"I am Arthur Bell, knight of the noble House Laurent!"

"Enough, Arthur. I'm not going to knight you."

I never thought I’d be at a period in my life where I’d need to tail people.

Of course, that was a very stupid notion, considering the fact that being a Seeker basically necessitated being able to track things— whether it be people or objects or some other manner of monster.

But it seemed life, or the Angels— the terribly contradictory beings that they were— often had other plans for me.

So, crouched behind yet another dumpster crowded by ratty, molding boxes, were Arthur and I, pressed flat against the brick wall and each other, hoping that Scabs and his friend hadn’t spotted us out from over fifty feet away.

The two had spun around after a fashion of being tailed, letting out a loud, comical, “think someone’s followin’ us?” like some poor guards from a heroic theater production. There was a part of me that truly did want to laugh in disbelief. But it wasn’t funny, and the quiet part that saw the comedy was quickly strangled by its much louder, much more paranoid twin.

Scabs and his friend had been nonchalantly walking through the alley, Arthur and I doing our best to quietly trail them from a distance, using dumpsters and other miscellaneous decrepit alley detritus as cover, before Scabs had turned. The tall man had spun with such speed and little warning, that in our haste, Arthur and I had both haphazardly leapt to the closest cover.

That cover, a dumpster crowded by destitute containers, and obviously unused to having two bodies thrown into it suddenly, gave a metallic, empty thud, along side the snapping of the tumbling containers.

There, leaned halfway against Arthur among the broken crates and crumbling mortar, my heart had decided to handily leap itself into my throat, strangling any kind of snooty snark I could’ve made. I swallowed once, trying and failing to reign in the carefully dampened adrenaline that frantically pulsed in my ears. Distancing myself from Arthur, I stayed latched to the wall, unable and unwilling to respond.

“Well— someones certainly followin’ us,” Scabs’ friend drawled.

“Silence, Patches,” responded Scabs, handing off a shovel to him. “Come on out,” he called, voice wiry and willowed, “’fore we make you.”

As if anyone would be stupid enough to do that.

I sent a silent look to Arthur, who didn’t return it, instead, looked fixated on the two of them, having quickly stood up and brushed the snow off his cloak. He had that same odd expression on his face— eager— but not quite, expectant, maybe? I frowned. I… I didn’t know what to make of it.

Then, to my mounting shock and against any rationale I could follow, Arthur stepped out into the center of the alley, fully into view of Scabs and Patches, who were staring back with leaden gazes.

“A noble brat!“ Patches’s face lit up, and his gaze flickered to me, still partially hidden behind a mess of pipework and rotted wood. “And your little friend…”

“You’re wrong!” cried Arthur, voice steady and echoing far too loudly in this alley. “I am no noble—“

Excuse me— my mind stuttered to a halt, disbelief briefly drowning fear. What.

“Arthur,” I warned, but he continued on, as if he hadn’t heard me.

“— but Arthur Bell!” He paused, as if for dramatic effect, before brandishing his blade. “What have you done with Clara?”

From the looks of Scabs and Patches, whose faces were still set into keen eagerness, they weren’t exactly sure what to make of Arthur either. Arthur gave me a brief glance, as if urging me to join him— I crammed down the confusion, bottling it beneath the fear— ignore it, worry about it later— you’ve bigger things to worry about— and slowly moved to stand behind Arthur.

Scabs and Patches gave each other a grim, disbelieving look, grumbling something I couldn’t make out, before hefting their shovels. “Don’ think you want this, kids,” Patch called, having adopted a hard expression.

“It doesn’t matter what they want, Patches,” replied Scabs, tone suddenly hostile. He was glaring at me from across the alley. “Look at the girl. You were right the first time.”

“Oh. Tha’ one’s a noble.”

“And she’sa mage.”

“I guess we really do have to pay ‘em back, then.”

My frown became a scowl, and I ignored the silent urge to shy away, instead adjusting my grip on my wand. After another heartbeat, in which Arthur lifted his sword, and the two started forward, I took a steadying, shaking breath.

Try stalling?

“Really think you can handle the two of us?” I called, my voice echoing with bluster I didn’t feel. I wanted to turn around to run from this, but Arthur stayed firmly rooted to the spot, adopting a steely look.

Patches bit out a clipped snort. “No doubt in my mind, missy! Ya noble types are all the same, anyway.”

I narrowed my eyes, and my hand wound into Arthur’s sleeve, gently tugging as they advanced. I wanted to stall more, try to fish for information— try to prepare myself for the next moments. Arthur acquiesced, shooting me a look before following my lead.

“What do you mean by that?”

They stalled for a moment, brief confusion tinged with derision in their expression. The two shot a glance to one another, before Patches hissed: “Typical— tha’ the noble brat don’t even know.”

I shot a look behind me, before shortly coming to the realization we certainly would not be able to outrun them. Arthur, maybe, with his Shroud, but I— admittedly— was woefully unused to running. My scowl grew, and I gauged the distance between us and them. Thirty-five feet now, maybe— they were walking faster than we were backing up.

“Elle—“ Arthur quietly hissed.

“I know—“

“Oh—“ Scabs drawled “— did that comment get on yer nerves?”

“Don’ bother,” Patches drawled. “They all react the same anyhow.”

It was roughly at twenty feet that any notion of stalling was thrown out the window. My mind quickly came to the abrupt reality that this wasn’t working, and to focus on the task at hand; namely, getting Arthur and I out of us alive. I ignored the pounding of my heart in my ears, the simmering panic that threatened to bubble over, and readjusted my grip on my wand.

[][][]

I’d mentioned before that I’d been in precious few fights.

The couple that I were in— nothing more than light bouts or practice spars— hadn’t prepared me for actual combat. In spars, we had several safety nets— things that shielded you from the fear of injury; whether it be holding our blows or knowing that it won’t go far. But training only took you so far. No matter how much you prepared— knowing you’re going to get hit was very different from actually getting hit.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Of course, I’d taken courses on combat— they were required for us— that’d given me directives on what or how to do something to achieve victory. Things like employing spells that restricted your opponents movement, keeping the right distance, and making you were in a position to react on a dime. Though— for mages— it mostly boiled down to: Keep your distance. Don’t get stabbed.

“Split ‘em,” Scabs calmly ordered, and I felt the calm weight of shifting ether settling over everyone but me. I didn’t bother— I couldn’t Shroud, regardless. Patches broke off from his side, kicking up a cloud of snow as he dashed towards me like a cracking whip.

In an instant, in a moment of smashing metal, Arthur stepped onto Patches path, blade catching his shovel briefly, before whirling to meet Scabs, who swung his shovel with vicious strength. Patches took his opportunity to slip past Arthur, much to his calling dismay.

“Elle!” he warned, then groaned again when Scabs nearly caught him with a swing.

“Gettin’ distracted with yer missy?” he taunted.

Instinctively, I backed up, feeling a welling, rising chill settle over me. Wordlessly, flourishing my wand through the air, beads of ice grew, no larger than a pea and hanging in the air between Patches and I.

Patches sped to a halt, coming to a sudden stop at the edge of where the ice began, wary. I stood on the other side, eyeing the shovel he held in both hands. No doubt, it would hurt— but it was— traditionally— less deadly than a blade.

Not like that matters if he can Shroud— and from how quickly he had closed that initial distance— there was a good chance he could. A shovel can kill you just as easily if the strength behind it is enough.

Behind Patches, Scabs had locked Arthur into a tenuous stalemate. Each time Arthur attempted to get past him, Scabs would meet him, keeping himself between him and Patches.

Dredging up more ether, I silently casted more beads of ice in the field between Patches and I, simultaneously hoping that he both would and wouldn’t attempt getting to me.

Then, Patches spun, and I knew immediately they’d planned to go after Arthur. Cursing, I moved to follow, only to almost trip and stumble to a stop when Patches spun again, slinging a wooden box towards me.

Eyes widening and with a twist of reflex, several beads of ice bloomed, elongating into thin spears that pin-cushioned the box midair.

The box burst, Patches charging through it in the brief seconds my sight had been obstructed— more of the ice beads sprung forward, but his shovel crashed into my stomach, flinging me away from him. The hold on my spell slipped.

I heard Arthur shout something, among the blossoming of starry-eyed pain in my vision. I heaved, nausea bumbling at the back of my throat— no longer dampened by the ether that’d just deserted me. Keeled, struggling to fully breathe and abdomen stinging with thunderous pain, I tried— and failed to get up, numb hands clenching ineffectually at the snow. It felt oddly reminiscent of when I woke choking on dirt. The last of my ice crack and fall apart around Patches, useless, unused, not even having reached him.

The reality set in like cold bricks in my stomach. This was a fight. There was no instructor overseeing it, no saving grace, no promise that it’d end cleanly, no safety nets, no guarantees. This was no spar, no bout, nor competition. This would only end when one party was unable to continue, and from their attitude, it seemed it would be death.

My brain sputtered, fear and pain clouding any other action I could’ve taken. I coughed again, rubbing at the sharp pain in my side, while struggling to stand. Patches blurrily approached from a distance away, seemingly not in a hurry as I braced myself against the wall. The crumbling mortar felt like silt beneath my nails.

“Aye— just give up already, yea?” Patches drawled. “You ain’t winnin’, dear.”

I couldn’t respond, still trying and failing to get a decent breath in. My vision began to dance, and I cradled a hand to my side, like I could take away the pain there if I tried hard enough. I’d dropped my wand when he hit me, and my glasses laid somewhere behind Patches, who was now only a stone’s throw from me.

“Gah— you nobles are all the same— too prideful for your own good.”

Letting out a cloudy breath, the pain slightly alleviated, numbed by a faint chill. Patches kept walking forward, and I instinctively scrambled to take a half-step back. He stepped in front of me, stopping in front of me.

My eyes fluttered, and I saw Patches raise his shovel over his head, and in a moment of pure fear, I slung the hand that’d been steadying me in front of me, releasing a fistful of dusted mortar. It wasn’t much of a cloud— I could still see him through it, a look of determination as he swung, but it was enough.

The cloud flew into his eyes, and his gaze narrowed slightly, ever-so-slightly blurred.

That, in combination with the fact I was no longer braced against the wall, I let myself fall to the side, focusing solely on the ether, will and dust that hung in the face. Privately, some part of me thanked Talon for his earliest lesson.

Shrouds were funny things— an omni-directional, full-body coating that protected its user in a ever-thickening layer of ether, that could be thickened or sharply manipulated to enhance its user. It was instinctual for many swordsmen, us mages were taught, it acted like a suit of armor, isolating its user from threats. It’d block musket balls and swords and spears and arrows and as much magic as you wanted to throw at it.

But dust? Who protected themselves from a cloud of dust that hadn’t done anything to them yet?

Ether inherently couldn’t create something from nothing, but changing an object’s shape? Sharpening it and coalescing it? Pouring directed motion into it? That was basic, instinctual stuff.

Expand, I silently ordered.

My collar gave a sickening crack as Patches’ shovel crashed into it— I felt the cold snap of metal across my head as I fell, and the chill escaped me, giving way to the tearing pain in my gut. My vision blurred into a kaleidoscope; blinking and flickering, blurs and whorls of melting-wax white and gray, reds and oranges and muddy browns and spinning, infinitesimally tall buildings.

Dimly, I heard Patches scream, his shovel forgotten and thudding against the ground somewhere beside me.

“Fuck!” he bellowed, kicking up snow and alley detritus, “fuck! Fuck! Bitch! You fucking whore! I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

Self-preservation took over, and I feebly attempted to scramble away, choking down the terrible, screaming lucid pain stomping through my body. I clawed myself away, didn’t register my nails scraping against the cobbles underneath the snow, or the inches I’d moved.

“Fuck the plan! Fuck this! Fuck you!” Patches spat. “I’ll kill you, you stupid fucking cunt!”

My vision exploded, stars joined the dark that edged in, a smear of crimson face, eyes glazed and unseeing, framed in a bleeding sky— the pain in my gut multiplied, my breath guttered out, the entirety of his knee suddenly digging into my stomach— my hands clawing ineffectually at whatever I could reach— large hands closing around the entirety my throat.

I thrashed, hands scrambling at nothing, my head slowly emptying of thoughts— I felt faintly like I was spooling ether, my pain slowly drifting away from me. My mouth fish-mouthed, gasping for air it couldn’t get— a spasm of ice-cold pain behind my eyes.

Crimson bloomed in my vision, and the hands fell limp. A weight shuddered onto my front, and I scrambled with what little strength I had left to get out from under Patches.

I greedily gulped for air, uncaring for the pain in my lungs from the chill— frozen air was better than none at all— the dark abated slightly— I swallowed once, twice, feeling like I’d swallowed molten glass— and found I couldn’t even whimper in pain— any sound that came out was a nasally whistle that sent more tearing pain through my throat.

I found myself curled into a wall, nails bloodied, hands shaking, feeling too hot— too cold and like I’d been thrown from a cliff with a shoddy noose. But my neck wasn’t broken. A near-decade of practice had taken over, raised a hand to check my collar, wincing when I came away bloodier, another to my neck, trying very hard not to cry out.

Letting out a shaky breath, I swallowed once, twice as I did my best to regain a semblance of control over myself. I raised a shaky hand to my collarbone, biting down a wince as I channeled more ether, letting out a sigh when the pain dulled ever-so-slightly.

I felt the bone beneath my skin reattach, clicking together with a pulse of phantom pain. Next, I moved my hand to my abdomen, willing the same, desperate, wasteful spell. Leaning back, I slowly rode out the waves of pain, absently cycling cold, numbing ether.

That image of Arthur again, draped beneath a bed sheet— flashed in my mind again, and brought my attention reeling back to the present.

No time to whine— never any time to rest— get up! Decades of practice coldly ordered, Get up.

Blurry patchwork bricks stared down at me, and I stumbled to my feet, numb and unsteady. Patches had stopped screaming, fallen silent and unmoving. Without my glasses, I couldn’t see very well, but the entire front of his face had been dyed red, splotchy and looking like a vague honeycomb, with a patch of bloody snow beneath him explaining everything.

The scent of blood filled my nose, overpowering the acrid scent of trash and cold, molding wood. In the distance, farther than eighty feet out, Arthur and Scabs were still fighting, locked into a careful, testy dance. One would step in, take an experimental jab, before just as quickly stepping back out. Patches didn’t try to grab my foot as I stepped past him.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I was planning to do— I was far too huffed up on adrenaline to think about anything other than getting to Arthur— making sure he was okay. I stumbled towards the two, letting my ether drip into an elementary spell.

A large icicle bloomed somewhere behind me, poised. Practice directed it at Scabs’ chest, shooting off with a cold whistle.

He spun at the last moment, barely spotting it, before catching it against the brace of his arm. His face scrunched in pain, and Arthur shot a brief glance back towards me. His face tumbled into open relief, before widening in shock— a lapse in his concentration. I took another stumbling step, shouting, but only letting out a reedy exhale.

I doubled over and barely kept myself above the engulfing pain. I glanced up, to see Scabs swinging for Arthur. Even from my lack of experience, I could tell Arthur wasn’t going to catch it. He spun— but he was too late— the blow cracking across his skull and he crumpled. The hold on my ether sputtered, flickering and guttering out like a dammed river.

Pain— ice-white and cold, lanced behind my eyes, and I felt my vision flicker again.

Dimly, I registered Scabs turning, a look of quiet anger, before my world went black.