Souta:

  I can’t beat him.

  I realized that when I looked into his eyes, after he bit off my ear.

  This man… he's not like me.

  He has known nothing but war.

  And this is my very first battle.

  He’s too fast despite my Uncle’s exaltation that I’ll outpace him. Too smart despite all my education in battle tactics. He’s able to counter or shrug off anything I throw at him.

  And to top it all off, he can regenerate.

  I’m going to die.

  My heart thunders as I soar further into the Giant’s Glades. The blades and spears are back, giant and looming past as I fall amongst their number. I right myself and strike the ground with lightning, willing the earth to catch me.

  The grass obliges, reaching out, softening my fall.

  I am tired. Blood drips from my body like an unshakeable burden. Yet I have no time to rest—for in the distance, red lightning streaks across the sky.

  And it's getting closer.

  You’re going to lose. You’re going to die. He’s going to bring your Uncle’s head to you on a platter and you will fail him and Sorayvlad and everyone else. You will die just like your father did—and you will hide in a closet and watch and weep and—

  “He’s going to tear you apart, Souta. Limb from limb,” Thraevirula told me.

  I won’t allow it.

  It doesn’t matter if I’m scared, or if he’s better than me.

  Think.

  You have advantages. He took me to the sky to isolate me from the horde—he knew I was winning there. But, he doesn’t know that I wasn’t using the full extent of my lightning within the horde itself—I didn’t call to nature for fear of striking into the infected.

  He was smart to goad me earlier, but now he’s made a mistake. We’re on the ground.

  Keep calm. Don’t let him get to you.

  He’s just—just an evil man that you need to kill.

  A jealous, hateful villain—like the ones from those stories Masaru used to read. Exactly like that. There’s no other explanation.

  And like Uncle said, I’m the destined one. Me.

  The hero.

  All I have to do is live up to my role.

  With that, I crack another amulet—I’m not exactly running out of angel dust, but better to replenish now than later.

  My katana is lost to me, so I unsheath my wakizashi and my tanto—the secondary blades of my set. This daishō set belonged to my father; they are my only physical inheritance from him.

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  The wakizashi is a medium backup blade, a head shorter than the katana. The tanto is a mere dagger. But I dual-wield them, wreathe them with sparkling verdant, and wait for the enemy to approach. A plan slowly forms in my mind as I track the crimson flash in the sky.

  I cannot afford to lose.

  After all…

  Destiny awaits.

  …

  Zyla:

  They never tell you how loud battle really is.

  Rains of ice, clonking against the shields above. The plagued, screeching and salivating against the barrier on our flanks. And of course, the enemy we face; surrounding us with their numbers, trying to close in on our forces.

  Explosions elicit a constant ringing in my ears.

  Ice hisses. Water rushes.

  Blood, sweat, and grime make a putrid concoction; it is a scent that pervades the killing field.

  Men shitting themselves—die in piss and guts.

  Masaru does well to maintain regimented lines. But my army is not meant for such rigidity. I can make them fluid—cordon off the heavy cav into barraging marauders, keep the light cav together and split them off whenever they’re in danger of being overcome. I have them focus on breaking through one line of men or hailing another and then switch them out when the pressure mounts.

  It’s like managing 500 pieces on a giant board of Queens—a popular strategy game in Catolica. Kiren and I used to play that a lot. He would always win. To be honest, in most games and in most things in life, he would always win. My brother had a natural talent. For shields. For magicks. For everything.

  I think, between other siblings, this would’ve been a great point of contention. But not with Kiren. Never with Kiren. Even though I had to work twice as hard, he was always there, encouraging me, helping me late at night to understand Incanta, to learn Aether, to understand the methodologies of spirit bonding—even though that wasn’t his specialty.

  Saegor saved me. Kiren raised me.

  I will not fail them.

  I can manage this army—only because I delegate certain roles to my bonds. They can take more complex instructions. For the slaves, I usually have to give if/then statements. Chains of them.

  If the enemy closes in…

  Then withdraw and switch out with Group B.

  And so on.

  However, the few bonded spirits I have can lead the slaves with more intuitive commands. I use them to carve lines and openings into Masaru’s encircling force. Even as his warriors ring fire and metal to break our lines, we respond with adaptation. Wherever they press, we let them and instead, shift our flow.

  A stone can try as it might to cut through water…

  Yet water always wins. Eventually.

  However, time is not on my side. The shields will only last for a certain duration—and even with Kiren’s more complex hexagonal aegis, some of the smaller complexes break and allow the whale airforce to rain hell upon us for brief seconds. The shields are usually closed back up quickly. I just don’t know how long Kiren can last like this.

  Finally, I hear the thunderous reckoning of hooves.

  The spearmen up the slope now part, making way for Masaru’s counter-cavalry.

  The dust and dirt they plume in their wake is likely to be replaced with crushed spirit parts. Trampled monkeys and wolves.

  I stare at the charging force. A trickle of fear slinks down my throat.

  They are charging directly at my position.

  I instruct my blood raven to ready its wings.

  But there’s no need.

  For Saegor steps forth, as if having just appeared from nothingness. Hidden in the folds of the battle, it seems now that his opening has finally been made.

  He raises a lazy hand to the charging cavalry and shoots a great pillar of flame, coated in slithering darkness. The men put up their own shields of magick to fight against the flame. But the darkness takes their horses by the hooves.

  And from the smokey black, tentacles reach up, green and slimy, pulling now at the full cavalry force.

  They go into the dark screaming, horses bleating and dying with horrid, torturous sounds. Saegor stalks through their lot, unbothered by the tentacles that reach up and about him, that drag men into the smoke.

  My master starts whistling a sickly tune.

  The spearmen at Saegor’s flank do not try to save their comrades. Nor do they attempt to attack the elder mancer. Instead, they refocus their attention on my heavy cavalry. Better the bear and the hippo than the darkness.

  I focus on the battle again, but as a precaution, and admittedly, out of morbid curiosity, I have an air swordfish watch over Saegor. And I let one of my eyes roll up to bear witness through the fish’s eyes—bear witness to the confrontation that Saegor has dreamed about for years.

  For the witch awaits him at the top of the slope.

  Saegor pauses beneath her. Waiting. His tune dies.

  The two stare at each other as the battle rages around them—and yet, they seem to be the only people in this universe who exist at this moment. The witch tilts her head at my master and a sly, evil smile rips across her face.

  “Hello, Father. How’s the eye?”