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My dreams on the moss bed were not sweet. For one thing, this hostel has no heating and I don’t grow fur. I hover on the threshold of unconsciousness, chilled and shivering, before passing out for a few winks of uncomfortable oblivion. At least, I think I did, since all of a sudden it’s morning again, and a sharp kick on my sole startles me awake.

“Whoa, what, where’s the fire!?” I blurt and bolt up, momentarily under the happy misapprehension I’m in my own room.

But though the style is very similar, it’s not granny who’s come to wake me up.

My gaze lands first on the big brown bear, Dalek, who sits in front of the round entryway, effectively blocking the escape route. From there, I look left at the redhead spearwoman posing in the middle of the floor, glaring at me with cold eyes while leaning on her grotesque weapon. I've seen frozen corpses of lambs that had more warmth than her face.

“Get up,” she says.

I sit and groan. There’s no window in the underground chamber, but my keen innate sense of time tells me it’s not even six in the morning yet. I slept maybe an hour or two, if I’m being generous. Way too little, in any event, to recover from a day-long hike. Then again, it was nature that invented that thing about early birds. What did I expect?

“Oh, room service? You shouldn’t have. I could’ve rung you up.”

I’ll have eggs Benedict and a whole bottle of Dom Pérignon, thank you. Lots of ice. That should get me started.

I don’t get champagne.

The business end of the heavy metal lance drops on the level of my shoulder, the sharper side towards my shieldless pencil neck. That thing has to weigh more than most people bench press, and the lady operates it lightly with one hand like a paper fan.

“Why are you here?” the devil asks.

“I need you to be a little more specific,” I tell her.

“Answer the question.”

“Why am I here? Because you crashed my shuttle and dragged me across a hundred miles of woodland? Why else would I be here? Not by choice, I can tell you that!”

She lifts the weapon back up, over the shoulder, and poises to strike.

“Stop it,” Dalek interrupts from the back. “She’ll die if you lay a hand on her.”

“An elf could take a knock, or two.”

“This one is not an elf. You should consider her the same as a large squirrel, or a hare. Otherwise, we’ll be left with only a mess and no answers.”

I’m not too happy to be compared to squirrels—my front teeth are very appropriately sized—but thanks to Dalek I still have my head, so I’ll let it slide.

“Hmph.” The woman lowers the weapon and repeats the question, heavier: “Why are you here?”

In the dim light of the chamber, I see a faint but heated twinkle in her golden eyes, like smoldering embers. And bottomless wrath, with no hint of softening. Maybe this isn’t the best time to act like a quippy modern day heroine. I sigh and shake my head.

“I was sent with the guys you flambéed to help protect the colony of Qliphoth—from you, apparently.”

“Where is this ‘Qliphoth’?” she asks.

“Uh, I don’t know. I would assume it’s in Qliphoth.”

“As if that means anything to me! What is with you people and your insistence to stick a name on every rock and crevice?”

“So we’d know where we’re going? And not be left suckling our thumbs, asking very dumb questions. How many colonies can there be? I thought you knew the hood? I’ve never actually been to Qliphoth once in my life! Don't ask me to show the way!”

“There are too many of your damned colonies,” the lancer grunts. “They appear like mushrooms after a rain. I crush one and two more are built in its place. Why? What do you want from here?”

“An excellent question,” I say. “I frankly have no idea. The reason can probably be traced back to somewhere in civil engineering and heavy industries, but those are so far outside my core expertise. To tell you the truth, I don't even care. I'm only in it for the harem, and get an allergic reaction when I see stock graphs.”

The woman looks at the bear. “Does anything this thing says make any sense to you?”

Dalek shakes its head.

She turns back to glower at me, grinding her strong-looking teeth.

“I am beginning to think you are every bit as ignorant and foolish as you seem, and not worth the pain of listening.”

That’s funny. I feel exceptionally ignorant and foolish too at the moment. Some less than educated choices may have been made in the past, to bring about this situation. But admitting that won't help my life expectancy.

Let’s look for a different approach.

“Have you ever tried—I don’t know—not to crush any colonies you see?” I suggest. “You might ask the emiri directly what they want, and present your terms in ways that don’t involve people being mauled to death? As it turns out, you are capable of speech.”

“Since when have elves cared about the wishes of those beneath them?” the woman retorts. “They see something they want, they take it, and come up with any number of excuses why it is right. Talking to their kind is a waste of time. Brute force is the only language they hear.”

“Try me then. For argument's sake, what is it that you want, precisely? I hope you won’t say elf genocide, because that’s not happening.”

Her eyes flashing, she tells me,

“I want every last elf to leave the forest, and keep well away!”

I raise my hands. “Okay. I’m picking up a lot of angery vibes. Grummy vibrations. Maybe for good reasons, maybe not, I'm not the judge of that. But wise people have said compromises must sometimes be made in hard times, both ways. You could let me go, and I could take your case to the colonists myself. I could lie and tell them you’re not the murderous savages they say you are, and maybe they could give you some room. No more senseless bloodshed. Wouldn’t that be good?”

The woman takes a step closer to me and narrows her sharp eyes.

“Why are you here?”

“...Um, this is the third time you’re asking me that,” I point out.

“No, why are you here,” she emphasizes in a low tone. “You are not an elf, or a warrior. You are weak and foolish and have no weapons. You know nothing, about us, this forest, or even about your own lords. Yet, you alone survived the crash. How? Why would the elves send a creature like you here? Why now? What are you?”

I swallow and look past her at the ceiling.

“Umm, drop-dead gorgeous and intimidatingly intelligent?”

A steely grip seizes my jacket front and picks me up.

The woman lifts me up high like a rag with one hand and slams me into the earthen wall between the branches.

“Toy with me at your own peril, squirrel,” she growls, murder in her voice.

Her hand is hot and hard.

Getting a good measure up close, I can tell her body's core temperature is somewhere around 75 degrees centigrade. Rather than a person, it’s like embracing an open-wide oven. The chamber air simmers. I clench my teeth and avert my face as far as I can, my rib cage creaking under the weight against my chest.

I really should do something about my big mouth—if I live past this morning, that is.

At that moment, something small and quick skitters into the chamber past Dalek, chirping and squeaking.

An actual gray squirrel, every bit like a standard squirrel, a buff tail and all. The little critter stops close by the lancer's feet, waving its small hands, and cries,

—“Ayascuhero! Ayascuhero! We are in trouble!”

Now you’re telling me squirrels can talk too?

The woman lets me drop and turns to the animal. Great, my bed’s full of rocks and sand now.

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

“What is it?”

“Mister Capella’s party ran into an enemy patrol! They couldn’t shake them! The elves are soon here! They come with a great flying raft with bright lights on it and throw fire at all they see! Please help us, Ayascuhero! We are going to die!”

The lancer looks dumbstruck. “That goat led them back here? Fools! Death take you idiots!”

I guess the locals have their own troubles when it comes to warfare.

The woman, Dalek, and squirrel all rush out of the chamber without another word. Nobody remembers me anymore.

I sit and brush sand out of my hair with my fingers. My shoulder hit a branch too and it hurts.

Ayascuhero…In the Old Tongue, it means “who is like flame”.

A little too on the nose to be her given name. The natives are shy about their real names too, as we learned. I wonder what inspired the moniker? Surely not just the hairdo?

No, wait a minute. Is this any time to be daydreaming?

If the Dominion’s forces are here, that means they can get me out! I can go home!

I sneak up to the doorless doorway and peek into the outside tunnel. The place looks empty. Dalek did mention rules and order aren’t the local’s strong point, but leaving your prisoner unguarded in an emergency? What could possibly go wrong? I’m starting to pity these guys for real. How are they still alive?

Well, don't mind if I help myself.

I take off and dash up the tunnel and come out to the surface in fresh air.

It’s still pretty dark, an hour or so before sunrise. Despite the early timing, the town is having a rush hour. Animals big and small race here and there between the trees and buildings, climb up trunks, and plunge down into warrens. I see in their frantic rush the same panic I saw in the streets of Nikéa when hellfire rained on the citizens. Should I say animals are more human than I thought, or that humans are more animals than I wanted to believe?

No, none of that matters right now.

Beyond the woods, south of the sanctuary, my senses pick up energy readings belonging to the electrical systems of a small aircraft. It’s larger than the tactical shuttle I came with, a proper landing ship with heavy machine guns attached on two wing-like extensions on the sides. The guns sow bright needles of light down between the trees nonstop.

I start running towards the ship, against the erratic current of fleeing beasts. A panicking elk almost tramples me, but we barely dodge each other in the nick of time. “Excuse me,” the elderly elk mumbles and sprints on, and I have to question if I’m actually awake, or on another mushroom trip. Remember kids, never eat things you don’t recognize.

I climb uphill along a widely winding footpath as raccoons and martens pour over me, and bump into a jumping rabbit and grab it and throw it out of the way. I crawl over the long mossy ridge that covers the sanctuary from the south side and see the town continue downhill. The settlement is even larger than I first thought.

And I see flames.

A few hundred meters downhill, I see buildings and bushes that have caught fire from the plasma rays. And on the far edge of the village, I see a line of armored troops steadily advancing our way.

Emiri paratroopers. Their heads are covered by robust helmets that filter gas and smoke and make them look like steampunk divers. Each troop grips a silvery spear with a head like a budding tulip that fires sharp blasts of heat. They march on in an orderly line, determined to set fire to anything that moves or looks remotely suspicious. Even obviously harmless herbivores, birds, and pixies—anything goes.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing…?”

Come on, isn’t that a bit of an overkill, for a handful of reindeers and beavers? You can't call this a war.

A platoon of treants, bears, and manticores have gone to stall the invaders. Any human army would be terrified to have a pack of furious monsters fall on them from the woods, but it’s not a human army they face. And a frontal assault on open ground is nothing but pure idiocy. A suicide. A direct hit from a high-energy particle weapon will pierce through a tree, or rock, or bear without much trouble, and the emiri aim better than stormtroopers. They’ve had time to practice.

Many beasts have already been killed. Their corpses make the woodland look like a wildlife museum, but not fit for children. As their numbers dwindle, they're left with no choice but admit they're out of their league. The tide turns. The formerly ferocious monsters spin around to flee before they can reach the enemy line. And that only makes them even easier targets. It’s one grim massacre.

I hope Dalek’s not down there. He wasn't that bad, for a bear.

I run downhill and wade through the bumpy battlefield of shrubs and hummocks and animal corpses, until the soldiers are finally in front of me. Then I stop to wave my hands over my head.

“Hey, that's enough! Knock it off! The war’s over! You’ve made your point!”

The nearest paratrooper notices my waving and yelling—and turns his spear at me.

There’s a bright flash of light and I barely raise an Ice Shield in time to deflect the shot. Shit!

Well, can’t say the possibility of this happening never occurred to me. A pessimist is never disappointed, as they say.

“Hey!” I lower the shield and yell at the guy again, stretching the collar of my uniform and the emblem of District 00 pinned on it. “Are you blind, asshole!? I’m on your side! Cease fire!”

The trooper pauses. Then he fires again. I scramble to raise the barrier spell once more as three more shots follow in rapid succession. Either he doesn’t care, or else he thinks I’m an animal that stole the uniform. Or else he’s just not thinking at all. It’s begun to dawn on me that people who become paratroopers don’t have a very high IQ.

“Ghhhh….!”

I peek past the tiles of frost, and check out the soldier's weapon.

Analyze internal architecture; gauge battery output; identify main energy pathways; assess material composition.

The metal rod of death is mentally taken apart and charted from tip to end. Okay, nothing too complicated. The manufacturer has used surprisingly cheap materials. One of the unavoidable downsides of mass production; lower quality and no room for personal adjustments. The particle spear can only fire six shots in succession, then it needs to cool down for at least twelve seconds to prevent the circuitry from overheating. You can't trust a trooper to count to twelve, so the cooling period is forced by setting.

I hold out until the sixth shot, before I lower the shield again, hold out my finger, and launch a Flashpoint at the soldier's face. Bang.

I thought I’d knock off his helmet to bring the guy to his senses, but my aim’s a little off in the heat of the moment. Worse yet, the gear isn't enchanted to resist magic. The invisible bullet of compressed air punches a nice round hole through the jointed gorget and passes all the way through. The soldier stops stiff, lets out a feeble wheeze, and then, slowly, falls on his face on the ground, choking in his own blood.

“...”

Oh crap, I killed him.

That was not part of the plan!

Remember folks, do not invoke attack spells at your friends! Because there are good days and there are bad days, and finding the line between “hurts a lot” and “rips your head off” can be difficult!

The other troopers stop in their tracks and look at me and the dead guy. They saw it. And we’re past words now. Perfectly in unison, they all turn their phallic weapons at me.

Oh, wonderful.

Now what am I going to do?

No, what am I even asking?

Obviously, there’s only one thing I can do. Whether I like it or don't.

If these guys report back home how an unhinged summer trainee rearranged the vocal cords of their brother-in-arms, I don’t think I’ll get away with just a slap on the wrist. No, it may be a certain Ms Zero will then be famous as a traitor and enemy of the state. Which should do wonders to our world-saving efforts!

In other words, there’s only that one thing:

I'll have to make sure they don’t write those reports.

I conjure a quarter barrier along the back of my left arm and raise it like a riot shield to hide behind. The smaller the area, the more durable I can make it. Then, while weathering the following hail of shots, I carefully snipe the troopers past the edge of the shield, one by one, keeping as low to the ground and small as possible. The turtle tactic may not be very honorable or cinematic, but I’d be happy just to get through this day in one piece.

When the soldiers recognize a shootout isn’t working out for them, they switch tactics on the fly. They have devices that generate light buckler-style energy shields too. They wouldn't be able to tank cannonballs or higher rituals, but my air bullets can't pierce through. Under the cover of their magic shields, the troopers charge to engage in close quarters.

I pretend to be helpless and wait for them to come closer, way closer, before I dispel the shield and blast the frontliners with a Shockwave on the nose. Having a strong shield stops being a good thing if your body can't absorb the force. It just makes you catch the blast even better.

Before the bodies hit the floor, I move in and spam Frost on the folks. Even if I hit their shields, the clumps of cold mana splatter and spill over obstacles like liquid nitrogen and getting even a drop on you hurts like bitch. Emiri may be tough customers, but they’re not completely beyond pain. As they recoil, distracted by the agony, picking them out is more a chore than real effort. The line is broken, their focus gone. Unlike humans, they still struggle till their last breath. When these guys are told to do something, retreat or surrender aren't recognized as options anymore, even if death is certain. But I'm only giving them that certain.

I can’t tell how long passed since the start of the tussle, but silence finally returns to the forest.

I scan the surroundings, but pick up no more fighting spirit in the vicinity.

It was only one squad, twelve stiffs.

Witnesses to my war crimes: zero.

The only problem left is the landing ship that draws steadily closer, navigating between the ancient trees. Did they come from Qliphoth? A ship of that size has carrying capacity for up to four squads of jarheads. I don’t know how many they have left, but I don’t like those odds. They were decently far away, chasing the natives, so I hope they didn’t notice the friendly fire.

Here goes nothing. I take the risk and wave at the ship as its headlights turn my way.

Look at me! I’m the sole survivor of a terrible disaster that killed our friends! It was a very large bear, came out of nowhere. A bear throwing snowballs! Vanished before I knew it! I’m so lucky to be alive!

——!

As I stare on, the aircraft is suddenly shaken by a quick jolt. A blink later, the metal bird erupts in cheery flames.

A big, bright cloud of fire pours out from inside the ship through a massive hole torn into its side and wraps all the way around the hull. The craft tilts heavily and begins to slide downward, bumping into spruces along the way. The stubby wings are ripped off the craft and the naked, ravaged carcass lands, ruptured like cardboard under its own mass and momentum. The only thing left is a tall bonfire to warm your hands on.

With a heavy thud, a humanoid missile drops on her feet a short distance from where I stand.

The woman with the vermilion hair and golden eyes. Her tough body steams in the cool morning air and tattered flames linger on the charred frame of her giant weapon. Spots of soot and burned blood decorate her arms and face, but there’s not a scratch on her skin. Not a bead of sweat on her brow. None of the blood is her own.

She looks around at the dead soldiers and then at me sitting there among them, dazed and dumbfounded. She frowns, like finding herself at a scene she didn’t expect, and then without a word, leaves it and returns to the sanctuary. And I stare at the wreck of my frail hope, snuffed out in front of my eyes, burning and burning.

Ayascuhero.

Who is like flame.