“Will he really be fine?” Remy asked, still looking worried. “You aren’t as certain as you pretend.”

“Jord will take care of him,” Darko said. “We have our own mission to worry about tonight.”

Darko placed down his bags and sat on the creaky bed. His back already itched, knowing he’d likely sleep at the Guild again. He doubted he would get much sleep for tomorrow’s early wakeup. No matter how strong of a swordsman he became, how many disasters he triumphed, a luxurious bed was always the one thing out of reach.

No, that was a lie. A proper bed was far from the only thing out of reach. Most hopes, in fact, were physically impossible, even for the strongest of the strong. If only Azetoth’s cult realized this. Would make Darko’s life a whole lot easier.

“We should have escorted him,” Remy said. “You saw him. He’s like a motherless child. He’ll get himself killed before finding the catacombs.”

“Have some hope,” Darko said. “Zara Fel Blythe didn’t become a legend by having her hands held shut. She cleared the path for herself, even when things looked impossible. That’s how life is amongst the Krose.”

“I suppose.” Remy crossed her arms. “I just don’t have high hopes for the path he’s about to clear. We should have helped him over the first step.”

“We built the stairs,” Darko said. “If he falls, it’s on him. He needs to stand up and try again, or he can give up and succumb to the nobles. Fate made his path hell from the moment he awakened. An easy life is not an option for mages. He needs to realize that sooner or later.”

“True enough,” Remy said, though looked as if she still disagreed. “But the stairs we built aren’t exactly solid, and falling isn’t without consequences. What if he hits his head when he trips?”

“No matter Cillian’s resolve,” Shena said, “Jord is a questionable choice for a teacher. I know Jord has committed his fair share of cardinal sins, alchemically and magically. And morally.”

Darko breathed in. He wanted to say he trusted Jord. They had worked together. Everyone knew Jord’s suspicious background. But the girls’ doubts weren’t wrong. Jord had no filter. The man did whatever he could to achieve his goals, even breaking the laws of magic. A thin line separated him from total maniacs like Azetoth. That line was within the nature of the goals themselves. Azetoth wished to perform his own power fantasy, while Jord simply wished to marry someone he wasn’t supposed to.

“Cillian’s teacher isn’t the only problem,” Shena said. “How are we going to find another wielder of Sacred magic? Last I read, Cindra is the only publicly known wielder who would ever consider working for pay, and she’s performing duty at the Dragon Wall. We are too broke to hire her regardless.”

Darko leaned on his arm, thinking.

“It might have been a mistake to let Cillian go,” Shena said. “He could have been our last realistic chance.”

“The time spent training him would have lost us the mission,” Darko said.

Shena stared into his eyes. “The mission matters little. We’re fighting to stop the cult from kidnapping any more innocents, not to become rich. I will stay on this path for the smallest chance that my friends are still alive. The King’s meager reward is an insult to every Gorthorn in the country.”

“I know,” Darko said. “It’s not the reward we need out of the mission. It’s Prince Vitek. We need his involvement, and that’s only possible if the King believes we’re reliable. Trust me, Vitek will be magnitudes more useful than any beginner mage. You will see when you meet him.”

“I still can’t believe you’re friends with a prince,” Remy said with a sigh.

Darko laughed. “Vitek isn’t just a friend. He’s a damn strong brawler. And what’s better, he has access to the Royal Weaponry, hallowed as places can be. We don’t necessarily need magic. Sacred swords will cut the Archpriests just as smoothly.”

Shena frowned. “We would need the Goddesses’ Moonblades for simple weapons to make any difference. I doubt Prince Vitek has access to those.”

“We’ll see,” Darko said. “The plan is still unclear. Vitek will know what’s possible and what’s not.”

Shena didn’t look convinced.

“For now, Volés is what we’re concerned about,” Darko said. “I’m fairly certain I figured out who’s stealing from the mana wells. We’ll clear Volés of cultists tonight.”

“Who is it?” Shena asked.

“I’ll show you,” Darko said. “Remy, grab the urn. I suspect it’ll feast with souls tonight.”

“I’m coming for support, I presume,” Shena said. She picked up her staff and stood, ready to leave.

Darko stretched as an answer. Shena wouldn’t stay back even if she was ordered. They headed for the door. “Let’s get this done quickly,” Darko said. “I’d prefer if I got some sleep tonight.”

***

“Hello, good citizens,” Darko said to the line of torches outside the spiked fence. The city folk of Volés were a tenacious bunch, lined up like sentries containing a dragon. No man would enter or escape the Count’s mansion unspotted, not unless they had the ability to fly. Darko unfortunately didn’t. “How are the torches holding?”

“Screw off, or offer some fucking help,” said the man closest to Darko.

Then the man spotted Shena’s staff and her disapproving eyes. His face went pale. “I meant, we could use some more wood, but thanks for the concern.”

“I see,” Darko said. The man clearly hadn’t slept enough. “Clear a path for me, will you? I’ve brought better help than simple torches.”

The man looked at them sideways. “And what would that be?”

Darko pulled out his glyphsword. The man froze for a second before the command registered. He stepped out of the way, and so did his fellow protestors. Darko approached the fence.

“Adventurers!” “The Guild sent a mage!” Whispers came from around. Before long, the whole city would hear of whatever Darko and his idiots were up to. The luxury of being unrecognized wouldn’t last an hour.

Darko channeled vigor through his arms and into the hilt of his glyphsword. The intricate carvings, called glyphs, were spread across the grip and handle. The carvings sucked vigor from Darko’s hand at an alarming rate, like how a staff shaped a mage’s mana.

Men of talent rarely gained access to magic, as women did. Instead, men wielded vigor. Otherwise known as “muscle magic” for its power to turn men into beasts, to enhance a human body far beyond what muscles were intended to withstand.

Darko’s sword, In the most basic terminology, was a heavily modified classic glyphsword. Glyphswords were the staves of swordsmen, weapons with the ability to translate the vigor of a wielder’s heart into physical form. When imbued with vigor, Darko’s sword glimmered like a hot oven.

If the protesters weren’t wary of Darko before, the sight of an active glyphsword was enough to grant him authority over any simple protest. Nobody dared get close.

With one effortless swipe, he cut an opening in the metal fence. He grabbed the two falling pillars before they could thump against the ground. He lifted the pillars out of the way and slid into the estate. The girls followed him hesitantly, doubtful of the ideas Darko had proposed.

“That’s Wyvern Slayer Darko!” a protestor called. “He’s come to punish the Count for his crimes!”

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“About time,” another man shouted.

“Everyone, storm the place! Help the Slayer!”

“Quiet!” Darko called into the crowd of eager protesters. Before anyone could follow, Darko placed the two severed pillars back into place and glanced at Shena.

Through wordless understanding, Shena pointed her staff at the cuts. The staff glowed a dim yellow. Her casting required no contact nor words to seal the fence back together with a layer of awfully sticky black substance.

Earth magic mixed with Shena’s untraditional touches. It wasn’t pretty, but the fence would hold as thoroughly as new.

“This is a stealth mission, you idiots,” Darko said through the fence. “Not one of you comes after me, and not one of you shouts my name. Who cut through this fence tonight?”

The man about to instigate the riot faced him through the fence. “The Wyvern Slayer?”

“No,” Darko said. “Nobody crossed the fence tonight. You, good citizens, stay quiet while I do my business. Let me ask again. Who cut this fence tonight?”

The man stood stiff. “I saw nobody, sir. Absolutely nothing. Fence was fucked like that before I arrived.”

“Very good,” Darko said with a nod. Then, he turned and headed deeper into the Count’s unevenly burned garden.

“That promise won’t last the hour,” Remy said when they were out of earshot. Her staff glowed as well, though for a far more mundane spell. The urn of the undead floated by her side with levitation.

“Of course it won’t,” Darko said. “Just had to quell the riot and buy us some time. This infiltration will be public by tomorrow.”

The Count’s garden showed signs of well-designed symmetry before burning to ash. Torches had been tossed past the fence onto whatever expenses the protesters dared to damage. Bushes smoldered here and there, ash spreading to the paved paths. The worst damage was on the Count’s formerly extravagant patio, which had turned into a bonfire on the second day of the riot.

The torches hadn’t as much as touched the mansion itself. Partly because its walls were a good distance away from the fence, but mostly because Volés was afraid of committing substantial damage. The patio burner was likely hiding by now, desperately hoping his deeds escaped investigation. The excuse of a protest only covered crimes so far.

“You’re absolutely certain, then?” Remy asked. “Count Felrish Mayrell is directly related to the royals. We’re in trouble if we claim that he’s working with Azetoth.”

“If I’m wrong, we’ll be illegally trespassing on a noble’s keep,” Darko said, stepping deeper on the remaining unburnt paths. “If I’m right, we’ll have saved the town. With such results, we’d be bound to have the mission.”

Remy stayed by his side, visibly uncertain. “We’re attacking a noble on your hunch?”

“The cult can’t be anywhere else,” Darko said. “The Count has been acting suspiciously for weeks now, and all his excuses have been proven lies. Felrish, despite the insults he receives, does not have a history of tyranny. Something is up.”

“Sure,” Remy said. “But shouldn’t we consult for a permit first? At least have the Guild backing us up in case we’re wrong?”

“If it’s not us attacking,” Darko said, “the crowd will eventually make their way in. Better for us to complete the job before innocents sacrifice themselves.”

“And the plan?” Shena asked.

“I say we blast right through the front doors.”

“Improvisation.” Shena sighed. “Fantastic.”

Without further arguments from his companions, Darko executed the plan to perfection. He imbued his muscles with vigor, then kicked the mansion’s double doors in the middle. The impact destroyed the lock along with the lower hinge of the left side door. Protesters cheered from behind the front gates.

What greeted them inside was not a panic of servants, and definitely not a refined butler ready to escort them to their appointment. Darko was prepared for a spell about to fly his way, but nothing blasted his head off just yet.

The dark foyer appeared thoroughly vacant. Even the chairs and chandeliers had moved houses.

“Well,” Darko said. He kept the coat of protective vigor wrapped around his skin. Power-hungry as the coating was, something told him he’d require it. “Looks like the Count relocated the party. And without telling us!”

He stepped inside hesitantly, Shena and Remy following suit. From the looks on their faces, Darko knew they shared the angst.

“Darko.” Shena breathed in, her voice unusually deep. “Those scratches on the walls…”

Gorthorn claws, Darko thought. The pattern was as unmistakable as a paw print in snow. “Looks like the nobles have been having some fun.”

Shena scowled. “I’ll burn this place down to cinders with you inside if you don’t get serious right now. They could be here. My people.”

“Sorry,” Darko said.

They stepped further into the foyer with the pace of nervous cats. Something was off, even beyond the wrong that the eyes could see. Every hallway appeared similarly vacant. All that was left behind were shattered lamps and ripped cushions, likely deemed not worth stealing. Claw marks littered the place from carpets to floors.

“Stay on guard,” Darko said. “Something’s still inside. I can feel—”

The sentence was forgotten in an instant as Darko bolted to his left. The tip of his gleaming glyphsword thrust at the throat of whatever had just attempted to sneak a spell at Shena’s throat.

Unfortunately, Darko’s attack didn’t connect. Fortunately, Shena was saved, though startled.

The grinning thing and its puppet hopped backward, eventually landing on the railing of the stairs. It stood on three limbs, the fourth holding a screwed-up puppet.

Darko glanced at Shena. Her breath was heavy from the shock, but she was mostly composed. Good. She wouldn’t make a mistake again. Both girls readied their staves.

“What the hell is that?” Darko asked, facing his enemy.

The thing laughed. Its puppet, Darko realized, was not a puppet at all, but the corpse of a young girl. The body was in good shape and could have been mistaken for alive if not for the needle piercing her heart. Some screwed-up contraption was connected to the needle. A contraption that the monster holding the girl seemed fond of.

On closer look, the monster itself was not a monster either. Technically speaking, Darko’s opponent was a human. A hunched-up gremlin of a mage, wearing a ripped robe. Greasy black hair ran across the woman’s face.

Averia, Tenth Archpriest, Darko thought, recognizing her. A high-ranking cult official, and clearly a victim of a screwed-up experiment. This abomination of a mage was ranked the tenth worst monster within the cult hierarchy.

“She’s fast,” Darko said.

“And rogue.” Remy pointed her staff at the monster. “We should go. This is a fight to the death.”

“And lure that thing to the city? No.”

“Welcome!” Averia screeched and laughed at the same time. “To my sanctua—”

An icicle set home in Averia’s forehead. A sneaky attack from Shena’s left palm. Averia’s eyes lost their light, and blood flowed from the crack in her skull. Darko lowered his sword, certain that the woman was dead.

Then Averia’s chords filled with mana.

Power surged from the young girl’s body into Averia’s chords. Averia’s eyes remained dark, yet she didn’t collapse. By some mystery of black magic, Averia stood. Uncontrolled rogue magic poured from her wounds, filling the air with pressure. The curtains trembled.

Then, by some mindless instinct, Averia picked up her staff.

“Great,” Darko said, feeling his nerves. Whatever Averia had turned into, he knew he couldn’t allow her to regain fighting shape. Rogue mages didn’t follow the rules of mortal men. He lunged forward, sword first, and swiped at Averia’s head.

His blow was blocked by a transparent black blade. Averia cast a spell to turn her staff into a blade that matched Darko’s own.

Damned mages! Darko thought and swiped for another attack. It was blocked; Averia was damn good, even with only one arm. The rogue magic in the air made it hard to concentrate!

No pleas were needed for Shena’s spell of muscle enhancement to find Darko’s body. With her assistance, his swipes held the upper hand. The advantage lasted for roughly one second, up to the moment when more magical nonsense sprouted out of Averia’s staff.

The black sword multiplied to three. The two clones were wielded by floating arms. Three overhead swipes approached Darko from every side of his vision.

He managed to block two left side swings with his sword. He had no time for the third, trusting it for his mages to deal with. And thank the Moons they succeeded. A shockwave blasted the last sword out of trajectory.

The shockwave also blasted Darko in the back, sending him straight to the face of the monster.

With little time for calculations, he planted his sword into Averia’s abdomen. He jumped back just as a counterattack slashed the air where his neck stood moments ago.

Surely, it’s dead, Darko thought between ragged breaths. Two lethal blows. Darko had killed his hallmark wyvern with less.

They watched with dread as Averia stood on two legs, sword and icicle still piercing her vitals.

Icicle - As the name implies, the spell forms and shoots out an icicle. It’s a simple trick and effective on mana, costing essentially nothing to cast. Don’t let this fool you, however. A proficient icicle is as sharp as a bullet, and as swift as a black cat in a dark alley.

I find it entertaining how Krose mana scientists required centuries to invent such a simple spell.

* Goddess Shiela’s description of the spell “icicle”