The Firefly doors opened. Winds rushed in, roaring louder than he expected. Regilon unbuckled his seat belt and sauntered to the entrance. Grey building blocks stood at one end of the village, coated in thick black dust. Beyond them lay the infamous forest of black, silent trees. He shivered at their sight, and somehow, it felt as if they shivered back at him. Regilon dangled one foot in the air and dropped out of the aircraft.

  Toppling in the wind, he adjusted himself, veering toward the centre of the village. Gusts from the north and south whipped around him like a cyclone. Dust obeyed his will, spiralling round and round as he slowed his descent. His feet touched the ground, and he looked up to see the firefly speeding off into the distance.

  Silence. Abandonment. Loneliness. A breeze stirred with a slight howl, then faded, only to rise again. The dust shifted against broken aircraft, moving back and forth at the whim of the wind. Regilon took a step forward, then another, until he noticed a change in the ground. When the wind blew, he saw a face buried beneath the soil. It was grey, veined with Black Vein.

  He closed his eyes, listening for life. No heartbeat, no faint breath—yet he knew someone was alive here. This was an ability no amount of training or astaphite could grant. He sensed life in Blackwood because he refused to accept there wasn’t any. Once he opened his eyes, his heart skipped a beat at what lay before him.

  Few things surprised an ascender, but the two figures ahead did. He had not heard them arrive, nor had he smelled them. Even now, he tried to sense their magic but found nothing. It was as though he was seeing something that wasn’t there—but they were very real.

  A man in a tattered suit held a staff. Beside him stood a woman in a ripped-up dress. The moonlight stretched their shadows across the ground as they stood together in front of the Ring. Neither showed hostility; they watched Regilon without any discernible intention. But the Gaverian knew better. If he was right, these two were responsible for the havoc. These two—whatever they were—were responsible for a Gaverian's death.

  They attacked, splitting off in opposite directions to flank Regilon. The female was faster than the male, but in a fraction of a second, she slowed to match her counterpart’s pace, as if to strike simultaneously.

  Regilon moved. He lunged to the side, ramming his shoulder into the male creature. It tumbled into the dirt. He pivoted, driving his elbow into the female’s gut, securing a grip and thrusting an ice blade through her belly in rapid succession. She plummeted to the ground. Regilon brought his foot down, stamping on her head. Ice spikes erupted from beneath his boot, pinning her skull to the ground.

  Spinning around, he blocked the male’s staff strike, snatched it from its hand, and tossed it aside. They clashed, exchanging fists with lightning speed. Regilon cast ice chains, wrapping them around the creature’s neck and yanking it to the ground. As he swung down to strike, the creature spun away, scrambled to its feet, and bolted toward the Ring.

  Regilon pursued. He crafted winds which slammed the creature into a broken aircraft. It tried to escape, but Regilon seized it by the throat, tightening his grip. The creature wheezed, scratching at his arm, but he did not relent. A click of his tongue and flames ignited across the creature’s body—red, then yellow, then blue—but its skin remained impervious. Destroying it would require power he did not have right now. He released it; it collapsed face-first.

  A muffled growl warned him the female was returning. She lunged with outstretched claws. Regilon’s fist connected with her face, sending her slamming to the ground in a small explosion. Defeated, but not destroyed.

  Regilon bent slightly, sliding his hands into his pockets. Was this all there was to them? He nudged the male with his boot, narrowing his eyes. Its jacket smoked but was intact. With a spell, ice bars erupted from the ground, pinning both in place. Crouching over them, he tapped each on their cheek. Then he crafted two ice blades and drove them through their faces. That should hold them steady for a while.

  He strolled past the Ring toward the church. Beneath the shifting sands lay more bodies, more broken aircraft from the last battle. Were those two really that powerful, or was Regilon underestimating himself?

  The distance between him and the handicapped creatures was both an advantage and a disadvantage. They were far enough from the victims to give him time, yet far enough that he wouldn’t sense them until they came closer. Not fully recovered from his last mission, his senses were dulled. To be fair, it was night, and dust swirled everywhere.

  A quick search around the abandoned church revealed all he needed to know. No one was alive on the surface. A small pile of bodies was stacked on the stairs to the altar, but nothing else. One place remained to check. Blackwood had once housed a research institute, complete with an underground structure that sheltered researchers for years. Its original purpose was irrelevant today; all Regilon knew was that it was large enough for an earthen population to hide in.

  At the entrance, he peered down into the darkness, deciding he wouldn’t be climbing in anytime soon. Hours of searching and countless traps could await him. There had to be a reason a survivor had lasted this long. Instead, he crouched and crunched his palm, breathing life into it. A butterfly of flame emerged, fluttering down into the dark. As it moved, it split into two, then four.

  He stayed low, hand on his chin, eyes narrowed and ears sharp—one to listen for incoming threats, the other for signs of life. Some might call this an act of selflessness, a hero risking everything to save worthless earthens. They would be wrong. He was here for only one reason: to see if he was truly alone in this world.

  When the silence became unbearable, he considered going down after all. Then a flicker from below stopped him. His butterflies burst from the tunnel by the thousands, spreading into the air. Their wings flapped in joy. On rare occasions, a crafter’s artifact takes on a life of its own. These flame butterflies had found their purpose: to discover life below.

  Regilon leaned toward the entrance, meeting eyes looking up. They were golden-brown, not multi-coloured. They weren’t the eyes he wanted, yet he could not turn away. During his time in the Gold Alliance, they had a term for moments like this: Jeh. A moment when you were overwhelmed by an emotion you hadn’t anticipated. Supervisors warned them against it during raids on earthen neighbourhoods. They would find children clutching each other, hidden alone in bunkers where their parents had long fled.

  He forgot his original intention and focused on what was in front of him. One survivor climbed the metal stairs. She was shrunken in ragged clothes, her face and hair streaked with dirt. Before taking the final step, she turned first to Regilon, then to the sky. Tears brimmed at the edges of her eyes, and she nearly fell back into the tunnel. He caught her just in time, pulling her away from the entrance.

  Wrecked by Jeh, he could no longer stand. He knelt and embraced her, placing her head against his chest. She sobbed in silence, digging her nails into his coat. He gripped her head firmer.

  “What took you so long?” she asked. He had no answer.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  One by one, more survivors emerged from the tunnels—mostly young women and girls. They gathered around the entrance, helping the next person climb out. About twelve in all, and none resembled a fae.

  “Is anyone injured?” he asked. Nobody responded, instead checking on each other. “Do you have anyone who needs help coming out?”

  At that moment, a young girl climbed out carrying a middle-aged man. She grunted with effort, and he cut her labour short by lifting the man to the ground first. He was crippled from the waist down but appeared healthier than the rest. The girl puffed, hands on her knees, then smiled wide at Regilon, a glimmer in her eyes unlike any of the others.

  “Is this all of you?” he asked the lively girl.

  She hesitated, about to lie, but was distracted by another scene. Their mouths formed a hard line, refusing to look his way. The lively girl broke free from her fear and nodded to Regilon. “Behind you,” she mouthed. Regilon released the weeping woman and turned around.

  It wasn’t what he expected.

  Six blue eyes glowed. A plasma gun was aimed at him. Regilon crossed his arms above him, and a wall of ice sprang up. Plasma burst from the gun, smashing through the ice. Pain shot through him, pulsating across his torso. An ice stake shoved deep into his belly. Blood poured, staining his shirt.

  He conjured another ice wall. The plasma bolt shattered it again. Regilon surged forward, crafting a blade. He slashed through the gun, shoving the ice blade into the mercenary. The man grunted, coughing blood into his mask. Regilon panted, his head spinning. He wrenched the chunk of ice free from his torso with both hands and hurled it at the Bannerman.

  “Master!”

  A bolt whizzed past him. Motorcycles roared through the dust storm, pairs of six blue eyes and loaded plasma guns advancing. He pushed back his trembling hand, focusing on them all. The motorcycles tore forward in zigzag formations. Cursing, Regilon dropped his hand and staggered backward, keeping a grip on the blood gushing from his gut. Bolts whizzed past him from left and right. He dodged most, but the last struck his thigh. He dropped to one knee, baring his teeth.

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  A pair of light feet rushed toward him. Skinny limbs grabbed his arms and forced him upright. “Get up,” she said.

  “I’m not retreating,” Regilon replied, slapping a palm into the wind. The air obeyed, blasting one motorcycle away. But there were too many, and he couldn’t see them all.

  “Then I’ll help you fight,” the girl said. Regilon grunted as he tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him.

  “Lean on me,” she pleaded.

  He shoved her away and cast another ice wall. A plasma bolt slammed into their group, shattering the ice wall. Regilon conjured a wall once more, charging it along the ground. The motorcycle sped around it, closing in. He swung his sword high and sliced through its tire. The Bannermen were sent flying. He erupted into flames in midair, screaming as he crashed.

  “How many are there?” he asked the girl.

  “I see… six more,” she replied uncertainly.

  Regilon grunted and pushed forward. The girl did not hesitate, but as he expected, she was of little help. His weight threw her off balance, and they swayed to the side. Forcing himself upright on his good leg, he refocused on the incoming Bannermen and charged… at a slow pace.

  With a snap of his fingers, flames erupted from the ground, missing the nearest target. They didn’t fire back—unable to aim without stabilizing first. He focused. Even in constant change, patterns emerge. He mapped all six, timed his attacks a second early. Three were scorched as they leapt from their vehicles. Spooked, the others abandoned their formation and barrelled forward, firing. Bolts smashed into ice walls, sending shards flying.

  He pushed forward, silently hoping the girl could endure. Another snap set a motorcycle ablaze, but the Bannerman leapt off, aiming his plasma gun. A burst of wind slapped his hand aside. Regilon clenched his palm, directing the wind to drive the mercenary toward him. He seized him by the throat, flames devouring the neck. Flesh and bone peeled away, the rest dropping to the ground.

  Another shot whizzed past. The motorcycle hurtled toward Regilon regardless. The Bannerman aimed again, only for ice shards to impale his position. They pierced the wheels and tank, trapping him. He struggled to escape, but the shards pierced his feet.

  When Regilon closed the distance, he ripped the helmet off. The Bannerman pleaded for his life. Young, curly-haired, smooth-skinned… Regilon pushed a hand into his face, and the blood froze in the earthen’s veins.

  Then there were three. Determined to complete their mission, they spread out, guns aimed and cautious. The first shot smashed into ice, the second whizzed past his ear, and the third never fired—Regilon held the gun. He snatched it from the Bannerman’s hand and drove it through his head.

  The others snapped their heads around, searching for him. With a surge of power, he shot through the haze, grabbed one by the neck, and snapped it. As the last shot rang out, it scattered in all directions. A bolt grazed his ribs. Irritated, he cast a ring of ice around the mercenary, closing it in until bones cracked against the walls.

  Regilon collapsed to one knee, panting. When the dust settled, the girl rushed to him, trying to help him stand. “That’s the last of them,” he said.

  “It’s not true,” she replied.

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  “I think there are more. Over there—but they aren’t looking our way.”

  Bannermen crouched around the creatures, using plasma guns to free them from the ice. “They hate me more than they love you,” he said to the girl. She understood immediately, gripping his arm tighter than usual.

  Groaning, Regilon rummaged through his pockets and pulled out the homing device. He moved the girl back and pressed it into her hands.

  “Press this only when it’s safe,” he instructed.

  “What are you going to do? You can’t fight them like this.”

  “You know who I am,” he said.

  “You’re the Blood Storm.”

  “Yes, but so are you.” He placed a strong hand on her shoulder. “I’ve met many soldiers in my life. Few have your courage and strength. What is your name?”

  “Hanna,” she said. “Hanna Shepherd, Sir.”

  “It has been an honour fighting alongside you, Hanna Shepherd, but the battle is far from over. Your role is bigger than mine. Keep your people alive.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t beat Franka,” she said. “Only Jeromy can.”

  “So that’s his name. If he is your only hope, Blackwood is lost.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Get lost. I mean it.”

  The ice shattered with pained screams. Franka, as he was called, had broken free. Much faster than before, he tore through the Bannermen, breaking bones with bare hands. One skidded off on his motorcycle, racing into the forest. Franka watched him go, then sauntered to his staff, picked it up, and smashed his counterpart free. The female exploded off the ground with godlike force, landing on the escaping Bannerman. She caught him by the head and ripped out a chunk of his neck with her teeth. Both crashed to the ground, the man dead.

  Now would have been a good time to use the astaphite he had given up. Franka and his partner recovered, ambling past the Ring and onto the stage prepared for the two sides. Regilon let go of his belly. The wound was not fully healed, but he could manage.

  Something had changed about the two. Franka was undeniably angry. He gripped his staff tighter. From his eye movements, Regilon deduced the cause of his vexation: the Blackens. But that wasn’t all. A portion of the anger was aimed at Regilon himself. He had humiliated the demons, and now they sought revenge.

  The female attempted a move, which Franka stopped with a gesture. This was personal. Creature or not, it had human emotions. Franka lifted his staff with both hands and struck the ground. Angry violet markings spread across the dirt, snaking toward Regilon. Unsure of their purpose, the Gaverian stepped aside—but the demon’s staff struck his head.

  Back on the ground, Franka’s shadowed foot grey larger over Regilon’s eyes. A surge of wind blasted the demon backward, giving Regilon a chance to close in, wielding ice and flame. Franka batted away spell after spell with his staff, dodging and circling. Strike after strike, he slammed Regilon’s knee and swatted at his head. Dazed but unyielding, Regilon took a stance, fists raised. Bloodied as he was, he refused to be bested.

  Regilon puffed smoke into Franka’s face, dashing forward to drive ice blades into his gut. He slammed his head back, coating it in ice, and collided it with Franka’s. The demon grabbed him, wrestling him to the ground. They bashed arms and scrambled for leverage, scraping skin and exchanging near-misses.

  Franka swung a knee across Reggie’s face, thrusting him through the air. His back slammed into a broken aircraft, a harsh reminder of his previous assault on Franka. Another flying knee struck his gut as he tore through the wreckage. Regilon’s back pressed against the dirt, ears ringing. Franka cut through rubble, swinging his staff down, smashing ice wall after ice wall.

  Regilon kicked back, dodging the barrage, but Franka’s assault did not relent. With a final swing, the staff sent an ice wall flying straight at Regilon’s head. He kicked upward, striking Franka’s torso—empty space, the demon was gone. What kind of monster was this?

  Franka swung his head, striking with the staff again, launching them like spears. Regilon parried, but his ice shields thinned rapidly. The creature’s next strike jabbed through his open belly. Regilon snapped his hand to grab the staff, attempting to freeze it—but nothing happened. Violet triangles crawled along the staff, spreading from Franka’s end to his.

  Regilon clenched his teeth as the spell hit him. A thunderous shockwave threw him off, an unseen force crushing his soul from within. He was hurled backward across Blackwood, slammed into the forest, and collided with a tree.

  His red eyes snapped open. Regilon pressed his back against the trunk he’d slammed into, hugging it tightly. His jaw hung slack, his breathing ragged. Blood pooled in his palm as he coughed. He couldn’t see the creature.

  Regilon froze, frowning, eyes tracing the branches above. A fae crouched there—black as night, with piercing white eyes—watching him. The Gaverian screamed, opening his palm. Fire erupted upward in a towering wall, lighting the entire forest for a heartbeat. When the flames faded, the creature was gone.

  He left the tree and prowled the quiet woods, searching for a foe that might not even exist. “Show yourself,” he growled. The fae darted past him once, twice, too fast to track. On the third pass, Regilon’s ring of fire erupted, scorching the forest floor. The creature faltered. Regilon’s eyes glowed red as he lunged after it.

  Fuelled by rage, he surged across the forest in three short bursts, leaping into the branches, slicing through wood. Closing in, the creature veered away. Winds slammed into him, forcing him off course. Frost began to creep along the trunks as Regilon’s inner fire flared hotter. The fae leapt from a branch, then stomped into Regilon’s back, sending him crashing against a tree. He sprawled against the roots, the creature pinning him. Ice spikes erupted from the ground, piercing the fae from every angle.

  Regilon’s wicked smile widened as he rose from the dirt. The creature struggled, trapped. Raising his left hand, Regilon traced a hex across the writhing creature’s brow. “By the power of the crafter god, I condemn you!” Flames roared from his hand, crackling through the forest air, lashing the fae’s head. It screamed. Regilon poured every ounce of ascension into the fire, ignoring the etchings crawling along his spine and neck. He would see this thing dead!

  The girl’s warning echoed in his mind: You can’t defeat Franka no matter how hard you try.

  A growl reached his ears. Maybe it was in his head. He stopped burning the fae, turning to the sound. Regilon smirked—and then chuckled, and finally laughed. How ridiculous was this?

  He ripped off his jacket and spread his arms. Two curved ice blades manifested in his hands, clashing together with a metallic ring. “Try,” he challenged, and roared, charging at the beast. The creature mirrored him, wind blasting around them as they twisted through the air.

  Landing atop its back, Regilon screamed and drove his blades deep. Ice crept along the beast’s spine, eliciting a pained howl. He raised his hand, forging an even larger blade, and slid along its back, aiming for its head. The fae rammed into him mid-swing, sending him crashing into a tree. He sprang back, slashing through the air as fire and ice whirled in a spiral. The massive beasts clawed at him, tearing flesh from his gut.

  He grimaced as he slammed into the ground, his blade slicing through a paw. Leaping above, he snapped his fingers—boiling heat surged from his spell, shooting for the beast. Regilon surged for the burning beast, crafted sword in hand. The fae grabbed him midair and hurled him into the beast’s gaping maw. He twisted helplessly, but the fangs shredded his collarbone. Thrashing, he froze his upper arm with frost, searing the beast’s teeth and forcing it to release him.

  Bursting upward with wind, dagger in hand, he aimed for the beast’s eye. The fae blocked his strike as the landed on the back of the hound and they exchanged blows again and again, fire erupting in torrents around them. Streams of scorching flames forced the fae down. Regilon seized its arm, snapping bone after bone, and stomped its head mercilessly.

  “Dem, dem, dem!” he screamed, dropping to one knee and pouring every ounce of spirit into a deep, concentrated spell. Flames roared like a miniature sun, scorching the hound. It shook violently, tossing the fae and Regilon off its back.

  Regilon slammed limp against a tree, chest heaving. The hound prowled, its white eyes as bright as moons. A smile crept across Regilon’s face, and he laughed, shaking his head. With a gust of wind, he bolted through the forest, the beast pounced after him—relentless in its pursuit of the Blood Storm.