Hacksaw is dead.
Mahala knew that to be true, but the pitiful fool seemed to forget that. She still saw him next to her, the top of his face still missing. All that remained was his lower jaw and his bottom teeth, and from the gaping maw spilled out a bouquet of wolfsbane. His tongue occasionally flailed as he attempted words, but it came out only as a dying gurgle. He opted to wave the bloody stub of his wrist around like a conductor’s baton. The other hand danced sharply, matching her shallow breaths.
The Yarths had thrown her back into her cell; the front buttons of her shirt torn open, more nails hammered in to create a bold jagged circle around her wyrm. Her new heavy metal-forged muzzle made it difficult to lift her head— custom-made jewellery just for her. Heavy chains behind her back weighed down her hands.
The wyrm wept red, bloody tears dripping from her chest.
“I’m sorry, Hacksaw,” she whispered.
He shook his fist at her.
“This is all my fault… I was a complete idiot…”
Her first sob caused the skin around the nails to split.
“You even believed that I could control my wyrm… you helped me even knowing I was infected… you saw hope in me…” A tear mixed in with the blood, but only the one. The rest had long run dry when the hammer started swinging.
Wolfsbane petals fluttered to the ground and melted into brain matter and teeth.
“Nothos forgive me…”
“Y’think Nothos is listenin’?”
Mahala’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness. She saw Dusk limping closer to her cell, leaning against the bars. The boy looked awful; his face swollen with bruises, at least one bootprint outlined on his shirt, a couple of fingers crooked and purple — and jangling with a set of keys.
For all Mahala knew, the boy was dead like Hacksaw.
“Wake up, Lady. Nothos ain’t gonna do the work for us,” Dusk spat. “If ya want justice and mercy, ya gotta do it with your own hands.”
He started jabbing various keys into the lock until one finally twisted and opened. He staggered inside, bringing in a delicious stench of blood that warmed the wyrm.
“What are you doing?” Mahala asked. Is he alive? “You shouldn’t be here… you’ll get into trouble.”
Hacksaw’s arms went still.
“Gonna be in trouble anyway. Nicked keys from my shitty old man,” Dusk laughed. “Wish I could see the look on his face when he figures it out.”
He collapsed in front of her, wincing.
“...let’s burn it all down, Lady,” said Dusk.
Mahala just closed her eyes and tried to find her memories. She would rather see Adelei, feel Sister Zvie’s comforting hands– All she got were small hands shaking her back to this horrible moment.
“Let’s burn it all down!” He refused to let her rest. “These bastards had it a long time comin’! They think they can do whatever they want and still pray at the shrine every week to uphold justice for ‘em. They’re fuckin’ bastards!”
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“Leave me alone,” Mahala whined. “I can’t do anything.”
He bared his teeth, generations of malice distorting this child’s face. The same malice Mahala knew too well.
“You can do the one thing I can’t. You can fight back. You’re the justice Nothos sent here. He knows this shithole deserves it!” he insisted.
A bitter laugh broke through her. “Justice? I’m just a curse. Like you.”
Dusk’s face fell. He let go of Mahala for a moment as her words echoed through his skull. When the echoes evaporated, he slapped her so hard across the face that her head swung aside.
“Wake up, Lady!” he shouted. “Look what they’ve done to me! Look what they’ve done to you! What did we do ta deserve this? Just because I was born a few after that twat? Just because you got sick? They made us inta curses!”
Sister Zvie told Mahala the same thing — that she was only born minutes after her twin. How could such a short period of time determine her fate? Sister Zvie died with no answers for her.
Bastard.
Before Nevermind Yarth had her thrown back into her cell, he reviewed a telegraph of the rendezvous point to exchange her with Shirans. He probably didn’t even ask what they were going to do with her.
Bastard.
The Yarths loudly celebrated their pending payout. Chatting excitedly about it whilst they smoked and boozed the night away, not caring that it clouded their sobriety — their dignity. As if they had any.
Bastards.
The entire village turned a blind eye to the Yarths so they could share in the dirty wealth it brought. They justified it, just like Nanny, worshipping criminals like they were the heroes who saved the village, not the devils who would damn it.
Bastards.
“I’ll be back in the morning, Jewel.” Nanny called her Jewel, not milady.
Did the old bat think all because I’m bitten, she doesn't have to call me milady anymore?
Fine then.
Tonight, I’m no Lady. Tonight, I’m—
“Dusk,” Mahala said quietly.
The boy waited a long moment, confused. “Yeah, what?”
Mahala struggled to sit up. “Get these nails out of me.”
Dusk studied the bloody metal circle. “I got a toolbox… but no somnleaf.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to pain.” Mahala didn’t need her thoughts clouded by drugs. She needed to be sober and alert with a fresh aching reminder for why she wanted this.
The boy tried to start with her muzzle, but she insisted on the nails first. No bindings would stop the wyrm once it was free. One by one, like the buttons of her shirt. But this time it wasn’t Hacksaw’s earnest gaze, or the open sky’s vast embrace, instead it was the claw of a rusty hammer. Dusk mustering every bone in his body to undo the work of three grown men. He used the cage to brace against his broken-toed feet, each nail in Mahala driven so deep that barely any space was left between her flesh and the head for the hammer claw to fit. It would have been easier to cut them out. But Hacksaw was dead. Mahala should be dead.
She screamed and thrashed with each one. Hot tears seared her face and she broke at least three of her nails clawing at the cold ground.
Hacksaw dutifully conducted each of her screams as if performing for an orchestra.
Despite the rage of his words prior, a cold sweat broke across Dusk’s brow, a tremor in his bloody hands. “Lady–”
“Keep going!” Mahala hissed at him.
So he did. And the ground became littered with bloody bent nails.
Hacksaw’s wrist drew circles in the air, and with it, the crescendo of shouting men in a Northern accent.
“We’re outta time,” Dusk muttered, but still plucked away at the next nail.
Even as the cell door burst open, Dusk kept working.
“Little fucker!” a Yarth man seethed.
He kicked Dusk off Mahala, tearing the last nail with him.
As Yarth men levelled their weapons, Mahala’s body heated up, smoke venting from her lips. She rose to her feet, the chains and muzzle weighing no more than the jewellery they called it.
She heard a gunshot.
No, a tear.
Her body had ripped itself apart, exploding with thick ropes of muscle and a chainmail of iridescent scales. The roots of the wyrm inside her body had finally blossomed into a tree that embraced the sky as the roof tore open. Mahala’s fingernails regrew, then kept growing into massive claws.
She raised her arms, embracing the sky as the roof tore open, welcoming the pain as the flesh split open, bones outgrowing skin. Ribcage creaking as it stretched open, her spine crackled as new limbs tore free, creating long whipping tentacles. Her back flayed itself raw to open up leathered wings, making her finally big enough to be the one to cast giant shadows over the weak.
The pain was welcome, and so was the look on the Yarth men’s faces. Some started shooting with their firearms in a panic, and the rest of them ran. Mahala would let none escape.
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Dusk gaped from the floor, crying and shuddering. He may have laughed or sobbed.
Mahala became nearly incomprehensible; a giant reptilian monster with an abnormally long neck; frilled with giant keratin plates and multiple tentacles that lashed out from under it. Her body was a patchwork of scales, bones and spikes between raw flesh, exuding boiling steam from her molten core. Her face consisted more of a bone helmet with two layers of teeth and five eyes that rolled around, catching every little instance happening around her.
She bundled Dusk up with the tentacles and had him perch on her shoulder. Tonight was their night.
It was joy that screamed fire at the Yarth men. They squealed like the pathetic little rats they were, flailing and struggling as they roasted, toasty like her favourite snack on a skewer. They quickly reduced to charred little stick insects.
This is the price of your vice!
Hacksaw stood atop of the debris that had been her prison. He directed her to the village square, still lit up, music in the wind.
Her rage hungered for more.
She wormed forward like a newborn baby still learning to walk. Her wings were enormous but the forearms attached to it were strong and muscular. They forced the tree giants to reel back as a storm kicked up around her.
It was with pain and grief and sharp, all-consuming hatred that she opened her mouth, and roared. It echoed through the valley, ringing through the caves and the villager’s hearts with fear.
It summoned more Yarth men with weapons. They were rather organised for a simple gang of mountain thugs. In the distance, she spotted more men setting up mountain artillery with shaking hands.
Her wings snapped open, and carried her among the clouds once again, beholding the scenic highlands bathed in moonlight. It would look spectacular with fireworks.
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Mortars spat exploding shells into the air. They were hardly a tickle compared to the iron nails. She roared back with a stream of fire at the artillery. Everything exploded one by one. The mechanisms, the ammunition, the gunners, pieces of metal and men flying through the air.
She crash landed into a collection of stone houses. They were built to withstand mountain gales but not a giant beast. Just paper doll houses under her feet.
Even half-slipping off her, Dusk laughed. She’d nearly forgotten he was still with her.
But she could never forget Hacksaw; bleeding wolfsbane from his open jaw, now dancing amid the fleeing villagers. His arms were in a frenzy, conducting the fire. His good hand pointed at the next section of the orchestra.
At her cue, Nanny Pond scrambled by, dragging another old woman with her.
Mahala considered squashing her, but then thought of something more delicious. Her claws caged around Pond and she turned to face the farmlands. She screamed with everything in her body, raining fire onto the blackpearl trees, turning them to chars instead. She made sure to even get the recently planted vegetable plots. They would have nothing, just like her.
Pond broke into a snivelling mess under her claws.
“Please no!” she shrieked. “Nothos save us!”
Dusk is right. Nothos isn’t listening.
Or perhaps he was. Wail scrambled by, looking more feeble than she remembered. He knocked over several villagers as he tried to distance himself from Mahala.
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Hacksaw’s hand shook, impatient for her to speed up. The cries of Pelebris jumped octaves. It was usually her least favourite part, and she was out of practice. That didn’t bother her though. She knew she would hit the right notes, an intoxicating warmth gathering at her throat once more.
Mahala Pesh was finally in control for the first time, and it felt—
“My lady…”
Mahala choked on cinders. She had heard him say that so many times the past week, but this one rang crystal clear, without the haze of her longing.
Standing on the roof of one of the enduring houses was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He wore a severe black coat with the hood up, revealing just a glint of black scleras and his chitin half-mask which would unfold into a cockroach’s mouth. In his gloved hand dangled the switchsword that left a permanent mark on her wyrm.
All the homunculi towered over everyone, cutting an imposing figure to anyone on the other end of their blades. It felt strange being the one that loomed over them. Luck had to crane his neck to meet Mahala’s eyes, even while standing on top of a building.
Mahala couldn’t speak. The fear that he was real crept up to her.
“My lady, I know it’s you. Please stop this,” he said.
He couldn’t be here. She couldn’t let him see her like this; overexposed, raw. Infected. She tried to take a small step back, but it shifted a cascade of stone bricks and the fire lapped around it.
Luck held up a hand. “Calm down, my lady. This isn’t you, don’t let the wyrm control you.”
Those were not the words she expected.
Controlling me? No, I’m the one in control.
She looked to Hacksaw for affirmation, but saw only burning debris and razed farms, heard only cries of despair and confusion.
I did all this… while being in control.
“Oh gods…” Mahala broke down. “N-No… I didn’t… Please don’t look…!”
She hid her face in her hands and crumbled to her knees.
“I didn’t do this! I-It was all the wyrm!”
She curled up on the ground, wishing it would just open up and swallow her whole so no one could see her. A raw chill cut through her. She tried to hug around the wyrm, hoping it’d warm her back up, but her teeth rattled and ice nipped at her skin, as if her scales were gone.
When Mahala finally opened her eyes, she saw her own knees, hunched in front of her. Naked brown skin. Her hands were human with oval nails instead of claws.
Footsteps approached. Luck once again towered over her, the switchsword still in hand.
“S-See… this is the real me…” she said. “Th-The wyrm made me… do all these horrible things… have these thoughts…”
The hood concealed Luck’s face. She couldn’t see what face he made. Eventually, his weapon dropped to his side and he unbuttoned his coat.
He draped it over her shoulders. It didn’t occur to Mahala she was naked until then. She made sure to cover the wyrm with an arm.
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“My lady,” he said, dropping one knee to a bow. “Apologies for how long it has taken to find you. The Lord Protector has requested you return home.”
Her face fell. “N-N-No… he can’t see me like this…”
“He is anxious to have you back, my lady. He’s had us scour the mountain for days and—”
“What are you doing?” Dusk yelled. “Why did you stop?”
The two of them saw Dusk in the middle of the road, looking even more bruised and singed. His hands were pressed against his side, blood soaking through his shirt. Between his fingers jutted a piece of a mortar shell.
Blood spurted out between stolen words and the boy collapsed.
Mahala scrambled towards him, tripping on all fours. “No, no, no!”
“My lady—” Luck protested.
She dropped to Dusk’s side, hands furiously tapping his shoulders. He didn’t respond.
“Please help him, Luck! I’ll do anything you want, just do something!” she sobbed.
Luck sighed. He hunched over opposite her, a hand on his chest as he tried to figure which spell to aid him. His eyes closed in concentration.
Mahala clasped her hands together in a prayer. “Please… please—”
Sharp pain stabbed through her skull. The world started spinning and the ground met her side. Her vision blurred into a red haze. Luck’s black boots darted out of frame. She could make out Dusk’s face across from her; his eyes glazed over, a bloody smile.
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“You were beautiful…” She thought she heard him say.
Screams jumped in right after which made her headache even worse.
Mahala rolled onto all fours and shoved the ground away from her. Her feet stumbled like a drunken mess, the wyrm’s tendrils slither out of her nose, eyes, and mouth, trying to stitch her headache back together.
“You’re no Lady!” she heard Nanny Pond scream. “You’re a—”
When her eyes finally landed on Nanny Pond, the old woman was already collapsed in a pool of blood, a shotgun in her hand. A black blur darted between the straggling villagers. They all collapsed, holding onto their bloody throats.
Another blink, Luck appeared at her side again, letting her trip into his arms.
“My lady, you should stay lying down, you’ve been…” he trailed off.
Mahala groaned and pushed him away. His coat slipped off her shoulders, the ugly bundle of tendrils on full display. It glowed red, begging for attention, like a child seeking praise for a destroyed sandcastle.
“D-Don’t look…” she gurgled.
She couldn’t let him take her back to her father like this. Not with the burning village, the wyrm, the awful state of her face. She couldn’t let anyone know what the Lady of Pomolin had become.
“If you hate, you lose, child of Dusk,” her father reminded.
She turned away from him. Wings sprouted again and launched her escape to the sky.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The second wave of homunculi had teleported into the village. The third and fourth would be short behind. Even with spacetime magic, sweeping the mountains made it a gruelling task.
Luck was exhausted, but here he was, full sprint chasing after the Lady turned into a giant flying draconic abomination.
“Lady Mahala, stop!” Luck yelled.
She didn’t hear him. Or she was ignoring him. He deserved that.
She also didn’t see or was actively ignoring the unit of homunculi teleporting after her. Switchswords in hand, they scratched at her wings and limbs. She knocked them off with powerful swoops of her forearms. Her body stretched and contorted, heavily armoured jasper scales taking the place of the beautiful brown he knew. If she kept growing at this rate, she could become too big to be cut down.
One soldier landed on her back and his switchsword exploded by the base of her wing. She thrashed wildly, knocking him away, but another soldier teleported in his place, exploding his switchsword there too. It did not slow her down. A third explosion drew a howl. She tumbled through the air, spinning wildly like a prototype biplane, sending everyone on her flying off.
Luck chased after Mahala as she fell, shedding scales and flesh mass. In the dark sky, the wyrm had been bright and brilliant. But his Lady was so small, a dark pinprick in the stars. But even then, his eyes followed on her — would always follow her — and he teleported midair to catch her, bundling her in his coat and arms once more.
He teleported again just in time to avoid crashing through a branch. He reappeared on a sharp slope, skidding through moss and bushes on his back, keeping Mahala safe against his chest through it all.
He breathed hard. Still alive. And so was she; even managing to survive a shot in the head.
“Spread out! She can’t have gone far!” One of his homunculi brothers.
“Which one of us caught her?”
“I couldn’t see properly.”
Luck sat up, about to call them over, announce that the Lady was here—
“Don’t look… don’t look… please…” Mahala murmured.
She shifted, still half asleep, her forehead covered in blood, but the exit wound seemed to have sealed itself. He wiped it clean with his glove. The skin appeared a little swollen and pink scars remained. He imagined those would disappear too shortly.
“This way!” One of his brothers drew closer.
Luck didn’t say anything.
A branch snapped. He spun around, switchsword unfolded, Mahala pressed tightly to his chest.
“M-Mome comes in peace!” It sounded like a child.
“Show yourself,” Luck demanded.
A young girl peered from behind a tree. He saw her ears before the rest of her, a pair of long rabbit ears standing on end. He noted the black sclera of her wide eyes and the red priestess robes she donned.
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“Th-This one graciously presents herself as Mome Samawyn, apprentice Magus of Prayer,” she said as she fidgeted. “Mome wishes to help, sir.”
Illeism. An outdated way of talking from one of Pomolin’s vassal states. He no longer remembered its name. Along with the clothes and appearance, it all matched the memories of Tibalt Kinderum for the young apprentice. Luck lowered his sword.
“You want to help?” he said.
Mome bobbed her head. “Yes, Mome wishes to help the Lady, just like Sir Homunculus.”
“How can you help?”
“Mome can boost Sir Homunculus’ spell! So he can do a super teleport like no other!”
The little girl offered her hand to Luck. He tried processing what options he had and what the hell she was even talking about. He had exhausted all his magic reserves, cooldown needed too long to recover, and there was no way he could outrun his brothers.
Tibalt Kinderum’s memories firmly stated the Magus of Prayer had no real magic. This way, they would not be bound by any leylines, allowing them to guide apprentice magi to their masters. He couldn't fathom what a glorified priest could do to help in his situation.
“Clear! March forward!” he heard through the treeline.
The Lady stirred in his arms.
The young apprentice wiggled her fingers eagerly.
“Fuck it,” Luck grunted and clasped her hand.
Magic shocked through his system. Warmth ebbed through her hand and into his very soul. His reserves replenished, and his spatial awareness compass abruptly expanded. He sensed everything happening on the highlands including the position of every villager and soldier.
He teleported.
No one except the Magus of Time could teleport more than one additional soul at a time. And now, Unlucky was an exception.
His eyes locked at pinpoint locations, timed just right to avoid his brothers’ detection. It was a game of hide-and-seek he should never have been able to win. Yet he shimmered in and out of space, faster and faster, and as his eyes spun to dance around every moving body on the sensory map, his mind grew.
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The number of spells whirring through him should have fried his soul, but Mome clung to his arm, and everything circulated and cooled down as fast as he could blink.
He glimpsed a faraway town from the top of one of the mountains. It was barely a speck of colour in the night. His soul rattled and his eyes burned until he went blind. All the breath forced out of his body in a cold flush and he lurched forward.
Luck landed hard on one knee, Mahala somehow still in his arms. His entire body heaved with desperate breaths. Mome held his shaking hand, sparks of warmth still lingering.
“Goodness, we went far!” Mome exclaimed.
They were in a town far enough that the Bankalz Highlands was nothing more than a pretty picture on the horizon.
Luck’s face-plates broke open, his mandibles wringing its arms together as it took large gulps of air. He still could not speak. Spots of his vision took their time in returning.
Mome let go of his hand and all the magic left in his body sputtered so hard, he nearly threw up.
“Mome will be back soon. Rest well, Sir Homunculus,” she said.
“Wait–”
Even a homunculus with spacetime magic at his fingertips was unable to catch little Mome Samawyn. She slipped through his fingers, leaving nothing but the hum of leylines.
The Magus of Prayer had no known magic. Yet her apprentice disappeared before him, had somehow recharged his soul with more magic his body had ever circulated without him combusting.
His ebbing vision slowly painted a clearer picture of Mahala in his arms. Faint scars dashed her face, which did nothing to take away her beauty. Her eyes moved underneath the lids in a frantic dream, her lips quivered with small sounds. His hands trembled as he touched her cheek.
For just a minute, he let himself hold her, head bowed. Relief sank into his tired arms. She usually was coated by perfumes, and now, she only carried the scent of ash.
“Don’t look…” she murmured once again.
“No one will see you until you are ready, my lady,” he replied, his voice thick.
Pelebris was but a distant dream now.