"I don't know how long this will last," Fiesi says, absentmindedly spinning the spear in a full circle. "It's more of a risk to push the flame deeper without Rigel's support." His smooth tone does a good job at hiding the pricking implications of his words. He must miss his bird almost as much as I miss my flame.

He places his heel on Elyas's back, rolling it over his spine so that his navy tunic creases. "How are the others doing?"

"I'll check." I hurry back to the rock, eyes darting about the dark for any further sign of soldiers clad in midnight blue. The first form I lock eyes with is Dalton, only a few paces from the gap, curved blade streaked with blood held aloft. He shoves it into his sheath as he hurries towards me.

"You're not supposed to be here." The words are shaky, breathless from his recent fight. I'm simply glad to see he isn't obviously wounded.

"Are they all gone?" I won't ask if they're all dead, although that's the true meaning behind the question. Bitterness taints the back of my throat.

He leans through the gap, studying me with care. "I think so. Did any see you?"

"Just the one." There's no need, and yet I find myself pulling straighter, sure to meet his eyes evenly. Merely foolish pride that still kicks in when in his presence. Dalton is my friend, loyal and courageous and certainly not trying to make me feel small. But perhaps that's exactly it. He's stronger than me by miles, and some part of me squirms at that knowledge.

"It's all good," Fiesi calls. "I dealt with it." He shifts his position, stood over the fallen soldier.

"Great," Dalton says without much conviction.

"I'll just be waiting here for your verdict on whether to torture him for information or brutally murder him like the good people you are."

Dalton sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Its red tint has softened in the gloom to a coppery brown that sparks in what little lamplight drifts our way. "I'll go get Sarie. Nathan, stay close to Fiesi in case there's any more hiding in the dark."

Because I'm simply something that requires protection, a child to watch over. Swallowing a senseless retort, I edge over to Fiesi as Dalton runs back to join the other white smudges further down the slope.

He shakes his head. "Such little gratitude. I'm only keeping you safe from harm."

"You shouldn't have to." I rub at my arm, gloved fingers sliding over my skin.

He looks up, eyes turning gentle, and nudges my side. "No-one begrudges it, you know. You're worth protecting. And you're getting stronger each day, I'm sure."

Opening my mouth, I make to protest that I feel the exact opposite, that every new morning is harder to drag myself into, but then the soldier beneath him gives a low groan and our attention is snatched. Adjusting his stance, Fiesi adds pressure to the foot planted on Elyas's back.

The sound merges into a muffled laugh, growing in strength as Elyas twists his head to look up at him. "So it's true," he says. "You play with witchcraft now."

Fiesi casts me a pointed glance. I oblige, taking a hesitant step back, careful to stay behind him and out of sight. "Magic," he corrects, fingers tapping at his spear. "Witchcraft is an outdated term. Tends to conjure up a rather unflattering image."

"Whatever you say, witch."

He digs his heel in, a smirk forming in response to Elyas's hiss of pain. The spear's wispy tip drifts towards his face. "Careful now, mili zoí."

My lips twitch. I've heard him use that phrase a few times -- mostly directed at either Harper or Dalton when being forced to obey orders -- and I've figured by now that it can't mean anything complementary. It's somewhat reassuring to hear him use it on someone who might deserve its hidden implication.

He might be about to say more, but then light floods over us, the soft, dancing gold of a lantern's flame. It swings from left to right, its brightness dizzying enough after the muted dark of the night that I have to throw a hand up over my eyes. By the time I retract it, the light has steadied, its yellow-hued circle revealing Sarielle in her white tunic with ease. Her hair shines like sunshine despite the hour. As she pulls straight again from setting down the lantern, her eyes harden, diamond flecks that drill into the soldier on the ground.

Dalton jogs up behind her, hanging back at my side. His sword crosses my chest as if shielding me. I nudge his hand aside. There's no need for that when she's here.

Her stride doesn't break until she's less than a pace from Elyas. She drops abruptly into a crouch, cutlass skimming the grass where she holds it horizontally. Fresh blood is newly lit on its blade, glinting in ruby streaks. Fear immediately bleeds into Elyas's gaze, although he does his best to patch over it.

"What's his name?" she asks without looking up.

"Elyas..." Fiesi frowns. "Something. He was in Rakis's regiment for a while before he got transferred. Clearly he wasn't good enough for us."

"Transferred and promoted," Elyas snaps. "Your team was a bunch of idiots."

Mirth flickers over Sarielle's expression, quickly painted away by her interrogative guise. "So you're a captain, Elyas?"

He laughs. "What makes you think I'm going to answer your questions?"

She shrugs, turning over her blade in her palm. "You just strike me as someone who values his life."

There must be intent in her eyes I can't quite make out in the way the shadows fall over her face, for the fear reappears, twice as cold. "I'm lieutenant," he says shortly.

"Are there any other regiments following us?"

"Just one other."

Her blade creeps closer to his chin. "You better not be lying to me, Elyas."

"I'd never lie to you, princess." A sliver of delight re-enters his gaze.

It vanishes as Sarielle lifts her sword, resting the tip just gently on his cheek. When it retracts, a thin red line rushes in to mark the spot. "I'm not a princess," she hisses, her voice low enough to twine a shiver over even my spine. "Certainly not right now. Now, I'm someone who doesn't like to be lied to."

"I'm not lying." His voice grates, driven into a growl in an effort to hide its shake. It doesn't entirely work. "The general might be desperate to find you, but he's not stupid enough to send his entire army into neutral territory."

His army. My gasp catches in my throat. The tiniest tendril of a possibility, laced in fear and a senseless desire to race away into the night's safety, leaks into the back of my mind. I can't simply seize here and let it overtake me. I have to know. Dodging around Dalton's downturned blade, I sprint forward. He's too late to grab for my wrist; it slips easily from his grasp, letting me skid into place beside Sarielle.

"The general," I echo, hearing the tremor to my tone. "You said he."

"Nathan," Sarielle murmurs, "stay back. Let me ask the questions." Her brief surprise at my appearance has firmed into stony command. For once, I ignore her. What's the use in hiding? Elyas knows I'm here. He might as well provide some answers to quell the burning storm inside.

Curling my fists, I force myself to steady. "Who is he? What happened to Giulia?"

His brow quirks. "It's incredible you missed the news. It's all we've talked about."

"What news?" My hand jolts to the hilt of my dagger, although there's no need. Sarielle is already pressing the flat of his blade against his chin, levering it up, flowing back in that frozen terror.

"Answer him." She tilts it inwards, a bare inch from his throat.

"Okay, okay!" He jerks back as far as he can manage with Fiesi pinning him down. "General Velez died of her wounds after her battle with you three. Harlow Rakis took over from her."

The name hits me like a blow to the stomach. I stumble back, instinctively clutching at my chest, at the empty space around my heart. Harlow. The man responsible for my eternal ache, for the binds clinging to my wrists, for the deep void within me where flame once dwelled. He's the reason I'm weak and powerless. The reason it falls on the people around to protect me.

And now he has an entire army at his command. No wonder the attacks we've suffered have been so targeted.

"Yes," Elyas adds with a note of satisfaction, clearly observing my discomfort. "Harlow. There's a rumour going round that he's your father. Is that true?"

Now I really am frozen in place, feet melded to the frost-touched grass. My fingers flex, searching fruitlessly for a pathway out of the writhing tangle of confusion balling in my stomach at the very thought. It hasn't left me alone all this time. It haunts me most at night before I sleep, pouncing on my desperation to distract myself from the dreams I know await, driving a debate in circles until my heart races and its pulse throbs in my temples. Even now, I'm no closer to choosing a truth.

A hand closes around my forearm. Dalton, guiding me backward. I'm too stiff to protest. I simply let him pull me out of sight, hardly flinching as he wraps an arm over my shoulders.

"He will find you." Elyas's tone is taunting, ringing in the quiet despite its falter as Sarielle's sword creeps closer in. He raises it into a shout that winds around my chest in iron. "All of Neyaibet won't rest until you're returned to him. He'll hurt everyone who stands between you until you're safe in his grasp. You can't run--"

A choked sound strangles the final word, squeezing his voice to nothing. A phantom fist seizing my heart, I twist into Dalton's side, but I'm not quick enough. I still catch an unwelcome glimpse of the dark blood gushing from his neck, coating Sarielle's wedged blade in a fresh wave.

I know how weak it must appear, after all the wounds I've seen carved open, the blood I've spilt myself, to hide from the sight now. So childish. Yet still those ugly crimson rivulets carry with them a surge of unpleasant memories. That warm, sticky feeling slithers falsely under my gloves. The back of my throat stings, grated by rust.

It should be nausea that accompanies the sensation, if anything. Blood is a sickening sight. It's wrong. It's painful.

It certainly shouldn't renew the aching spike that rose with the flicker of Fiesi's flames.

Dalton's hand slides down my back, some soft means of comfort. My skin itches. He doesn't understand why I recoiled, not really. "Sarie," he says, almost chiding.

"He needed to shut up." Her voice isn't the gentle caress it usually is, a slice of fury shredding it into brutality. It draws me out of myself regardless. Raising my head, I watch her rise, crimson beads racing along the curved tip of her sword to add to the pool at her feet. I have to force myself not to follow its path and find its source, not to meet those glazed-over eyes of someone slowly tearing from this world and into nothingness. Claws scrape over my ribs.

Without meaning to, I catch her eye. Instantly, her expression softens, her head dipping in silent apology. The lantern light accents the rose tinge to her skin the same way it forms a shining film over her bloodied blade. Drawing in a shaky breath, I duck out from Dalton's arm, forcing myself to stand of my own accord. My arms curl over my chest.

Too ashamed to meet any other gaze, I find myself glancing at Fiesi. He is stepping carefully away from Elyas's body, his spear disintergrated into blue sparks that dart between his knuckles. His lips are set in a tight line. Though he doesn't share in my pain, his thoughts must wind along a similar track.

Harlow is coming for all of us. Nothing stands in his way. If I'm too weak even to face one dying soldier, how am I to cope when he finally catches up?

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

I do enjoy creating fun characters and then killing them immediately. RIP Elyas. You will not be missed.

It was cruel to leave you with just a half chapter, so you get the whole beginning. Now we're really off :chaos:

- Pup