The Future.
The yawning maw of the Elder Chaos stretched below the Sorceress, churning with coils of multicoloured light that would have blinded the eyes of a mortal. It was like a living hurricane , breathing choking clouds of purple smog. Eyes and tendrils appeared and disappeared within the miasma, entire ecosystems of chaotic life all tied to a single entity.
The Sorceress stood aloft on a floating chunk of rocky debris, her hands resting in side the pockets of her maroon coat. She smirked, heedless of the whipping winds that lashed toward her.
You. Fae-blooded human.
The voice was like a distant rumble of thunder, assaulting her ears and mind simultaneously. The young woman scarcely stirred, taking only a moment to adjust her hat atop her head.
Why have you come here? My realm is not for your kind. I disdain mortals, especially those who manipulate magic to their own ends.
The woman strode to the end of the precipice, a ruby glow shining in her pupils. "I have questions. And you're going to answer them for me."
The maelstrom below rumbled violently, a surge of power doubling the force of gravity in the area. The Sorceress didn't judge, even as the strain slammed into her shoulders like a sledgehammer.
Answers? You make DEMANDS of me?! Who are YOU to make demands of ME?!
A flash of white light shone from the depths of the churning chaos, containing enough force to flatten a city in an instant. The Sorceress flicked her hand up in that fleeting zeptosecond before the blast could make contact, drawing a series of symbols in her mind. Power surged from her Golden Core, pulsed through her meridians, and instantaneously took shape.
Shield. Density multiplication five. Bubble.
A golden shimmering bubble of light flashed around her. It met the oncoming torrent of power head on, white hot heat blazing around the edges. Yet even a tide of power that could wink entire cities out of existence did not break her barrier. It withstood the raging storm for several seconds, before the indignant fury of the entity subsided.
Silence filled the vast, desolate dimension. "I'm the Fulcrum," she eventually replied. She shook some of the numbness from out outstretched hand. "And this is my job. So you can either spare us some trouble and do this the easy way, or..."
The Sorceress clenched her fist, drawing more arcane symbols in her mind. Storm clouds burst to life above her, radiating with pulses of sapphire lightning. They grew outward, billowing with a terrible intensity, until she had fashioned a colossal thunderhead that dwarfed her in size.
"... Or the hard way."
Outwardly she was the image of confidence. Ice cold, unflappable.
Inwardly, she was screaming.
How the hell did I end up in this godforsaken situation?!
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
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The Present.
Death had been nipping at his heels for a long time now, and it had finally managed to sink its jaws into his heel. Yeats staggered through rainslick alleyways, clutching the oozing wound on his right side. Blood continued to pump through the soaked fabric of his shirt, and each step sent a sharp stab of pure agony through his whole body. The sorcerer, tall and rakish, was left hunched as he struggled to find a handhold on the wall.
"Damnation," Yeats wheezed, nearly tripping over his feet.
They'd gotten him good alright. That complimentary part of his brain had to give them that much. Wearing him down with attacks from monsters and lesser sorcerers, before their pet hitman clipped him in the gut with an adamantine bullet. And whatever runes were inscribed upon the metal had served to burn through his body on a physical and mystical level, scorching his meridians and his Golden Core. He could cast any Signs to defend himself, couldn't even escape back to Earth. And that assassin was still pursuing him.
Death was coming his way with the crushing inevitability of gravity.
Rounding a corner, and nearly tipping over a few refuse bins in his haste, the redhead pressed on. If he could at least muster the energy to create an Opening Sign, then he'd be able to put some distance between himself and the rest of Stygia. But he wouldn't put it past his enemies to pursue him across dimensions. For all his meddling, they dearly wanted him dead. And heading back home would just paint a target on the heads of his allies.
Still, something had to be done about all this. Those bastards wouldn't be content with just sinking their claws into Stygia. They'd keep going, expand into any other dimension that couldn't rebuff them. And, eventually, they'd reach Earth.
If that happened... when that happened, it would be a damn cataclysm.
Footsteps sounded from somewhere in the fog behind him, making Yeats grimace. No point in calling for help. The locals were smart enough not to get involved. And it wasn't like random strangers would be much use against an evil sorcerer.
Sucking air through his teeth, Yeats reached up from his aching chest wound and into the interior of his duster. His bloodied fingers settled around his holstered pistol. The sorcerer's last resort, as Darren jokingly called it. Truthfully, Yeats disdained even carrying the thing. But it was the only weapon he had to hand.
He pressed on, shaky on his legs. Maybe he could find shelter in one of the buildings? If he was lucky enough to stumble onto an unlocked door. He smiled grimly. No, even if he was that lucky, it wouldn't stop his opponent from tracking him. Not when he couldn't cast any Signs to hide his presence. Today simply wasn't his day.
Another footstep echoed behind him, louder and more deliberate this time. He was only a few paces away now. Yeats grit his teeth. No point in trying to run any further. He drew his pistol in a flash and spin around, streaks of ruby moonlight breaking through the clouds to illuminate the metal.
A split second later, before he could even squeeze the trigger, a wave of force slammed into his chest. Yeats was flung backward with a blow stronger than a mule's kick, a shocked wheeze being shunted from his lungs. The pistol flew from his grasp and clattered away in the rain some distance away. Well and truly out of reach.
Yeats landed on his back, kicking up a splash of water around him. He shuddered, winced, and tried to sit upright. Pain radiated through his abdomen, his side and hip throbbing with every breath. Blackness swam in the edges of his eyes, and a dull ache pulsed against the back of his head.
A silhouette appeared in the fog, drawing closer and closer. A Sign floated above his right shoulder, casting a faint ruby glow into the alleyway. He wasn't making any move to disguise the symbol, a sideways arrow piercing through a ring, as it slowly dissolved away. Why bother hiding your Signs when your opponent could do nothing against them?
"I'll commend your spirit, Yeats. In truth, I wouldn't kill you if I didn't have to. But, well, the Empire won't tolerate your survival. Not after how much of a meddler you've been. Surely, you must have seen this coming," the stranger said, speaking in a low, dull voice.
Yeats tried to force himself upright, but his body refused to believe him. His breath emerged in pale steaming clouds, the exertion making his muscles scream in agony. Propping himself up with an elbow was the best he could manage. "You're making a mistake," he huffed. "You kill me... you'll be offending people far more powerful than I."
"I know what you are," the silhouette replied, "as does the Empire. But, Fulcrum or not, they want you dead. It is what it is." He raised his pistol and took aim, leaving the sorcerer staring down the broad barrel.
He reached deep inside himself, trying to will his Golden Core back to life. No such luck, his magic was frozen in place, as useless as a broken limb. Whatever enchantment was on those bullets, it was probably designed to last for an hour, at least.
Yeats closed his eyes, a sad smile appearing on his face. So, this was it. So many scrapes with death, countless adventures, and it all came to an end at the barrel of a gun. So many regrets flashed in his head in that moment, all the things he wished he could have said, everything he would have done differently if he had another chance. And the biggest regret of them all still loomed large in his head, just as it had for nearly 18 years since he made the hardest decision of his entire life.
"You'll lose, in the end," he eventually said. "I hope you understand that."
"It's the Nomadic Empire, Yeats," the silhouette replied. He cocked the hammer of his pistol, the noise echoing endlessly in Yeats' ears. "They've never known defeat."
The last thing to cross Yeats' mind, other than an adamantine bullet, was a single name:
'Erin.'