“Do you ascend, or descend? In the darkness how can you tell? By following your gut, that’s how! Yet you remain unsatisfied, and there is no more that words can say. Let the rest speak for itself, and the words stay silent.”

  – from Of Lord Ymer and Prince Rivorn in ‘Elturiel’s Collected Fairytales’

  Magicrux Izian was bigger than most, a true tower with walls twice the height of those belonging to Falwyn and Jelix. Surrounded on all sides by large, well-maintained residences, the veritable fortress of reddish stone rose up over the houses and stores, looming like a bloody finger above the landscape. Once upon a time it’d been the castle of some lord or other but, like all structures of its ilk within the walls of Mund, it had been appropriated by public bodies when the chance came, transformed from a fortified home into a symbol of the magistry’s power. Its jail-cells were deep and its prison-cells were deeper.

  All in all, she loved the place. If it were emptied of its occupants she could’ve spent a month or two just exploring its bowels. The criminals held here tended to be rather on the rough side, given that it was the number one destination for high-risk offenders. Mages with blood on their hands – unsanctioned blood – would, if they were lucky, find themselves carted here from all over the city once their sentences were pronounced. If Henthae hadn’t saved her after what she still thought of as the worst day of her life, Ciraya too might well have ended up incarcerated here.

  And with that thought there was a trace of regret, even jealousy. The dank pits beneath the magicrux were unwelcoming in the extreme, of course, but damp and rats and gloom had never been things to bother her. And the inmates had unlimited time to inspect their environment, perusing the ancient symbols scratched into walls and floors and ceilings at their leisure. Not that there was any magic left in the age-old runes, the great patterns that the tower’s former occupants had used in their rituals. No, those spells were long-since spent of all their potential energies – the Magisterium command were sometimes foolhardy, even rash in their decisions, but they weren’t stupid-enough to lock dangerous individuals into a chamber which might itself present a means of flight. No doubt some of those brought here enjoyed some small measure of excitement, upon first beholding their new surroundings. Dreams of escape surely filled the heads of many such darkmages; most of the men and women who called those cells home thought of themselves first and foremost as scholars, and perhaps some would’ve even gotten somewhere, given the proper tools and implements.

  Not that that was happening any time soon, of course.

  Thanks perhaps in part to its imposing walls – and in larger part to the vigour with which she and her fellows had defended it – Izian had come through the Incursion largely unscathed. Once their assault proved futile the demons had turned their foul attentions towards the civilians just beyond the magicrux, clearly attempting to lure out the defenders, but Ironvine, the new wizard-champion, arrived in the nick of time – the archmage went about dissecting a whole horde of the fiends, thereby allowing the magisters to leave their red-stone fortress and crush the remaining hell-hosts in the streets.

  The rest of the day was still, in large part, a blur. After the arena she clung to her orders like a child about the neck of an unsaddled stallion, trusting as ever to the machinery of the organisations to which she belonged. As she came riding about the bend and saw the magicrux walls towering over the row of ruined shops in front of her, she was reminded of the carnage that had occurred in this very spot, her role in stemming the black tides of imps as their summoner lurked in the shadows. It’d slipped her mind completely – there were too many experiences for her to recollect them in their entirety, at least for now, and she understood that. But to forget the whole encounter? It was almost like someone had been messing with her head.

  She saw the wrecked shop-fronts, and she remembered, the whole thing coming flooding back to her in one go.

  This is where the old man and his granddaughter died.

  Heedless of the way her mistress atop her was wracking her brains, Fe knew where they were going. They were still a few streets away from the magicrux and there was no slowing the pace of the yithandreng’s legs. Fe went hurtling into a right-turn, bearing Ciraya away from the junction where the double failure had taken place. The remainder of the journey gave the sorceress time to collect herself, repressing the memories once more. They followed the roadway in a wide arc about the distant walls, and by the time they came up to the magicrux approach Ciraya felt like herself again.

  The great gate was thrown open before her and Fe thundered up the causeway, swerving around the magister-band making their way down to the road. Timmin and another man unknown to Ciraya were at their posts on either side of the arch. They were looking rather the worse for wear, but Timmin, at least, knew Fe and her rider by sight, and stopping Ciraya in her tracks simply wasn’t going to happen – not if he wanted to have pleasant dreams. It was beyond her why her animosity mattered so much to her colleagues… or maybe that was just it. They weren’t really her colleagues, were they? The secondment to Special Investigations under Henthae’s sponsorship – the bond to the Seven-Star Swords no magisterial vow could truly equal – these were insurmountable obstacles, barriers that set her apart from those who should’ve been her peers. When Verdum hadn’t quite been quick-enough with the gate’s password that one time, Ciraya had been forced to halt and unthinkingly directed a scathing glance in his direction… and that’d been it. The next three times she ran into the cretin he fell over himself to apologise in increasingly fawning tones, and her stares of disbelief and dismissals had simply exacerbated the man’s urgency. In the end she’d had to take Verdum aside and put the fear of the Five in him just to shut him up.

  Did they think she would bad-mouth them within earshot of Henthae? Did they think she’d send imps to sew their eyelids while they slept?

  Cretins.

  But that wasn’t all there was to it, was it? After her drunken tryst with Ronuth he went as pale as balsam wood before her eyes every time she saw him.

  It was something about her.

  Something about me.

  She charged into the courtyard, shrank Fe down to her miniature form, and entered the tower. Those she passed on the narrow stair shrank into the far wall, a few mumbling half-hearted greetings; she ignored them, other than pull her robe tight to her side, as much to keep herself from being tripped as to show them the same courtesy. Finally the door to the captain’s office came into view around the bend, and she rapped firmly a single time upon its varnished pine surface before gripping the handle and entering.

  The room was surprisingly spacious, well-lit by a wall of sun-blanketed windows. Captain Somerhil was sitting straight-backed behind her desk, practically propped up by piles of paperwork. Two pencil-armed scribes were busy scribbling behind her, their arms filled with sheafs of the white sheets, every visible inch covered in tiny, neat writing.

  “… and tell them that the four properties on Mannerbrent Walk are going to need demolition.” Somerhil looked up, meeting Ciraya’s eyes. “Ah, you’ve returned. Did you have any success with our little problem?”

  Ciraya ducked her head. “One less vampire and wight to worry about, sir.”

  Fe was squirming in her pocket. She took her out and stroked the little lizard; instantly the yithandreng startled to settle.

  “One fewer…” Somerhil corrected her absent-mindedly, reaching out for a piece of paper on the far-left corner of her desk and scratching lines through one of the sentences. “Very good, very good, Miss Ostelwin. I always hear good things about you.”

  No you don’t, the sorceress thought. But she managed to keep the knowing smile from twisting her lips. The last thing she wanted was for this Oldtowner to start thinking she was a smug little shrew.

  “May I enquire as to how you disposed of them?”

  She put Fe back in her pocket. “You may.”

  The captain looked up – the scribes looked across. Three pairs of eyes bored into her.

  Drop it. She let them see her smirk. There was no way for her to make herself sound unsarcastic; she might as well look the part.

  “Sorry, sir. Long day. The wight was easy – Zanib’s Eleventh Lecture was good enough to escort her home. The vampire was trickier. The Wilting did for him, though. Would you like a list of the specifics? I had to source almost a whole gallon of ethereal sap –”

  “You performed a Wilting? Alone?”

  She should’ve gone for something simpler – a bloodrose, or a Mirror-Gaze Snare. But Somerhil’s sceptical tone just made her double her play. She could’ve performed a Wilting alone, damn it. It was just that she…

  “I guess I’m just that good.”

  “But –”

  “Can I go, now, please.” The way she said it, it sounded even less of a question than she’d intended.

  “Miss Ostelwin, if the nature of your role at my magicrux has not been made crystal clear –” the captain leaned back, regarding her coldly “– I have only myself to blame. I admit that I was blessed to find you within our walls when the horde came calling. But I will not stand for insub-“

  “I’ve been on the go ten hours and I’ve not been by the Star Tower for more than a courtesy call since all this started. I have rituals I must perform.” She played her trump card. “Mistress Henthae is always most accommodating of my particular needs. Shall I contact her directly?”

  Somerhil’s cold eyes never wavered. “You’re playing a dangerous game here, young lady. Very well – dismissed.” The captain immediately went back to her paperwork. “Instruct Egret and Spindlers to begin renovations at once. We can spare them two bands for assistance – Maliko’s and Jorastian’s.”

  The scribes started scribbling. Feeling slightly less victorious than she’d hoped, Ciraya turned on her heel and swung open the door. She didn’t close it behind her when she stepped through, and it creaked to a half-ajar stop; as she headed down the stairs she heard the distant scraping of a chair, followed by a loud thud.

  Feeling slightly better, she reached the courtyard and withdrew Fe from her pocket once more. Moments later she was galloping down the causeway and back into the streets.

  Time to go home.

  * * *

  Even Fe could tell something was wrong as they came to a halt on the edge of the courtyard. The demon quivered again beneath her, and a soothing hand didn’t suffice to settle her.

  “Don’t worry.”

  She wasn’t good at platitudes, especially when she shared her demon’s sentiments; Fe’s lack of reaction was proof of it. The yithandreng continued to claw at the cobbles while the sorceress looked up at the tower.

  Star Tower didn’t seem to have been too badly affected, at least as far as appearances could tell. The spires were intact – which was more than could be said for the last Incursion, when a lone eolastyr caused a small fortune in damages. Black ichor and slime had stained some of the lower portions of the main tower, but surely that only spoke to the successes of her brothers and sisters of the Swords. It looked like the blood of dozens of demons had been splashed all over the outer walls. Surely that was a good thing?

  But why then were there so few people in and around the courtyard? Was that what had bothered Fe too? Usually the benches on the small green would be full, even following such tumultuous events as last night. Classes should be suspended. Practicals postponed. Every square foot of the grass should’ve been covered in initiates, babbling about the turmoil, things they’d seen and done, awaiting their chance to steal a spot on a bench…

  Did the wards fail? Are they afraid to come outside?

  It didn’t make sense.

  Fe safely tucked away in her pocket, Ciraya climbed the dark grey stair and passed through the open archway. Bladed kinkalaman and feathered ilshardical lurked there on either side, silent guardians sculpted in relief from the stonework of the pillars; the bovine faces of burly bintaborax loomed above all, their outstretched arms, locked in contest, forming the peak of the arch.

  She didn’t have to go far before all her worst nightmares came true. The high hallway was eerily empty, but she was only halfway up the first flight of stairs when the door to the canteen banged open.

  “Gods!” Urma cried, rushing out to take her by the hands. “Have you heard, Ciraya? Have you heard?”

  “What?” she said blandly, keeping one hundred percent of the panic she felt from her voice. She wanted to pull her hands out of Urma’s – she didn’t like someone invading her space like this, even if her skin bore the same tattoos, even if she thought as Urma as being closer to her than her actual sisters – for all that meant…

  “It’s the Mistress,” Urma blared. “It came in through her window! Th-the shields were nothing to it!”

  Somehow Ciraya knew what her fellow Star was going to say, but instinct compelled her to snatch her hands free regardless. She straightened, steeling herself to receive the news, the inexorable truth.

  Truth was always the same.

  “She’s dead, Ciraya! She’s dead!”

  * * *

  When she reached the high chamber, the magister took a few moments to recover her breath. Urma had been replaced with Davon and another adept Ciraya thought was called Irithsia, both senior Stars with kind smiles and hard eyes. Ostensibly they were accompanying Ciraya out of pure altruism, speaking to her in compassionate and husky tones, but she knew how these things worked. They wanted to ensure she didn’t move anything – or, worse, remove something. They wanted to quiz her, gently, perhaps, as to those topics whose resolutions still evaded them. Moreover, they wanted to watch her. See where she went, what she did. Were her eyes drawn to the locations of Eneleyn’s hidden compartments? If so, which ones? Those they knew of already, or those still to be discovered?

  Their position would’ve been obvious even if they hadn’t seemingly forgotten to contact her. It wasn’t as if she carried a glyphstone. Oh no. Even if they hadn’t been conveniently waiting for her halfway up the fourth stair to escort her, she would’ve known. Their eyes told the tale like any criminal’s.

  They knew, or at least suspected, that she and Mistress Arithos had had a special relationship. She’d spent too many late nights in the high chamber for the others to not notice. Mistress Arithos been a mother to Ciraya – more than a mother. A mentor. A role-model. Someone who showed her the other side of what it was to be highborn. Someone who made her feel like she was highborn, even when she’d been nobody, when she’d had nothing, no one at all… The reason for Mistress Arithos’s tenderness had always eluded her, and if she didn’t know better she’d have thought Mistress Henthae had laid a spell on her. The two older women, together – they had given her something to strive for. And she’d thrown herself into the dark magic at their unspoken request, thrown herself into her magistry work. She’d sought their approval in every sidelong glance, every casual remark that elevated her, opinions not meant to be given voice in the presence of one of her station.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Both of them – they treated her as an equal.

  Now the door opened onto a room painful in its familiarity, but Ciraya had eyes for only the desk. The empty chair, with its writhing serpentine arms, its criss-cross nettle-green embroidery…

  The glass-shards on the carpet gleamed in the glow of ensorcelled candelabra. Her eyes were drawn to it – to the smashed window –

  “What was left of her?” Ciraya asked.

  The two adepts glanced at one another, then, sounding somewhat annoyed, Davon replied: “The remains of Mistress Arithos –”

  “Cut the drop!” Ciraya brought up a pale hand to point at his face. “Not with me! Not today! You tell me – tell me what it did.”

  “It was one of the eolastyr,” Irithsia tried to remonstrate –

  “You think I’m stupid! What I want to know – did she die… die with her…”

  Irithsia shook her head slowly, eyes narrowed shrewdly. “She was, I believe, ‘flensed’. Without the swift application of healing… I cannot believe she lasted long.”

  “Poor lady,” Davon said quietly.

  Respectfully.

  Incensingly.

  Ciraya very carefully crossed her arms and clenched her fists. “How… how did this happen? The last I heard, she was… she was at study. She was fine.”

  “We believe one of the demons in here had imitated her voice. The corpse of Mistress Arithos wasn’t discovered for some hours, when a pre-activated detection-spell triggered upon the… the remains.” Davon drew himself up, and gestured into the room. “Would you like to enter?”

  Ciraya didn’t move a muscle.

  So when she called through the door… that wasn’t her?

  She felt sick all of a sudden – then the nausea was gone, fuel for a fire of anger that rose up, consuming all other concerns.

  I should’ve known!

  “Why wasn’t I contacted?” she asked between gritted teeth.

  “As you have been told, we were unaware of her passing for a long time.” Davon’s face was tight, a mask of emotionlessness. “We are uncertain… precisely when she entered Nethernum.”

  “You still didn’t answer my question, respected adept.”

  “Come now.” Irithsia was trying to sound sympathetic, but it came across as a reprimand all the same. “There was hardly some dictate, that you be contacted upon her death. We have had much on our minds, beyond reaching out to one journeyman serving in the Magisterium. Surely you understand this?”

  No, she wanted to hiss.

  “The rituals must be observed. The passing of a Master or Mistress of the Seven-Star Swords is not some minor event.” Davon seemed to read the answer in her eyes, and was even more obvious in his hostility. “My dear Ciraya, what would you expect? Next you will be criticising us for moving her body. There is an order to these things. If you stay with us, in time you will learn. You will see the reigns of more Masters, more Mistresses. Their deaths –”

  “If I stay with you.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that –”

  Ciraya turned on her heel and strode to the stair.

  “But – did we not come all the way up here to show you –”

  “Did you not desire to inspect –”

  She ignored their protests, their course-correction attempts. They’d already given away their real game.

  Exclusion. Taking control away from unstable elements like her. Pushing her back. Back to where she used to be. Back down where she belonged.

  As she hastened down the stairwell she looked at her hands. She had thrown herself into the tattoos as she had into all the other varied aspects of her career. There was no simple stopping-point. There was always another ward to trace, another rite to deconstruct, and there was no better place than the flesh to record her work, no more sacred sheet of paper than the runic skin that enclosed her, wrapped tight about her soul.

  The ink… There was no questioning it. The designs weren’t just part of her. They were the best part.

  I did it for me. Not for her. Not for them.

  She thundered down the stairs, past the entrances to the vast Red Library, the respectable Purple Library, the bare-shelved Green Library. Ronuth was there, coming the other way, already paling and stumbling; she charged past him, ignoring his insipid salutations, the seven-sword pattern on his open hand as he lifted it to wave…

  Fe beneath her, she pounded the streets, putting as much distance as possible between herself and them, that place, those memories. Her history. Her life.

  An Incursion had never affected her like this. She’d had ‘friends’ that had died, many times in the past. People she’d held at arms length. People who knew her well-enough to know they only half-knew her. And she missed those people, in a way. At least once a week she’d think about Ilitar and Haspophel’s pointless deaths, think about wringing the neck of the heretic who slew them. She’d wonder about what’d happened to Emrelet. How the fierce Onsolorian met her final end.

  There weren’t many of them left, and, of the sort who really knew her, only one of two remained.

  Henthae, she thought as she rode south, the wind in her eyes. Mistress Henthae, where are you?

  And, as if by divine miracle, the soothing, motherly voice answered.

  * * *

  She brought Fe to a halt on the edge of the cohort and Mistress Henthae came floating to meet her, buoyed up by a strong-looking flight-spell.

  “Oh, Ciraya,” said the enchantress, and those two words, laden with such grief, were as good to the sorceress as the long, firm embrace she’d never let herself surrender to.

  “Mistress.”

  “I only just found out about poor Eneleyn – rest assured, we will discuss the matter. For now,” the enchantress gestured to the quiet ranks of magisters, “would you join us? I am overdue to meet Feychilde. He needs returning to the place he belongs.”

  Ciraya eyed her fellow magisters. Their garish robes. Their sullen faces.

  “You’re…” Her mouth was dry all of a sudden. “You’re mobilising… to fight him?”

  “To crush him,” the old woman snapped. “He has broken every edict known to god and man, flauted every rule. To return, from Magicrux Zyger! Who knows what dark magic he has in his employ, beyond the eolastyr?”

  Ciraya closed her eyes and the feel of his touch came back to her. Just one more part of a very long day… the arch-sorcerer’s fingers like electric on her neck.

  Is it really true?

  Is it Mistress Arithos’s killer?

  She opened her eyes once more.

  “You believe he has one?” was all she said.

  “One or more!” Mistress Henthae’s eyes shone with fervour. “And you – you were the one! You found him! What – what dalliance is this!”

  Henthae advanced a few yards, face twisted by murderous fury. With an uncanny simultaneity, the nearest magisters turned hostile expressions on the sorceress.

  Ciraya balked, startled at the automaton-like reactions. Fe sensed her distress and coiled beneath her, readying the springy limbs to run.

  “What have you done, Mistress?” the sorceress cried. “What – what have you –”

  The enchantress eyed her like she was worthless. “Why, only what I’ve always done. The dragon began it, of course. But when I realised how easy it had been…”

  The enchantress laughed – a throbbing, throaty, terrifying laugh.

  “… how easy it would be… Whatever else would you expect of me, Miss Ostelwin? The fugitive must be put down.

  “And you must help me.”

  * * *

  She was right there, right at Henthae’s side, as it all came tumbling down.

  In the aftermath she abandoned them all. The Mistress didn’t cry after her, but some of the high-ranked magisters did. Their voices – they carried mixed motivations. The horror-struck, wanting Ciraya to stay so they could meld their miseries with her own, pull her down with them into the mire of hopelessness. The angered, thinking that perhaps Ciraya was complicit in Henthae’s madness, wanting to drag her over the same coals. The confused, still incapable of coming to terms with what had just been done to them.

  Fe tore at the muddy roadway, carrying her onwards. She didn’t know where they were going but that was okay. Fe knew her mistress needed to go for a run, so they ran. The destination didn’t matter one bit.

  As night-time came, the familiar, comforting darkness shrouding the city, she found herself in a North Lowtown pub. The walls and furniture were intact – well, as intact as could be expected for a tavern of its calibre – but the atmosphere was truly grim. Almost every patron drank alone. These were the people with nothing left to fight for, nothing out there to keep them from being in here… and she fitted right in with them. Even the balding guy behind the bar had barely a word for her – he simply stared at her until she produced copper, then dipped her a not-very-frothy tankard.

  “Margister,” a drunk slurred at her when she went back to the bar for her second refill. “Margister, ‘ere!”

  She slowly turned her head to regard the sloppy idiot.

  She was only two beers in. She looked him up and down coldly.

  “We’ll ‘as no trouble here, Rowle,” the barman said quietly, not even lifting his gaze to the sweaty-vested man; clearly Rowle was a regular. “Not terday.”

  She went back to her table, unaccosted, though she felt the eyes on her from all corners. She didn’t know what the barman was so frightened of. She wouldn’t need spells to handle a staggering buffoon like Rowle, and one example would soon settle the tempers of any other belligerent patrons who fancied testing her mettle.

  She kept her ears open, and focussed her gaze on the thin layer of foam floating on the ale. Using the long dark-blue nail of her index finger she cut lines into the froth, pointlessly practising her sigils like a good little girl, until all the bubbles fully dispersed.

  Henthae and Arithos. Both of them in one day.

  She half-laughed, then took a long swig.

  By the time she finished her third she was already sauntering back to the bar, swaying as she went. She looked across with disdain at the drooling fool three seats over.

  “Yeah, Rowse,” she croaked at the sleeping man. “Not today, Rowse.” She put Fe on the counter, where the tiny yithandreng stretched, extending her claws and scratching at the wooden surface. “All I got to do is say the one word, one word and this little thing’s gonna… gonna…”

  “Don’t give him any grief, please, miss,” Mr. Almost-Bald said to her, sounding weary in his bones. His eyes were fixed on the miniature demon stretched out on his bar. “Poor man. Lost all what he had. Musta been two moons back now. Wife and son, gone in the slaughter they was.” His eyes narrowed. “It’s an ‘ard life, eh, miss? Eh?”

  He was trying to engage, in spite of everything. Did he want to help her now all of a sudden, or under his tired exterior did he long for the violence too, just like Rowse had done?

  She kept her eyes on the two coins as she slid them across the counter, suddenly unwilling, incapable of meeting his eyes.

  She remembered what Kas said. She knew the symbol she wore for what it was.

  She hated it, she thought. Yes, that was right: she hated it.

  She took Fe and tramped back to her table, her little home away from home – not that she had a home, anyway, right? – not anymore – and pondered her options.

  It’s not like the ink. It’s not part of me. I never painted their star on me. In me. I just wear it. My stars are… my stars are five-pointed. Seven of them…

  ‘Seven swords for seven lords, and all the hells can’t hold ’em; seven stars for seven bards and not a truth was told ’em…’

  The legends of the formation of the Swords were a topic of much debate. Whether the original seven lords really existed – who they were, what they achieved – should have really been a matter of record. The tower was founded as little as two hundred years ago, and certainly its basements held none of the ancient mystery possessed by Magicrux Izian. But the turmoil of the Reformation had upended everything, and even the most ancient elves interviewed for academic purposes could recall little except the chaos. A few years ago Ciraya and some of her fellow pupils had gone over the historical record, searching for clues, answers to two-century-old conundrums. The most amazing thing was how people of the past viewed the times they lived in. The events that would be looked back upon and scrutinised for every minor detail were rarely those that captured the public opinion of the day. It seemed that by a hundred and fifty years ago the original seven Sword-Masters had already passed into legend, their identities a topic of conjecture and debate. Separating rumour from fact was beyond her skills and the skills of her ‘friends’, yet there was such enjoyment to be found even in base speculation. Even when she’d turned her attention to the academic literature she’d found the historians themselves were entangled in disagreements she thought of as, well, academic. Were the original Masters really all men? Several sources indicated the presence of Sword-Mistresses. Could it be that they were seven women, as one researcher boldly proclaimed? Or was it true, per the eye-witness testimony of one long-dead dwarf, that two of them were women, with five men? What about the swords themselves? At least one source said that one of the original Masters wielded an axe. Wasn’t that interesting…!

  Why such meaningless facets of the lore had become the primary fixations of the historical societies, she had no notion. Respected authorities would sit in forgotten rooms to hold discussions for hours – she’d attended one in her youthful naivety, once – and the dry disagreements about swords versus axes had made her nauseous even then, when her interest in such matters was at its keenest.

  She’d been such an idiot. Who even cared? Why should she have ever cared? Was it just to make two old women like her? A demon-addict and a thought-thief! Was it to gain power, prestige? What power? What prestige?

  No. That had been the excuse she’d given herself, in later years, looking back at her sixteen-year-old self with a scathing eye.

  The truth was… it still interested her. She was still a curious girl, in her heart of hearts. Her thirst was for knowledge, not power. If it weren’t for all the external layers she’d had to build up – when she almost killed those men, those absolute fools who thought a rust-splotched knife could contend with her sorcery –

  I could’ve been a professor, she thought glumly, staring down into the flat ale with the side of her head supported by her knuckles. This pint was slower-going. There were no bubbles left in which to make patterns but she made them all the same, lines only her imagination could perceive, her free hand hanging above her beer like a witch’s over a cauldron.

  The door banged open, louder than any sound she’d heard since she arrived… distant-enough through the fog of the booze to be ignored.

  Professor Ostelwin, she mused. Famed on campus. Most-tattooed sorceress of her rank. Scathing remarks. Too cool for her age. Yeah. That would’ve been me. The students would love me. Love me, and fear me. Equal measure.

  “A magister!” someone yelled. “What’s ‘er kind doin’ in ‘ere!”

  Whoever it was, they were enraged. Slowly, like a creature stirring from a months-long hibernation, she craned her neck to see.

  Oh, drop!…

  She almost fell out of her chair, scrambling to her feet as the four thick-necked men lunged at her.

  The grabbing-hand of the first missed her by feet or by inches, she couldn’t tell – she was staggering back by instinct, trying to put the corner of the table between herself and her attackers.

  She attempted to glower. “I’m warning y-“

  One of them had come around behind her without her even noticing, and yanked her off-balance by her hood. She twisted to get free and though she succeeded in making him lose his grip, she couldn’t do a thing about her momentum. Her warning was cut short as she tumbled, slamming down on her back between the chairs.

  “Droppin’ demon-freak,” he spat at her, leaning over her face, breath stinking of wane and worse.

  “Doan letter talk!” someone shouted. “Keep ‘er ‘ands out ‘er pockets!” There was a swift scraping squeak, chair-legs dragged across floorboards.

  Ciraya was lithe and stringy. She’d gone down harder before, and the alcohol removed at least ninety percent of the pain she should’ve been experiencing.

  Don’t use Fe, she told herself. Don’t lose control.

  She stuck a bunch of her dark-blue nails in her attacker’s face instead, clawing down for purchase as she pulled herself up, pushing with the other hand –

  Eyes can be fixed.

  As he screamed, her middle digit sinking up to the fingertip inside his eye-socket, someone struck her support-arm with something heavy. A boot, maybe. Right in the elbow.

  Gasping, she fell back again. Gore on her fingers. Boots and wails, pounding her.

  Don’t do it. Don’t lose control.

  She could take it. She’d been hurt before. She understood. In her bones. Her clan. The magisters. Magisters took something from the men. Now they took something back. She was the target. She would be made to suffer. She could take it. She’d taken worse!

  “Aaaah! Kill the witch! Kill it, kill it and skin it! Look at it! What is it? What even is it!”

  “Give us that.”

  There was no metallic zing, no tell that she could perceive. But she knew it from the ice in that voice. He was asking for a weapon.

  My weapon is wriggling in my pocket. My weapon can’t do a thing. Not a thing. Not without my say-so.

  She glanced up between her arms, braced protectively around her head. Saw them, leering over her, one with his foot raised to stamp on her once more.

  Die a fool, Ciraya. Die a fool, but not a criminal.

  You’re better than both of them.

  She shouldn’t have swivelled her head to look up; the booted heel landed in her chin. Her forearm absorbed the brunt of it but she still groaned as her teeth clattered, jaw ringing with the impact.

  The same rage still lived in her. She snapped out with her hands and gripped the retreating foot, heaving with all her might –

  She’d forgotten about her elbow. It hadn’t just been hurt, when it was kicked a moment ago – it was broken, almost inverted. What in her drunken mind’s eye would be a smooth manoeuvre became anything but; she flailed uselessly against the retracting foot and soon it was out of reach. Her brain couldn’t process it. Her motion had been a slick move that would be the first of many as she slid to her feet, slipping their untrained strikes, landing telling blows of her own… She couldn’t even grab his foot.

  She was inebriated, outnumbered. She downplayed the strength of four full-grown, motivated men, while at the same time overestimating the value of her combat experience.

  She’d left her flanks exposed by extending her arms and someone toed her full-force in the ribs. The agony of it ripped through her, the sheer power of the blow lifting her and dropping her again, so that the back of her skull gave a thick clonk! sound. Blood filled her mouth as she punctured her tongue with her teeth, almost biting the end of it off.

  She’d fought alongside champions. Survived Incursions. Destroyed darkmages in duels. And it was this, this that finished her. The back of her head connecting with the floor, surrounded by fools.

  What a stupid way to die.

  And die she would.

  She had enough consciousness left in her to form her final words. These last thoughts, given breath – it was the only way she could save herself.

  But she didn’t call to the demon to grow, defend her. Didn’t call for the Feast to begin, as much as that was what she should have done. That was the way of dark gods, to use magic upon misguided men. And she knew where she was bound. She knew which gods would claim her soul, if she made a mistake.

  She made no mistake.

  “Mortiforn,” she whispered from the tornado of pain as she sank down into it, feeling the god’s name burst in red bubbles on her lips. “Mortiforn…”

  Then the waters of unconsciousness closed over her head, and if they used the weapon on her body she never felt it. She was already gone.