A Freak Accident

As Cy packed the last of the cold earth over Astra’s makeshift grave at the back of the cave, a heavy veil of sorrow descended over Cera’s eyes.

“She was attempting to atone,” Cera said, her voice a hollow echo in the cavern. “For allowing those traitors to escape. Why was I so relentlessly hard on her? She performed every single act as if she were seeking my validation… if I had not pushed her so mercilessly, she would still be alive.”

Red, lighting the pipe he seldom used, took a long, contemplative pull. “There is no use in pursuing that line of thought,” he said, the smoke unfurling from his lips like a ghostly ribbon. “Do not torture yourself. It was a tragic mischance.”

“Regardless,” Ignis interjected, his gaze sharp and unyieldingly fixed on Cy. “What precipitated such a loss of control?”

A tide of shame crept up Cy’s neck. “It was nothing,” he deflected, the excuse feeling flimsy even to his own ears. “The heat of the battle.” He turned his face away, concealing the self-recrimination that twisted his features into a mask of anguish. The guilt was a far sharper and more profound pain than the sorrow.

Red tilted his head back, his gaze directed toward the unseen sky beyond the cave’s ceiling. “Do you know what I think?” he remarked. “I think that old man Carmine is a fool for placing children like you in command. Expecting you to lead grown men, to survive the brutal clash of swords when you can barely distinguish your left from your right.”

“Questioning the leadership structure now will not aid us,” Ventus said, his tone weighted with solemnity. “We have what we have. We must forge it into a victory.”

“Goodbye, Astra,” Red murmured, releasing a final, dense plume of smoke that drifted toward the stone ceiling and dissipated into nothingness.

Cera wiped the damp tracks of tears from her cheeks with the back of a hand. With one last, hard look at the freshly disturbed patch of dirt, she drew herself up, her spine ramrod straight.

“The path ahead is clear,” she announced, forcing the tremor from her voice. “We continue moving.”

“And on to the savior, the legend, Grimshaw,” Argent muttered under his breath. The others made a point of pretending not to hear him.

After traversing the full, winding length of the Behemoth Caves, they stumbled upon a lion cub.

Red swore under his breath. “It seems there are more of them deeper in.”

Without a single word, Cera crushed the cub beneath her boot and continued walking. The others, momentarily startled by the act of casual brutality, quickly followed her lead.

Ventus was the first to dare to speak. “Hey, Cera… don’t you think that was a little heartless?”

She bestowed upon him a blank, uncomprehending stare. “What was heartless?” she asked, just as she dispatched another cub with a sickening, final crunch.

A lioness roared in a paroxysm of fury and charged them. In retaliation, Cera drew upon a final reserve of her energy, causing the great beast’s internal organs to rupture in a gruesome spray of blood. As it collapsed, a stray cub lunged for her, but a flaming arrow from Cy’s bow struck it down in mid-air. His brow was furrowed in a mask of intense concentration, a focus so absolute it was the only thing preventing him from collapsing under the weight of his own despair.

They finally reached the end of the passage.

“Do you see any sign of Grimshaw?” Red asked, his eyes scanning the dimly lit area.

“We must have missed him,” Cera said, her voice devoid of all emotion.

They began to search, their collective hope dwindling with each passing moment. It was only when they all put their shoulders to a massive, moss-covered boulder and shoved it aside that they found him. Behind it, a man with teal hair and eyebrows was chained securely to the rock wall.

“This boulder must be what prevented the lions from getting to him,” Argent observed, his own shock palpable. “Though it appears a few of the cubs still had a go at him.”

Grimshaw’s white, low-cut shirt was shredded, revealing the pale, skeletal grid of his ribs. The legendary muscles, once the talk of the entire nation, had lost their sharp, formidable definition. Dried blood caked his arms and legs and matted the tattered ends of his clothing. His face was a mask of pure agony, his eyes screwed shut in a rictus of pain.

“What is keeping him alive?” Argent breathed.

“He must be consuming his own energy,” Ignis mused. “Even a mere shadow of his former self possesses more power than all of us combined, but it means he is operating at a fraction of his true strength.”

“Wake up!” Cera snarled, and kicked at the man.

It was a cruel awakening, but Cy understood. She was breaking, venting her accumulated grief and rage on the only available target. Yet before her foot could connect, Grimshaw’s own leg shot out, kicking hers aside with a surprising and jarring force.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing, lady?” he rasped. Even in this severely diminished state, Grimshaw radiated an aura of pure menace. Spittle flew from his lips as he bared his teeth in a feral snarl.

“Saving your hide,” Cera shot back, entirely unfazed. “Fire or wind?”

“T’what?” he growled, but Cera was already aiming a small, controlled flame at his chains. She swore when she discovered them to be incombustible. “Ignis,” she commanded.

Ignis obeyed without hesitation, his wind magic blowing with a renewed vigor in the presence of the legend himself. With a jarring, metallic crack, the chains snapped.

“I guess Krysta did not account for a wind sorcerer teaming up with a fire-wielder,” Ventus remarked with a touch of dry sarcasm.

“Who are you people?” Grimshaw demanded, his face a canvas of profound displeasure.

“We were sent by your ghost of a pal. Boris, I believe his name was,” Red said.

“Hmph. That old busybody. But what do you want with me?” His words were sharp, cutting. He was unchained, but the fact that he had not yet risen to his feet was the only outward sign of his profound weakness.

The clan members gathered around, their expressions a complex mixture of awe and apprehension.

“You are going to fight in our war against Krysta,” Cera stated plainly. “You will serve as our secret weapon.”

Grimshaw narrowed his eyes. “Heh, that sounds interesting,” he murmured. “What is your business with her?”

“We want her dead,” Cera declared. “The Ignis Clan is here to halt her conquest of the south.”

“And two sorcerers from the Zephyr Clan,” Ventus added helpfully.

“You sound like a pack of insignificant runts,” Grimshaw sneered. “But it is not as if I have another means of escaping this place.” A sudden, predatory grin split his face. “And besides, Krysta owes me for her life.”

Cera took that as a binding contract. “We can share our provisions with you,” she offered, not mentioning that it was only possible because of Astra’s death. “To help you recover your strength. But you must pledge your sword to our cause.”

Grimshaw’s eyebrow arched. “Forever, or for the time being?”

“For the time being.”

“Done.”

On that single word, they sealed their pact.

Water dripped from the ceiling of the cell. Every ten seconds, a single, cold drop would land with maddening precision on Perla’s eyelid. She could have closed her eyes, but she was too weak to even move her head. There was nothing to do but endure it.

One meager meal, one single glass of water per day. It was just enough to keep her alive, but just barely, leaving her perpetually feeble and on the verge of collapse. And every day at three o’clock, never a minute late, Krysta’s men would take turns tormenting her. Some were demonstrably more vicious than others.

She was surprised, however, when Jiro and Hana were added to the daily rotation of torturers.

Hana had entered first, an unnaturally wide, fixed smile stretched across her face. The girl was clearly trying to prove herself, a feeling Perla knew all too well. That intimate knowledge did not make it any easier to forgive the brutal punches, or the methodical shattering of her fingers.

Hana had taken her right hand, her touch almost gentle at first. Then, as the minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness, the younger girl had systematically broken each of Perla’s fingers, one by one, with a hidden, wiry strength. Through a shimmering haze of pain, Perla could see a group of men standing behind Hana, critiquing her every move. It was an initiation.

For the past week, Perla’s only focus had been on regaining her power, on rising up and utterly destroying this entire army. She cursed herself for being captured so easily. She had been in the perfect position to strike, but seeing Saku with a knife pressed to his throat, she had acted without thinking. Every soldier in this fortress was a sadist. Her only small relief was that the infamous sadist-in-chief, Krysta, abstained from participating in such petty torments herself.

Jiro had surprised her. He had screamed at her, threatened her in lurid, impossible ways. But the moment the other soldiers had departed, he fell completely silent. He moved to the far side of the cell, locked the door, and sat down in complete, solitary stillness.

After several minutes had passed, Perla, fearing she might drift off and leave herself vulnerable, forced herself to speak. “Aren’t you going to do anything?” she rasped, her voice a dry whisper.

“What, don’t tell me you were looking forward to it?” Jiro snarled back.

“I just did not take you for a pacifist.”

Jiro shrugged, his back still turned to her. “I just do not see the point.”

“Tell me, Jiro,” Perla pressed, a sliver of dark amusement coloring her tone. “Does your conscience ever bother you?”

“Conscience?” Jiro’s voice was laced with disbelief. “That old bastard? I killed him a long time ago.”

“Oh. That actually explains a great deal,” Perla said, rolling her eyes. “So you did not take any of those clan vows to heart?”

“Not a single one,” Jiro said, and settled himself more comfortably on the cold stone floor.