I Owe Commander Grimshaw Everything

Before them, the two spirits hovered, their insubstantial forms wavering in the cavern’s oppressive gloom. Every member of the clan regarded them with profound suspicion. Astra had already assumed her dancer’s battle stance, a posture that was both fluid and lethally poised. Close by, Red’s hand lingered over the shuriken nestled in his pouch, prepared to unleash the blades at a moment’s notice. Only Ignis observed the scene with a detached curiosity, appearing to be the least affected by the palpable tension that had gripped the others.

“The name is Boris, you understand,” one of the apparitions announced, its voice like the dry rustle of dead leaves. “We served under Grimshaw. Surely you recall Grimshaw, boy? When Krysta betrayed him, the situation deteriorated with astonishing speed. For our loyalty, we were the first to have our throats slit.” The spirit on the right made a tragic gesture toward the unblemished neck of its taller companion.

“I fail to see any scars,” Cera replied, her tone perfectly flat now that she grasped the spirit’s meaning.

The ghost shimmered, its form contorting with agitation. “Well, naturally, that was on our physical bodies,” it explained with a touch of spectral exasperation. “What you are witnessing here is the consequence for our anguished souls.”

“A true tragedy,” Cera deadpanned, her voice utterly devoid of sympathy. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we must be on our way.”

The ghost named Boris grimaced. “Listen, the entire damned world may believe Grimshaw is dead, but he is not. Krysta, the bitch, lacks the ability to cast a single lick of magic herself, but she devised a method to keep him alive—shackled at the bottom of a lion’s pit. She is the sort who finds certain fates to be worse than death. More… inventive.” The spirit expectorated, and a translucent glob of ectoplasm landed near Cera’s boots, sizzling faintly. She glanced down, entirely unimpressed.

She shot a pointed look at Ventus. “I am acting under the orders of a psychic not to set foot in the lions’ pit,” she stated, the dismissal in her voice absolute.

Ventus merely shrugged and turned to convey her message to the spirits. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” he added in an undertone.

Boris snarled, a grating sound like stones grinding together. “Your psychic is not present, is she?” The second ghost seemed to expand, looming larger as if for dramatic effect. “Gazing at the world through a crystal ball—how much faith can you place in what she purports to know? Are you incapable of making your own judgments? Without Grimshaw, you have already lost this war before it has even properly begun.”

“How are you aware that we are at war?” Cera’s eyes narrowed to slits.

The ghost emitted a high, cackling laugh, a frequency that made Ventus wince and partially shield his ears, though it was entirely inaudible to Cera and the other Ignis Clan members. “Girl, have you never experienced death before? That which the body misses, the spirit perceives.”

The words struck closer to home than Cera cared to admit. Her jaw tightened. “And what precisely could Grimshaw offer us? I was not raised on your local legends.”

“He was the most formidable of Krysta’s commanders. He personally trained the majority of them, and he knows their every weakness. It was said he was unkillable. They were forced to chain him, otherwise his sheer power would have shattered their entire army.”

Despite herself, Cera felt a nascent flicker of interest. “And why should we trust him? Even if he is alive, would he not be half-starved and enfeebled?”

Before Ventus could translate, Cy interjected. “Cera, as you said, you do not know the story. To our people, Grimshaw is akin to the Great Betrayer. He was a commander who abandoned his post for a woman he loved. It is a twisted saga of star-crossed lovers.”

Romance had never held the slightest appeal for Cera. In her estimation, the tale only served to paint Grimshaw as a fool.

Her frown deepened as she turned back to the spirits. “Well, we will not be heeding your counsel.”

Her body language was unmistakable, and the ghosts appeared to flicker, sensing the negotiation was failing. “Might I add,” Boris pressed urgently, “that Grimshaw desires nothing more than to tear Krysta limb from limb? And that he knows the exact cave that will serve as a shortcut on your journey? Of course, you will first have to kill every last lion in the den, or they will multiply and devour you.” A grim smile stretched across his spectral face. “They are called the Behemoth Caves for a reason, you see.”

Cera’s hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. Why did every decision feel like a life-or-death ultimatum? She felt adrift, acutely aware that a single wrong move could seal all their fates. She blinked. “Why are you so determined to help him? You are dead. You ought to be free from all of this. You owe the man nothing.”

At her pronouncement, the ghost snarled and lunged. Cera instinctively flared her fire in a defensive burst. The sudden eruption of light and heat captured the attention of the beasts lurking deeper within the caverns. Though Boris’s spoken words were lost to her, a chilling, spectral breath washed over her face as he hovered mere inches away.

“Little girl,” he hissed, his voice now a venomous whisper that echoed directly in her mind, “I owe Commander Grimshaw everything.”

Cy reacted in an instant, yanking her back before the spirit could make contact. Cera shook him off, glaring at the ghost and unequivocally rejecting its plea. “We will not be entering the pit, the lions’ den, or any other such place. That is final.”

A palpable wave of relief washed over most of her clan. Only Ignis, who had been observing her with an unnerving intensity, chose to voice his dissent. “We face certain death regardless of our path,” he stated, his tone sobering. “I, for one, would like to lay eyes on this legendary warrior before I perish.”

“Your own brother was the one who delivered the warning,” Cera reminded him sharply.

Ignis waved a dismissive hand. “He was merely relaying what Eira knows. And what has Eira foreseen for you lately?”

“She sent you two useless boys to follow us around,” Red muttered.

“We should place our trust in the Seeress’s judgment,” Argent argued steadfastly.

“Take loverboy’s words with a grain of salt,” Red shot back. “He’s hopelessly smitten with the Seeress’s sister.”

A few confused glances were exchanged at Argent’s expense before Ignis pressed his point. “Grimshaw truly possesses more firepower than all of us combined. If he is alive, it could make all the difference.” The turquoise-haired twin fixed Cy with an icy stare. “What is your opinion, head of the Ignis Clan?”

Rage flared within Cera at this blatant challenge to her authority, but she forced it down, her resolve beginning to crumble under the immense weight of their situation. “Fine,” she snapped. “Let us assume we embark on this suicide mission. I hope you are prepared to confront four lions at once.”

Ignis let out a sharp, barking laugh. “I could kill them in my sleep.”

At this flagrant exaggeration, Ventus arched a skeptical eyebrow but wisely held his tongue.

“And you, Ventus?” Cera challenged. “No objections?”

Ventus shrugged. “I am not sure why you continue to look to me. I do not always subscribe to Eira’s visions.” A sardonic smirk touched his lips. “Besides, my brother here has always been the master strategist. He plans the most audacious heists on the snooty royal children.”

Argent’s eyes lit up with sudden realization. “So, you are the one who filled all the chamberpots with carrots?”

Slowly, Astra raised her hand. “That was me, actually. I detest carrots.”

Ignis snorted. “I plot heists. I have no interest in such childish pranks.”

No one saw fit to point out that he was at least three years younger than Astra.

“So we are venturing into the lions’ den after all,” Cera murmured, speaking mostly to herself. “So much for that pointless forecast. She could have at least warned me that I would need a few more deadly maneuvers.”

No one laughed at her grim joke as they fell into formation behind her. With a somber expression and a resolute crease between her eyebrows, Cera charged forward first, cutting down six lions in swift, brutal succession. Witnessing their leader’s unrestrained ferocity bolstered the clan’s morale. They surged forward in her wake, Red’s poison-laced shuriken finding critical weaknesses on the beasts. The members of the Zephyr Clan sliced and stabbed at the swarming predators. With practiced and deadly ease, Cy executed his killing strikes, standing victorious over each lion that fell before him.

As they pressed deeper into the cave, a lion lunged from the right, its claws extended and its jaws agape. Before Cy could even react, Cera’s power detonated inside the beast, blasting it apart from within. The effort visibly drained her, and she panted heavily, leaning against him for a brief moment of support. His eyes were wide as he stared at her. He had been five years old the last time he had witnessed that technique. It was a hazy memory, but one that had scarred his childhood. He could still vividly picture himself holding a blood-soaked Perla, carrying her back to the village where a kind old woman had nursed her with potent herbs.

“She—she has been training you, has she not?” he stammered as Cera straightened up and began launching a volley of fireballs.

His mind raced. Even when he had been lenient in their training sessions, Cera would sometimes arrive late, her face pale and drawn with exhaustion. Some nights, she had asked for an extra bowl of rice, complaining of severe muscle spasms in her sleep. He had once seen her applying ointment to a long scar on her arm, one she had never offered to explain. He watched her now, a veritable whirlwind of destructive energy, turning massive beasts to ash. He saw lions recoil from her, whining in fear, only for her to tear into them with ruthless, calculated efficiency. She dodged another lunging lion, sliding elegantly out of its path and causing a second lion approaching from the opposite side to collide violently with the first.

He realized with a sickening jolt that he had not truly been seeing her during their training. He had not known his older sister at all. What could she possibly have been training for with such desperate, all-consuming intensity?

Just beyond his line of sight, another lion sprang forward.

He would be damned if he died here. A raw, furious scream tore from his throat. An uncontrollable firestorm erupted from his body, engulfing the entire cavern in a searing inferno. The Cheng brothers leaped clear, while other members of the Ignis Clan instinctively dampened the blaze just enough to shield themselves from the worst of it.

Astra, her back to Cy, was lost in her elegant wind dance, her blades swiping at the lions. The fire engulfed her completely.

Her scream cut through the din of battle, and Cera cried out, charging toward the girl. “Astra!” Cera cursed; she was too far away, her path hopelessly blocked by lions. She would never make it in time.

Red acted on pure instinct. He hurled a shuriken infused with his nullifying magic. The blade struck Astra squarely in the thigh, and the flames consuming her vanished in an instant. But it was too late. She was already scorched beyond recognition.

The last of the lions lay dead or dying, their pathetic whimpers echoing in the sudden, horrifying silence.

Cera’s jaw dropped, her gaze locked on Astra’s fallen form. “What have you done, Cy?” she whispered, her voice trembling uncontrollably.

“This must be the price,” Argent murmured, speaking more to himself than to anyone else. “The price for entering the lions’ den. Was it worth it? Trading Astra for Grimshaw?”

Cera spun on him. “Stop talking! I had no other option!”

Seeing her raw, wounded reaction, he pressed on, his voice rising with accusation. “You could have left him. He is a ghost of the past, a dead man walking!”

Red placed a restraining hand on Argent’s shoulder. “Know when to be quiet.”

The younger man bristled, shrugging off the hand and turning his fury on Ignis. “This was your fault, actually,” he accused. “If you had not insisted—”

A sharp, hostile gust of wind blew past him, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“I am not your friend, nor am I your colleague,” Ignis said, his voice dangerously low. “I suggest you refrain from casting blame in my direction. There is nothing further to discuss.”

Argent scowled but finally fell silent, letting out a frustrated “Tch.”