now all but confirmed to outdo Octavia’s. Like Madrigal, Portia’s fingers were never content to still. She squeezed the triggers of either gun in unison time after time, mid-dash or otherwise.

Just as had been the case twice over, the click click click that accompanied the inevitable jam of her weapons was followed by a hasty discard. Already, her hands were delving between the cracks of yet another shelf. The two she drew forth were larger and heftier. It didn’t impede her movement in the slightest, thicker blasts be damned.

“She might be stronger than Drey!” Octavia cried to Madrigal.

“Is she younger?” the Maestra called above her swirling winds.

“I’m guessing! She’s faster than me! I don’t think I can outrun her if she gets in close!”

Given where they stood, Madrigal’s smile turned the world upside-down. “If it makes you feel better, neither can I! Don’t give up! Let’s figure this out together!”

Madrigal was just as much a magnet for hope as she was for bullets. It was beautiful, and Octavia’s heart skipped a beat.

She gasped for courage she couldn’t find, swallowing fear in its place and leaping to her feet in turn. Even now, Portia was upon Madrigal alone, thick shells spearing into the gusting barricade time and time again. Stradivaria collided with her shoulder. She wouldn’t shirk the opportunity twice.

I need you to make this quick!

I will oblige as I can.

Octavia couldn’t earn the scorching wrath that seized her arms as fast as she would’ve liked. Still, the familiar bubbling heat in her fingertips came soon enough. Swift slashes of the bow left light in her hands, her beloved rays aligned and pulsing of their own accord. So close to her face and vividly luminescent, every sizzle fell nestled beneath patient chords as they lie in wait. If nothing else, they weren’t left to wait long.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

When Madrigal’s raging storm pulsed once more, stolen violence hailing down upon Portia, it left her dodging yet again. It was all Octavia needed. With the woman’s body scraping the marble, her skirt catching the jagged tips of fallen blades, light became a counter. Searing warmth surged, and Octavia fought bullets with arrows.

The six that buffeted Portia, to her incredible dismay, were equally dodged in turn. Still, they were unexpected in their own right, for how Portia had been left to evade her returned assault already. She stumbled somewhat in the process of fleeing. When she regained her footing, her heels uneven against the marble, her eyes were narrow. Guns or not, she wasn’t perfect. It was something to work with.

Regardless, It still wasn’t enough to disarm her. That much hardly mattered, given the same click click click that followed seconds later. With a glare oozing irritation, she flung her wrists downwards. Once more, her skillful sprint left her on a collision course with a high-rising rack not so distant.

“Get behind me!” Madrigal cried.

Octavia didn’t object, dashing towards the protection of Madrigal’s spiraling tempest as wind roared through her ears. She barely made it, another useless slew of bullets descending upon the storm. From here, at least, she had leeway. She raised Stradivaria once more, her light still freely pulsing and well prepared.

“Be careful,” Madrigal called. “If all the guns are loaded, hitting them with your light might set them off!”

“What?” Octavia called back.

Madrigal winced. “What if they explode? Your light is really hot!”

It was a mildly terrifying thought. A spirit of wind offered the perfect legacy with which to wage war in a room full of potential explosives. Versus a heart of light, one gun would be fine. Several guns would be fine, maybe. Several guns hardly constituted an armory, and every firearm Octavia could possibly conceive of was well within her line of sight. A chain reaction was exceedingly possible, and her poor knowledge of the weaponry didn’t help. It spoke to nothing of historical value, flammable materials nestled mysteriously within any given barrel. She’d be threading a needle. She was already horrified. Somehow, it was getting worse.

“I don’t know how to approach this!” Octavia admitted. “I can’t hit her unless she gets in closer, then! She fights from a lot further away than Drey did, and I’m not usually…limited this much!”

“Why does she have so many guns?” Madrigal whimpered.

It was Octavia’s turn to wince as she shouted above the storm. “I can think of a few reasons!”

“This, too, is an homage. It’s a sign of respect for him,” Portia clarified, hardly exerted as she answered their cries from afar. “In mastering each blade of the past and present, he turned himself into a living work of art. At least, that’s what he enjoyed being called. It was a lofty goal. He got close enough, in the end. Consider this my compliment to his drive. To be fair, it’s a lot easier.”

She glared at them. “Maybe if you children weren’t so busy messing with things you don’t understand, you could put down weapons not meant for this world and take up those that are.”

“No, you don’t understand!” Madrigal cried, her own eyes flashing with dangerous anger. “You’ll never understand what we have, and you’ll never take that away from us! I swear on it!”

“Play hero all you want, little girl, but at the end of the day, you’re not fooling anyone. You’re not the saint you make yourself out to be.”

“I am a hero,” Madrigal growled. “No matter what powers I have, and no matter what I have to do, I’ll always be a heroine! One way or another, I’m gonna take you down!”

“Octavia!” she called suddenly, her gaze cast over her shoulder to the Heartful Maestra. “If I get in close, will it be easier for you to hit her?”

The fire in Madrigal’s eyes was almost startling, sudden as it came. Still, Octavia nodded. The ribbons of radiance swirling adjacently warmed her neck in passing as she played. “Yeah, but how do you plan to do that? There’s guns all over the room! She can still shoot you no matter where you go!”

Madrigal shook her head. “Promise that you trust me, okay?”

“What are you…gonna do?”

Even now, even here, Madrigal again brought sunshine to the darkest place. For Octavia and Octavia alone, she broke into a warm smile, bullets raining down upon her. “The Magical Madrigal won’t let you down, Ambassador! All you have to do is trust me!”

Without words, Octavia nodded once more. The resolution she fought to offer with her eyes was the best she could do to counter Madrigal’s brilliant smile. She wasn’t sure she could muster the same.

“I’ll draw her attention! You stay here and do whatever you need to do, okay?”

“O-Okay!”

“We've got this! Ready?”

She adjusted her cheek against Stradivaria, tightening her grip on the bow. “Ready!”

Madrigal inhaled sharply, closing her eyes. Her fingers never stilled, her whirling song ceaseless as it swallowed bullet after bullet.

“Let’s do it! Take my hands!”

For you and you alone.

Madrigal's song changed. Her notes hastened. They sharpened, crystal honed into something more fierce and yet indescribable all the same. Harsh winds were ruthless in a way that betrayed the softness of her heart. Even from behind, protected from harm, the manner by which they whipped against Octavia’s bare skin stung. She winced as she channeled her light, much to her dismay. A beautiful melody had been suddenly tinged with poison, a venom that spoke to ire. In a way, it was almost familiar. Octavia didn’t particularly enjoy it. It took until Madrigal opened her eyes to figure out why.

Octavia had seen that expression so many times over, in far too many unsettling moments. She’d seen those eyes, kidnapped of bubbling light behind a gaze that usually fixed her with love. Instead, happiness pooled with razors. They had once lifted her high and beaten her senseless in a moment of lovestruck rage. They were no longer Madrigal’s to lay claim to. Octavia’s own eyes widened in turn, and a spirit of wind lunged.

Her song was immortal, her fingers moving ever faster until Octavia could swear they were a blur against the strings. Every pluck screamed, every crystalline note resonant and lingering in the open air as she pulled her vortex along with her. Her sudden vulnerability left Octavia panicking, initially. Her rushing shield was gone in an instant, and she stood wide open. There was little to fear for. Portia’s focus was on Madrigal alone, the Spirited Maestra claiming her focus by force as she charged forth. There was no terror to be found where the Apex had claimed her determined spirit once more.

Portia was just as shaken, seemingly, dashing out of Madrigal’s range as quickly as her body would allow. Were it Madrigal, and were their speeds mortally weighed, there would’ve been no contest. As it were, she was hard-pressed to outrun Lyra.

Fresh firearms in hand, she brandished them without hesitation. Her sudden change of course as she moved about the armory did nothing to impact her arsenal. Portia was surely learning the fury of the Spirited, for how the consequences of her violence still hammered her again and again. Still, she fired, her targets varying with each shot. Even managing the crisis that was evading Madrigal’s reach, Portia’s aim fell to every part of the Maestra.

She fired at hands, feet, arms, and the girl’s skull, all without success. It left only her own shells devoured by the unforgiving gales of Lyra’s Repose. Should the gathered bullets burst once more at such a range, it would perhaps deal the killing blow. Octavia crossed her metaphorical fingers.

Absorbing straying shots mandated little but an endless harmony, and Madrigal was left to play. Bullets merging with her orbit were expected and natural, her armed vortex eternal. Pursuing and clinging wasn’t enough, and the Maestra doubled down upon Portia. With notes equally vicious, stray streams of serrated gales assailed the woman at sickening speeds. At least one bit into her ankle, prompting her to grit her teeth as she broke into a desperate roll.

Successful or not, vulnerability was veiled by gunfire. Portia’s stamina was concerning. Madrigal’s would’ve been, had it not been for the Apex guiding her hands. Octavia’s hands were guided by another song entirely.

The Spirited storm had driven Portia into the open, divorced from caches once so near to ruthless hands. Opportunity came with radiance. Octavia stole the strength of the sun, arching the bow and slashing in desperation. Every movement of her wrist sent brilliance sailing forth, their path to the woman clear.

Twofold and scathing as ever, the crisp sizzle of her rays as they speared through the open air was as satisfying as it was successful. One smashed into Portia’s foot, bursting as it dug hard into the leather of her heel. The woman grunted in pain, stumbling yet again. The second sizzling ray missed, and yet it was a victory all the same. Octavia didn’t let up, cocking her luminous arrows once more.

Portia growled. Octavia had lost track of how many times the woman’s slender hands had clasped at firearms, and yet she repeated the same cycle evermore. No matter where she ran, the armory blessed her. Each weapon was still diverse, varying in shape, size, and the weight of every remorseless shell. She’d prepared for this, and extensively so. It was how Octavia was learning her to be.

Her stamina, too, was apparently bottomless. Where Octavia had once found terror in a war of attrition, Drey’s strength paled in comparison. Portia was versed in combat, somehow, despite the gruesome toll of a conservator that had led the Ambassador to believe anything but. The firearms fixation was new enough, if Portia’s own words were to be believed. She learned fast. Octavia shuddered.

It was a cycle. Light gave chase, and Portia dodged in turn. She failed, on occasion, and brilliance clipped her hurrying silhouette. Madrigal pressed, swirling wind and spared gales pushing the woman ever closer towards wrathful radiance. Sometimes, she was just as violent. It wasn’t often. Guns would click, clatter and surrender to fresh ferocity amongst shimmering iron and glass shelter. Knives, polearms, and swords served to conceal, buried as each firearm was in their midst.

A Muse would never tire, surely. Still, Madrigal was mortal. If she squinted, she could capture Madrigal’s bleeding fingertips, skin snagging along rugged copper and chafing further as her endless song cried out. Blessed by Lyra’s love or otherwise, she was running dangerously thin.

Radiance had to hit eventually. Octavia steadied her hands, hunting for what chance she could find with frantic eyes. Portia’s rapid lunge towards a glistening rack left her hands empty and her attention elsewhere. It was enough. Again was her brilliance stretched into the finest of arrows, leveled with the woman from afar. Blinding starlight pulsed through her fingertips and burst through her skin as she freed it with every slash.

Her aim was nearly true, and she cursed the way Portia found the slightest shelter behind sturdy storage. Octavia was all but certain she’d at least grazed the top of the woman’s head, if nothing else. She gritted her teeth. When Portia would stand, she knew what would follow. It was all she could do to wait, a helpless victim of an eternal spiral.

And yet, when the woman rose, she came with empty hands. Slender fingers made for the rack regardless. They settled around one glistening polearm, pulling the weapon loose with mild force. Octavia froze. That was new.

Portia shirked her preciously-guarded distance from the Spirited girl, dashing in full towards Madrigal. Aided by the Apex as she was, she didn’t so much as flinch. Bullets dripped pitifully to the marble below as her swirling shield was rendered useless. It was Madrigal who was forced to dodge, Portia advancing in turn with ruthless swings of unforgiving steel. She wasn't even slightly as proficient as Drey. It hardly mattered. What she possessed was deadly enough.

Madrigal’s gales were razor-edged even now, slashing viciously at Portia’s face on every brutal approach. Still, the pain was far from a deterrent. Clean wounds cutting into bare skin weren't nearly enough to impede Portia’s assault. Lyra could send her sailing, given the chance. Madrigal never got one, given the way her hands succumbed to such a precise assault.

Stradivaria could do so little up close. The urge to try regardless was agonizing to ignore. Ultimately, Octavia had been the one to offer Madrigal her unwavering trust. Once more, she aimed with care, each crafted sunbeam bulkier and brighter still. She had leeway, and leeway came with an armory of her own. Her light pooled, streaming in excess around her shoulders with the brilliant elegance of her own tiny solar system. Her warmth was safe, her song powerful. It was all she could do to avoid hitting Madrigal.

Portia swiftly twisted the polearm sideways. The collision born between the shaft and Madrigal’s hand prompted a sickening crack that Octavia heard well across the room. Madrigal cried out in pain, still gripping Lyra’s Repose for dear life. Portia drove the blunt end of the weapon hard into her stomach, and Madrigal coughed as she stumbled in reverse. Her stormy melody was steadily weakening, even as she birthed yet more flickering winds.

Portia’s heels scraped hard against the marble as she lunged. She nearly leapt, coming down hard over Madrigal’s head with the cold iron of the polearm’s shaft. Madrigal cried out yet again, stumbling twice over with groans of pain in her wake. Eyes squeezed shut, she played even now, desperately fumbling along the strings for whirling winds once so safe.

“Madrigal!” Octavia shouted.

“I won’t…give up!” Madrigal called back, her voice painfully strained as she played.

The bursting radiance that followed speared between Madrigal and Portia instead, severing the closed distance between them. Portia recoiled as luminous beams crashed down at her feet, scattering into scorching debris. With both hands, she heaved the polearm onto her shoulder, launching it forth at Madrigal. It didn’t hit, and yet the effort was more than enough to force the Maestra into a dizzy dodge. Again, she staggered. With Portia's hands freed at last, Octavia panicked, frantically settling taut starlight into place.

She couldn’t see Portia. She could hear rustling and the clinking of metal that came with it. That was good enough for her. Octavia tensed, embracing her residual warmth as always. She let her radiance fly, spearing into the open as it hurtled towards Portia without regret. It was all she could do to go for the woman’s last position. When her scathing rays collided with the distant marble, she couldn’t tell if she’d missed or not.

Portia rose to her feet once more, and the firearms in either hand were again hefty and elongated. Gaping barrels spoke to sizable shells and raw, explosive power. Octavia was no expert. Still, she’d learned far more about firearms today than she ever would’ve preferred to. It was more of a guess. Under no circumstances was she proud of being correct. She found her confirmation of heavy prowess in the form of Portia’s glare. A remorseless squeeze around a singular trigger was enough for a bullet to careen straight towards her head. Her heart stopped.

It was a miracle that she’d shifted her shoulders in time, Stradivaria taking the full blow as she staggered. It wasn’t enough for Portia, and the violin absorbed her blasting assault twice over. The second time, Octavia’s loose grip and trembling hands were a curse. Stradivaria was launched mercilessly from her careful grasp, clattering to the marble below. A gasp wouldn’t save her, nor would the urge to cry out. It was all she could do to meet Portia’s poisonous glare, fear pooling in her own as the barrel of a gun came level with her skull.

There came a thick bang, startling and distant. Octavia couldn’t focus.

The pitiful breeze that brushed Portia’s hair was as confusing as it was distressing. “Leave her alone!” Madrigal cried feebly.

Portia’s eyes flickered to Madrigal. Octavia saw it coming, and no amount of screaming would’ve helped. She lunged for Stradivaria, nearly tripping in the process. With her hand inches from the violin, she heard the bang before she saw it. Her head snapped upwards, never touching her partner in full. Madrigal cried out in agony.

Octavia’s terrified eyes found an unhurried Portia, her aim leisurely and patient. It had done her well, especially given the girl’s condition. With one sizable bullet lodged squarely in the back of her left hand, Madrigal’s screams were unbearable. The blast had been unkind to her, chunks of red exposed deep beyond the surface of her slender hand. It gushed almost instantly. Jagged flaps of frayed skin gave way to red that stained Lyra’s beautiful golds. Her fingers didn’t withstand the suffering for long, uncurling as her limp hand slumped to her side. Struggling beneath the weight of the harp, her other hand shook with the effort of clinging to her partner.

It hardly mattered. Portia aimed casually, eyes cast down at the girl’s last remaining bastion of song. She squeezed the trigger once more. Now, they matched.

Again came a distant bang, different in flavor from that which Portia had cruelly bestowed.

The twofold blow was over in the time it took Octavia to break into a sprint. There was nothing to do but forgo her partner in the face of Madrigal’s pain alone. The Maestra’s wailing was enough to shatter her heart into pieces, her agony a contagious torment unlike anything Octavia had ever heard. For all of the hurt and fear that had ever left the girl’s mouth, she’d never once witnessed something so horrific. Octavia couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see straight. This wasn’t happening.

“Madrigal!” she screamed, her throat raw beneath her desperate cry.

Portia didn’t need to close the gap. Her skill, from here, would suffice. The firearm she’d trained upon Octavia was lowered, unnecessary in the face of helplessness. A barrel rose to meet another Maestra altogether, and Octavia had long since been forgotten. Madrigal was bound to her knees, teeth gritted and breaths rapid. With tears slipping down her cheeks, she gazed up at Portia in horror.

Bang, once more, just the slightest bit closer. It lingered for a moment.

“Madrigal, Madrigal, Madrigal!” Octavia wailed.

She needed to go faster. She had to go faster. Faster. Faster.

“I respect your drive,” Portia said firmly. “If it were him, this would be enough. I’m not. It isn’t. You understand, right, hero?”

Bang, thrice over. Louder. It was enough to register. It was not, even slightly, enough to capture Octavia's attention in full.

Madrigal shook her head, turning away as the barrel came level with her eyes. “S-Someone will stop you! If not me, then…somebody! If this is what it takes, and if this is what I have to give to take you down, t-then so be it! You…you w-won’t get away with this!”

“Life is not a fairy tale.”

Faster. Faster. Faster. If there was a God, he would let her be faster.

“L-Leave my friends alone,” Madrigal sobbed. “Please. If you don’t, I’ll…I’ll…”

Portia’s gaze was blank, utterly empty. “You’ll what?”

“Please don’t kill me,” Madrigal whispered, her voice cracking. “I don’t wanna die yet.”

Not her.

Bang. It was loud. It was unignorable. Even Portia’s eyes flickered to the wall on her right, momentary as her attention was.

“Please, don’t!” Octavia screeched, one hand extended in a reach she couldn’t make. “Don’t hurt her! It’s me you want! Leave her alone, I’m begging you!”

“You’ll get your turn,” Portia said, not sparing Octavia so much as a glance. Her eyes were on Madrigal alone.

Not her. Not her. Not her. Anyone but her.

Bang.

“It doesn’t befit a heroine to beg for her life. If that’s really your ideal, then stick to it until you die. It’s the least you can do. Die like a hero, if you wish.”

Not her.

Bang.

“Madrigal!”

Bang.

“Octavia,” Madrigal wept softly, “I love you, okay? I love everyone. I love--”

But the bang that followed was that of a gun. The bang that stung Octavia’s ears was unmistakable. The bang that cried out was born of a bullet, ripped without remorse by a woman with none of the same. The bang that poisoned the air would haunt Octavia for the rest of her life.

Madrigal fell.

So did Portia.

And herself, even.

As to which bang was which, Octavia could just barely tell. Her world went sideways, and she tumbled again and again as she crashed hard to the marble below. The explosion that erupted before her put those she’d escaped in the corridor to shame. The crumpled chunks of masonry and steel that smashed into the floor with harsh bang sounds of their own made her recoil.

Some of them landed far too close for comfort, and she winced. Disoriented as she was, she had no chance to scream, just barely finding time to cover her head. The debris the blast had kicked up was unfathomable. Disturbingly-thick particles of mixed marble and dust obscured her vision in full for at least fifteen seconds.

She didn’t need to cough. Still, it took rapid blinking to keep her watery eyes open. Octavia's desperate attempts to reduce the distance between herself and Madrigal had been useless. She’d found herself nearly right back where she’d started--bruised and damaged in turn. Madrigal was on her back, spared of the trained aim of a firearm.

Her tormentor had fared poorly, hurtled far in reverse from the Maestra she’d wounded. Portia groaned in pain, reeling from a collision with one of the many shelves she’d drawn weapons from. It was a miracle it was still standing at all, and it was an equal miracle that it hadn’t fallen on the woman.

Three combatants were bound to marble, crumpled and uncrumpled alike. Octavia initially believed she was hallucinating the footsteps. Her head throbbed, and she was positive she’d smashed it against the floor during her fall. Still, they grew louder. Louder. Louder, still.

They tenderly graced the floor as they moved, and they came to a halt before two battered Maestras. When Octavia's blurred eyes trailed upwards, everything attached to those footsteps was shaking. Every inch of the visage that greeted her was trembling. The gaze she stole the briefest sight of was loaded with nothing but fear and fire. Narrowed as they were, the ragged, hitched breaths weren't subtle. The hands shook violently, more than anything else. The longer she waited, and the longer she held her own breath, the worse the trembling became. Still, they didn’t budge.

Portia had managed to push herself to her feet, shaking in her own right in the wake of the blast. Metal had broken her reversing velocity, and in no way had it been kind to her body. It showed, and she staggered. It didn’t stop her from reaching behind into the same, fumbling blindly for ever more precious violence that lay scattered in every direction.

She got her wish. Octavia knew what was to come, for how she’d grown so used to the pattern. For once, Portia didn’t fire immediately, raising her weapons aloft before her as she steadied her aim. The figure in her sights didn’t flinch. They only trembled yet more.

“You’re…here,” Octavia breathed, her voice hoarse from screaming.

Low and husky, laced with terror and coolness all at once, another voice entirely trembled in equal measure. “I really, really don’t want to be.”

“So, then…why?” she murmured.

There came a deep exhale. “Because I’ll die before I let somebody hurt you.”

Octavia's eyes widened, and she could feel her own shimmer.

Portia tilted her head, her voice calm and firm. “Who the hell are you, exactly?”

There was no stemming the fear that oozed out of every pore. It was all-consuming, visible to anyone who would dare to look. Every last ounce of body language spoke to a scream. It spoke to a plea to run, and a plea to hide. Every hollow breath hunted for what little courage touched the air, fleeting and tiny as it would be. Even now, the shaking was eternal. It was endless, so fierce that Octavia worried the boy before her might shatter like glass.

And still, he found the strength to open his mouth, bite back the waver in his voice, and fix her with what fiery resolve had settled into his eyes.

“I’m Renato Bell, and I am the greatest damn Maestro you’ll ever meet.”