(67) Your Role Is Finished
Tara ducked, her eyes closed, focusing. A stone column speared the space her head had just occupied, but she did not flinch. Mana circulated through her body, though it effectively did nothing.
Nephthys had suggested she attempt to channel her mana during Myra’s training, though he was quite explicit about not using any magic. He claimed she needed to learn to fight physically before she could begin folding magic in. However, he had not objected to practicing her circulation, as it provided another opportunity for her to train while distracted.
Two columns of stone came blasting at her from both sides. She pressed her hands forward, pushing off them and allowing their own momentum to slide her backward. She had discovered that attempting to block the columns was unwise. They would simply smash her bones and keep going. However, she could use their momentum against them.
She stood from her crouch, both fists held before her, around chin-height. Her eyes remained closed, both to help her focus on mana circulation and because she could not see much in the fog anyway. Her training had been the same for a couple of weeks now: survive Myra’s ambush in the fog.
She had railed against his methods several times, but she kept coming back.
“Are my attacks random? Is there truly no pattern to discern? Is it impossible to find me?” he would respond.
While infuriating, Tara understood the message. It was not difficult to grasp, but extremely difficult to practice. He wanted her to survive long enough to analyze his fighting style, the surroundings, and figure out a counter.
For now, she just wanted to find him.
Four pillars attempted to pincer her, and she kicked off the ground, taking to the skies. As expected, two more pillars rocketed up toward her from below, aiming to strike her while she was airborne.
Myra had warned her before, “Unless you can maneuver in the air, you make yourself an easy target by jumping. Do not do so carelessly.” He had punished her for it then, but she was prepared this time.
She twisted in the air, pulling her limbs in close and spiraling downward. She grabbed onto one of the pillars as she passed, using it to position herself, sliding down its length so that she landed on her feet in a skid.
Just as she slid to a halt, more pillars than she could count erupted from the ground. Even worse, just as many appeared overhead, poised to run her through from head to toe.
Time seemed to slow as her instincts kicked into overdrive. Her eyes opened, her mana circulation lost. She scanned the approaching pillars quickly, and she came to a conclusion.
“Fuck,” she said.
Nothing else to do.
She crouched and pulled her right fist back as if charging it. However, right before the pillars were in range of her punch, they halted. She stood staring at them for a couple of seconds, scarcely comprehending that death had not found her yet.
“I admire your resolve, but you would only have shattered all the bones in your hand before dying,” Myra said, appearing from the other side of the cavern, the fog pulling back and vanishing.
“Haa,” Tara exhaled, the tension leaving her body as she straightened. “Better than doing nothing and dying anyway.”
“...I am tempted to agree, yet I do not want that to be the lesson of this spar,” Myra said, shaking his head slightly.
“I know what the lesson is. That was the end of the spar. I lost—would’ve died right there. Just figured I’d go down swinging. That I didn’t figure out where you were before the deathblow arrived isn’t lost on me,” Tara assured.
“As long as you understand,” Myra chuckled. “Now, it is time.”
He pointed to the end of the cavern where two obelisks were situated across from each other: one in the east, the other in the west. These were timekeeping devices Myra used to signal the start and end of a day’s training. The shadow from the west obelisk currently covered the east obelisk, indicating it was time to call it for the day.
Tara dusted herself off, taking a long draught from her waterskin, and she exited the cavern.
“You have come a long way, Tara. You are doing well, and you did not drop your mana circulation until the end. That is not my area to teach, but I would say that was quite good as well,” Myra praised as they walked.
“Thanks. Only a matter of time before I’m knocking you on your ass,” Tara quipped.
Myra merely shook his head, chuckling.
“Oh,” he said, suddenly stopping.
Tara stopped just before the gate home, or what was supposed to be the gate home. Instead, there was only the sheer cliff.
The gate was gone.
“Uh!” Tara grunted. “Aka, what’re you doing here?”
Aka walked in circles on Tara’s back after knocking her over, before settling into a curled ball, as if she meant to sleep there.
“Starchild discussed this possibility with me. She would remove the gate and send the nightmist through if things became too dangerous on the other side. It seems you will be staying with me for a while. Come, I will show you to the guest quarters,” Myra said, heading off toward another entrance into the mountainside.
Tara patted Aka’s head as she stood, observing the plain wall where the gate had always been.
What’s going on in Gloamview?
——————————————
Fire burned throughout the city, blanketing the skies in choking, acrid smoke. The sky seemed to burn red, as if the blaze had ignited the air itself. The streets were chaotic, with civilians running, fighting each other, and fighting guards. There seemed to be no sides or factions, merely conflict.
“The count’s men have been trying to incite us to overthrow the marquis, but he’s the one controlling the farm!” a man with cloth covering his mouth and nose shouted, echoed by a mass of others surrounding him in one corner of the city. “He’s responsible!”
“These men work for the count! They’re killing people!” another with a covered face shouted elsewhere, the crowd around her armed with whatever makeshift weapons they could secure on short notice. With a roar, they charged toward the noble district.
Nephthys floated above the city, watching fires ravage entire districts, civilians slaughter each other, and guards slaughter civilians. It was complete bedlam. There was a push by the civilians toward the noble district and the count’s estate, but it was disorganized. Injuries abounded, and many had died already.
What the fuck do I do? she wondered.
Did she just…freeze the entire city in its tracks? That would not stop anything; it would merely halt the aggression. Moreover, what right did she have to interfere? The count had been using children’s lives, their source of food, to incite rebellion to his own ends, and it had now turned on him.
Should she stop the rebellion that he had stirred up with his own machinations from destroying him? This chaos was the result of his own actions. Why should she save him from reaping what he sowed? She did not even know the count, and judging by this disorganized rebellion he had plotted, he was not exactly a moral ruler.
Although the immediate, obvious violence was uncomfortable to view from so close, she would be a hypocrite to condemn it. Meaningful change in her own world had been achieved through similar, messy means. Indeed, her own country, her home, was born out of bloody, chaotic rebellion.
She began to float down toward the market square. For now, she would keep Halla and Willem safe, at the very least.
—————————————
“Fool!” Count Baracourt screamed, slapping his chamberlain so hard that he spun all the way around before hitting the floor. “How could you make such a mess?!”
Spittle flew from his mouth, and a vein bulged across his forehead, pulsing as if it might burst at any moment.
The chamberlain stood, but he was far from cowed. He clenched his fists tightly at his side, grinding his teeth so forcefully that it echoed throughout the room, which was covered with scattered detritus. So thoroughly trashed was the room that the gilded trim and carved marble were the only indications of its former opulence.
The chamberlain huffed, breathing heavily, his pupils tiny as he stared at the count. Eventually, his senses returned enough that he stormed off rather than retaliating, but the slam from the door was a firm indication of his displeasure.
The count, under normal circumstances, might have found this behavior odd, as his servants, even one so highly placed as his chamberlain, would never openly display their displeasure with him. This was not the first time he had struck a servant, but it was the first time he had seen their loathing displayed so openly.
The count noticed none of these things, however, instead throwing his cup across the room, staining the intricate rug with the drink. So irate was the count that he did not even hear the door behind him opening, only noticing the intruder as he turned to throw a silver platter, already dented from similar previous treatment.
“Jace, you dog!” the count screeched, none of the companionability from before present. “What the fuck is going so wrong?! Tell me how you’re going to fix it, or I’ll fucking kill you where you stand!”
The count pulled a decorated spear off the wall forcefully, the hooks it was mounted with thumping to the floor.
Jace wandered over to a corner of the room, unconcerned with the count’s threats. He bent down and ran a finger along the baseboard. Standing straight, he held his thumb and forefinger together in front of him, rubbing them together.
“This is the good stuff,” he said calmly, glancing up at the count. “You should be grateful. This high-quality product would sell for far more than the usual dirt.”
“Dirt?! You’ve been smuggling that shit in here?!” the count bellowed, leveling the spear at Jace.
Jace shrugged, dusted his hands off on his pants, and approached the count, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Stay the fuck back, cretin! I’ll—” the count started, but he suddenly fell to his knees, the spear clattering to the ground beside him, all his strength fleeing. “Wha-what’s happening?”
Jace continued approaching until he was inches from the count. Crouching down so that they were eye-level, the two stared at each other.
“Descended from our glorious empire, yet none of you amount to anything once this tool, these Words, are stripped from you. Truly, our legacy is one of disappointment,” Jace said, derision dripping from his every word.
“Who-what are you?” the count whispered, his senses returning to him like a brief moment of sobriety to the inebriated.
A jagged smile stretched across Jace’s face, and his eyes flashed green.
“Despite your shortcomings, you have played your part well, Count Baracourt. But your role is finished.”