An eye mauled by magic and clothes nipped and singed by flame. No swords burden those exhausted arms any longer. Her once-pristine plate armor is absent now, given up in some exchange when her transformation was lost. Now there is only a cotton shirt underneath her burnt and tattered cloak, stained red from her punctured lung.

  Again, I say - as mortal as myself. As mortal as you or any other you’ve had the good fortune of meeting. And for reasons I cannot quite place, my heart only sees it as a tragedy.

  That singular eye of hers, that pointed cinder, gazes at me as if it sees someone else standing in my place. But it always has, hasn’t it? To her, and to anyone else - misfortunate enough, it would seem - to have met my master, I am only as good as her return given flesh.

  And what defense could I raise for myself? I don the symbols of their old foe - their recent griefs - and repeat a share of the actions that haunt them most. Even should I have reason - and, in my most daring moments, I would venture to say justification - it is no surprise at all, then, that I find myself forced to play the villain opposite the hero.

  Does that make this woman the hero, then?

  No… She’s a human - as easily misled as any other. A human whose ideals are misplaced, and yet fervently defended all the same. Better than my master by far, then, because she was by another.

  I thank every force of the world for the fact that my satchel still rests at my hip - undamaged in that struggle of mine. I withdraw a bottle and toss it underhand toward this fellow human.

  By instinct and reflex both does she catch it. It’s only after those unconscious drives rest that her heart seems to break a second time. She asks me, “What is this..?” her shoulders lowering even more than I thought still possible.

  “It’s a healing potion,” I say, “please drink it.”

  Josephine clutches the bottle by its neck, a reignited spark once more filling her eye - but she does not break it. Instead she asks, hands shaking with frustrations years and decades-old both, “Why do you refuse to dignify me with death? Why, every time..?”

  “I’m not her.” I say, “I’m not Morgan.”

  The spark goes away with the arrival of some great realization - one I’ll never be privy to. And I add, “And she… loves you.”

  She stares at the cork, spurning my gaze as she asks, “You would refuse to kill me, even knowing that I might one day face you again?”

  “If that’s what it takes.” I say simply.

  The bottle pops open, and she throws its cork to the ground. I watch on in silence as she drinks - as the potion works at her battered body and as her breathing becomes more stable. It won’t heal her completely. In fact, any excessive movement might very well open up the hole in her lung once again. I don’t see the point in telling her that, though - in harping to her like some physician might. It could hardly be the first time she’s been wounded so grievously.

  She grips the glass bottle tight, and for a moment it almost seems as if she might toss it away. Instead, she keeps it in her hand. A still moment is shared between the two of us - uninterrupted even by the sounds of men yelling in the distance. She will live. For her, a black mark - for me, a blessing.

  Josephine Cirix turns away from me, then, and says, “Selene is in the city.” Only to walk off, still clinging onto the bottle I gave her.

  Sorcery’s mortal foe lingers in this place - somewhere unknown to myself. But in the same vein, Adeline is held captive here. I have no choice, then, but to continue onward.

  My little venture through the burning remnants was uneventful, to say the least. For two reasons: I deigned to not go the building, but . And, of course, we had already taken care of the security - killed them, Families will grieve for their being gone, and I simply lack the space in my mind to lash myself over it.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The outside of the prison is riddled with a dozen soldiers - either too frightened or foolish to delve below. I’m sure that they would tell any superior officer that they were “just keeping the outside secure.” Unfortunate for them, then, that I should darken their door.

  I can feel their hearts beating in their chests, pounding with anxiety and fear. The terror in their eyes tells a story, and I am its antagonist; its villain; its monster. Their allies’ viscera paints my hands and arms, mixed in with my own scarlet. But this is simply the way of things, I tell myself. So long as there is a fight to be had, one side will inevitably escape it more gruesome-looking than the other.

  I can feel my own heart, beating in my chest. Then, clenching my teeth, a single strained word spills out from my lips, “Go.”

  The would-be knights scamper off in quick accordance with the command, each of them disappearing in different directions - all away from me.

  A short stairwell leads downward into the dungeons - with a wide ramp at its side clearly intended for some sort of imprisoning carriage. The gate is open, a mix of bloods - of varying freshness - create a trail deeper down.

  And deeper down, of course, I can hear the clashing of weapons and the shouts of battle. But down I continue nevertheless.

  Down into a hall lined with empty cells and littered with the corpses of fodder - always the last bastion. By some miracle, though, some of them still breathe. For their effort, I splash them with some of the few potions I have left - less efficient than ingesting, but maybe enough to keep them alive. I hardly have the time to do even this for them. And, quite honestly, it’s more than I do - they were almost certainly just trying to flense my allies’ spirits from their flesh.

  The hall takes a turn, and I catch a glimpse of that uproarious battle I’ve been hearing all this time.

  A mound of corpses, and a wall of soldiers. Weapons all over the ground, and noise - noise that threatens to overwhelm one’s soul in such a confined space. Noise born from a cacophony of indiscernible others. Beyond it all, though, there is a singular voice that pierces through it all.

  “Don’t think for a second..!” He yells - yells, and a hole opens up in that wall as a body collapses. “That I’ll stop here!”

  And I approach, quick as I can, clearing the distance even as ring after ring sounds out - as the boy rips through his assailants. It’s a short time before I’m there - or at least, before my mana is there.

  [Formless Vessel]

  “Stop.” I say, the air thinning within my mana’s expanse. Threads of [Telekinesis]

  Even Aidan, unaffected by my spells, seems to stop and back off just at the sound of my voice.

  “Go back to your homes, please.”

  I release my spellwork, and each of those soldiers take deep breaths, wobbling in place - desperate for air more than anything else. They don’t speak, and they don’t move. No, they simply breathe. And in all honesty, I was more than grateful for the quiet.

  With another few steps, I pass through them. Fortunately none of them were keen on the odds of fighting me - and so no more were harmed.

  Beyond is Aidan. Aidan Conor Cirix - cousin to Adeline. Not as I know him, though - not as the carefree, smug whirlwind that I’ve seen him as. This time, he’s someone else entirely. His hair a matted mess, his arms slick with fresh blood. He’s as wounded as could be, face gritted - bearing his agony in silence. The only weapon that he bears now is his dagger, held in a reverse-grip - that crossbow of his is nowhere to be found.

  Behind him, in the distance, are two bodies. The sight of them almost awakens something in me, drives me to turn back and put an end to the fighting force of this city. But they still breathe - Maeve and Aisling. Wounded, but alive. So instead, I keep moving ahead, passing a potion bottle to Aidan on the way.

  To him I say, “Thank you.” The only words I can muster.

  He trails behind me, but I cannot hear his footsteps or even my own. My ears are thick with cotton, stuffed with worry and fear - fear for what lurks ahead. Past the door that Maeve and Aisling lie at either side of - down the short hall beyond it. Empty cell after empty cell. But there is one that isn’t.

  Fingers wrapped around her bars, messy red hair already escaping the confines of her imprisonment. Whatever clue she can get as to what’s happening - whatever she can scrap together - is what she’s trying to get.

  I can see her breathing quicken, shoulders raising and lowering just as her eyes - her beautiful eyes - widen. How could she believe what she’s seeing? I should be dead, of course.

  Finally before her cell, I drop onto my knees, as if in reverence to the sight of her. Alive - she’s alive. Not cursed to the executioner’s axe, not put to death by her family’s rival. And finally, finally in front of me once again. Words don’t come easily to my overwhelmed spirit, though. There’s little I can say, little that would be worth saying after spending so long dreaming of this moment.

  So - and if you’ll forgive me - instead of some flowery speech or heroic declaration, I settle for something simple.

  “I’m here.”