Somewhere in the back of his mind, beneath the clouds of dust wafting through dry, burning air, the mountains of splintered wood and stone rubble, beneath even the unholy hum that ran through the earth itself, Daivad knew that everything had gone to shit. He’d not only not succeeded in helping the kid, he’d also been seen by Z Vigore and the entire Luvathan Guard, turning an entire city against him. This little riot had become a war zone with Daivad and Kure right at its center.

Behind him, between here and the East Gate, the Guard was scrambling to construct a barricade to halt their steady, destructive progression toward the gate, no doubt hoping to slow them just enough that they could get a few meaningful shots in. The Guard had given up on trying to block off the side streets and alleys when it became clear that the battle between Inhumans had no interest in slipping away. Kure drove Daivad straight down the main street, relentlessly. And Daivad let him.

All of this Daivad knew. And he was having far too much fun to worry about any of it.

Kure Ubika was death by a thousand cuts, and none of them small. His very magic was jagged and hooked, so the initial strike was nothing compared to the damage it did when retracted. Daivad broke the earth beneath Kure’s sandaled feet, threw chunks of stone, sent his magic barreling right at Kure’s grinning face—and the Selachian sliced through all of them. His steps didn’t falter over upturned cobblestone, and he met Daivad’s strikes head on, even when they blew him back a dozen yards. He’d be back on his feet a heartbeat later, absolutely unrelenting. Forward, forward, forward.

That was fine. Daivad needed to get to the gate, and leave a path clear for Ben to follow so they could get out of this fucking city.

“Quit running, shitbag!” Kure snarled, sprinting at Daivad.

There was no way to tell what it was—if the Selachian’s small, black eyes darted a certain way, if there was a barely-perceptible shift in his weight or an adjustment of his gait—but Daivad knew Kure was going to jump before he’d even crouched. Kure flipped, up and over, and had just managed to snatch with one black claw at the tie that held back Daivad’s hair when Daivad’s magic hit him. The strike blew him sideways into a building, and his limp body hit it hard enough that the stone face of the building buckled.

By the time Daivad shook his hair out of his eyes, the Selachian was wobbling back to his feet. For the first time, Kure had to take a moment to steady himself, and Daivad took the opportunity to grab the high ground.

He ran for a building across from Kure and swung up onto the awning over the doorway, then grabbed window ledge after window ledge and climbed—

You’re like a cat

—the face of the building, until he was hanging one-handed and sideways off the roof, his boots planted on the side of the building.

Kure stalked into the middle of the street, grinning up at Daivad several stories above, and Daivad took this momentary reprieve to send his magic through his boots, into the stone of the building and down to the earth, reaching out for—

There. Ben’s magic, roots of thrumming energy far below. Daivad nudged Ben’s magic, and felt it nudge back.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Kure reached a hand back toward the path of wreckage they had left in their wake, and the movement made Daivad tense, made adrenaline spark down his arms, but Kure just kept the hand there, like he was expecting someone to hand him something.

Suddenly, the Selachian said, “That Vultian named you Traitor,” the growl warped Kure’s words as they floated up toward Daivad like bubbles. He couldn’t tell any longer if the language was of man or monster. “What do you name you?”

“Does it matter?” Daivad growled back.

Kure blinked, then cocked his head, his grin dissolving into a confused frown. “Mainlanders don’t name themselves to an enemy?”

“Why?”

“Don’t you wear the names of your dead?” Kure asked, flicking his own shoulder with one black claw, at the point where the pale skin of the front of his body met the dark gray tattoo that covered his back half. Daivad had thought it was a solid tattoo—was it actually all names, written over each other until no bare skin was left? Kure continued, “Don’t you want your dead to carry your name to the One?”

“The One?”

Kure straightened out of his fighting stance and propped his hands on his hips. “The One Beneath the Waves.” At Daivad’s silence, Kure continued, “The One Beyond the Clouds. The One Before and After. Creator of the Many and Killer of All.”

It was like talking to Nyxabella for all the sense he wasn’t making.

Kure reached into his waist wrap and produced a thin, silver chain with some sort of medal on the end and held it up, smearing it with the blood and dirt on his hands. When still no recognition showed on Daivad’s face, Kure looked slightly disgusted. “What do you name Them, then?”

“Lushale worships the Mothers,” Daivad said impatiently—he wanted to get back to fighting.

The clanking of metal drew Daivad’s attention—the guards that had been struggling through rubble after them had finally caught up. Back the way they’d come, half a dozen guards took cover in alleys or behind debris.

“Yes, the Mothers.” Kure sounded just as impatient, completely ignoring the guards taking aim behind him. “The Mothers become One.”

Right on cue, there was a whipping sound, and the guards were yanked out of sight, their yells of surprise quickly choked out of them.

Finally, Daivad just growled, “Just name me Daivad.”

And like that, Kure’s grin returned, and he once again reached back down the burning street. For a moment a trail of warping light, like a sunbeam through moving water, shot away from Kure’s wrist. Kure flicked his hand around and seized on what seemed to be an invisible rope, or maybe a chain from the strange sound it made, and pulled.

Daivad braced himself, his attention split between Kure’s figure and whatever was at the end of that chain. It didn’t take long for him to find out. Out of the firelight burst a disembodied head, soaring toward Kure’s outstretched hand.

Kure looked as confused by the head as Daivad was—and Daivad soon saw it wasn’t the head that Kure had called to him, but the long, metal weapon upon which the head was speared. Kure caught the weapon, his grin shifting into a vaguely annoyed frown. He flipped the weapon to rest the head on the ground, then planted a foot on the face and yanked the weapon free, chunks of brain still caught on the barbs.

While Kure cleaned his weapon, he said, “Name me Kure, Daivad. Hold the name, and carry it with you to your Mothers when I send you to them.”

He twirled the weapon—a curving harpoon, it looked like—spraying the last little flecks of brain and blood off.

Daivad shifted around, braced his boots against the wall behind him, and said, “Lushale worships the Mothers. I don’t.”

Then he launched himself.