Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“Once, the Warrior fell from a height so great it meant not but death.

It was the earth under their feet that was felled upon impact.

The Warrior was met with a challenge too great.

Thus, the Warrior became greater.”

Wrezgul was humming in Kuala’s palm, her blade yearning for the flesh of the enemy. Kuala wielded Wrezgul in her off hand in an attempt to stop her bad arm from jostling too much. Kuala could taste copper on the wind, could feel the weight of the bandits’ bloodlust on her tongue.

They want to take from her. Her. The woman willing to rend the earth for a minor inconvenience.

All Kuala could do was laugh.

“Come, you fools,” she growled, her incisors on display. “Let me show you what a real Warrior can do.”

Rushing as one, the men charged. Their rusted swords and wiry frames were nothing before Wrezgul and Kuala. Kuala, whose Inheritance bubbled up at the very thought of a fight. Who felt her muscles bulge and her veins burst.

The first bandit reached her before the others, by virtue of Kuala stomping the earth and sending a shockwave that tripped the other half a dozen. She parried his blade, slamming her head into his nose and heard a crack so visceral that she waited a beat for the metallic smell of blood to hit her nose. He screamed, rearing back and dropping his sword in the process. Kuala kicked it away, and as she ducked forward, she positioned Wrezgul into the man’s gut. As he fell, she focused on the others.

Another two were upon her. Their swords slashed dangerously close to her skin, yet were unable to leave a mark. She ducked and dodged, and the only difficulty she had was with the sling around her arm. It was as Kuala kicked the sword hand of one of the men that the other made contact with her side.

As the pain radiated from her muscles, she whipped around. Flipping Wrezgul in her hand, she made the blade spin. Swinging it roughly, she aimed for his neck. She put more effort into it than Kuala really required, but getting hit meant one thing and one thing only: reciprocity.

Thus, his head was separated from his body.

Spinning on her heel, Kuala pivoted and continued swinging Wrezgul across the chest of the second man. As she cut through his simple leathers, Kuala felt her senses tingle, and she could feel where an arrow was heading toward her chest.

To the left, she told herself, twirling out of the way and allowing the arrow to impale another bandit.

Kuala laughed as the metal met flesh. She knew it was the battle madness that made such things simple, the taking of a life. But she did not care. Her father had made sure of it. All that was left of Kuala was a woman of violence—and she liked it that way. She became a being of physicality. Of feral ferocity. A being that was power incarnate, even without magic. That was who Kuala was.

And she was proud to be just like the man who taught her. She was proud of her Inheritance. Of being her father’s daughter.

That was when another arrow flew, and Kuala dropped Wrezgul. As her sword fell, it twisted mid-air, landing straight up in the dirt. Meanwhile, Kuala’s palm held the projectile. Looking back at where it came from, Kuala watched the blood drain from the bandit’s face as they made eye contact.

“My turn.” Kuala mouthed.

Then she pulled her good arm back and launched the arrow at the man. It released a satisfying crunch as the metal tip impaled the bandit’s eye and went into the back of his skull.

That left three more.

She didn’t need Wrezgul, not truly. A Warrior was a warrior no matter the choice of weapon. A Warrior fights. A Warrior wins. No, a Warrior dominates despite all circumstances. But Kuala respected her sword. It had shed the blood of a Godling, had protected her in the face of a Griffin, had kept her afloat in the sea at storm. Her sword was not quite alive, but it was also not quite not alive. They are one, sword and sword master.

Kuala ripped Wrezgul from the earth and rushed the remaining bandits. There was only a single thought running through her head.

A Warrior destroys those who wish for their demise.

A Warrior, a Warrior, a Warrior. Kuala was what one meant when they referred to strength. Yes, she was certain of it. And in the heat of battle, she allowed one other thought to slip through.

Taken from NovelFire, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I am Olea’s other half. A Warrior and her Witcher. Unable to be stopped.

Kuala allowed images to flash through her mind even as she disemboweled her enemy.

Olea embodied flexibility of thought, of magic itself made sentient, and Kuala was adaptability and physicality. They were meant to be each other's better halves. Friends, lovers, soulmates. But, Kuala knew, that was true of Spy and Scholar both. The Four are meant to complete each other in their togetherness. They are meant to be unstoppable when their forces are combined. In times of great need, they become the immovable rock to fight against the unstoppable force.

Kuala gritted her teeth as she stomped on the chest cavity of the last remaining bandit. Her anger at Olea fueling her brutality. At her abandoning them. To Kuala, that was the greatest sin of the other woman. She left—before the Call sent them all to the continent. Olea left, not for the good of their people, but for the good of herself. And Kuala hated her for it. Because the simple truth was that there was no changing it, no taking it back. There was no reversing time to change Olea’s fate.

Kuala knew.

Kuala had tried—several times.

Their Well makes a great many things possible, but it was never enough to stop Olea from leaving.

Kuala could never go back far enough, could never overwrite the working Babel had used, could never stop Olea from leaving. But she had tried. Over and over again in a thousand different ways. But the damage was already done. It was a fate written in stone. Olea was meant to leave, and Kuala didn’t have magic strong enough to stop it.

She was, after all, the Warrior. Her problems were meant to be throttled and beaten into submission.

As Kuala pulled herself together, she realized the caravan was staring at her. The merchant had a hard look upon her face, but Arkim had a lazy grin. Pushing thoughts of Olea out of her mind, Kuala straightened her sling and whipped the excess blood off Wrezgul. What remained would feed the bloodthirsty blade. Keep him from going as insane as Kuala was sure she was.

Approaching the caravan, Arkim’s grin dropped as he caught sight of Kuala’s outstretched arm.

“No,” he commanded. “No. No!”

Kuala didn’t listen. Instead, she jogged right up to the man, wrapped her good arm around his shoulders, and laughed.

“You survived, Ark, aren’t you happy with that?” She said through her rough cackling.

“I’d be happier if you kept your blood and grime off my clothes,” he grumbled.

Kuala looked over Arkim, taking in how grime had found its way onto his white silk shirt. His vest, a baby pink so light it matched his eyes, was still pristine. Somehow, despite Kuala pressing her blood-speckled self up against him. It was a small part of him, truly, but Arkim being presentable was so ingrained in who he was that Kuala found herself shaken by the thought. Arkim truly was without his Well, defenseless before even these malnourished enemies.

Her stomach turned at the thought that she’d left him alone to fight the bandits, that she’d laughed at his outrage, that she could have been his end. That their kingdom could have been stuck, suspended in time, all because Kuala wanted to prove she could still fight—wounded and all. She had proven her competence, but what if she’d failed? Not every Warrior could be as great as the tales of old. Not all of them were meant to fight the Doom, after all, and most of the Warriors born were just people. They had never had to use their Inheritance as more than a parlor trick. Had never had to cross a continent because their bloodlust was so intense they nearly murdered princesses during sleepovers.

Kuala had, though. And she was meant to fight the Doom, even if no one had known it at her birth.

At first, it was fine. Kuala and her father had traveled the realm of Contraria, tip to toe. They traversed the Horrid Ocean, hunting game larger than dragons and slaying them without air. They made their way to the continent, to war zones, and wild lands. That was when it became too much. When the smell of blood started putting Kuala on edge, especially when she could smell it at home. It was rare, but when her friends were over, she always smelled it on Olea.

That was when it was less fine. A bloodlust so vicious would come upon her at knowing Olea was hurt. But Olea would never tell her who. Not until it was too late to stop her from leaving. Not until she had left already.

Shen and Arkim thought Kuala hated Olea, that it was unfounded. Kuala saw things from a different angle. Olea had wanted to fester. She had wanted someone to hate. Wanted someone to blame for her pain. And so, Kuala gave her that. Olea could have blamed Kuala all she wanted for doing nothing.

And, in a way, Kuala supposed she did.

Because when Olea left—

Kuala threw that thought away. It could rot with the corpses of her fallen enemies. No good would come of such dark thoughts. So, instead, she focused on the road to Ayrq.

It was a long road; they’d been traveling for days. And Kuala could see Arkim getting frustrated with his choice to wear a new outfit every day. Because each day, a new outfit found itself ‘ruined’ with specks of dirt, or sweat, or wrinkles. Kuala was sure the man would run out of clothes eventually and be forced to rewear some. He had to. She hadn’t seen it yet, not in the weeks and months they’d been traveling, but she was sure there had to be a limit.

There was only so much room in a time-frozen bag with a spatial enchantment. Especially then, when one of the Wells fueling the magic was lost to time-space itself. That would get real bad, real soon, for those who use the time enchantments Contraria produced. They’re the only country that can produce them, and they’re expensive. So, usually, only high merchants had them. It took more than a few gold to have them made and shipped across the sea.

But that was only what Kuala had gathered from Arkim’s ranting about the effects that would ripple out from the island now that it’s sealed. Slowly, the trading partners would find themselves rebuffed by the waves, unable to get close to the dark island now consumed with shadow and miasma.

The only ones able to approach would be the Four Heroes of Exile. No others. And they’d only be able to do so once. It was a rather bleak affair, which meant once they found the Grotto, Kuala knew they would need to train.

The Grotto of Light.

Kuala had learned that it possessed a liquid mana that was the physical embodiment of Krohnic’s time Domain but without being from a source he created. Hidden on the coast of Quoral, under a rocky outcrop and surrounded by whirlpools that formed naturally as protection.

It was as Kuala absorbed herself in thoughts of Shen, and Tayaran, and the Grotto that Arkim knocked his shoulder into Kuala’s good arm. Bringing her attention to him, she matched his lazy smile.