I need feedback and replies, lot's of it.
I am currently planning to do 1 chapter per week, but the progress is so slow that I may as well quit again. But err I do want to get this done fast cuz I have an exciting sequel planned (which I will damned enjoy writing). So pls motivation <3
Well the comment could be constructive criticism, telling me I am trash, or just well, as one player posted, remind myself not to bump my own dead thread (it rhymes!?) again. Ok pls enjoy.

In a thousand dreams, it hath cometh and gone,
But ne'er before my eyes.
And the wooing so softly spoken,
Drives my pen bereft my mind.

Nobody had expected it to come,
Alas, what would come should come,
And what hath come comes.
The rift that tore earth asunder,
When they turned and fought, but nought 'gainst the tide.
Majestic Voidborn, bred the Eyes' bitter gall;
Saviour known to few, detestable apparent to many;
Eyes opened to no one, the heart doth felt and pulsed.

Stretched a wretched shell of flesh,
Flexed wings maimed and crooked,
Took flight, amongst the scrutiny,
A sliver of silver in the tutelage of night.
When no one called, came forth,
Wings ignited of fire in the burning sky,
Dove the darkness her abysmal form.
The howl of triumph ne'er to be heard, but
Alone in the sky, shattered feathers flew astray.

Saviour know to few, detestable apparent to many;
Weaned of Void, finally doth returned
Dark chrysalis a forever memorandum.
Whatever future, no one had seen, but
Up in the sky, shattered feathers flew astray.

Number 1, Odes to the Ruined King, discovered Haven Cycle 3047 at the ruins of Eagle's Reach.
Source dates back to pre-Apocalypse.

Chapter 21

The same route, the same deep abyss, the time that came and gone.

The same peppery smell of ash, the same scorching heat, blinding, searing, portending to a deathly torment. A different person, treading through the bones and lava.

Compared to the Test eight years prior, this was trivial; it could be a deception, but the ghouls and zombies that haunted her past’s tiny eyes seemed pathetically easy to defeat and banish under her cold, humming Winmillion.

She kept telling herself that she had grown stronger, that the Test of Flames was something that could be overcome. Yet, there was another voice in her head; it told her that this wasn’t the real challenge.

“I shall be your judge.”

Tall obelisks towered, charcoal-black pillars enflamed with a spectacular crimson; black tongues of deep purple crept in among the fluttering wisps of red, slithering lizard tails squirming lustily at her fully developed body. There were plenty of gates, all of them recalling her memories of the Night; the semblance between the structures’ dark, twisted form and the nature of the Swarm was too abject to be unnoticed.

Winmillion hummed, sweeping through the mounds of zombies, reducing their pitiful existence to piles of pallid flesh. Skulls were cracked, necks cleanly severed, tendons and joints dismembered within a second; the inhabitants of this particular underworld have decayed: they moved slower, swept less surer, their thoughtless yet abhorrent breaths no longer spicy to the extent of scathing. It was as if Firestorm had oldened, its presence lost in time...

Was there another explanation? Apparently, the Citadel shared the same source of empowerment with the Swarm. Balance...the sapping of the Citadel...the strengthening of the darkness’ owner.

There was enough to be worried, so she put that conjecture off the list. An egoistic, bloodthirsty to convince, a scattered, rampaging kingdom to unite, a world to save before it was engulfed by darkness...

All too much. The fact the she was the illegitimate daughter of the King wasn’t a big help to the situation, either. A nameless peasant in front of the great Lords and generals she was to persuade, how could she possibly speak? Yet...it was compulsory; for the Strikers, who have worked so hard in overwhelming darkness, for Almire, her homeland, and for herself...

The girl who yelped at her sandal’s melting soles was here no longer. The metal-studded soles of her leather boots clattered against the floor, the sporadic clicking sound suggesting something lost within her. The girl whose eyes emanated with fear and agony had vanished; there was determination and courage in her eyes.

Or, that was what she thought.

The Citadel was getting hot. Sweat started forming under her purple cloak and silver shawl, creeping into her garment; the several exposed spots were no colder: the fabric torn from the zombies’ slash, red, open wounds scarred the flesh beneath, a throbbing, burning sensation. She would not take her cloak down. It had followed her for years, from bunching and piling over the undersized girl to fitting her perfectly. Besides, it was the only symbol that told of her status as High Priest.

Pass the corridors, over the obstacles; standing next to the lava river, she spotted the presence of Atalia at the other bank. Threatening was her aura, piercing the peppery, spicy air, sending heated chills up her spine. A new set of armour she wore: a fine purple mesh that enclosed her torso and legs, with plates of crimson dragon scale at the chest and abdomen, black, marble swirls crawling. A flaming cardinal skirt, beads of animal teeth hanging down the hem, jingling and jangling, an obnoxious cacophony of faint, overdue snarls.

Her arms were bare, nothing but scars present; some were healed, some were new, the flaming red signalling a recent battle; compared to the chilling gaze she shot Mira, that was nothing.

A brief exchange in vision, no exchanged emotion at all. Both hid their true feelings behind heavy curtains, too difficult even to make out the form.

As usual, the Trojan appeared. This one, however, was a full grown one, in size and hue of the purple darkness; the only difference was that this wasn’t powered by a Swarm Seed, but a mere Flame Soul---a will of the ancients.

Winmillion’s handle whirred in her palm. Her hand was lifted slightly as a blue shade of energy radiated from the magnificent blade, propelling itself into a suspending motion. The silver body was visible behind the excited, blue coat, now luminous and semi-translucent due to the channeling.

A slight nod from her sister, the most unnoticeable trace of approval. Then Fang leapt into presence in a pillar of phoenix-like flame, blatantly taunting.

The Trojan was slain quickly; without its life-source, the Swarm Seed, it was not much different from an extremely skilled, courageous rider extra-tough to kill. Difficult, yes; impossible, far from it.

Winmillion purred, a warm monsoon billowing from its turbine, comforting the multiple gashes and cuts its owner had just sustained. Mira rose from her semi-kneeling posture, flexing her muscles; they weren’t yet tired. The wounds were shallow, not severe enough to inhibit her movement.

Everything was going well? A thin smiled spread on her face as she cautiously trod the rocky bridge, formed by the Trojan’s dead, lifeless carapace. Crossing her arms, Atalia flashed a grin, a mere twitching of her thin lips, too ambiguous to be understood.

“Have I passed the Test?” running towards her sister, Mira yelled loudly. Soon everything would be alright, she would persuade her sister to follow her motives and together combat the Swarm. She would quit this Citadel, this hell, once and for all.

“I am afraid not.” The reply had her rooted in place.

“Sister...why? Haven’t I...came all the way here?” she stammered, confused.

“Do you know why I made this easy?” another grin; proud, contemptuous, even sinister. “So you would survive to fight with me...”

“What?”

“The final phase of Test of Flames would begin. Defeat me, Mira...” her eyes narrowed into slits; when they opened again they were grey, lifeless, completely devoid of pigments. “I shall be your final test.”

------

“Lance, I am glad that your friends are finally here...” the woman named Critzer frowned, eyebrows jerking upwards. “Who are they bringing?”

Lance studied the girl carried on Xyver’s broad back. “A girl, I suppose...”

“Anyone with eyes can say that.” Critzer sighed, then heightened her voice as she saw the state of the unconscious girl, “Oh my! She’s bloody all over!”

An explorer and freelance, she had only retired to a peaceful life after passing the prime age; in her mid-forties, she was still fit to compete with the young ones in most of the missions. She chose not to, as the dangers and perils during her expeditions taught her to clutch the peaceful life she had now. Opening a cheap lodging at Haven’s outskirts, she now provided accommodation to the younger explorers.

Other women would have screamed and fainted on spot, witness the scene of epic bloodiness; or, at least the weak, stereotypical Victorian ladies would. Critzer esteemed herself well above those weaklings; even so she let out a disgusted screech watching the mauled girl.

A rather oversized cloak draped her frail back, its old fabric soaked by old, darkened blood; the arms, which clung round Xyver’s neck in a loose, unbinding loop, were raw with a sanguinary hue, the tanned flesh ripped open by an immense number of wounds. They weren’t deep, but long and ugly, the the closely-spaced edges jagged and irregular, unappetising bits of flesh and skin emerging from them.

Lance stepped forward to meet his friends. Instantly, Auresque leapt forward with joy, tightly embracing Lance, her hair splashing over in a blizzard of gold. Unaccustomed to such forms of closeness, Lance nonetheless hugged warmly, letting her forehead nuzzle against his. The days with Nicholas had unintentionally thawed some of the ice in his heart...

“Your legs?” he frowned, looking down; despite the cold, Auresque didn’t wear her usual leggings, instead donning a pair of loose pants. Bandages were seen underneath.

“A few scratches, nothing major.” She shrugged, pointing at Xyver. “I guess that girl needs more attention.”

“What happened?” Critzer interjected, “These wounds...they look man-made. Not from any beasts I know.”

“Well, I believe they are artificial...” Xyver replied, then turned to Lance, inquiring, “Who’s this lady? I don’t remember...meeting her.”

“The keeper of this place. She could be trusted.” Lance replied.

“Oh well...” Xyver sighed, “Things should be safe here. Is there a flat surface I could place this girl? I’ll explain what happened to her afterwards.”

Critzer led them into an empty room, pointing towards the bed. “I’ll not charge for this until she wakes up. If there’s anything you need, feel free to tell.”

“Sure.” Xyver nodded gratefully, “We would like to have a private meeting now...would you mind leaving us alone for a moment?”

“I guess not.” The door slammed shut behind.

“What happened?” Lance broke the silence.

“We saw her captured near the elevator exit, fighting using some kind of Gremlin weaponry.” Auresque answered, her voice passionate and unnecessarily high, “We tracked her to a northern town named Sodoma...that’s quite a queer reference for a name.”

“Get to the point now, Aures, else I am speaking for you.” Xyver joked, telling her to hurry.

“Alright. We saw her being fed some kind of strange drink in a secret building. She was a mess then, bloody and naked; so, doing what Strikers should do, we barged in and rescued her. Then we went straight for Haven.”

“Her wounds were strange...selected and carved to maximise pain, instead of killing. Shoulder joints are slightly dislocated, maybe due to the long duration hanging mid-air; if I extracted the knives minutes later her limbs would be damaged beyond repair.”

“Did you kill anyone?” Lance concerned about this more than the girl; she would survive, and that was all he needed to know. “You do understand that we are having a mission here.”

“No, we didn’t.” Auresque chuckled humorously, “We knocked them out, then fed them the fizzy drinks they brought with them. If those were good stuff, then they won’t die; if those were not, that was none of our business---curse themselves for committing suicide.”

“When we were leaving, I saw them writhing on the ground babbling gibberish. You probably missed that scene, Aures.” Xyver added.

“Nevermind. Their problem for trying to feed those stuff to the girl, right? To assure you, we disguised as Gremlins before going in.”

“Gremlins?” Lance’s brows wrinkled, “What if they know...”

“To divert attention. Better than revealing our identity,” Auresque winked, “especially when we are on a mission, right?”

“True.” Lance was silent for a brief second; then he asked, “So, what are you going to do with her? We can’t just keep her indefinitely.”

Her face dimmed considerably. “Her injuries are hard to fix.” She explained, a pitiful look on her dropping eyelashes, “The physical bit should be the easiest, but she would be scarred beyond recognition if we heal her using the normal, clumsy method. We should...at least fix the face. Besides, she’s inhibited with a strange poison that I have no knowledge of.”

“She needs advanced medical aid.” Xyver concluded steadily.

Advanced medical aid...without being discovered by the Order. Who?

“By the way Lance, why call us here? You told us you need some help...but you never told us what help you need. Fancy explaining?” Auresque questioned curiously.

Ah. Rubius. “I’ll show you today, the plan my new friend has conjured for me to save the world. First, come with me, bring your weapons and the girl; I know of someone that might be able to help.”

“Good. What’s the marvelous plan of yours?”

“Something called ‘Lockdown.’” Lance sighed, his emotions mangled, the sorting process impossible. “Let’s go, Nicholas is waiting.”

------

Downtown. Though the name reminded him of painful memories, the map actually had nothing to do with the booming, postmodern world of heavy metal and overdosage of booze.

The map was a large one, with five capture points; between them stood a cryptic maze of alleyways, the assortment so huge that it assembled the hectic, ever shifting maze of downtown Haven; due to the constant change in garbage and broken furniture placement, its neon-illuminated lanes were never the same.

The girl had been taken care of; Rubius had kindly transferred her to the guild’s medical facility, where the best doctors of Haven would diagnose and mend her body. Now Auresque and Xyver could fight without worries.

Neither were surprised after listening to the plan; the underworld’s various expeditions and journeys made this apparent act of foolishness pale in comparison. Besides, they trusted their own strength.

First round of the knock-out stage. First step to ascension.

“Your friends are...good.” Nicholas uttered after watching Auresque and Xyver demonstrate their capabilities. “They are as good as you...”

“Actually not; Lance is much better.” Auresque interrupted; there wasn’t admiration or jealousy in her voice. “He’s our team leader.”

“Alright, alright, let’s not waste time on such details. The question is: Lance, what do you want to do with them? We could demonstrate them now, or reserve for a later surprise.” Nicholas inquired.

“They long for a fight. So do I.” Lance stared at the blue sky, cerulean without a trace of cloud. But it would snow, sooner or later...

My sword longs for blood. Even if it isn’t true blood…The two enemy gunners were pretty tough; apparently, they had studied his movement---they kept as much distance in between while still protecting the capture point.

Fools. Dodging the pelting barrage of purple and orange orbs, Lance tapped into his boost, dashing forward. Wings seemed to grow from his back, today unconstrained by the Divine Avenger he usually carried; without its weight, he felt he could move faster, surer...

“There was a reason why Lance received the Divine Avenger.” Watching from another lane, Auresque halted Nicholas from assisting. “I bet he never told you.”

Guns were ready; guns on both team. Swords were ready. Xyver...and Lance.

The spamming gunners saw their effort go to waste in a spectacular firework show, exploding midair; the silver tip of the swordsman’s rapier gleamed with cold malice, ripping through the slow-moving bullets.

The next moment he was here. Frantically tapping their boosts, they found their energy reduced from full to zero in three seconds.

“Did we not boost away?” one gasped, totally flabbergasted. Indeed, the point on which they collapsed was off the capture point, nearly ten metres away. Still they died.

I boost faster, you fools. A strange sense of pride filled Lance’s chest. Slowly gnawing it was the tragic irony---that the place which he called “a spectacular game” was probably the only situation he could bring victory with his swords.

The world changed too much; Lance had refrained from thinking too much recently, and focus on his mission; no matter how much the world changed, it would mean nothing if it was destroyed.

However…was that an excuse for not facing the truth?

I don’t know. At the north Xyver destroyed another gunner with considerable difficulty. “They are a tad difficult to catch. Don’t worry, Leviathan would suffice in defeating them, I just need some time to adapt.” He said via the intercom.

“Stop gawping at their greatness.” Laughing, Auresque reminded the gunner next to her. “Out turn. Besides, a cute cowl you have there.”

“Thanks.” Nicholas blushed, barely noticeable. Inhaling deeply, he gathered his focus.

“They say that cross-lane gunning is impossible. We’ll prove that wrong.” This was a vital part of their strategy---fully utilising Auresque and Nicholas’ accuracy to initiate a cross-lane offense, effectively doubling their available firepower.

Mankey wandered along the main route, palms sweating. “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me...” he kept muttering, praying that his teammates accuracy was really as good as they claimed.

They charged, a trio of gunners, rude remarks visible on their faces; at about fifteen metres they pulled out their Alchemers, fingers automatically locking onto the trigger, clicking without thinking.

“Waaa!” he screamed, retaliating. However, his guns were inferior in both aim and firepower. Soon his energy level dropped below 50%.

“Someone save me!” he wailed, desperately tapping into his boost; there wasn’t much left, would it bring him home?

“Stay still.” Nicholas commanded calmly via the intercom. “Let’s start.” He said to Auresque.

Headshots, headshots and headshots. The three gunners watched their heads repeatedly impacted by bullets: purple, Nicholas’ Umbra Driver; silver, Auresque’s Peacemaker. Helpless they were, defeated before knowing where the bullets were from.

“I missed the last shot.” Nicholas grumbled, dissatisfied. His accuracy had improved a lot, but was that enough to help Lance? To defend himself in a real battle?

“Actually you didn’t.” Auresque giggled, her thin lips evolving into a sunny smile, “We fired at the same instance, but my bullet travelled faster. By the time your’s arrived he was already down.”

“Oh I see...wait, you saw that?” a sudden realisation swept through his body; did Auresque actually saw the whole thing?

“Doesn’t it seem peculiar that my eyes are of different colours?” she winked slyly, “Innate advantage.”

The crowd cheered a fanatic rain of applause as the match ended. 900-43, the one-sided score only contributed to aggravating the zealous spectators, lifting their mental instability to a new level of frenzy. The defeated team knelt shakily on the ground, knees turned jelly, hands trembling to pick up the dropped firearms, unable to accept the stark truth.

“We are...one step closer to saving the world?” Nicholas mused.

“Yes.” There wasn’t a single hint of humour in Lance’s reply.

------

“Timidity isn’t something I expected.” Atalia stated after producing on her sister’s left arm a rather horrible gash.

“We are the flames of Almire. I summoned the Vog. I do not expect you to be much inferior...”

Clashes of metal, thuds of boots, cries of anguish and exertion. Ghouls shrieked, zombies congregated, a messy semi-circle that ended abruptly at the lava; none were able to overcome the might of the Halfblood, staying out of the arena’s fringes.

Fast. Strong. Furious. Mira struggled for her life every time the Fang descended. The blows weren’t hard to predict, coming in straight lines; they weren’t easy to parry. Fast, faster than a passing spark; strong, stronger than a Snarbolax’s pounce; furious, angrier than Vanaduke’s unwarranted death cry...

Winmillion glowed in such intensity that it startled its owner. Blue gusts whipped from its turbine, her cloak fluttering like a lost kite in the gale. Energy disks spun, cutting through the air, bringing their inherent coldness to Atalia’s flaming brows. She simply snorted; a single swipe, flames hurled from her Fang, incinerating the petty discs.

Compared to this gash, the previous wounds she suffered from the zombies were nothing. Deep, biting into the bone, half as wide as it was long, the Fang’s jagged edge only serving to carve in the flesh a distorted pattern. Atalia’s attacks forbade her to bandage the wound; hot blood streamed endlessly from her arm, her hand slick and wet with blood; senses on her fingers numbed. Luckily that wasn’t her sword arm.

There was a burning emotion embedded in the wound. Thick like the oozing blood, hot like the pain. A mixture of hatred, despisal, jealousy...but why? And...guilt.

The wavy arc Winmillion drew parried the furious Fang, each clash shaking her arm, almost throwing her off-balance; scraps of metal peeled from her sword, splaying in a dusty rain, blue, luminescent dusts that vanished in the heated air.

“Attack. It is your only way to survive.” Atalia barked, employing more stength, pressing her half-sister back against the lava. “Why are you still hesitating? Come, slash, attack, defeat me…this is what the Test is for.”

Mira gritted her teeth. She could spare no effort to reply.

Fang, I am a person. Not like you.

Yes, my little Princess? What wrong is that?

I feel things.

Of course you do, Princess. That’s why you are strong---you feel your rage, and the rage in those you protect and destroy…

I feel sorry for her.

Mira’s chestnut hair was tangled, blood and ashe crusting in it. It would flutter with her sword’s gusts, revealing believe a forehead pale and clammy, cold sweat trickling down her brows, sweat of pain and suffering. Her entire arm was covered in blood.

She is but a girl. She’s not me...I shouldn’t have required so much from her…

Maybe not, Princess...but she is also your sister, the King’s daughter. She is also Almire’s Halfblood. Wouldn’t it seem disappointing to see her like this? Powerless?

She’s hurt. She’s not going to endure much longer. I have already done much to her, should I do more? She is my sister after all...something I kept forgetting, only to find out that I never forgot…

My little Princess, do you remember the first time you woke me, what was in you?

What? The brief lull in her action enabled Mira to produce at her neck a thin, tiny gash; Atalia didn’t block: that was the uttermost limit that Mira could exert herself.

The slight stinging of pain reawakened the bloodthirsty instincts in her. Slashing wildly, she knocked the annoying blue sword away, then slam-kicked her in the stomach, hurling her away.

Desire. The desire for power overwhelming.

Correct...

Would it seem bad not to utilise this power? Would it seem bad to watch someone without this power suffer? Under the shadow of her sister?

Then I should end this now. No need for her to suffer more…

What are you powers for, Princess? To cast pity over the others? Don’t forget, what your sister is doing...she is trying to instill in your foolish father’s brain something absurd called peace…

Against what you have been fighting for. The citadels destroyed, the kin slain, the power claimed and lost. Would it seem fine to spare her, and let her carry out her way? To betray the power you have claimed for yourself and brought into use?

“I know!” the sudden outburst startled both Mira and Atalia. Charging forward, Atalia leapt high, bringing Fang down in a vertical slash. Mira, still rolling on the floor, could not dodge.

Winmillion sprung into life, its turbine inducing the largest gale it had created in its life, blowing Mira backwards while bracing for the strike. Hesitantly, she gripped for the handle.

The hit connected clearly. Mira watched in numbness as the body of her beloved sword shattered, tumbling into the lava. She stood there, unsure what to do.

“I guess...I can’t pass the test?” her body hurted. The blood loss sapped her consciousness.

I have tried my best, world…

“Perhaps this would help?” sneering, Atalia extracted another sword from her waist, tossing it to her sister. It landed loudly in front of her feet.

A long, slightly curved blade, hues upon hues of crimson flickering beneath the steel frame.

Mira picked it up. Memories were back. Ignitus, the sword her mother had failed to give her. It pulsed weakly in her grasp; the pulse of her mother, Fang through her stomach, life seeping away...

There’s another reason to fight?

“I killed mother; she was using this sword. Wield the blade, fight me, let me kill her once more…I hated her.” Atalia snickered wickedly, staring at her with contempt.

Princess, you do know doing this largely decreases your chance of winning? You may get injured, or even die, if you give her this rage?

The only thing that I can do.

Mira grasped the sword. It was warm; a warmth she craved to experience.

There’s another reason to pick up the sword?

The blade was on fire. Dancing flames, their colour reminding her again of blood. A pure and elegant fire, devoid of the destructionary force that filled her sister’s blade.

here’s another reason to pass the Test?

She tore off the cloak; it was getting bulky and hot. Her body was bare, nothing protective except for a simple shirt and pants. The hot, deadly air coursed through her body. Strangely refreshing.

Crying, she charged.

Metal clashing metal, fire weaving fire. If they blades had souls they would screech in exhilaration, each wisps of all-consuming flame instilling a brilliant crimson into their cold, metallic shafts.

The black-body radiation spoke of their excitement; light poured from their flames, but from their bodies as well. While the red wyverns wrestled in the air, the clear, deafening sound of confronting swords weaving a symphony of sensations: dancing shadows, frolicking colours, a storm of sounds, a torrent of light.

Bathing in the rapidly shifting battle, Mira discovered another reason to fight. One too simple to realise, that many had denied its existence in their quest to something theoretically greater purpose.

To fight for what you believe. Given a sword, the simplest cause to wield it was to fulfill your desires. Simple, but often mistaken and condemned as selfishness and greed.

She wasn’t sure if that was just a justification for...well, anything. Now, that was the only reason she would continue on this fruitless struggle: to preserve her life.

Do I fear death? A small part in her mused. Of course...else, why must I insist on saving the world?

The fire had numbed her senses; feel no sorrow, feel no pain, only the desire to strike once more, to breathe in the torrid air once more, to best her sister once more. The only part that was white were her knuckles, gripping the hilt as hard as they could afford.

A waltz of blades. A song of fire. The blades would clash ten times in a second, then once more at the arrival of the next instance. IT was hard to distinguish who was on the offensive---the speed was overwhelming to naked eyes.

Mira swiped, narrowly missing Atalia’s forehead; the Princess struck upwards, repelling the Ignitus, then twisting her Fang, drilling towards her stomach. Ignitus swerved a blazing arc, deflecting the strike.

Probably the most spectacular standstill the world had ever witnessed. A dynamic stalemate, neither side able to work towards victory.

This is the sister I…

The sister I want. Atalia submerged in the thrill, savouring every second, every bite of sword. Absolutely confident, she grinned, one that Mira mistook as another gesture of contempt.

It was not. She’d never know.

She’s fighting well. She’s got what I want in her...power. She can use mother’s sword well.

Sure, Princess. What do you wish to do with her?

Let her pass the Test. She’s performed well enough…

You do know what you are saying, Princess. You are breaking rules. Defeat the obstacles, pass the Test---so is the law of Firestorm. If you let her pass without a victory, the ground will shake in anger.

I don’t need your advice. She is my sister after all; I should be satisfied.

Ah...but what exactly do you want from her? Power? Strength? Flames? Or is it…

The ability to use the power.

Right. Now go verify…

Ignitus twirled in the air, its vorpal edge weaving a circle of light, darting towards Atalia’s shoulder. Fang sprang to defend its owner, its saw-toothed edge locking the sword; Mira’s fingers flicked, the sudden oscillation of the blade distorting Fang’s stance, freeing itself. She shouted forcefully, Ignitus directed at her sister’s unprotected throat.

Great...this is the chance. Atalia wasn’t threatened by the deadly thrust---Fang could supply her with more power, power to empower arm and blade, to shatter the incoming piece of metal in a second, then decapacitate its owner in the next.

Straightly she stared. Fang withdrew, swinging to parry the sword---it would be an instance too slow if she refused to summon the power.

Which she didn’t. There was a final smile, a final, bitter realisation. Mira could not pass the Test.

Fool. I am a fool. Scarcely a second passed. The shadow of Ignitus wavered, the silver glint at its tip magnified with every passing thought. I am absolutely confident in myself, yet I dropped my guard and let her strike. Which could only mean...

Subconsciously, she knew Mira wouldn’t strike.

A move of tongue, a separation of lips. In the brief moment before the sword’s arrival, she tried to shout. What did she want to say? Telling her to go on? To stop on spot, that she would surrender and let her pass?

Too late. Mira’s sword approached her neck, sending chills up her skin. It was cold; the fire had distinguished. The sword...had slowed.

Damn you, Fang. Now she couldn’t…

Fang was musing. Don’t forgive yourself, my little Princess. Don’t forgive her...she had failed, and again broke your heart…

It was over, Mira thought silently. She had won...

The world bursted into black-and-white, the only visible colour a devouring red, gushing from the Halfblood Princess’ terribly angry eyes. A vivid formation of fire gathered behind her shoulders, an animated pair of outstretched wings, feathers of light, blood-streaked lilac cascading the sky.

Ignitus was wrenched from her hand, lost in the layers of flames; its self-emanation seemed a mere speck of dust compared to the Princess’ majesty. Pain exploded in her chest; she was flung off ground, travelling for a good ten metres before tumbling to the floor, unable to stand. Trails of blood adorned the floor for a transience of time before evaporating. Then nothing remained.

Her rib cage cringed under her sister’s boot. Struggling to look up, the sisters’ gazes locked once again. Mira was surprised to see her sister’s eyes...it wasn’t contempt. It was anguish.

“You should have continued. You should have killed me!” she barked. Tears seemed to have formed, but the air was too hot, too sultry, too searing for them to come out. “Don’t you always hate me? For depriving you of your life? Of your mother? Of...everything?”

“You should have continued. You would have passed the Test!” she shouted, more pained than enraged. In incandescent fury the Fang pulsed. Then the flames died down.

When Atalia spoke again, she was cold. Mira was cold; she felt life seeping out of her chest, bringing away her hopes.

“You have failed the Test. This time, there’s nothing known as mercy.” Cold and condescending, Atalia lifted her Fang.

The moment I lust for, Princess…

You can. Can I...?

Critzer drummed the desk impatiently. The cheap, worthless wood echoed hollowly, shaking and wobbling from the slightest impact. IT was boring, waiting for the guests that probably wouldn’t come; however, the lodging accepted check-ins until midnight, so she’d better wait.

Lance’s voice filtered through the wooden floor, in her ears fainter than a mosquito’s buzz. However, the insect actually buzzed quite loudly round your ears...

They had won a Lockdown game today. Faces Critzer had never seen, but incredibly adept at fighting. Who were they? Some random, secret enthusiasts?

“Rubius’ team is working on the girl. We’ll see that if she’d be available for visits tomorrow. Hopefully she would heal.”

Great. The girl would live.

The next comment wasn’t so obvious.

“Depth 25 had fallen. The Night is advancing faster than ever...we won’t hold for long.”

“Are you sure this is a nice plan? Even if we win and see the Grand Master, wouldn’t it be too late? Would he really believe in us?”

“I don’t know. So much had changed...too much for us to adapt to. Sometimes I wonder, are we still allowed in this world?”

“Swords...are gone. What’s the use of us?”

“I don’t know.”

Critzer saw something outside. An unlikely customer? Rising, she took a few steps to the door, intending to have a clearer view. Then she screamed, howled and wailed, the shrill outcry entwined within a malicious laughter.

It wasn’t something scary or fearful. It was fear itself.

Swarm Seed.