Gone were the cries of battle, the shrieks of the dying, and the clash of metal, ushering in the age of slick, slapping footsteps. Some sounds were not meant to exist outside of their natural environs, these being far more at home in squelching wetland mud, where the ground was less hard and unforgiving to amphibious flesh. From below the terraced steps, traitorous, hopping fiends made their presence known, as the Juggernauts led the approach.

  It wasn’t entirely fair to pin the blame on the soldiers; they were, after all, victims of Ages of breeding and conditioning, told from birth that they were born to be fodder. Watching the lifeblood of her closest ally slowly stain the hard, wet stone, Anilith couldn’t be bothered with something so inconsequential as rational, fair thought.

  Emotion simmered within the girl, fighting for dominance. Panic rose first, blinding her to everything besides Orion’s fate. Pride at her accomplishment in toppling the Warlord was lost beneath the whirlpool of swirling wrath. Her anger burned so viscerally, she channelled Fire unconsciously. The rain turned to steam as it fell upon her, and she lost herself within its ravenous embrace. Thoughts of pain, of destruction, of retribution overrode every other sense, until nothing would abate her rage but the blood of the traitors: none more than Kewrok.

  A single frog that poisoned the well.

  She was blind to the world around her, consumed by inner turmoil. Her eyes did not see the trident removed from Orion’s gut, nor the flame that sealed his wound, stabilising him for the moment. Her ears did not hear his words, telling her he would be fine, that he’d suffered worse than this flesh wound, expressing concern for his friend. Her mind was a flaming fortress, and his magic could not break through the inferno warding it, a veritable moat of Fire.

  When all seemed lost, even as her body moved of its own volition, guided by some inner darkness that wanted nothing more than to taste triumph and freedom once more, a cool wind blew upon the summit, calming the raging storm above. The rain slowed, no longer fueled by the spellwork of the goblin army, the remains of which flocked to the Elites who yet lived. The common soldiers formed a wall, standing between their hated foes and the leaders they so respected, each ready to lay down its life if that might give the great goblins a chance to make it through this mess.

  Touched by the Wind, the pure, primal Wind, the eyes of all were drawn to the heavens. Goblin and grokar alike stood frozen, the few who understood the import of what transpired falling to their knees. It was the touch of something older and more enduring than even the most ancient in attendance—older even than gods, than worlds, a vestige of primaeval Origins. It was an event not seen even once in an Age, and a panacea of the soul.

  It was a Force of Nature made known, calling out to its emissary, scion of a true disciple.

  Even without her knowledge, Anilith had been bathed in its presence for years, long before awakening her own potential. Then, the Wind spoke to her, borrowing the voice of one who might calm her, speaking for all to hear.

  “Anger is a quick path to power, indiscriminate in its destruction. Cataclysm follows its touch. You, dear student, would lose yourself to that path, become something you would not recognise. Breathe, feel the Wind, remember who you are.”

  Her Wind Sense laid bare secrets hidden in the cool, gentle breeze. The kindly old face of the one she would always call Master was painted invisibly by the gusting Wind, smiling for only her to see. The furnace within her tamed, quenched in the span of a breath. He had set her on this path, so long ago, bathed her in the grace of his own Master—the Wind itself.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Anilith’s heart beat steady and true. The other presence receded, fleeing to a dark, sheltered place within her. She knew it meant her no harm, only wanting to protect her in the only way it could. Without reason or explanation, she knew, just as she knew she needed that presence within her. It had shaped her, sheltered her as she learned to stand, bore the backlash of powers she was not ready to wield.

  However, it was time for her to walk on her own two feet. She would not, could not, foist off her duty on anyone, not even herself. Her dark mirror would cut down armies in her name, but the responsibility lay solely on her shoulders. Bloodshed yet lay before her Blade, but it would be by her own hand, her own Choice.

  It must be her Choice.

  She was the Blade that would lay her enemies to rest, and no one would wield her against her Will, even for her own protection. Guided back by the Wind, she realised what uncaring death she would have wrought, how the weight of it would have left her weakened, lesser. Danger was inherent to her path; there was no denying that fact, but danger was tempered by restraint, a level head. Her Master had known this about her, known it before she could learn the truth herself. The more she discovered who she was, the more she came to see how true a teacher he’d been.

  Had he always foreseen it, the shape of my Gift? Without his guidance, I’d never have known the Wind as I have. How did he know? Direct me without an ounce of force, leading me to the crossroads and let me choose? He knew, right away, I was different from our people, never suited to their favoured battle fever. Somehow, he knew I would need to be in control, and he never hindered me by shaping my future in his image.

  Collateral damage weighed more heavily on her than any multitude slain by her hand, by her own Choice. She would exercise restraint where she could, killing only when she must. Maybe it was hypocritical, maybe it made no difference to the world, but to her it made all the difference.

  Sure, she left bodies in her wake no matter what, but she never wanted to kill for no reason. She was, first and foremost, a disciple of the Wind, and it was essential for maintaining her balance. Earth was too constrained, too passive. It would support her, infuse strength into her path, but it wasn’t free.

  Fire was careless and wild, free in a way that was antithetical to her nature. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t follow Pip’s path, why she found strength in passion, not consumption. Wielding Fire in anger would consume her, but passion, love, burned just as brightly. Hers was a fire that would protect, destroying only what it must.

  Arian, that yet unknown power of Hope, well…she didn’t know what to make of that one. It was essential for her evolution, for forging the path before her, but it was not the path.

  The Wind, though, that had always felt right. From the moment she first felt it on the Plains, the truth had been plain to see. The Wind touches everything, and all parts of her path would seek its guidance. It brought life to the Earth, spreading vital blessings with its touch. It stoked fires, fueling them, and yet it could snuff them out, bearing with it rain and tempests. In that moment, she knew beyond any doubt that no part of her path would be untouched by the Wind.

  As her understanding grew, so would its reach.

  Had she studied under another master, her path would have diverged long ago. Whether the result would be blessing or bane did not matter. Perhaps she could have been a prodigal emissary of Earth, Fire, or any other natural Force…but the thought rang hollow. This was her path, who she was.

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  Any other life would not serve her, for it would belong to another. Her life, her path, was built of countless choices, from every step that led her to that moment. Wondering what she might have done differently, worrying what she could have done better…none of that mattered. She had become the woman she was, forged her path, from the choices she’d made, the mistakes she’d made—not in spite of them, but because of them.

  In her reflections, she’d uncovered an elusive subtlety, a distinction between her path and her Gift that had teased her, half-known, like the waking memory of a dream. Both were unique and truly hers, but her path was a matter of Choice. It was rigid, cemented by her Choices. It was both weakness and strength, for Choice could propel her to untold heights... or fracture her path entirely.

  Her Gift was born from her, and nothing would ever suit her needs better, but it could only lay the foundations. It could evolve, for it was an extension of her perspective, just as Mingus once told her. The two keystones of power were intrinsically linked, already reliant on one another, but they were not the same.

  Distantly, she grew aware of an angry, croaking tirade. Gone was Kewrok’s prior bluster, fled in the shadow of the Primal Wind. In its place, the bloated bag of cowardice stood on display for all to see, a buffer of bodies before it.

  “—them! Why are you useless wastrels mucking about! Your enemy is weak, claim victory for the great Sea Tribes! You're all worthless! Truly, a waste of spawn, but there’s always another wave.”

  Calmed by the Wind, Anilith’s blood cooled, and her thoughts again found balance. Once more, she found freedom and mercy.

  “Warlord,” she said, not taking her eyes from Kewrok. “Do you and your people still threaten my own?”

  “Qu’Urom,” he answered, still bowed in reverence. “You’ve earned my name, Emissary of the Wind. I did not…No, I would have tested you the same, as was my duty. We are not your enemies, you have my word.”

  “Then, Romy,” she said with a playful tone, “Protect them as you would your own. I have a toad to catch.”

  She stepped, and the Wind moved with her, carrying her to the front lines in a blurring instant.

  Tremors wracked the piteous creatures, causing a ripple of motion through the grokar formation, even as they towered over the average, human girl. All their lives, they’d known the domineering touch of power, known the consequences of rebelling against those blessed with it, but the terror of potential was something they’d never witnessed.

  And it was far more intimidating.

  The figure that approached them was powerful; they felt it in their bones, but the strength she held was merely a drop of what she might one day master. She was a cup underutilised, unaware of the depths she contained.

  She was an empty vessel, her potential laid bare by the voice of the Wind.

  “Stand aside,” the emissary whispered, her voice carrying among the gathered people. “I have no quarrel with you. No choice of your own brought you here, and I will not condemn you for the life you were born into.”

  A few of the warriors before her fled, their cowardice a reflection of their master, and some lay down their arms, but the line yet held for fear of retribution. Untold eras of conditioning were all but insurmountable, even faced with instinctual terror. Control is an insidious, creeping tendril. The cruel master forever holds a brand in the hearts of those under his thumb.

  Anilith looked over the pitiful assembly, the lack of conviction evident in their eyes.

  “Let there be no misunderstanding: to stand between me and that filth is to choose death.” She held out her Blade, pointing to Razhik behind her. “Already, your people have found refuge with my ally, Lord Razhik’issala Khash’dhrissa, King in the Mire. There are no guarantees of safety in this life, but with him you can find purpose, gratitude: a master worthy of your lives. I refuse to believe you are as worthless as your chieftain thinks. If even one of you holds aspirations of hope, that your lives might be worth more than sacrificial pawns, you will be welcomed with open arms…err, talons.”

  She paused, a glare panning across the wavering lines. “The rest will serve as a lesson. I do not seek your lives, but I will take them if I must. The mercy of the weak means nothing; it only invites a knife in the back. Witness the strength that will protect you. Whether you join us or not, you will all learn the cost of betrayal.”

  The glint of hope shone in countless double-lidded eyes, and many threw down their arms, moving to kneel before Razhik.

  Grodo stood guard between the turncoats and his Lord, his chest puffed out. Carefully, he eyed each of them as if looking for deception, any threat to the one who saved him.

  Anilith didn’t have time for any of that: retribution called.

  “The rest of you have made your choice. Your mercy will be a swift death.”

  The moment her reaping began, Kewrok deflated further. How was this a weakened enemy?

  “Well, then,” the creature gulped visibly, his bulbous bloat rippling. “Your time has come, spawnlings. Die a little less uselessly than you lived, and buy me a little time.” He fixed Anilith with a mocking stare. “Be seeing you, emissary. It’s a shame I won’t be claiming this fulcrum today, but it isn’t worth my life.”

  True to himself, the coward hopped away, letting those he thought beneath him pay the cost of his arrogance. Revulsion could not disturb Anilith’s cool judgement, and she let the fiend go. Nothing he could do would buy him much time.

  Her Blade swept through the remnants of the grokar army, child’s play after fighting the Warlord. There was no fight left in their eyes; they were broken things—broken by lifetimes drowning in hopelessness. Ending their suffering was the best gift she could give them, that they might return to the Tower.

  Not minutes later, the steps were still, neither goblin nor grokar stirring. The amphibious army, even with her team’s distractions, had suffered immense casualties in its ascent, and her work was blessedly short. The lesson was necessary, but she took no pleasure in the instruction.

  Kid... Orion sent. His thoughts were plain as day to her: she knew what he wanted to ask.

  I have to go, old man. Can't be letting anyone think they can hurt my family and get away with it, can I? I'll be back before you know it; that toad is hardly the most dangerous thing here.

  It ain't him I'm worried about.

  I know, but I've got a good feeling this time!

  Just had to say it, huh, kid? She could almost hear him shaking his head. Give the bastard a good kick from me, too, then, kid. An' be careful.

  She swallowed her reply, the thought dying in her mind. What could go wrong?

  After only a brief pause, Anilith called up to the summit. “Keep them safe. I have one more order of business before we’re done here.”

  Moving without urgency, she set off after her quarry. Her mind was at peace, her convictions clear. Kewrok would only see the truth when her Blade made it painfully obvious, but his was one life she would not regret ending.

  The young woman left, off to make more of a mess. Unseen by anyone, a small figure watched from atop the battlements. Things like walls and pesky barriers hindered him little, but it was always nice to witness things with his own eyes.

  Life had been boring for far too long.

  Even if anyone noticed, he hardly struck an imposing figure—physically.

  “A real bloodbath this turned into, huh. And the show isn’t even over. To think: you could have just claimed your prizes and left. Oh well, I do admire a job well done, even if her diligence is a little excessive. On to the Grand Finale!”

  The figure turned with a smile, snapping his fingers for no one’s benefit. Perhaps, he just enjoyed the theatrics…or…

  Some secrets weren’t meant to be known.

  He vanished with a puff of smoke, lost in the post-battle haze.