Chapter 292 - The Rending Squall

Marquis Timaios Pollux hummed a cheerful tune as he basked in the warmth of his firelit office. Everything was going as planned. He had finally extended his reach into the Vel’khanese underworld. Its key figures were on track to fall under his wings; they would soon lose the ability to resist his commands, even if and when he ordered them against the queen. In the meantime, he spread his corporate ‘ideals,’ polluting the minds of the public to favour efficiency and mass production over the tradition that they so dearly held. Give or take another five years, and the country would be his in all but name.

Even better yet, he had accomplished a work-agnostic objective. Nymphetel Blackroot was his. But while the marquis had certainly enjoyed his fair share of elf, he was not quite done with the corresponding case. His eyes moved over the file, carefully scanning it for clues as the reporting officers stood at attention.

“Still no movements on the queen’s end?”

“None,” said Fausta.

“Strange,” muttered the marquis. “I would’ve expected her to have done something or other by now.”

He scanned his documents and confirmed his notes on the kraken’s behaviour. He had her pegged as a foolish, emotional ruler—no rational actor would have slain a whole cabinet of ministers without a force of competent loyalists to replace them, but she had butchered them outright. Even if vengeance was her goal, her plans were poorly conceived. It would have been far more efficient to enslave the men into doing her bidding.

According to his calculations, she should have attacked as soon as she heard the news. But there was nothing, not even the slightest hint of action in the week that followed her friend’s demise.

“Continue keeping an eye on her in either case.”

“Aye.”

He didn’t believe for a moment that she had grown wiser. She was undoubtedly scheming, plotting his downfall in some way or other. But the centaur didn’t care. He was confident that his ploys would win.

Admittedly, there were some holes in his plans. His most trusted men were still back home in Tornatus, and it would take a full month for them to reach Vel’khan if ordered, though that number was closer to a week if he only counted those that would fit on his remaining ships. Even so, his hand was far better than hers. The Vel’khanese queen had only three notable cards to play, none of which could shake his iron grip.

“Have you found the princess?” The question was directed to the other officer, a larger stallion half quivering in his boots.

“Unfortunately, sir, I have not.” The major lowered his head and prepared for a violent tongue-lashing. He had been hard at work since he was given the assignment, but he had failed to produce any results. It was like his target had vanished into thin air, with the freshly repaired MACC the only evidence that she had returned to the city at all.

“Unfortunate, but I wouldn’t be too worried.” His boss, however, refrained from rebuking him, only nodding nonchalantly as he tapped a finger against his desk.

Pollux only considered her a middling threat. He was not conducting his search out of concern, but rather as a point of personal interest.

Though he had readily bluffed otherwise, he would not dare to lay his hands on his master’s daughter. Such an act would surely be a betrayal of the king’s trust, and perhaps even viewed as a play for power of which he had no desire. He did want her under his thumb at the negotiating table, however. To turn one of Arciel’s own against her would no doubt have been a crushing blow.

That was why it was a shame that he had lost the opportunity to capture her friend, and on account of his own entertainment to say the least. He recognized, in retrospect, that his capture target had become a threat precisely because he had egged her on. Alas, his choice was made and his fun was had.

It wasn’t the first time his selfishness had set him back a few years and it would hardly be the last, but he wasn’t concerned. He would live for another five thousand, likely more if he slowly worked his way towards his fourth ascension.

“Should I continue searching, sir?” asked the soldier.

“Yes. Have some of the men go further south. It’s possible that she might have fled.” He stroked his tiny beard.

“By your will.” The knight—Fausta’s second, formerly third in command—breathed a sigh of relief, only for his breath to halt in his throat as the marquis snapped his fingers.

“Ah, yes, that’s right. I told the artificers to craft a scryer’s orb. They should be done by now. Pick it up, won’t you? It’ll help you in your endeavours.”

“Thank you for your consideration, sir. I will return to my duties posthaste.” Saluting, the overworked scout scuttled out the door as quickly as he horsedly could.

“Good.” the warlord nodded. “You’re dismissed as well, Fausta. Could you do me a favour and fetch Armando on your way out?”

“Got it, boss,” she said. She pushed open the doors and, after casually waving in his direction, vanished into the hall.

Pollux chuckled at the brutish behaviour as he closed his eyes and entrusted his weight to his desk. His butler appeared to be taking his sweet time, so he reluctantly dragged a lukewarm cup to his lips and sipped away at its contents. It wasn’t bad; the quality of the tea was high enough to ensure its flavour, but he would have preferred it with another few dozen degrees.

He did understand, of course. Armando was often busy managing the various happenings around the manor, but it was unlike the man to leave his master completely unattended. He usually sent another butler if he was in the middle of something important. Timaios would have much preferred a maid, but unfortunately, his wife had forbidden the luxury.

Even without Armando’s explicit instruction, the butlers were scheduled to visit and check on him once every few minutes. But there was no one. Not even by the time he finally finished his cup—a curious set of circumstances that he was not foolish enough to ignore.

Furrowing his brow, he slowly rose from his seat and moved towards the balcony, but even with its lock undone, the door refused to open. The behaviour was shared by every single one of the room’s possible exits. The windows were unmoving and the walls were reinforced to prevent his departure.

There was nothing he could do, so he returned to his seat and settled down in his chair, waiting for his prey to come. He was so relaxed, in fact, that he even fell asleep. He had a pleasant dream, recalling the time he had spent as a child oh so many years ago, the embrace of the mother whose face he had long forgotten, and even the spark that ignited his warrior’s spirit. But even with his mind numbed by nostalgic bliss, he never once let down his guard. He woke as soon as he heard the clacking of feet, the sound of a pair of high heels against the marble floor.

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When the door finally creaked open, he saw exactly the person he had expected. She was adorned in a flowing red dress. Whether it was originally that colour, it was impossible to determine. The halfbreed was plastered in the blood of his men; everything from her fair skin to her obscenely large ears to her once-glimmering scales was completely covered in a gloopy layer of gore.

She came with a partner in tow. The fox was sitting on her head, somehow coated in much less viscera.

“Good evening, Lord Pollux.” She spoke with all the innocence of a prancing fawn. Her face was a soft, sweet smile, carved to such perfection that he couldn’t see it as anything but genuine, even in spite of the circumstances at hand.

“Good evening, Princess.”

He met her bluff with a grin that put all his jagged teeth on open display. He couldn’t stop the chuckle from leaking from his lips. By his calculations, Fausta should have easily been able to suppress her. The catgirl was the only challenge to the lieutenant’s authority. And even then, it was just because of her sword.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

And yet, there the NCO was, held as a severed head in the halfbreed’s icy grip—proof that Virillius’ blood ran strongly through her veins.

“Oh, to think that you would be so cruel.” Dropping the dead soldier’s skull, Claire brought both her hands to her cheeks and cupped them, her face flushing scarlet. “I simply wished to see you.”

“I would much rather we skip the farce and get down to business.” He leaned forward in his seat with a chuckle. “Your father might’ve been able to kill me at that level. But you? You won’t even come close.”

She only smiled, so he nonchalantly continued.

“In the end, it all comes down to basic math. I regenerate more quickly than you can harm me. I could sit here and go right back to sleep if I wanted. You’d still never kill me.” He could already tell that he was about to go overboard again, that his bad habit was making itself known, but he continued to speak until he felt a sudden chill.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

A block of ice formed around him in the blink of an eye, encasing everything from his neck down. His sides shaking with laughter, he flexed his muscles against the fetters, but strangely, the glimmering blue cage refused to shatter.

“It’s true ice,” she said. “It can’t be broken.”

The marquis cocked a brow. He knew what she meant, but he doubted that the lady could have acquired such a thing for herself. It wasn’t just a matter of rarity, nor even affinity. Elemental power sources rejected beings of flesh and blood. Their adverse effects were barely noticeable at first, but they worsened with each passing day, eventually killing any mortal that dared to draw upon their power. That was why people created weapons and artifacts to contain them.

She was a fool, a fool deluded by her own deception.

“It hardly makes a difference,” he said with a grin. “You’re still too weak to kill me.”

He wasn’t wrong. The thunderhoof was a pioneer in the field of active combat regeneration and the progenitor of the widespread vitality-centric build that so many Cadrian elites employed. Inflicting damage was pointless. The only way to kill him for good was to deal a single blow that could eclipse his maximum health. And with his defensive stats as high as they were, such a telling strike lay far beyond the realm of her abilities.

Even presuming that her absurd claim was true, fully encasing him in ice would only seal him temporarily. The suffocation meant nothing; he could easily heal the resulting damage to his brain before it could accumulate in any which way. Eventually, he would outlast his prison.

He was right. The math checked out, and it ruled in his favour.

But that was why she had taken her time.

“You don’t need to die to suffer.”

The entire manor, the entire fortress, was destroyed as she waved her hand. The walls, the gardens, the people, everything was dismantled by her magic and thrown out to sea. Even the soil was stripped, leaving only the rocky foundation that was the manor’s floating base.

Once its excess weight was shed, Claire applied her spells to the battleship itself and raised it beyond all its rated limits.

Fifty thousand metres above the sea, they sat at the stratosphere’s outer edge. The sun shone over the horizon, clearly illuminating their faces, but their breaths were white, cold as a winter’s day.

“Behold, scum.” A pair of icy horns sprouted from her head. “Beyond the northern sky lies the most technologically advanced marsh on this continent.”

He followed the tip of her finger and looked beyond the firmament, at the lights that lay beyond.

Their homeland stood out from the rest of the world. While everything else was dark, with the closer settlements’ firelights only barely visible, the Cadrian cities were shimmering blurs off in the distance. Each dotted the sky around it with colour, vague hints of blue that almost seemed to rebel against the natural order enforced by the moon and the stars.

The closest of the domains was practically a beacon. Its lights were particularly powerful, cutting through the night in a manner reminiscent of a line of fire. Like a jewel atop a clump of mud, the marquis’ domain, the home of Cadria’s artificers, and the forge where its magical fortresses were crafted, was impossible to miss.

“For hundreds of years, it has stood as a symbol of Cadrian power, a centre for the artisans and their successors.” She raised a second hand and pointed it towards the moon. Or more accurately, towards a distant speck illuminated by its light. “It has always stood as your pride and joy. But tonight, no more.”

The marquis was confused at first, but then the speck grew larger. One centimeter at a time, it slowly expanded until its shape was finally clear. It was an icy sword, an orbital blade stored beyond the heavens, ready to pierce the world.

He continued staring at it, seemingly dumbfounded, until he broke into a fit of laughter. “Your plan was a kinetic weapon?” Another cackle. “Have you truly fallen so low, princess, that you’ve forgotten your own identity? We are Cadrians. We are kinetic weapons. Every last soldier has a resistance hammered into their bodies by the time they’re through basic training. At most, you’ll kill some unlucky staff, or perhaps a few recruits. No real soldier would die to anything so trivially pathetic.”

“You’re right,” Claire returned a smile as she retrieved a vial from the hem of her dress, “as am I now, it would amount to nothing,” and downed its eerie, aureate contents in a single pained breath.

It burned her throat going down, scorching her veins and circuits as it spread through her body like a vicious, deadly poison. Her breath was stuck in her throat. Her eyes turned golden. Cracks formed in her skin where her mana lines were most prominent, their exaggerated forms etched like a runic tattoo.

Her eyes and circuits flickered, cycling between eerie shades of red and gold. Her very presence threatened to swallow him. The raw magic was so intense that it eroded her body, slowly disintegrating her flesh and blood. It was a familiar state, much like the one he had seen in the catgirl before her death, only the rampant divine energy weighed down upon him even without the presence of a god.

“I will destroy everything that you have built, cleanse every spawn that you have sired, and kill everyone, everyone, that has ever aided in your efforts.”

The marquis furrowed his brows; it took him a moment to make sense of her absurd claim. “You would slaughter your own citizens for their political ties?”

“You thought nothing of the individual lives you took. Why care for them in aggregate?” The words were practically spat at him, spoken in a dark hiss.

“You are threatening our people, our technologies!” he shouted. “That is hardly comparable to a murder of some Paunsean deserter!”

“That ‘deserter’ was one of the only people to have ever loved me.” He half expected her to fly into a rage, but her words were quiet, calm even. “One of the only people to see and accept me for who I am. One of the only people to understand the things I left unsaid.” She clenched her fists, but they soon relaxed, returning to a more neutral state. “But I do find it strange, Pollux, that you would condemn me for murder.” The final note rang with a hint of amusement, “Shouldn’t you be worshipping me? Idolizing me? Isn’t this proof beyond all else, of the blood that runs through my veins?”

It was only then, as an empty, bitter sneer appeared on her lips, that the halfbreed invoked Griselda’s name.

And unleashed a spell that rent the world.