We run. Lucian is on my shoulder, easy and steady, matching my pace without a word. The castle's inside smells of smoke. The rain from outside still hisses somewhere above the shattered roof, but inside it's hollow echoes of smashed furniture, the distant groan of stressed beams. We move fast, feet slapping across broken tile and rubble.
The damage Imara and Zaria did is worse than I expected. Whole sections of corridor are gone walls torn out, chandeliers hanging by twisted chains, tapestries burned to tatters. The castle looks like someone took and dropped a bunch of houses onto it hahah. I feel a sudden, stupid little thrill at the sight and have to choke back a grin. It's a clean thing, this: you pick a point, you destroy the defenses you split their forces, you open a hole and walk through. I let myself feel pleased.
The voices inside me shiver in response, vicious eager feeling at the edges of thought. They're no longer separate from my will. They fit in tight, like a glove I knew how to wear the whole time. Their joy is blunt and immediate and I feel the euphoria settle into my bones.
The fight outside fades behind us. There are booms big bangs that rattle through the stone and the occasional crack of lightning. Dominic must be drawing more power from the storm above; the air tastes of ozone every time a bolt hits. I had a feeling that would work. They seem to be holding off the year fives well but I have no doubt our time was counting down.
Lucian speaks into my head through the link. It's a thin thread I allowed us to keep for efficiency.
They must know we're here, he asks.
I give him only what's useful. I make sure to keep most of my thoughts and emotions walled off from him. Of course they do, I answer, clipped. It's fine. Just do as I said and we'll win.
I understand. I'm with you, he replies.
We fly through the castle toward the throne room. I know that's where the flag will be. It's an exact replica of his castle after all. The route is carved into my head as we sprint.
We arrive in the antechamber, and then the doors open into the throne room. It's gutted. Stone pitted by the bombardment, banners singed and hanging in strips. The flag is where a king's seat would be planted, upright, stubborn in the chaos. It looks almost ridiculous against the ruin, small and calm. Next to it stands Aravind.
He gives me a look that's all softness and resignation. He calls out in a theatrical voice that sounds half-loyal and half-mournful. "Ahh, y'all are such prodigies."
The words are practised. They don't faze me. I laugh short, hard, cold. "Oh?" I sneer. "You think so? Where's the other one at? I know two of you remained behind."
Aravind's smile falters. He shakes his head slowly, as if that makes the disappointment deeper. "Hmm. You think so?" He sounds sadder than before. My heightened senses sweep the room, searching for any sign of another presence. Footprints, the scent of someone recent, a shift in the dust. Nothing. Empty air. Aravind stands with armor scuffed and breathing measured, but everything else is quiet. I let my anger flare a bit as I narrow my eyes at him. Hate narrows my focus and me and the voices like that. Hate helps.
I send Lucian a quick ping just to make sure he's in good. Remember to save that move for my signal, I tell him. I have a feeling our victory will be decided on it.
Lucian smirks. Of course. You're the only one who knows about this part of my mark after all. They'll never see it coming"
I draw my sword. The metal is cold in my hand, heavy enough to be convincing, light enough to be fast. I level the point at Aravind like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh well," I say, tone casual, "I'll just kill you now." Aravind doesn't flinch. If anything, he looks relieved. There's a small, odd tilt to his chin. I step forward, boots scraping on ruined tile, and I notice the detail of his armor, the little nick along his jaw, the way his fingers curl on the hilt of his sword. He breathes like someone who expects the worst. What a weirdo.
Aravind draws his blade slow and deliberate. He keeps one hand loose at his side, like someone trying to seem calm but quietly making sure the rest of his body is ready. "I won't enjoy it," he says, voice soft, "but orders are orders." The sad act is back on his face. He moves with the posture of someone who expects to be crushed under the weight of their sins.
Behind Aravind the flag stands, static and pale too small a thing to carry what they thought it would. It looks pathetic to me, a symbol for someone else. A flag with the clans emblem is supposed to represent victory. That cheap little cloth. I point the sword at it without thinking. The act is almost meaningless and yet necessary. It's a promise. It's a goal.
A crack of lightning splits the sky outside and the throne room brightens for an instant and we all move.
Aravind shifts, then lunges. He moves with speed I didn't expect clean, practiced but he's not ruthless. The first thrust is wide and theatrical, the kind that buys time. I parry, the clash ringing in the hollow room. The sound bounces off cracked columns and throws a rhythm into the air. Lucian is at my side in an instant, blade meeting blade. He's composed, efficient.
With our thoughts flowing between each other we see each others move and we work together to circle around Aravind. Steel rings again, and again and again. But despite our best efforts we can not break his gaud. I jump back hissing in anger.
"Enough" I snarl "You're in the way" with a breath I start to call on my illusions, we had wasted enough time trying to win in a battle of skill.
I raise my hand and squeeze.