Getting back was arduous, having to take a dip in a stream to try and wash the worst of the blood off, then find a charity shop for fresh clothing, trying to look nonchalant as he pulled on some ill-fitting jeans and a mildly offensive t-shirt. Next was a pharmacist, for painkillers, as well as some bags to wrap the sword in - from past experience, the transport police took a very dim view of swords being openly carried.

Before wrapping it up, he found a quiet park bench, and sat down to have a look at it. The sheath was modern, and didn’t seem to fit very well, at least from how much the sword rattled around. There was a long scratch down the leather from where some of the feathers had scratched it, but it hadn’t sliced through to the insides. The hilt looked old - Saxon-style from the metal and the shape, but had been used enough for most of the decoration to have been worn smooth, the leather wrapping clearly another modern replacement.

He tugged on it again, the thing still refusing to come out of the sheath - not just rust, but some force holding it there. So, a magical table, and a magical sword? Itheadair, whatever that meant. He reached for his phone to look it up, before hesitating, instead taking out the battery and sim, discarding the phone into a trashcan, just in case. He could always look it up later. The last thing he needed was the police tracking him down.

The only magical table he could think of was King Arthur’s, and that wasn’t really magical by itself. It hadn’t felt right though - not corrupted or twisted, but it had no presence, no sense of itself. Something of that age, even if used as nothing other than a pub table for centuries, should have had something, but it was as inert and dead as something fresh from the store. So either a really, really good fake, dumped into a pub basement, or something special. But who the hell would make a goddam table? That some alchemists had found it somewhere along the line was scarcely a surprise, they were always picking up all sorts of odd stuff, without ever realising what they’d found.

He tapped the sword against the bench, feeling it rattle in the sheath again, the looseness of the fit annoying him, when he couldn’t get the damn thing out! He tried twisting the hilt, seeing if there was some physical pin or something, but whatever force held it in place let him twist the hilt, able to see the blade reflecting light, but not draw it out. Well, it clearly had power of some kind, dispelling whatever spell had been placed on those feathers, draining the power away somehow. He wrapped the sword in several bags, hoping it wouldn’t draw attention, as he headed back.

Those feathers, what had they been? Imbuing one with some kind of sharpness, or even a few handfuls, that should be possible, but making that amount must have taken a lot of time, a lot of power, or likely both. And then getting someone into place to, what, dump a sackful of feathers through the door? The things had swarmed, so that was either an even more complicated spell, or someone had to keep guiding them. Or some really bizarre inherited power, like nothing he’d ever heard of.

There must be someone new, or, more likely, someone old that had been hiding all this time. Up to… what? There wasn’t enough power to do more than rule a few hundred people, and pretty much all of the survivors had comfortable trust funds and legacies, Amy excepted. After a few centuries, wealth was easy enough to manage, and gave a lot more direct benefits than mucking about with magical power and risk getting your soul blasted to nothingness.

He managed to travel through the city without more than a few odd looks, the police more concerned with keeping everything calm, the thick, sticky heat setting everyone on edge, so a single man with a few wounds keeping to himself didn’t draw too much attention. Still, it was a relief to be back home, the door locking shut behind him, and a long shower to fully clean off his wounds, before bandaging them.

He put the sword onto the table, observing it for a moment in case something happened. He looked at the phone, then the table, trying to figure out what the best way to contact Courtessa would be - the phone would be easier and didn’t require cutting himself, but she might just refuse to answer. If she asked, he could at least give the excuse that he was already wounded. Although that did mean trying to find the phone, requiring digging around underneath the dirty pots and dishes, following along the wire until he found it, beneath several unopened boxes of fine porcelain.

He dialled, waiting for the connection, counting the rings. On the third, someone picked up. A voice spoke, young and female, definitely not Courtessa unless she was putting on a modern, lower-class accent for some reason. Had he got a wrong number?

‘If this is a scam call, hang up now, or you’ll get cursed.’

OK, probably not a wrong number, then. ‘It’s Brandon. I’m calling for your… teacher?’ The thought of Courtessa teaching someone was terrifying by itself, given her casual disregard of basic safety principles and anything approaching modern ethics.

‘What’s the password?’

‘Password? Uh, “Let me speak to Courtessa or I’ll think of an appropriately nasty punishment when I’m not bleeding everywhere”? Does that work?’

‘Sure, I guess. LADY COURTESSA! PHONE FOR YOU!’

Brandon moved his ear back from the phone as the speaker shouted. She must be a new student, if Courtessa hadn’t burnt manners into her yet. There were the sounds of a mumbled conversation, too far from the phone for him to make out the details, before there was a rustle of cloth, and a precise, clear voice spoke.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

‘Good afternoon, Brandon. You must accept my apologies for that one, she is decidedly rough around the edges still.’

‘Yeah, I could tell. Where’d you find her? Finding anyone new is rare.’

‘She appears to be something of a foundling. I am not yet sure as to the source of her powers. I suspect something similar to yourself, although a little less unnerving and with less heritage. Although I suppose you are rather more normal now, than you used to be? Regardless, to what do I owe the duty of this call?’

‘Started looking into your thing. Did you know Amy’s on it? Or something similar.’

‘Miss Amalia? No, I did not, although it scarcely comes as a surprise. She does have to keep the wolves from the door, and I suppose this allows her to “keep her hand in”, so to speak. I do hope she isn’t in any danger? She is always such delightful company, it would be a shame if she were to depart.’

‘She seems to be on top of it, but thinks there’s something going on. “Ascended Halo” mean anything to you?’

‘Sounds dreadfully vulgar. Not a group with any provenance, at least that I’m aware of. If they have the power to affect my flames though, they must be potent indeed, and the source of such power would seem to be quite concerning, would it not?’

‘Yeah, anyone that can do that, you should already know to complain to.’

‘Precisely. And when I raised my concerns with my peers, they were most adamant that none of them were to blame. So it seems as though Miss Amalia may have independently stumbled upon those responsible, how convenient.’ She paused. ‘You sound most weary, Brandon. I do hope that simply walking about the city hasn’t entirely undone you?’

‘Walking is fine. Razor-sharp feathers, those are worse. You ever heard of the Broken Table?’

Another pause, this one entirely too long, before she answered. ‘I believe so, yes. I had a few dalliances there, many centuries ago.’

‘You ever go down into the basement there? See the table?’

‘I believe I may have, yes. Something of a mystery, even then. All sorts of stories, and the thing was quite impervious to damage - acid, flame, I once saw someone concuss themselves by trying an axe. Most amusing.’

‘Right. Any reason you decided to never share this?’

‘It scarcely seemed relevant, and your companion would likely have attempted something needlessly destructive. Although I’m unsure how you became aware of it?’

‘Amy’s cult don’t let people go there. Oh, and when I went there, I got attacked. Razor-sharp feathers, that sound familiar to you at all? Got sliced to ribbons.’

‘Hmmm. That sounds rather unpleasant, and very inefficient. It would have been easier to simply burn the place down, and far less suspicious. But feathers? That does sound rather unusual. I’m afraid I have little to offer. Although… Give me a moment to check the texts.’ The line went quiet, followed by the thwipping of pages. ‘Ah, yes. In approximately 1472, there were several incidents, where one of your ancestors reporting being attacked by “a cloud of down, soft yet cutting, destroyed no few livestock.” Does that sound similar?’

‘It does, but any idea who or what was behind it? And where they spent the next four and a half centuries?’

‘Hmm. There is some speculation that it may have been… “outside interference”, I believe you would say. Although… interesting, there is mention of a mysterious group here, although such things were commonplace at the time. As you say, rather vague.’

He heard something from the front of the house, soft shatter of glass. ‘Fuck.’

‘Language! You know I detest such vulgarity.’

‘Sorry. Think someone’s just broken in. Let me deal with them, keep looking.’

Courtessa sighed. That profanity had definitely earned him a black mark of some kind. ‘Very well. Do try and resolve the matter swiftly.’ At least she didn’t hang up on him.

He took the first weapon he could find, a wooden chairleg, not wanting to use the sword in case stabbing someone with it activated a curse something and went to investigate. Having grown up here, it was easy to move silently, avoiding the piles of junk and creaky floorboards, heading for the sound. Yes, definitely someone moving over the creaky floorboards in the front room, trying to be stealthy.

Brandon waited, until they stepped around a corner, and he swung the club, connecting solidly, before swinging again. They went down, and he kicked them - they were wearing a long, grey robe, as they tried to roll over. The hood fell back to reveal a man’s face, shaved bald, a tattooed scalp. He glared at Brandon, trying to protect himself from another kick, Brandon feeling something crunch under his attack.

‘Who are you?’

‘You must die, by the order of the most high!’ He tried to stand, Brandon kicking him again, slamming him against a wall.

‘Who is that?’ The hallway was too cramped for his to swing the club, but the man was probably in enough pain already. The man managed to block with his forearms, trying to grab at Brandon and pull him over, Brandon stamping down and pulling away. Before he could attack again, the man had reached into his robe and pulled something out, a handful of white fluff and blowing it towards Brandon. He ducked backwards before the things could catch him in the face, giving the man time to slowly stand up, coughing up blood.

Brandon retreated, backwards into a room with more space, as the fluff followed after him, man taking a moment to collect himself. He pulled a stout walking stick from the wall, holding it like a fencing sabre and advancing. Brandon blocked a blow, slamming the man with a punch to the head, a strike from the stick smacking him on the arm.

Despite his wounds, the man kept advancing, smacking away with the stick, although without much finesse. They squared off, the feathers swirling through the air in a sudden updraft, one cutting into a stack of magazines, scalpel-sharp, sliced paper starting to cascade downwards. The man lunged forward, Brandon dodging the strike and attacking back, catching the man across the chest and knocking him off-balance again. He tripped and stumbled, backwards, falling through a cloud of white, screaming in pain, blood streaming down his face before he cracked his head against the shelf and then thudded to the ground.

Sirens sounded outside. ‘Shit!’ He bolted for the back door, grabbing the sword, glad that the lack of maintenance made the wall easy to climb, darting through several gardens before judging himself to be a safe distance away, heading for the train station, wanting to get further away. By the station, five grey-clad figures were handing out pamphlets again. A sixth was staring blankly upwards, eyes fixed on the sky, barely moving, their colleagues occasionally checking on them. Those robes must be roasting hot in the bright, unceasing sunlight!

He snuck past, as best he could, although they seemed more intent on proselytising than spying. The sky-struck one moved as he approached, face staring blankly at him, slackjawed and dazed. A strangled gasp escaped his throat, lips twitching, trying to form words, as Brandon pushed through the afternoon crowds.