It had been just another day at the job for Maeve Grimjaw. She and her partner Korren had spent the morning taking apart half the plumbing at Warden’s Reach. The castle was old, but every now and again the Thirteen would commission some kind of upgrade to its infrastructure, and it would inevitably break down. If they’d just let her do the initial construction, she wouldn’t have to go in after the fact and clean up someone else’s sloppy work.

  Maeve extinguished the flame on her welder and pushed the goggles off her eyes with her free hand to admire her work. After replacing several sections of copper with a more flexible polymer pipe and bringing back the sections that had broken down and refinished them, she was just about ready to load up the hauler and take it all back.

  “Maeve!” Korren stuck his head around the corner of their shop. “You gotta come check this out, two gifted are fighting by the smithy!”

  She grimaced, “Did somebody call the justicars? Last thing we need is a crime scene blocking the warehouse.”

  “I’m sure they have, but it’ll be a few minutes anyhow. Take a break, come watch the fight!” Korren disappeared around the corner again.

  Her eyes shifted from the empty space her partner had vacated to the finished fitting on her bench, then back. She could use a break, and if she had to guess, none of those idiots actually called the justicars yet, so she’d likely have to do it. Leaving her gloves and goggles behind, she ran after Korren toward the crowd that had gathered at the entrance to the forge.

  Maeve stopped beside Korren, trying to peer between the bodies to see what was going on. Being half dwarf was not always as fun as it looked.

  “Need a boost?” Korren grinned down at her.

  Maeve gave him a flat look, then flung her hand forward in a quick swatting motion, making firm but brief contact with his crotch.

  “Oooow.” Korren doubled over.

  “Thanks for the boost, asshole.” She jumped onto his back and used him as a platform to jump onto a nearby hovering hauler. Sure enough, in the center of the square, an enormous man was swinging an equally enormous axe at a smaller man. Her brow furrowed at the distinctive fur that coated the neckline of the coat on the smaller man. Ashland Direwolf fur? That was Brannoc’s coat.

  That was not Brannoc.

  She spun around on the hauler, taking over the automated control and moving it up above the cafeteria to get a closer look. A mop of messy brown hair. A thin, athletic build. Asymetrical eyes of blood and ice.

  “Fuuuuck me.” Maeve groaned as she sped off in the opposite direction to the closest caller raven. “Justicars to forge 17. Repeat. Justicars to forge 17.”

  The raven repeated her words, then the next one a few buildings down, then another.

  Haulers were not meant for speed, but she pushed it as fast as it would go until she was hovering over the building again. At least Greg wasn't getting his ass kicked. Why was this other guy glowing though? She’d never seen anything like that.

  The answer came when Greg sidestepped a blow and drove his rapier into the huge man’s kidney. When the blade slid back out, blue mist shot from the hole like steam from an engine rather than purple blood.

  “What the fuck?” Maeve muttered, eyes widening.

  As the fight went on, her concern grew, but not in the way she’d expected. Greg was getting faster. He went from missing one in every three or four strikes to landing them all. It was turning from a mad scramble for survival…to her friend toying with an exhausted enemy.

  “Greg! Stop!” she called out, inching the hauler lower. If he heard her, he gave no indication of it.

  He was dominating the fight now, the mountain of muscle on the back foot trying and failing to dodge quick strikes. A dim light rose from Greg’s back, creating a translucent image of wings. Though she could see right through them, the details were unmistakable. One was crimson leather. The other pure white feathers.

  “GREG! STOP!”

  He continued to push the man back with quick, whipping rapier strikes all the way across the courtyard and into the forge proper. She’d trained with Greg plenty of times. He was a decent swordsman, but this was another level. He wasn’t himself anymore. If she didn’t stop this he was going to—

  Magnificent white light strobed from him. It didn’t last more than a second, but in that time he’d driven the rapier into the other man’s chest and handled him as if guiding an unruly toddler to the crucible. His opponent screamed, but she could hardly hear it over the hiss of Greg’s hand gripping the deep mountain steel crucible casing. It must have been over a thousand degrees, but he held it like it was nothing as he attempted to force the much larger man into the crucible full of lava with one hand.

  A blur of motion streaked across the courtyard, and suddenly Greg was flying out of the forge. Another blur followed up, grabbing the larger man and laying him on the ground. Maeve lowered the hauler as fast as it would go, and jumped off the final ten feet to land in front of Greg’s now unconcious body.

  The wings.

  The glow.

  They were certainly going to assume he was Blooded and kill him. She didn’t know what happened to start the fight, but the ability that gave him the wings was likely the same one that made him light up in the sewers. She landed in front of him just as the Justicar closed the distance, blade up ready to skewer Greg where he lay.

  “Move.” The Gifted man glared down at her, but she stood her ground.

  “He’s not blooded. Its one of his abilities. Give it a second and he’ll come back.” She hoped at least. Maeve glanced over her shoulder at the shallow breathing. “Please…just give him a second.”

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  The Justicar’s golden eyes focused on her from beneath narrowed brows. He didn’t speak, but his sword arm slowly lowered as he looked over her shoulder.

  She didn’t say another word, simply turned and dropped to her knees over Greg. Her hands went to his shoulders as the spectral wings faded and the thin cracks in his skin that emanated bright light smoothed over.

  “Greg…” She whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  She swore his eyes opened for a moment, but blinding light shone down on her. The hollering of the crowd and any sounds of workers still doing their jobs in the nearby radius silenced. Using her hand as a shade, Maeve looked up to find Rhobair’s magic fog penetrated by a piercing white spotlight over Greg.

  “Back away,” the Justicar ordered, the only sound for what seemed like miles.

  Fat chance. She hovered over Greg, a hand slipping into her storage space to grab her crossbow. No sky god was going to take him. If the Mother Below wanted Greg, she would trust her judgement, but Theron? Veyru? Not today.

  The light did not fade, but the silence ended. In each cardinal direction around Greg, the sturdy pavement, designed for the rough use of an industrial area, sizzled and cracked like dry wood. Thick black noxious smoke billowed from each of the holes, followed by a distinct howl.

  “Nayreez! Evacuate them now!” the Justicar behind her yelled.

  “You need to run, young miss.” A beautiful elven woman with turquoise hair and caramel skin had the other man over one shoulder and was hoisting Greg over the other.

  “Where are you taking him?” Maeve asked as she slowly backed away.

  “Warden’s Reach holding.” The elven woman, Nayreez, glanced back at the other Justicar. “Mobilize everyone?”

  He nodded.

  Maeve ran. She needed to get to Brannoc.

  ###

  Volatility over 90%. Decrease volatility at your earliest convenience.

  You have entered an area of magical suppression.

  This area will count as a designated safe zone as long as you remain at rest.

  Volatility at 75%. Volatility decreasing at a rate of 5 per hour as long as you remain at rest.

  Volatility at 50%. Volatility decreasing at a rate of 5 per hour as long as you remain at rest.

  Greg blinked. The lights were way too bright. He coughed, phlem catching in his throat and he tried to clear it.

  “You stupid son of a bitch!” Isabella yelled at him from inside his own skull, drawing a wince.

  “Oh please don’t. My head is killing me.”

  “Your head? Your head?! You’re lucky I don’t figure out a way to give you a fucking aneurysm and kill you myself, you fucking idiot!”

  Greg pressed his palms into his eyes and rubbed. Magical suppression? It obviously wasn’t working that well if he was still getting messages and Isabella could still talk to him. With a quick glance around, he was in a room that looked suspiciously like a high-class jail cell. Three of the four walls were metal, but painted in a soft yellow color. To make it seem inviting? The fourth wall was a clear material. He pressed his palm to it and it felt almost like plexiglass, but he wasn’t confident they had that here.

  “Do you know where I am?” he whispered.

  “Warden’s Reach holding cells.” The woman’s voice on the other side of his metal wall was tepid and entirely unenthused. “Lady Dawnflare will be pleased you’re awake.”

  “And now you’ve got one of the Thirteen looking into you. I should have jumped a ride in the other body.”

  Greg looked down, completely dismissing the physical woman in the room for the one in his head. “What other…” He bit down hard on his lip and took a deep breath. A conversation for another time.

  The clacking of heels on marble floors sounded, and from around the corner a tall elven woman made up of mostly legs stepped around in a smart tan pantsuit with a clipboard in hand. “Other what?”

  “Oh…uhh…” Greg jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The other guy. Is he…okay?”

  “Is he okay?” she lifted thin eyebrows high above a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles that balance on her nose. “The man twice your size that you almost hurled into a twelve-hundred degree forge? We’ll get to that.” She tapped the clipboard with a sleek silver pen and continued. “Full name?”

  “Umm..Greg—Greg Archibald Norwood.”

  “Date of birth?” She didn’t look up from the page.

  “Ooof.” Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a complex question. Should I have a lawyer or something?”

  “A lawyer?” The woman asked.

  “Yeah, someone to tell me what questions to answer, how much information I have to give you. All that?”

  The woman blinked at him, still utterly deadpan, but she was silent for a long time. Finally, she looked down at her clipboard again, cleared her throat, and repeated the question.

  “Tell her Jenar eighteenth thirty-two two-oh-six.” Isabella instructed him.

  He pursed his lips, but the date sounded right. He’d honestly not been keeping track after he found out he was now basically an ageless entity in an alternate universe, the idea of keeping track of the day of the week seemed pointless.

  “Jenar eighteenth, thirty-two two-oh-six.”

  “Where were you born?” She continued the questioning without missing a step.

  “Raven’s Crest. You’re a foreigner.”

  “Raven’s Crest.” Greg answered again, drawing a quick glance from the woman, but nothing more.

  “What is your relationship to Brannoc Stroud?”

  “He’s training me.” Greg shrugged. “Kind of a sweet deal. Wait, you called this place Warden’s Reach? Does Brannoc have something to do with this?”

  “Not the time.” Both women said simultaneously.

  “Sorry.” Greg held up his hand, waiting for the next question.

  “Maeve GrimJaw?”

  “Uhh…room mate? Friend?” He answered.

  “Horatio Rillon and the Rillon family.” Her eyes left the paper again, digging into him.

  “I don’t have a relationship with the Rillon family. Or Horatio for that matter. I just think he’s an asshole.” Greg pressed his forehead to the clear barrier.

  “I would like to hear your account of how the altercation started?”

  “Okay.” Greg nodded and recounted the facts as best as he could tell them, from when he came out of the alley to the chase along the docks and then the fight where he may have gone a bit far. The woman gave a few casual nods as he told the tale, mixing in a few Mhmmm’s for good measure.

  “Well.” She clicked the pen and tucked it into an inside jacket pocket. “I will file this report and let the Lady know you are awake.”

  “Wait, I didn’t get your name.” Greg said before she turned to walk away.

  One of her expressive thin eyebrows rose again, causing him to grin. “Lorelei Pontaine.”

  “It was good to meet you, Ms. Pontaine.” He gave her a wave. “I’d shake your hand, but…” He indicated the wall.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Lorelei tilted her head slightly, showing the slightest perk upward at the corner of her lips. “Tell me, Mr. Norwood.” She turned to face him again, tapping the clipboard against her hip. “How does a thirty-three year old Gifted end up training under one of the most decorated adventurers Rhobair has ever seen and somehow still find the time to feud with possibly the most influential family outside of the Thirteen themselves?”

  “That’s a fair question.” Greg nodded slowly, “It all started when I woke up naked in a storm drain…”

  There was a sharp buzzing noise and the sound of an opening door, which stole Lorelei’s attention from him. She hurried away from his cell. He felt the clear wall vibrate, and he could no longer even hear the murmurs of whoever was talking.

  “You actually tried to flirt with her.” Isabella’s anger had faded, replaced by a much softer tone. “You’re not good at it, but I think it’s the first time you’ve tried since you’ve been here.”

  He stayed quiet, partially because he was certain how much they could hear outside the wall despite its dampening effect within, but also because he didn’t know how to respond. Outside of one strange situation with Seraphae, when had the last time he’d flirted with anyone been? Casual flirtation occasionally with Autumn he’d guessed through the years, but at some point he’d stopped trying.

  Even if his timing remained shit, he supposed this would be considered progress. Flirting with the woman who had you locked in a magical cage was something.