Headsman Linus was the first to rise, and the first to fall.
Cyra had seemed content to allow the Hesperians to deal with the Rekindled, but she struck the moment the giant man lurched to his feet. Lavender flames coalesced into a shield that blocked her first strike, but it lacked the sheer power that he had once commanded. Instead, the Mantis’ white blades shredded them apart in an instant and carved into his bones again and again until they fell to pieces.
Ash swirled in to fill the gaps, but Cyra did not relent until he was nothing but flecks of bone and lavender flame scattered in the wind.
And so passed Headsman Linus, warden of Dytifrourá.
Many of the Rekindled were slow and shambling, cut down in a moment, but the Dytifrouráns served better. They lashed out with simulacrums of their old magic, holding the infuriated living to a standstill, but it was futile effort. Clymere had stoked their lives once more, but sooner or later they would fall. Either her power would fade or the vigor of the living would overcome them.
All they bought was time. They crowded Clymere, threw themselves upon spears aimed for her, and scalded the living with their blazing flesh. She pushed forward faster and faster for Cyra. The Mantis simply watched and waited, her white blades shining bright.
Flames came rushing down, but a Hesperian warder held them back with a barrier the color of eggshell. It strained and wavered, heat bleeding through the pale membrane, but it did not fall.
A lone Hesperian erected his shield nearby as Kosta crept closer and closer to the wall. The woman raised her warhammer high to slow Clymere…only for Kosta’s own little hammer, meant for driving a chisel rather than cracking skulls, to smash into the back of her head.
Her helmet was warded against physical damage, so his hammer simply slid off. Some of the force transferred through regardless. The Hesperian veteran snarled, turned with her warhammer raised high, but gasped as her eyes went wide and a blazing spearhead pierced through her wards, empowered by Clymere’s Ignition.
She fell to her knees, but the Hesperian’s flesh cracked and flaked before his eyes, consumed by an inner flame, and then her sockets filled with Clymere’s own power. The newly Rekindled warrior let out a gasping, rattling moan before she hefted her warhammer and turned to face Cyra.
Kosta was quick to hide again, coming closer and closer to the gap that would take them to safety. The Rekindled would buy them time. They could hold the gap and give them the chance to run.
“Clymere, we have to go! This is our chance!”
She didn’t listen. Clymere rushed forward, red-rimmed eyes locked upon the Mantis. The Rekindled swarmed behind her, blocking and parrying and counterstriking with their scorched limbs. While some had fallen, the Hesperians lacked Cyra’s raw power. It was slow going to bury the Rekindled permanently.
Dread struck him. Clymere wouldn’t listen. She had drowned in her rage.
Cyra simply waited, blades outstretched like a cat ready to pounce. She’d proved unwilling to kill the Dytifrouráns for whatever reason, but Kosta doubted that she’d turn a blind eye to a straightforward attack.
He swallowed. If he couldn’t get Clymere to break away from this fool’s errand, he’d have to help her.
The Mantis had backed up close to a storefront. Its contents were tossed all around, various rolls of fabrics and fine clothes ruined by the rain, and Kosta desperately searched for anything that he might use to strike her or open up an opportunity for Clymere.
Then he saw it.
A limestone statue in the shape of a woman—her face modeled to look just like Kosta’s mother—garbed in a beautiful peplos thrown over the stone folds of a chiton. The attention to detail was absolutely stunning, every wrinkle of fabric brought to life and tugged from the stone, and Kosta couldn’t help but admire the sheer quality of the craftsmanship.
It was his father’s.
Clymere came close, a roar of flame gushing from her screaming mouth, and desperation seized control of Kosta. There were legends of the old Stonegaze Aretan bringing legions of stone warriors to life with a glance, animating the unliving stone with his will and might. They had been guardians of the westlands before they had been drowned and buried beneath the Glass Sea.
His bricks would be less than a distraction. His barriers were little more than somewhat tangible smoke. His power had faded, despite the desperate mouthfuls of Eneas’ bread that he shoved down whenever he had a spare moment.
And as Clymere bore down, guarded by her small army of cinderborn Rekindled, Kosta flung his hand out one last time. His spirit nearly broke beneath the pressure, but the last dregs of his power were torn viciously to the surface. A grey haze outlined the statue and Kosta squeezed his eyes shut as he did everything he could to bring those old legends to life.
Shouts from the Hesperians nearly broke his concentration, but Kosta did his best to ignore them even as the wind howled all around them.
“Leukopyr! The Leukopyr has come!”
Weapons clattered on shields as the Hesperians roared. Kosta forced the distraction away. All that mattered was his power as it settled against the statue, imbued with his father’s will against the elements and the passage of time. His father’s presence lingered within it, instantly recognizable, and Kosta pressed his magic against it as time grew short.
Change. Mold. Grasp. Live. Live. Live!
His power battered it, but Papa’s grave stubbornness had been buried deep within his craft. It was greater than Kosta, and it resisted him with every scrap of power molded into it. The power was resolute, indomitable, and Kosta grit his teeth as he pressed inward with all of his focus.
For Clymere.
And at last, it worked. His wisps of strength overcame his father’s resistance, and Kosta felt all of his power begin to fade as it forced the statue into some semblance of life. It was shambling, less than even Clymere’s clumsy Rekindled, imperfect, but the statue shuddered.
Hands twitched, but Kosta couldn’t force its arms to grasp for Cyra, to choke the Mantis with stone fingers, even with all his might.
But she felt the working. The Mantis twitched, and the statue shattered beneath a hammerhead of white power. Kosta gasped and collapsed to the sodden ground, suddenly fearful as the Mantis stared at him. Her irises shone the same terrible, cold white of her magic and Kosta felt another pulse of power sweep across him, laying him bare to her doll’s eyes.
Yet even as Clymere brought her spear forward, Cyra lashed out with another hammerhead. Clymere sought to bring the shaft up to block it, but was far too slow for the lightning quick movement. She wheezed as she was sent flying backwards, though her Rekindled formed around her as a sort of honor guard to keep any opportunistic Hesperians off.
Clymere rose, flames still licking her flesh raw, and prepared to charge back in.
“Stop it!” Kosta hissed, although there was no way she could hear him. “Just leave!”
He crawled closer and closer to the gap. Cyra saw him and appeared before him in the blink of an eye. She was fast. So terribly fast. The great press of the solid magic which coalesced around her fists drove into his back.
Kosta waited for death, exhausted beyond measure, but it did not come. He simply remained trapped beneath the weight of the Mantis’ magic like a trapped bug.
And then came the howling of the storm and the beating of great wings.
Horror filled him as the shriek of a griffin drew near. Kosta dared to glance up and paled as a white griffin, though thankfully not the Merakian’s, soared low. It was twice as large as the manticore, and terrible as it eyed Clymere and Kosta like vermin to be devoured.
The griffin’s feathers were bone white, as was its fur. Its eyes were a glaring yellow that seemed to peel every layer of the last Dytifrouráns away. Each of its paws were large enough to swat their heads off with a delicate tap, and its claws were long as shortswords. None of the wards embedded in Clymere’s armor would even slow such a beast down.
And atop it rode a man. He was tall, but slim. Slighter than Kosta might have expected for one of the great Nephonauts, although the white metal of his armor, shimmering with power, lent him an intimidating air. His face was all but covered beneath a plumed helmet, although his bare chin could be seen.
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In the Nephonaut’s hand was a blade of white fire. The man held it harmlessly, and he swept the blade in a great arc as the griffin crashed to the surface, dwarfing the rest of the Hesperians as its eagle eyes scoured the warriors. They all knelt in reverence, despite the presence of Clymere and her Rekindled.
The reanimated warriors, given life anew by Clymere’s flame, did not hesitate. They charged forward with weapons held high. Kosta recognized too many of them, and just the sight sent a pang through his chest. He may not have been friends with them, but they were still his fellows. They were his countrymen.
“Begone,” the Nephonaut said. His voice was craggy and weathered like worn stone. “Untether yourselves from your bones. Let the Whiteflame return you to the final dream.”
And with a wave of the Nephonaut’s hand and a burst of Whiteflame which passed harmlessly over living flesh, they disintegrated.
Clymere gasped, wide-eyed, as the Whiteflame scoured her magic from the Rekindled. They collapsed in heaps of scorched bone, singed armor, and ash. Their weapons clattered to the ground.
The last remnants of the Dytifrouráns were lost. Linus, Eunike, Vasos, Philo…
“Kosta!” Clymere cried out, searching the grinning faces of the Hesperians as ash sprayed across the battlefield. The alleys were choked with the stuff. “Kosta!”
“Clymere,” Kosta wheezed beneath the crushing weight of the Mantis’ magic. Cyra didn’t twitch as he grasped toward his sister. “I’m here.”
It must have been a miracle, but Clymere caught sight of him. Even surrounded by enemies who watched her like a hawk, she stared hungrily at Kosta while the flames ate away at her. She must be twice as exhausted as he was. But her olive green eyes widened and etched every detail into her mind.
Clymere’s hand, still ablaze, went to the little carving of her that Kosta had made the eve of their Dòrognosis. It smoldered at the edges.
Her eyes hardened. Kosta’s spirit fell the moment she made her decision.
Run, she mouthed, sent a searching, begging look at the Mantis, and then turned to face the griffin-mounted warrior. The man waited patiently as she glared up at him. “Nephonaut!”
Clymere raised her spear to the griffin, small and insignificant in the face of its hawkish glare. Mighty muscles coiled beneath its white fur, littered with thick ropes of scars by countless battles. One of the beast’s yellow eyes had been torn out at some point, resulting in its mismatched yellow stare.
The beast seemed amused, though its viciously curved beak snapped at Clymere as flames coiled up the length of her weapon. Even Clymere paled at that, but the time for fear was over. Kosta tossed and turned beneath the weight of the Mantis’ white magic, but it was a fruitless struggle.
Her grip was like iron.
He strained. He must help her!
“Nephonaut!” Clymere repeated, voice tight. “I am Clymere Condos, last daughter of Dytifrourá. Face me, if you dare!”
The Hesperians jeered, but the Leukopyr silenced them with a raised fist. They stepped backwards. He didn’t spare the Mantis or Kosta a glance.
One hand guarded by the same white metal as before reached up to tear the helmet from his head. An aged face with a thick white mustache was bared. Deep grooves worn into the man’s features by time twitched. Yet despite his obvious age and the wounds from many battles which littered him, there was a certain power to the man.
He did not have the raw physicality of Linus or the feline grace of Cyra, but power bled from this man as if from a gushing wound.
The Leukopyr was mighty.
“I am Kassandros Pantazis, right hand of the Merakian Stelios.”
“Leukopyr!” The Hesperians roared. His withered lips twisted up into a faint smile at their chorus. “Leukopyr!”
The griffin snapped its beak again and pawed at the stone. Its terrible claws tore deep gouges into the rocky road. Clymere jutted her spear forward and it blazed with the sun’s light as a great torrent of flame burst out to scorch the beast’s feathers, only for the red fires to sweep past her target and coalesce into a flickering sphere held within the Nephonaut’s hand.
His fist clenched and snuffed out Clymere’s fire.
“Rude,” the Leukopyr admonished Clymere as he would a small child. He gestured at the ashes and armor which surrounded Clymere. “A fine working, if an unpleasant one. You fight beyond your years, Dytifrourán. But your fight is over.”
The Nephonaut unlatched the bonds which kept him to the griffin’s saddle. It crooned at him as he leapt off and landed easily upon his old knees. He winced, then laid a soothing hand upon his mount’s flank.
A Whiteflame sword crackled to life in his palm. It was the length of Kosta’s practice sword, but blazed with terrible power. “You’ve slain many of my finest. Your Headsman,” old anger flickered in the Leukopyr’s milky eyes as the name was spat from his tongue, “butchered many more. I will grant you a good death. That is my mercy to you, daughter of Dytifrourá.”
Clymere’s eyes flicked again to Kosta. They were afraid.
Desperation reared its ugly head. Kosta grasped for a brick, for rubble, for anything, only for Cyra to loosen the power that crushed him. A grip like iron around his chiton’s neck hauled him to his feet.
“No more barriers.”
Even as he struggled to get away, the battle was joined.
The Leukopyr stalked forward and swept his blade at Clymere with a flick of his wrist. It was blindingly fast, and it was all she could do to grasp for the Teris talisman that Kosta had given her in days past to ward off the blow.
Its barrier projected, held for the briefest moment, and then sundered beneath the awful heat of the Whiteflame blade with a sound like cracking stone.
“A fine artifact,” the Leukopyr said mildly. “But it will not be enough.”
Before Clymere could hope to react, he struck again. She warded him off with another talisman. It shattered. Then she used another. And another. And another.
Kosta’s finest creations, stockpiled for years, and used up in a flurry of blows that he could hardly track. They could hardly turn the whiteflame blade away. He hissed and grunted and roared as he threw everything he had into breaking the Mantis’ tight hold, but she hardly budged.
How was she so strong?!
“Let me go!” Kosta snarled. “Let me go!”
Yet Clymere burned. Patches of her skin were red and bloody now as she cast herself upon the pyre. Her movements swiftened. Skin flaked off. Her strength surged. Hair seared away.
“I am but fuel!” Clymere roared in agony, but did not relent. “Ignite!”
She was soon a fiery effigy with a core of white, then blazing blue, and the Leukopyr grunted as she spat a column of flame to engulf him.
He waded through it easily, not a white hair on his head singed, but grunted as Clymere dove forward and slammed the head of her spear into his gut. She jolted as the spear struck true, though the enchantments inlaid into the fine white metal stopped the fiery speartip in its tracks.
The force pushed the Leukopyr back a single step. His griffin rushed forward, murder in its amber eye, but the Leukopyr halted it with a single command. “No, Kymaitha! She is mine.”
Clymere’s next blow was caught upon the Leukopyr’s fiery sword. She was nearly invisible beneath her coat of flames, but Kosta cried out with her regardless as her spear, a gift from Papa, was severed in two by the Whiteflame weapon.
He was done humoring her.
The Leukopyr’s free hand struck with a blindingly quick blow, though Clymere’s enhanced speed allowed her to duck beneath it. Both combatants exchanged a dizzying flurry of strikes and parries, although the whiteflame blade grew faster and faster even as Clymere found herself pushed to the breaking point.
Kosta scrambled for his power, but nothing came. Wisps of grey were struck apart instantly by the sheer power radiating from the Leukopyr and Clymere as they danced across the ashes of her Rekindled.
Then an opening! Clymere raised the remaining half of her spear like a javelin, jabbed it down to pierce the Leukopyr’s exposed neck…
And the Whiteflame blade buried itself in Clymere’s gut. Its scorching heat swept right through her own flames, parted them, and shredded the tattered remains of her linothorax armor as if they weren’t there at all.
Kosta gaped. The world slowed to a crawl. His cries died in his throat as he wretched and heaved, bitter bile spewing from his mouth, and he went limp as Cyra’s arm clutched tight around his throat.
The whiteflame blade’s light surged to leave the world dim and lifeless in comparison. Clymere screamed as her hands scratched at it, flesh searing away as she tasted the bite of foreign fire for the first time, and Kosta finally came to. He scrambled in Cyra’s grip with every bit of strength that remained in his leaden limbs.
Kosta bit. He scratched. He spit bile. He cried.
White flame filled Clymere’s insides. She screamed as it seared her flesh. Muscle burned. Skin was devoured. It would have slain most instantly, but Clymere’s magic would not yield to fire so easily. She clung to life, if only barely, and Kosta screamed with her.
She remained on her feet as she was consumed from the inside. Her fingers went slack. Clymere turned to Kosta, her blackened hands grasping towards him as her extremities crumbled away into ash.
“Kosta…” Clymere screamed. “Brother! Go!”
Clymere’s spear clattered to the ground.
And then, beneath the wind and rain, the red and gold of her flame muted beneath the grey mist and black sky, Clymere died.
Kosta howled louder than the storm overhead. It was ragged, torn, wet, and utterly drowned out by the roar of the conflagration that erupted from Clymere. The world was dark and dim and he could only look at it dully, blankly, and he wanted to throw up and kill and cry and damn the Hesperians!
The Leukopyr dismissed his Whiteflame blade. Clymere’s corpse collapsed in a broken heap, scorched and ruined almost beyond recognition. Kosta wanted to look away but he he had to look even though it made him sick and he needed to run and he had to kill them—
The pressure around his neck slackened.
“You’re no killer,” Cyra whispered into his ear. She shoved him towards the gap in the wall. “Run, little sculptor. Run unless you want to end up like your sister. Go. Live for her.”
And to his eternal shame, Kosta did.
He ran from the Leukopyr. He ran from the Hesperians. He ran from the ashes of Linus and the militia. He ran from Dytifrourá.
He ran from Clymere, nothing but memory, withered flesh, ash, and bone now as the Leukopyr wrenched his Whiteflame blade out and scattered her to the winds.