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CHAPTER XIX: The Parting Shot
39 Flamestar 1011,
The Age of Night
12 Days until the Night of the Moon
Grazzli Summer Estate,
Fioran Peninsula
Síbela slept soundly and quietly, like a ghost. Her sleep was black, pitch black. Her mind's eye was engulfed in darkness, she hadn't dreamt in a great while. Outside the dirty window of the shanty were the calm night waters of Dagamar Bay. The lesser stars glistened, causing the waves to sparkle like a jewelry box. The starlight cast azure and purple hues, filtered through the shifting leaves which were gently disturbed by the marine breeze. It was calm and secure, the sanctuary that her father had intended it to be when he ordered it's construction in the years gone by.
Just outside the gradual slope which lead to the alcove where the shack lay, there was a low murmuring, accompanied by the rustling of bushes and the cracking of twigs beneath bootheels. Torches were lit, illuminating the faces of strong-jawed len, adorned in leather armor, and strapped with an assortment of weapons. The leader, sporting a violet bandana, took point, and put his finger over his mouth, as he began to carefully navigate the slope beneath them. His len followed.
When they had finally reached the beach, they jumped down to a loud crunch of graveled sand. Síbela, who still slumbered in a cold, deep sleep, was unperturbed, until one len fell, and twisted his ankle, letting out a yelp, to the sounds of hurried hushing and panicked, loud whispering.
Síbela awoke. She did not feel the sensation of adrenaline, nor her heart pulsing or beating against her ribcage, but instead, only the rush of her military acumen overtaking her. She staggered slightly as she climbed out of her bed, and crawled, making for the window, to see if she could see what was happening. Her Chimeric vision gave her focus, and she made out the party of armed len, who were now on the private beach, making straight for the shack. Suddenly, her father's words triumphed over her. Her hands and feet were tingling, like small pin pricks of electricity attempting to run through her. Recognizing she could not feel much, she finally knew something was horribly wrong, she was in danger.
Her instincts and years of formal academy filled her hollow body, and muscle memory took over. She climbed toward her Drü bow, which was laying next to her bedside. She took the quiver, and strapped it to her back. After, she reached into her end table to extract a long sheathed dagger, which she took and strapped to her thigh, under her nightgown. She had to move quickly. She took her hair, and pulled it into a bun with military precision and haste.
Outside, the len were snooping around, looking for any signs of life. Some broke into groups and were peering inside the boathouse, and were rummaging through it. The others began to surround the house, while the leader and two others approached the door, and were hushing themselves. Síbela's ears perked as she realized they were not speaking Fioran, but Arlian, but the accent was foreign to what she had grown accustomed to hearing in her life at court. She tried to dig deep into her psyche, but couldn't muster the intuition that she would have employed to deduce the origin. She felt foggy. Whatever their purpose, Síbela did realized once again that her father's concerns for her might have been rooted in the truth. The len began to jostle the lock, and were soon going to breach the house.
Realizing that she still had the element of surprise, Síbela drew an arrow and strung it, pulling the expertly crafted Drü bow back. She closed her eyes and listened carefully at the voices and the shifting of weight on the wooden planks of the house's porch. Once again, she found herself lost, reaching for something that wasn't there. She was used to having a great, heightened spatial awareness, but this night it eluded her. She had to think fast. The door had just flung open. Nevertheless, knowing that the sands of time were quickly slipping, she let out the faintest breath, and loosed the arrow. SWIP! The arrow pierced one of the len, tearing through his leather armor, causing a spurt of blood to erupt from his chest as he staggered backward and clutched himself, letting out a cry of agony.
The len shouted in his language and immediately took for cover, under the windows. Her assailants ducked under the railing of the porch. Síbela had already redrawn, and fired again, shattering the glass of the window with another whirling arrow.
The space before the isolated shack now laid in silence, broken only by the faint sound of sweat dripping from the brows of her attackers. Their grips tightened around axes and blades, each weapon glistening faintly under the muted starlight. Silent glances and subtle hand gestures wove a wordless conversation among them – a shared understanding of the need for stealth and heightened caution. Every tense muscle and cautious step betrayed their belief: she might already had another arrow nocked and waiting.
There was a stiff tension in the standoff, all that could be heard was the gentle tide and the rustling of the leaves which overhung the shack. Though her enhanced vision normally gave her eagle-like sight, she found herself... trembling. Her eye, straining. Her breath was deep, and staggered. What... is... happening... to me? She thought to herself. Even her thoughts were struggling to form.
With the arrow nocked and drawn, Síbela took aim at the door's opening, her muscles tensed for the release. But unexpectedly, her arm began to falter, the bowstring feeling heavier than it ever had since she was a lenning. Her unwavering aim, once as certain as the rise of the Flamestar, now wavered under an inexplicable weakness.
Her vision, a trait she had always relied upon, began to betray her – blurring and blackening at the edges, like a torch flickering in a tempest. Every few heartbeats, the world seemed to dip into darkness, then back into dim light, disorienting her and clouding her judgment.
Without warning, Síbela's vision blurred, and she was thrust into a haunting vision. Before her eyes, a resplendent crimson drape danced in the breeze, billowing through an open ivory window that gleamed under the night sky. The drape's fabric shimmered as it moved, each fold catching the light, creating a tapestry of shadows and gleams. The room beyond the window was richly adorned, every detail etched with opulence.
The scene shifted, and there, in the midst of this grandeur, sat a figure: a ven, his posture one of weary resignation. His slender, bony hands shakily held a wine glass. He reclined, his body betraying a deep exhaustion that seemed to permeate his very being. He lifted the glass toward his lips, stopping just short of them, not touching them to the glass. He retracted the glass and threw it, shattering it on impact, causing a thick, crimson liquid to paint the white marble balcony.
Suddenly, she was just outside the door, and two obsidian gargoyles sprung to life, and the door burst open. Two menacing ven entered the room, but they were unlike normal ven. They were heavily armored, bore lances, and covered themselves with two large, bat-like wings. They rushed in, toward the balcony, attending to the ven and the shattered glass.
And again, she was whisked back, not understanding anything of what she just witnessed, if she had even witnessed anything at all. The stillness around her grew oppressive, the silence swelling into an almost tangible force. It filled the room, weighing down on her like a physical burden. Even the gentle tide and rustling leaves seemed to have hushed their whispering, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation.
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Panic, an unfamiliar guest, began to gnaw at the edges of her resolve. "Focus," she murmured to herself, trying to shake off the encroaching dread. But the words sounded hollow, lost in the vast emptiness that the silence had carved around her.
Síbela blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog that clouded her sight. Her fingers trembled on the bowstring, each second feeling longer and more torturous than the last.
Time seemed to slow, stretching the seconds into eternity. The door stood ajar, a sliver of danger lurking beyond its frame, yet Síbela found herself caught in a battle not just with the unseen enemy outside, but with her own body and mind.
For a moment, a shadow shifted across the wooden porch, and it happened that Síbela was at her limit. She released the arrow as it weakly whistled, intermittently flying through the void of the broken window. She hit nothing. The len, realizing that the arrow was not as fiercely loosed as the previous two, rose to their feet and began to barrel toward the small shack, their boots crunching on the shattered and scattered glass on the porch's boardwalk. Síbela began to backtrack, and quickly turned, stumbling again, making for the hidden back door, which lay at the end of the small hallway between the two bedrooms, a part of the wall which would have otherwise appeared continuous.
Without warning, her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she fell to the ground, tearing down the white curtain which served as a boundary in the hallway. The len's dark silhouettes painted against the faint moonlight. They swept in like shadows. Síbela, caught in the grasp of an inexplicable lethargy, could only watch as her fingers weakly released her bow, thudding it to the ground.
Rough hands seized her, lifting her with an ease that belied her warrior's build. The world spun around her, a maelstrom of blurred shapes and indistinct voices in nasally Arlian. One of the burly len took up her bow, and stowed it in his own effects. The others removed torches from their knapsacks and lit them, promptly lighting the curtains and bedding on fire.
Her eyes opened in a flutter and saw the sight of the house caught up in a growing blaze. In a fleeting moment of lucidity, desperation surged within Síbela. Her hand, almost of its own accord, sought the dagger at her thigh. With a burst of effort muddied by her dulled senses, she lashed out blindly, the blade flashing in the dim light, piercing the shoulder of the one who carried her over his shoulder. She fell into the sand and let out a whelp, as she began to crawl through the sand, but to no avail.
Her defiance was short-lived. The len reacted with practiced calm, disarming her with a swift motion. Her dagger, her last vestige of defense, clattered to the earth, abandoned and forlorn. Another len took her, and his grip tightened, unyielding and impersonal, as they resumed their march.
Dragged from her father's makeshift sanctuary, each step the len took with Síbela in their grasp pulled her further from safety. She knew not their intentions. Her body tensed at the very prospect of what might be coming next. This caught her by surprise, for she could not conjure nor feel any feelings of warmth or happiness, but she could feel with great certainty the sensation of despair. The familiar sounds of the bay – the gentle lapping of waves, the distant calls of night birds – faded into a haunting silence. Her consciousness, fragile as a flickering candle flame, threatened to extinguish under the overwhelming dread of the unknown. The night air, once a comforting caress to her cooling skin, now felt chilling as it brushed against her, carrying with it whispers of ominous lands and hidden dangers.
Suddenly, a sharp clang of steel shattered the stillness. An unknown warrior, a wraith in the night, let out a cry of command and descended upon the remaining len with ferocity. The clash of metal rang through the air, with flashes of light playing out in the long shadows of the trees beyond the cliffside. Síbela winced with pain as she was dropped, hitting the gravely sand once again. Steel met steel, and the warrior’s blade was blur of precision; Unmistakable wrath and fury from a veteran swordslen. The assailants, caught off guard, fell one by one, quickly overwhelmed by the ferocity of the interloper. Síbela watched, her mind struggling to comprehend, as the mysterious warrior decimated the remaining len with a terrifying efficiency. The conflict was swift, brutal, and decisively in the favor of this lone, formidable fighter.
As the final len succumbed, collapsing, the enigmatic warrior remained standing. Chest heaving with each controlled breath, a rhythm honed by countless battles, eyes blazed with an undimmed ferocity.
"Íbolín..." She said, faintly, her voice cracking. "Íbolín... I knew... I knew I felt you... I... knew you'd... come back for me..."
Síbela, feeling sporadic surges of strength trying to break through her weakened state, watched in a mix of awe and confusion. The shift in fortunes was as sudden as it was opaque. As her cheek brushed against the cool sand, her gaze locked onto the silhouette of the warrior. Backlit by the growing inferno that consumed the shack, the figure moved with a calm assurance, sliding the blade back into its sheath in a fluid, practiced motion. The firelight cast a fierce glow around her, the flames crackling and roaring. She felt a clammy hand touch her forehead as she heard a voice.
"Yol damn it. You're ice cold."
Her face hit the sand once more, as she lapsed out of consciousness, slightly drooling.
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Half an hour later, the world swam back into focus as Síbela's eyes fluttered open. Each detail of her surroundings materialized slowly, as if emerging from a deep fog. The remnants of the villa, now engulfed in flames, cast an eerie orange glow across the dock’s worn planks. The mingling scents of salt air and smoldering wood enveloped her, grounding her in the present chaos. There, against the backdrop of flickering light and shadow, stood Valora, tall and resolute. She moved with purpose, silently preparing the boat for a voyage shrouded in uncertainty. The soft clinks and rustles of supplies being secured punctuated that otherwise heavy silence.
"Good, you're awake," Valora spoke without pausing her work, her voice steady yet tinged with urgency. "We don't have much time."
"C-captain Minsz...?" Síbela's voice was a faint whisper, her words struggling to break free.
"Not anymore." Valora replied, her movements briefly pausing as she scanned their surroundings. A sudden alertness pricked her slightly elongated, pointed ears, drawing her attention to the brushline that loomed over the gully. The familiar sound of stealthy movements – rustling bushes, the muffled crunch of boots – echoed in the night.
"Okay," Valora murmured, her gaze shifting back to Síbela. With a mix of gentleness and necessity, she bent down to lift her. "Err... I know... you're not feeling well," she added, her voice carrying a note of concern.
"But we... gotta... go." Valora grunted, as she carefully lowered Síbela into the small boat, rocking the vessel slightly.
She swiftly drew a knife from her ankle, slicing through the rope that tethered them to the dock. SPLASH! Valora jumped into the water, wetting her velvet tunic and pantaloons. She gently pushed the boat along as she waded with big strides. With a strong lift, the boat was strained tremendously, but still held as she climbed in, each movement precise and calculated. With a few strong strokes of the paddle, the boat began to glide away from the chaos, into embrace of the Dagamar Bay.
When Síbela awoke next, she noticed she had been covered with a blanket. She rubbed her eyes for a moment and swiveled her head, but all she could see of the bright flame was a small blip on a thin paper-sized horizon. Above her was nothing but a sea of stars, and below her was nothing but the black tides of bay.
"C-captain..."
"Hush." Said Valora, grunting as she paddled. "Save your strength."
"W-where... are you taking me?" Síbela said faintly, as she curled to her side, with her hood.
"North."
"W-who did this..." the weakened Síbela asked.
"Your uncles." replied Valora.
"W-what...?" Síbela asked with considerable discomfort.
"I'm just glad I got to you in time. Rest, child."