Heart, Soul, Mind, Bind and Implode

Cy’s assurances that her training was progressing did little to convince her. A familiar knot of dread still coiled tightly in the pit of her stomach whenever she faced the prospect of a fight. She was incapable of controlling the launch velocity of Perla’s fireballs, nor could she quell a flame that blazed beyond her command. By her own stark assessment, she was no more skilled than a complete novice—hardly the material of a leader.

Her research had unearthed a deeply unsettling truth: her adversary was a witch who had renounced magic, choosing instead the cold certainty of steel daggers and the brutal efficiency of firearms. The woman was a terrifying synthesis of raw power, blinding speed, and preternatural reflexes—a combination Cera knew she could never hope to overcome in a direct confrontation.

Victory, it followed, would have to be secured through cunning, strategy, and perhaps a few morally ambiguous tactics. The challenge lay in the fact that Cera had no conceivable way to practice such methods. She could hardly employ underhanded tricks against Perla or Cy in a sparring match; to do so would shatter her reputation and irrevocably damage their trust.

Thus, in the quiet intervals between meals and training sessions, Cera sought out a new kind of sparring partner: Argent, a minor chess master in his own right. They would sit for hours on end, the checkered board a silent, intricate battlefield between them. The notion of appointing him as her lieutenant was an appealing one, but the pragmatic realities of clan politics rendered it an impossibility. Besides, in this particular arena, he was unequivocally her superior.

As they played game after relentless game through the course of her allotted week—a week that was dissolving with alarming speed—she began to perceive his tells.

“You know,” she observed one afternoon, no longer able to restrain her thoughts, “you place your palm flat against the table whenever you have a piece that’s vulnerable. And you look me directly in the eye right after you’ve laid a trap. And when something irritates you—”

“And what of it?” Argent interrupted, his voice sharp with challenge.

Cera simply held his gaze, a knowing look settled on her features as she waited.

Just as she anticipated, his brows drew together in a clear expression of annoyance.

“I’m delighted you two are getting along so splendidly,” a voice purred from behind them. Perla stood there, a knowing grin dancing on her lips. “You don’t mind if I borrow Cera for a moment, do you?”

Argent rose from his seat and executed a bow of practiced elegance. “Not at all.”

The moment they were alone, Perla’s playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a focused seriousness. “Alright, Cera. It’s time I taught you a few of my signature techniques. A fighter needs her finishing moves, otherwise you’ll find your half-conscious opponents simply getting back up to attack you again.” The older girl gave a shudder of theatrical disgust. “And being attacked by a zombie is just plain gross.”

“I only have a few days left,” Cera said, the familiar cadence of anxiety creeping into her voice. “Will there be enough time?”

“No,” Perla stated with brutal honesty. “But a half-mastered technique is infinitely better than no technique at all.” She tossed a rolled-up scroll toward Cera. “Study this. It’s how I learned. If you run into any trouble, you can find me in the kitchen.”

When Cera returned to their table to offer her apologies for the interruption, Argent had already gone, presumably to see to his clan responsibilities. Shaking her head at the thought of how occupied everyone was compared to her—the highest-ranking member among them—Cera unrolled the scroll and settled in to read.

She discovered at once that it was inscribed in an archaic script, a parent language to the one she and her father had once spoken at home. Half the text was utterly incomprehensible, and the half she could decipher was dense with allusions to the other half, cross-referenced with the complexity of an academic thesis. It felt entirely beyond her capabilities. She was on the verge of abandoning the effort to seek out Perla when a sudden idea sparked in her mind.

It was the same thrilling jolt of discovery she felt whenever she finally unraveled one of Argent’s intricate chess strategies. The concept was a certainty. Every ancient character must possess a modern counterpart, having evolved to some degree over time. If she could successfully map the elements of the old script to the new, she could decode the entire document.

The process consumed the better part of an hour, but at last, she cracked the code. During that time, Cy shot her a look of clear displeasure as he chased after one of the children he was training, and Reddington sauntered by with a sly grin, teasing her for being a bookworm. She had to fight the urge to conceal the scroll when she saw Reddington; a rebellious part of her wanted him to see it. He certainly hadn’t seen fit to share his own trump cards with her.

And she knew, without a doubt, that he had them. She had been an unwilling witness to an unplanned confrontation between him and Cy, when tensions had flared over something involving Reddington’s wife, Ami. Cera had missed the inciting details, but she had not missed the terrifying result. While Reddington was formidable with his own flames and poisoned shuriken, Cy had unleashed a firestorm twice the magnitude of the one that had murdered her parents. The memory alone made her stomach churn, and she had fled into the forest to be sick. Yet, she believed she could master her emotions long enough to learn such a lethal technique, if it came to that. In the aftermath of the duel, Cy had required the attention of the medics, and Red, after considerable urging from Ami—a passionate country girl who was a frequent visitor—had reluctantly supplied the antidote.

No amount of nullification could restore the hut that had been obliterated in the fiery maelstrom. The clan’s younger members had cheered with wild excitement at the raw exhibition of power. Cera noted, however, that while the others were awestruck, Perla had merely rolled her eyes, her own attention fixed on Red, whose techniques were seldom displayed in public.

Perla, who had never been able to match her brother’s raw, explosive power, was incapable of conjuring a firestorm. She must have turned to the library instead, unearthing ancient scrolls just like this one to meticulously refine her own education.

A fresh wave of profound admiration for her teacher washed over Cera. She hadn't had many idols in her life, but Perla was swiftly becoming one of them.

Taking a deep, centering breath, Cera rose to her feet and settled into a strong battle stance, attempting to channel the magic precisely as the scroll described. The technique was unlike anything she could have ever conceived: it created a flash of fire inside the enemy. The enchanted ball of flame would materialize and consume the opponent’s internal systems before detonating like a bomb. With a single strike, Cera could annihilate a dozen men.

According to the scroll, its initial use would be utterly draining, leaving her with only thirty percent of her innate energy. With practice, however, that percentage would steadily increase until she could employ the technique up to three times a day—more than enough to eliminate half of Krysta's army.

The efficacy of the technique was astounding, but it presented a new and daunting problem: how could she possibly test it? It was unequivocally a killing move. She could not use it on a member of the clan.

Then, the realization struck her. She recalled seeing a dozen birds fall from the high branches of the trees a few days prior. She hadn't seen Perla shoot anything at them and had been puzzling over how she’d accomplished it. This had to be the answer.

She would have to test the move on animals. The thought was distasteful; Cera was all too familiar with the concept of animal cruelty from her own world. But the alternative was human death.

She found Perla in the kitchen, scribbling down supply orders. During a five-minute break, Perla looked up at her and said, her expression perfectly deadpan, “Your target should be a human. It’s best to get your first kill out of the way.”

Saku had once explained to a rather traumatized Cera that this was Perla’s unique brand of dark humor. Hearing it, he’d said, was a sign of her respect. Cera wasn't amused, but she did harbor a secret hope that one day, a boy might appreciate her own eccentricities and imperfections the way Saku accepted Perla’s. He looked at her as if she were his entire world, the good and the bad, as if only the complete version of her would suffice. Not some purified angel who showered him with blessings and laughed at all his jokes, but Perla in all her facets, including the darkest ones.

“Could I test the technique out on some ants?” Cera asked, biting her thumb. She’d never liked insects.

Perla laughed, a short, sharp bark of a sound. “Yes, if you want to be ready for the war in three years. We’re going after tigers.”

“T-there are tigers here?”

“Yes. And dragons,” Perla added, suppressing a chuckle. “But I don’t think you want to mess with them. Dragons are said to be the servants of the gods. That would only bring us more catastrophe.”

Cera nodded in solemn agreement.

“Now, come on. Saku has agreed to cover my duties for a few more days.”

Her partner, who was wiping down a nearby counter, offered a mock salute. “My contribution to the war effort,” he remarked wryly.

Cera returned the gesture, a genuine, broad smile spreading across her face. “Wish you luck, soldier,” she said, though she knew perfectly well it was no joke.

She followed Perla from the kitchens and into the same woods where she had first found her teacher days ago. To her surprise, however, they continued on past the familiar canopy of trees.

“Where are we going?”

Perla’s brow furrowed. “Tigers don’t live in woodlands, love. We’re heading to the king’s pastures.”

With that, she broke into a run, setting a pace Cera struggled desperately to match. After ten minutes, Cera had to stop, bending over with her hands on her knees, panting for air.

“Come on, Cera,” Perla called back, her voice showing no hint of strain. “We don’t have time for breaks.”

“I don’t think I can make it,” Cera gasped, each breath a painful struggle to reclaim her life force.

Perla sighed with theatrical drama. “Do I have to carry you?”

“What?”

Perla stooped down. “Hop on. I promise, we can run all the way to the grasslands. I’ve done it a thousand times by myself at top speed, so you don’t need to question my endurance.”

“Perla,” Cera breathed as she scrambled onto her back, “you’re… amazing.”

Perla merely grunted in response.

“Like,” Cera continued, searching for the right words, “superhero-level amazing.”

The rest of the journey felt like a dream, the landscape streaking into a blur as they moved with incredible velocity. Cera realized that Perla’s previous frantic pace had been but a fraction of her true capability. Once again, she found herself comparing the siblings. Perla, she was now certain, was far more deserving of the title of clan leader than Cy had ever been.

When they finally reached the grasslands, Perla dropped Cera unceremoniously to the ground and immediately assumed her student’s previous position, her palms resting on her knees. After taking several deep, long breaths, she straightened up. “Onward, then!”

Cera could only stare, completely bewildered.

“Well, hurry up!” Perla urged. “You didn’t expect me to piggyback you into the heart of the king’s lair, did you? I’ll have to walk the rest of the way with you.”