The first two loops, Elglin had not appeared. Something was different this loop. Or, someone. Someone had ridden the loop with him.
The only one who had ever shared his loops was Anya. With her blood magic, she could bind herself to his boogermancy, send her mind along for the ride, albeit at the cost of a congested nose. Until that day Fate had split them apart, with no loops remaining to retry before his nose exploded, they had been an inseperable team.
But it could not be Anya. Anya would have known that his target was her, and their re-union, not the Shepherd. She would know that he would let all of New Firenze burn, if it meant saving her and getting her back. Elglin's warning not to focus on the Shepherd reeked of some do-gooder. Someone in the Sky Citadel must have been pulled into the loop as his chaos magic interacted with Anya's blood magic, and that someone must have nudged Elglin to set him on a different path. Well, he would not be nudged. Anya was his goal.
He continued on, just as in the first two loops, entering the alley as before. The grimy alley reeked of stale ale and desperation, familiar scents that usually signaled trouble in New Firenze. Yet, Bogran found himself strangely calm as he dispatched the two assassins with practiced ease. Their surprised faces, contorted mid-strike, mirrored his own internal amusement. They were like bad actors repeating their lines, only this time, Bogran had the script memorized. Well, whoever had looped with him had not warned these assassins in any way. Perhaps he was too busy dealing with a newly snot-filled nose to meddle much more.
This time, Bogran would skip the fight with the sky-eye, skip getting intel he already knew from Grimstrong. He'd have to make up the difference and make sure Grimstrong got paid at some point, and not just in a discarded loop, but for now, he had to secure Anya before the Shepherd's forces could lay their hands on her.
He sprinted towards the service tunnels leading into the opulent heart of the city’s elite, his boots clattering on cobblestones slick with recent rain. The closer he got to the Citadel, the more oppressive the air became, heavy with the scent of spiced meats, exotic perfumes, and a subtle undercurrent of magic, potent and dangerous. He slipped through the hidden door, his face obscured by the hood of his travel cloak. The service corridors buzzed with activity: caterers scurrying, servants laden with trays, musicians tuning instruments for the impending revelry.
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He reached the grand hall just as the first rays of twilight painted the sky crimson, bathing the lavish banquet in an otherworldly glow. Gold gleamed from every surface, the tables groaned under a mountain of delicacies, and the air thrummed with the whispers of the city's power players. Bogran moved like a shadow, weaving through the throng, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He had to find Anya, and fast.
Spotting a familiar figure near a cluster of richly-dressed nobles, Bogran’s breath hitched. Anya Molotova stood there, a vision in emerald silk, her obsidian hair cascading down her back like a waterfall. But something was different. A flicker of tension played on her features, her normally luminous eyes shadowed with apprehension. She hadn't noticed him yet, lost in a conversation with a tall, imposing man whose face seemed carved from granite and whose presence radiated an aura of cold authority. This had to be the Shepherd, his power thrumming like a palpable force field around him.
Bogran’s gut twisted. The Shepherd was speaking softly, but his voice held a hypnotic quality that snaked through the hall, silencing nearby chatter. He saw Anya stiffen, her gaze flitting nervously towards the ornate double doors leading to a private balcony. The Shepherd gestured towards them with an elegant sweep of his hand, and a subtle shift in Anya’s posture betrayed her reluctance.
This wasn’t a casual social call. The Shepherd was luring Anya away, isolating her. Bogran knew he had to act, and act fast. But how? Direct confrontation would be disastrous–the Shepherd clearly had an army of loyal guards at his beck and call. A sudden, chaotic burst of magic might attract unwanted attention and give the Shepherd the perfect excuse to neutralize Anya before she could fully grasp what was happening. Bogran needed a plan, something subtle, something...
His gaze fell on a cluster of musicians setting up a harpsichord near the balcony doors. Inspiration struck, a mischievous spark igniting in his eyes. He’d create a diversion, a musical tempest that would draw attention away from Anya and buy him precious seconds to intervene.
But as he reached for the hidden pouch containing his enchanted tuning forks, a chilling realization washed over him. A low hum resonated through the hall, not from any instrument, but from deep within the walls themselves. The Shepherd’s power wasn't merely in his words; it pulsed with an insidious magic that seemed to be... amplifying itself. And as Anya stepped towards the balcony, a serpentine tendril of pure energy, shimmering with otherworldly light, snaked out from the floorboards, coiling around her ankle before she could even scream.
