CHAPTER 25: A Storm Once Passed

  Margivaz’s Transference rift opened in the midst of a deserted town. Before he could take a step, a little girl had leaped out, landing on her feet.

  “Brother! Brother! Look, fairy circles!” The girl pointed at the circles on the meadow, darker than their surroundings. She ran to the center of one and exclaimed, “Hello, I'm Arabel. Let me in!”

  Her hair was pink, her three braids bouncing as she skipped about. By the size of her body, Arabel seemed about five years old, but Margivaz was not certain.

  “Brother! They won't let Arabel in!”

  A book in the grand library of Wyndor, which he read in a distant lifetime, affirmed that fairy circles were caused by fungi, not portals to fairy realms or their festivity grounds.

  “They might be asleep. Don't disturb them.”

  He chose a house that had retained some of its past grandeur and rested in one of its rooms. There was no furniture, one wall had a hole, and only half the roof remained. He sat leaning against the wall, watching Arabel create her own game, running around avoiding the fairy circles. Her laughter was the only sound in the entire village.

  With Lorn found, his revenge was almost complete. All responsible for that event had been found and paid with their blood and the blood of ones they held dear.

  Dorian was yet to be tracked. He knew Lorn and Dorian were fellows; hence, he did not kill Lorn – to lure Dorian. But the bastard remained elusive.

  His grudge was not forgotten, but for now, he decided to focus on the main task of searching for the Codex and gathering Cores.

  “Why do you put flowers on each circle?”

  “So, when they wake up, they'll know Arabel was here!”

  Thunder exploded. Arabel crouched, covering her ears, dropping her flowers. Watching rain clouds rout white clouds, his memory drifted back to years ago, when he lived a different life.

  Life never recovered after the day he proposed to Fayra in the Half Moon Tower; since the day his father King of Arvane broke the agreement and attacked Wyndor.

  Upon hearing the news, he hurried back to his house arrest in Wyndor's capital for Theo and his household troops. However, before the day ended, all who had been so loyal to him died. Sacrificing themselves.

  And then Fayra was taken from him. But this time, he would not allow it happen. Not as long as he could do something to save her.

  Rain turned everything into streaks of grey. He spurred his horse along the muddy road between wheat fields. Raindrops like needles washed the blood from his entire body. The blood of his enemies.

  He wrenched his heavy, wet cloak from his shoulder. The Arvane insignia was embroidered on its back with golden threads. He hesitated to throw it away, hesitating as he saw the scar from a fall from a horse on his left arm, a scar that reminded him of his mother's tenderness.

  But there was no time for sentimental thoughts. He threw the cloak into the mud. Bright blue turned into dark brown. He was not just discarding Arvane, but everything about Taran Ilvamar.

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  His steed, though a fine breed, could not keep up the continuous gallop. Foam began to gather at the corners of its mouth, and its breath grew more labored.

  He was about to slow down when the figure of a man gradually materialized at the end of the road. The ambusher was young but older than him. A sheath of throwing knives was tucked into his crisscross leather belt. An Inquisitor emblem was pinned to his collar.

  Inquisitors were allies of Wyndor, hence his enemies – although it could be said that everyone was his enemies. This became evident as the ambusher threw his knives without a warning. Each blade left a trail of cut raindrops.

  He leaped to avoid them. The knives pierced his steed, killing it. When his eyes returned to the ambusher, the man had disappeared.

  Above!

  The ambusher leaped high, scattering his knives anew. He materialized the Bahamut saber in his right hand and deflected them all.

  “Hold, my good friend! We are not acquainted. Could we not address this matter differently?”

  The ambusher smirked, his teeth visible even under the heavy rain. “I'm Dorian. Now we are acquainted.”

  Raindrops on Dorian's back sprayed backward as he dashed forward using some speed-enhancing technique. His bare-handed attacks were almost as rapid as the raindrops. Without a doubt, he was a skilled Prana Decima.

  Both of Dorian's hands twisted his right arm until he dropped the saber. He dematerialized it and materialized a new one in his left hand, swinging it.

  Dorian was quicker by a blink. He kicked the base of the saber, making him lose it for the second time. The enemy then drew a pair of knives, holding them reversed, and attacked. He was forced to block with his forearms, and in an instant, both knives had slashed a series of wounds from wrist to elbow.

  No time for this nonsense.

  He kicked the enemy's lower abdomen, causing him to stagger back a few steps. He seized this chance to draw on Bahamut power within him and assimilate.

  The storm emanating from his body kept Dorian at bay. He was lifted into the air, six green wings blossoming from his back, and the Bahamut saber rematerialized in his hand.

  “You're a Dragon Knight? I shouldn't have been greedy to handle you alone. Well then.”

  Dorian dashed, materializing Prana Armor. The water droplets around him evaporated. But now familiar with his enemy's combat style, and with Bahamut power enhancing his physical parameters, a few moves were enough to repel Dorian.

  The enemy did not give up. He repeated his strategy, stronger and faster. He tried attacking in an unconventional manner, initiating with knife throws, and varied kicks. All in vain.

  He was short on time. He lowered his body to charge and end it all with one slash, but a sharp pain throbbed from his left waist, tensing his body. He touched the area and found a red stain on his palm. A knife had pierced his waist.

  “Heh, everyone always falls for that. Even the mighty Dragon Knight!”

  The enemy's right shoe had a hole showing the big and middle toe. While the enemy performed deceptive moves, he remembered a light kick to his waist. Those toes must have clamped unto the knife.

  He had been conserving energy, knowing a harsher battle awaited him, but he really had no more time. A green aura wrapped his saber as he prepared to attack, then–

  Dorian fled. He ran away like a defeated dog.

  He withdrew his power, baffled by the cowardly behavior. However, he had no intention of chasing him and wasting more time.

  Leaping high into the air, he spread his six wings and darted off. He had to save her.

  Fayra!

  ***

  Arabel approached him, holding the hand of a young woman. She was dressed in plain attire, but her silent steps were a clear indication she was a member of the Wraith.

  “The ones who didn’t talk are back,” Arabel said.

  The messengers never spoke, not even when he questioned them. And, perhaps, not even if he killed them. He was not interested in finding out because killing was not a game.

  The woman's eyes shifted to confirm his identity before fixating forward and staying that way. She knelt, offering an iron box without a keyhole with both hands.

  Margivaz extended his hand, his fingers not touching the box but instead delving into the black mist. From within, he pulled out a letter.

  “Leave,” he said, and the woman departed without a word.

  “Why do you always send them away? Arabel wants to play with them.”

  He merely stroked her hair. He read the letter and then shredded it with a small whirlwind. Before the last piece touched the ground, someone else arrived.

  “Ashtrel, you're late,” he said without turning.

  “My apologies. Even though death is famously punctual, I am not it. Is there anything I can do for you?” said the man with a pale countenance with a thin smile as if it were just a streak on his face.

  “Gardioz has located the Fire Core. Retrieve it.”

  “Of course, my Lord.”