Dhaakir rubbed the bridge of his nose, biting back his frustration. People didn’t like him before he started gnawing their heads off. In a situation like this, he couldn’t afford to lose his temper.

A squad of six had just returned, dragging with them two injured. Behind them limped another two tethered, both had been run through at the thigh. Only their power kept them upright. Even if he got them healed, they’d be out of the fight. From a squad of ten, only six had returned carrying two wounded comrades, and that went without mentioning the tethered.

“That’s thirteen tethered, sir,” his assistant said. “And forty-one of the regulars out of the fight.”

Even if they could heal them up, the soldiers would be in no shape to fight for hours. Weeks if he got his way. Dhaakir nodded, his expression stern and drawn tight. It felt like the vein on his forehead was going to blow apart in a blood mist. His head pounded so hard.

“Sir,” the sergeant of the squad said. The man squinted into the light, his eyes red and burned. “We’d mostly cleared the western side before the ambush.”

“Thank you, sir. Please tell your men to take a rest.”

The man flinched and saluted, hurrying away from them. The man stumbled around, arms spread out in to save him from a fall. It was unlikely he’d ever regain his full vision. Dhaakir simply knew of no healer who could manage such an intricate recovery.

“That’s the third squad that has ‘cleared’ the western end?” Dhaakir asked.

“Fourth, sir.”

Dhaakir grit his teeth, failing to hide his anger. He was liable to simply tear the entire building down. If not for the minimal use of obsidian in its construction, he would have. Ripped it apart and killed every single one of the pale swine hiding within that darkness.

The Elusrians had completely abandoned any semblance of organization, order, or tactics. Fitting for their kind, for whom higher order thinking was very difficult. Yet, it proved annoyingly successful. Their opening barrage was a pitiful thing. Less than a score archers made for hardly a volley.

The soldiers had grown arrogant. Cockiness took over where caution should rule. Their ‘grand-trick’ was revealing not two archers, but a dozen. As of this time, Dhaakir doubted they had more than score soldiers total.

They hid within the warren of narrow passages, the intersecting hallways too many to count and too dark to vet properly. Anyone who brought in light left as a fried corpse. Whoever their light-tethered was, he was frighteningly strong. Stronger than Dhaakir, yet he sensed nothing to suggest high-mastery.

He needed to break their tactics, force a solution to his advantage. They’d mostly cleared the ground floor. The single group still crouching in the shadows would soon be forced upstairs as well. They were winning, but the toll it was taking on the men who reappeared?

This had to be an all-out victory. If he kept losing men like this, his legend would spell out his foolish over-confidence, not glorious victory. Dhaakir al-Khatib, the Blackstorm, would be buried underneath the mythos of some straggling Elusrian children.

“Get me a squad of tethered,” Dhaakir growled, stalking away from the main entrance. He was going to light a fire underneath the worm-white coward’s asses.

“Sir.” The assistant bowed and hurried off.

Five minutes later, Dhaakir stood on the south-side of the building, looking at the many shuttered windows.

“We go through at the top, follow my lead.” Obsidian rock rushed from their collection at the front of the house and down beneath his feet. Shards broke off to cycle around him, as he lifted into the sky clods of dirt falling off after he’d driven the slab into the ground.

Behind him, nine tethered rose into the air. Ice, obsidian, light, and a single warp. Alighting into the sky, until they stopped in front of the top floor. The shards circling Dhaakir shattered into even smaller fragments, no bigger than half his pinky-finger.

With a sharp whistling sound, they slammed into the wall. Reinforced or not, his mastery of obsidian was absolute. With four dozen points hammered into the rock, he shattered them. Fragment small enough to fit two on a nail, split throughout the wall. With a flick of his hand, Dhaakir tore the reinforced stone out. Purple embers flickered in the air before guttering.

Then he was inside, the shards circling him once more. No attacks came. Not surprising, since they had been driven this far, yet.

“Move forward,” Dhaakir commanded. “Find those sons of bitches and kill them.”

“Yes, sir!” the tethered cried, landing on the wooden floor. They ran through the dust kicked up by the torn down wall, each footfall creaking the old planks. Dhaakir looked around the room, waiting for the dusk to settle.

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Miserable. They care so little for their items? He’d broken into an old bedroom. The bed smelled wet and rotten, moths having gotten to bedding. Sloppy to hold a military facility in a place so poorly cared for. Waving a cobweb down, he approached the nightstand. To think even the Elusrians would fall so low. He scraped a line of peeling paint off with one of his shards. The stone gouged the rotten wood with ease.

He frowned and peered closer. The entire nightstand had taken water damage, the grains swollen with rot and liquid. A shard punched through the flooring, revealing the dust riddled room beneath, equally bedraggled. Light filtering in through the shutters.

“Sir!” his assistant called from the ground. Footsteps approached rapidly from inside the building. “One of their tethered just launched a huge attack, sir. The men are getting disorderly.”

No, they didn’t. I’d have felt it through the floor. My tether-sense would’ve picked it up.

“Sir,” his tethered said, rounding the corner. “The stairs down are broken. Should we continue?”

Dhaakir stood, eyes narrowing. His mouth narrowed to a fine point. “Get me obsidian,” he ordered, floating down next to the assistant. “All of it. Now!” the last word came out like a choked off hiss. Vision blurred red, throbbing along with his racing heart.

The wagon carrying their obsidian shattered, black glass flying to join him.

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Dovar wiped blood from his brow as he caught his breath. Around him, the others were taking sips of water and checking their weapons. The Korfiyan sat huddled with her head between her knees, sweat dripped onto the stones as she panted for breath.

He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t think,” she said through gasping breaths. “It would be this intense.”

“The school doesn’t insist on training your physique since we’re not a military element, but there’s a reason it’s focused on as much as your tether in the war academy.”

She shook her head, unable to find the words to reply.

“How are you feeling?” he asked the others.

“Scratched my arm pretty bad, but I can mostly hold a shield,” one warrior said, gesturing to his bandaged off-hand. “Won’t be worth too much in a fight, I’m afraid.”

‘Mostly hold?’ In soldier that meant he wasn’t worth much.

“Just a little tired,” the other offered. “He took the swing meant for me.”

He hadn’t. The exhaustion had simply gotten to the man, and he’d let his shield droop and the Purists snuck a slice through. Dovar had unbalanced the attacker with a subtle gust, allowing the wounded warrior to land a telling cut. With their numbers, even a single surface cut was a heavy price to pay.

“I can continue,” the woman said, pushing to her feet.

The men exchanged glances, then followed her. Making their way down from the third to the second floor, they began sneaking through the near solid dark hallways. They ran into another group, Esmund’s, before they found more Purists. Es’ rainbow eyes glittered for a moment, then faded into the shadows when he recognized them. The sheer death’s edge that loomed for but a moment in Dovar’s tether-sense drove his heart into a panicked race.

A quick exchange of words, discussing what their group had seen. Es had barely fought in their group, yet his mere presence was enough to drive the enemy tethered back. They understood well how deadly his kind was.

Power flared deeper within the maze. A well of obsidian mawed open in the near-distance, a deep hollow pit of gleaming, uncaring, dark stone. The floor shook, Dovar bracing against the wall. The wounded warrior and the Korfiyan were knocked on the floor, yelling in pain.

Heart racing, Dovar exchanged a glance with Es. Together, they rallied the fallen forces and hurried in the direction. Why would they unleash such a burst of power? That couldn’t help but draw attention. The tethered and regulars would notice. This was an inevitable escalation, but it shouldn’t have happened while they still roamed the building.

“Dammit,” Dovar cursed.

“Who was that?” Es asked.

“Who do you think?” a sharp voice asked. Pashar reared out of the shadows.

“There!” a man cried, his voice translated through the still active field surrounding the building. “I heard voices in this direction.”

Stomps, enough to shake the floor, followed. Angry mutters and war cries filled the tunnel.

“Prepare yourselves!” Pashar yelled. “Soldiers back, this for tethered! Dovar, how many?”

Dovar shoved forth a gust of wind, stretching his Veil and Dagger as far as they could go. His senses weren’t near as precise as even Grev’s, let alone Ranvir, but he got a vague image of a number.

“A score or more.”

“I sense tethered.”

Power flared underneath them, pushing against the building.

“There are anti-tampering effects on the stone!” Es cried as the enemies rounded the corner.

“Not good enough!” Pashar screamed as the flakes cracked off. “Esmund!”

The Purists charged, screaming at the top of their lungs. Their steps breaking off chunks of flooring. Rainbow light flared and their voices changed to a higher pitch. Dovar grabbed every person he could, wrapping them in the air. Even the enemies within his reach. Rainbow mana washed over the floor, pulverizing it. Everywhere within reach of Es’ Cloak became naught but dust.

As they fell, all obsidian within range of the Triplet Master’s Mantle cracked into hand-sized chunks and tore up toward the ceiling. Projectiles by the hundreds buzzed past him. Flares of pain lit all over Dovar. His right hand, hip, and ankle burned hotter than the rest. Men and women all cried out.

Dovar hit the ground, his working breaking. Metallic thunks followed, occasioned by screams of pain. Groaning, he glared up to see what had happened. The entry lay some hundred feet ahead, a little to the left, and a floor up. Purple lights filled the now hollow space. Two gateways on the third floor and the knotted up violet sun hanging at the once ceiling of the basement.

Groans made Dovar look behind him. His working had cushioned the fall of his entire group, though not enough to stop it entire. Pashar seemed the only one unhurt. Master Ayvir and Kasos had joined them as well, though they looked uninjured. Chips of black glass rained from the ceiling.

Purists lay among them as well, slowly gathering themselves. They looked perhaps more shocked than the rest of them. It was their commander’s attack. Kirs groaned as she crawled out from underneath one such soldier. She bled from her forehead, colored black by the purple lights.

She glanced at him, and he shook his head.

“I’ve had enough of your tricks and games, Elusrians!” A man yelled. His power seemed to swallow them all. Something of the feeling he’d had as a fresh recruit when teachers unleashed their power returned to him.