//------------------------------// // Twenty-Three // Story: The Moon Also Rises // by Nicroburst //------------------------------// I know you fear her. When we fought, we expected a simple tussle, an easy victory and a dressing down of a sibling who’d grown too big for her horseshoes. We were wrong; we fought over the future of the world, and in the place of our younger sister—the scholar; a pony more befitting the universities than the throne—stood a queen. To be fair, she had saved us from an evil you could not defeat. But that was a fight only she could have won, and though He lent her strength once, He will not do so again. Twenty-Three TRIXIE screamed, hurling a hasty shield behind her as the force from Twilight’s attack spun her around. She gritted her teeth, jumping away as another blast tore past her, ripping through her shield without even noticing it was there. Breaking into a gallop, she ran for all she was worth away from the rampaging unicorn. Twilight’s spells were simple, vicious, and effective, giving her no real chance to return fire. Blast after blast rained down on her, striking the ground all around her. If Twilight had wanted to strike her, she would have—Trixie had no doubts as to her accuracy. The thought brought a grimace to her lips. She was being toyed with. Trixie reared, falling back as a wall of purple fire erupted in front of her. The flames licked at the air, reaching out towards her hungrily, and, concentrating, she summoned a small wind—not to put them out, but to open a path, blowing the fire back and allowing her to jump through. “Too clever, Trixie!” Twilight called, from behind, a kind of satisfaction burning in her voice. Trixie shivered despite the crackling heat, Twilight’s tone sending a spike of sudden, sharp fear racing through her body. Where was Twilight getting such strength? No unicorn—no mage—should have been able to summon so much, and waste it so blatantly. Trixie was no weakling. A lifetime of practice had done more than hone her abilities, it had given her reserves of power and a familiarity with pushing herself, drawing out every scrap she had. But the energy in those balls of light Twilight was throwing at her was more than Trixie had ever seen in one place. More than what she’d had, fighting next to the river. It was the kind of power needed to shake a mountain. She didn’t believe Twilight would kill her. Not even after Shining Armour’s murder had she felt truly in danger. She was . . . pure wasn’t right. Incorruptible. Where Boundless had only a cynical belief in his own importance, Twilight believed in something greater. She shone with it. “I don’t know what you mean!” Trixie screamed, feeling another blast of purple fire pick her up and fling her forward. Slowly, unsteadily, she clambered to her hooves, shaking herself off. The impact had left a crater in the ground, fully twenty feet wide, with wisps of power flickering, eating at the grass. It's heat had only singed her. From the room in the Agency, Trixie had teleported back to her old home. Her range was limited, and to her, it was more than just a safe place. It felt like home. She’d felt Twilight coming, turned to face her with spells at the ready. Perhaps, on her home ground, surrounded with all the memories of three lives, she’d have a chance. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Twilight had blown through seven layers of shields with a single thought, barely a frown creasing her face. Trixie’s attacks flashed off her fur, bouncing and shattering to play azure light around the room. Twilight had focused her gaze on Trixie, and, narrowing her eyes, flared the magic hovering at the tip of her horn, that brilliant, blazing ball of iricandescent puissance. The house, the whole building, had erupted, debris scattering high into the sky. Where wooden shards, splintered beams and sharp stones blew outwards, they struck a dull shield, halting to hover in the air for just an instant, before falling to the ground. The air itself caught fire, a swirling torrent of hate screaming upwards as if to claim the sky itself. All of which Trixie saw for less than a moment, before she found herself on the plains below the mountain. Staggering, she spun to look at Canterlot, in the distance behind her, the barest glimmer of lavender light reaching even here. From there, Twilight had begun hunting her across the fields, never pausing, never stopping for long enough to allow Trixie to catch her breath. And still, through every trap she laid, every spell she shattered, she continued to lecture her. “You don’t have to know,” Twilight said, approaching. Lavender spears arose around her, each with a deadly sharp tip pointed directly at Trixie’s heart. “You won’t use those,” Trixie replied, frowning. “I won’t kill you,” Twilight corrected her. A spear flashed forward, arcing to the side to graze her side. Warm blood pooled, running down her back leg. Trixie flinched away from the line of red-hot fire snaking down her flank, letting out a gasp. “Twilight!” Tears rose, filling her eyes. “Stop it!” Twilight appeared with a purple pop, directly beside Trixie. “I wonder if my brother said that,” she hissed. Her eyes bored into Trixie, a gaze almost soulless in its hate. What had changed? She thought she'd known where she’d stood—after what Twilight had done by the river, she’d understood. Boundless had shown her his true self; the pony capable of anything, anything at all, in search of his goals. Trixie found herself respecting that, though she loathed the part of her that agreed with him, that small voice she kept at the edges of her mind, endlessly asking 'What more can I do?' Twilight, on the other hoof, had shown her an unshakeable belief in good. It wasn’t something cast upon her, as much as Boundless might like to believe that. It wasn’t artificial, or compulsive, or a conscious effort. Twilight embodied an ideal. Trixie had seen her soul, and its light had rent her. It had cast her long shadow behind her, set her apart from its embrace. And then Twilight had turned. From reaching out to her in trust, in some weary acceptance of Fate that had drawn her to Trixie, she’d allowed the anger, boiling, bubbling under the surface to consume her. Trixie hadn’t thought herself forgiven. Such a thing was, perhaps, beyond even Twilight Sparkle. At the same time, she hadn’t realised how thin Twilight’s control had been. Another burst of light erupted from her horn, streaking directly towards Trixie’s already injured side. There was no time to dodge, barely time to react at all. She heaved all that she had behind a shield, erected so close that it pressed against her side, humming with barely-controlled might. Twilight’s attack struck it, ruptured it without even noticing it was there. As the recoil washed through Trixie’s mind, adding a painful cacophony of magical protest, the remnants of the shield activated. It was a spell of her own design, one she’d become well practiced at over the years. It was meant for diversion, for escape; when the shield was broken, it exploded in a tremendous boom, and a wash of bright light, stronger than the sun itself, leaving everypony nearby disoriented and blind. Twilight staggered back, the blast dissipating as she lost focus. Trixie fell backwards, the impact singing her fur and throwing her several feet across the ground. Pushing herself to her hooves, she felt at several gashes along her belly; scrapes from where she’d landed. There were several long green leaves of grass caught in the wound, already pooling red blood around them. “Twilight!” Trixie screamed. That attack could have killed her, easily. Just an instant slower, and . . . But didn’t she deserve exactly that? Trixie had tried not to think about it, not to dwell on that moment, that instant where she’d felt the pain she’d caused. When she’d felt what she’d done, for the first time. It had been terrifyingly, horribly, excruciatingly wonderful. She’d finally felt normal, again, felt like a pony and not a monster. But that moment had passed. Twilight, despite everything, despite the darkness she’d thrown around her, had stepped in and saved her life. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Trixie. She wouldn’t squander that gift, no matter how little she deserved it. Trixie looked up from where she’d landed on the ground. Twilight was recovering, the flame surrounding her horn still expanding. It dripped down onto her coat, percolated through the air around her as a fine mist, and though it seemed sluggish, as if reacting to her movements a few seconds late, it clung to her. Trixie had never seen anything like it. Then again, that statement was becoming increasingly redundant. “Can you feel it?!” Twilight screamed. Trixie saw madness in her eyes, in her twitching upper lip and stretched rictus. The sight was more frightening than anything she’d felt before, more frightening even than Boundless’ murderous gaze. He was merely an abomination. This . . . this was corruption. “I . . . “ “Stop! Thinking! Trixie!” Twilight yelled, throwing yet more power at her. The blasts seemed less cohesive, somehow, as if the spells were fraying mid-flight. She was losing control of her spell-work, the attacks more and more resembling raw power. Trixie danced back and forth, dodging and deflecting those that came too close. She could feel each as it sped past her, practically igniting the air around them. She couldn’t maintain this forever. Where Twilight seemed to be growing more and more powerful, building some kind of frenzy with each blast of magic, Trixie found her breath coming short, and lethargy creeping into her limbs. If she didn’t do something, change something, she’d be nothing more than ash on the wind. Trixie gathered herself, drawing as much power into her as she could. The glow surrounding her horn, pale next to Twilight’s growing bonfire, doubled in size. She ducked under another bolt, and then surged forwards, sprinting towards the unicorn with a cry born of sheer desperation. Twilight sneered, flaring her magic. Trixie halted, a telekinetic field flashing into being around her. Slowly, Twilight lifted her into the air, the bonds searing into Trixie’s flesh, as if Twilight was wielding fire itself. Trixie’s scream turned into one of anguish, the bonds pressing in, squeezing her tightly. Twilight could crush her in less than the time it took to blink. Trixie launched her counterattack. Meeting Twilight’s gaze, she pressed herself forward, throwing her strange power against Twilight’s mind. Twilight started, surprised, and just for a second, Trixie broke through. Trixie Immediately seized control of the telekinesis wrapping around her, teleporting it as far away as she could manage, to an empty room back in Ponyville, near the back of Twilight’s home. At this distance, a spell with that much power coursing through it would be a drain no other unicorn could have survived. Twilight barely flinched. For a second, the fire coursing from her horn retreated, sinking back into a bare spark resting on the tip of her horn Then she shook her head, threw Trixie out of her mind, and her horn burst into flames once again, coursing down her mane to surround her head and neck with ethereal light. Trixie fell to the ground, hitting heavily. She felt at her side, wincing as the burns sizzled, filling the air with the smell of burning hair. There was no time to worry about that, though. “Is that how you beat my brother?” Twilight cried, stepping forward. “Did you take from him even his magic?!” “What’s happening to you, Twilight?” Trixie said, panting. “This isn’t you!” “You know me as well as I know myself,” Twilight spat. She coughed, gouts of flame erupting from her throat, and spilling out onto the ground before her. It was . . . terrifying; an avatar of hatred, personified rage, standing not two metres from her. “You know me as I know you, fiend.” Trixie stumbled back, away from that glorious heat, beginning to sob as all her wounds crashed down of her, and Twilight expanded, filling her vision. With a savage effort, she remained on her hooves, forcing her head upright, forcing more magic through her horn. It hurt, oh Celestia it hurt. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. “I don’t want to fight you,” Trixie cried. Twilight’s face twisted. “Then you are of no use to me.” The fire continued to grow. Encircling Twilight’s head, it sank to her skin, encasing her in its glow. A lavender blaze filled the field, burst from Twilight with savagery and a furious might. It tossed Trixie back several paces, sending spots to dance before her blurred eyes. Rubbing a hoof across her face, Trixie stared disbelievingly at the scene before her. The fire had dissipated, mostly, though Twilight’s mane and tail still seemed ethereal—sweeping tongues of power that snaked around her body. In its place, however, Trixie saw cold metal, shining under the noon sun. A helm, of dark, dark purple. “You took him from me!” Twilight screamed, rushing forward. Trixie tried to move, tried to teleport, but she was spent. There was nothing left to draw on, and with a small sigh, she collapsed onto the ground. Maybe this was right. Maybe the pain would stop, now. Twilight planted a hoof on her shoulder, pinning her down, and causing Trixie to arch her back, a grimace flashing over her lips. Twilight leaned over, and Trixie’s pained expression receded, turned into a small smile. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion. She twisted, languidly, moving to ease the pressure on her back. Then Twilight met her eyes. Trixie. The message reached her even under the cacophonous noise of her body’s complaints. A jolt ran through her body, causing her limbs to spasm. Trixie, snap out of it. Dear Cumulus. Even here, at the end, he was looking out for her. “Don’t worry,” Trixie sent him. “Everything’s going to be alright, now.” Trixie, you idiot! Wake up! And then Twilight was there, an avenging, blazing, angel. She entered Trixie’s mind with the fury of the righteous, cast her searing light into Trixie’s darkness. She could perceive them, now, standing together at the back of her mind. Brash was weak, still, his body crippled and small. Numerous cuts and burns were scattered all over him, and yet he stood, head held high, eyes stern. Beside him, Cumulus, with wings held out and hoof in the air. He was large, easily twice Brash’s size, and he stood over his brother, sheltering him under the canopy of his wing. Trixie could see the same cuts, the same burns, bruises, and scrapes that covered Brash on him, though they did not seem as pressing. Twilight turned away from them with barely a glance. The angel had eyes only for Trixie—eyes of fire, eyes spilling tears of flame forth with every slow blink. She screamed, hurling herself at Trixie, a lavender sword flashing into existence before her. There was nothing Trixie could do, had she even wanted to stop it. Instead, she observed Twilight calmly, watched her oncoming death with quiet resolve, and no small measure of relief. “Trixie!” Cumulus called from where he stood. She glanced over at him, met his gaze. The sword rushed down at her neck, Twilight close behind it, mouth stretched wide. Trixie blinked, once, and when she opened her eyes, she stood beside Brash. Cumulus met Twilight’s charge with azure lightning. From somewhere, from some unknown reserve, he had found power, drawn it out of her, and wrapped it around his wings. Sparks danced between his feathers. The sword swept down, and his wing swept up. They met with a crash, an explosion that rocked the world. Trixie stumbled, falling into Brash. The earth pony accepted her weight without so much as a flicker of complaint, bore her to the ground. “Hush, Trixie. Rest, we will watch over you,” he said. Weakly, Trixie turned her head back towards where she’d been standing. Cumulus and Twilight stood, facing each other. Both were panting, chests rising and falling. Twilight’s flames had spread even further, solidifying into another piece of armour—a chestplate, circling around her neck to meet in a ridge of metal resting on her back. In its centre, an embossed symbol shone in glittering silver against imperial violet—a star, with five bright points scattered around it. It was Twilight’s cutie mark. Slowly, Twilight nodded. “You. It was always you.” “Yes. She wasn’t ready.” “She is, now. And she is mine.” “I can’t let you have her, Twilight. You know I can’t.” “Do not stand against me, lost one. I will make you regret it.” Cumulus, however, didn’t seem overly worried. He held his ground, looking at Twilight defiantly. “In here,” he said, raising his wings. ”In here, I am infinite.” “She broke through, not you. Not me. Not even him, the one born apart,” Twilight said. As Trixie watched, her armour grew, fire steadily seeping down her torso, and leaving metal behind. The flames spilling from her horn, her mouth and eyes were still growing with every breath. The instant they parted from her, they disappeared, dissipated into the air. Even from here, Trixie could feel their warmth. It gave her strength, flooded her limbs with new life. Her breathing steadied, heart slowed, and vision cleared. “She must be awoken,” Twilight said. “Even I must defer to that need. Even you.” “We will show her, then. Not you.” Trixie sensed it before she saw it. The slight narrowing of Twilight’s eyes, barely visible through the slits of her helm, the tension running through her torso, and the way Cumulus had lowered his wings to his side, the way he stood, relaxed, confident—it was wrong. ”Look out!” Trixie screamed, watching, helpless to interfere. Twilight leaped forward, her blade extending. Cumulus, however, didn't bother reacting. He watched her come stoically, unmoving as the lavender fire reached out to consume him. And then Twilight disappeared. The world itself flickered, and Trixie opened her eyes to find herself lying on the field, Twilight’s prone body in a crater, next to her. She rolled, peering down into the hole in the ground, eyes widening. Rainbow Dash stood over Twilight’s body, energy crackling in the air around her, running off her limbs and extended wings. She regarded her unconscious marefriend for a moment, then turned her gaze on Trixie, eyes hard. *** “Applejack.” Applejack. A curious word, that. It seemed as if it should have power, somehow. As if something inherent in the syllables, in the shape of the tongue and set of the jaw should produce significance. She turned the word over in her mind, feeling it out. “Kitchi, wake. It is not yet time for rest.” Kitchi. Another word, it sought to label her, to define her. It was a cage, in its own way, as surely as any other. She could no more refuse its siren call than she could deny the idea it carried, the image it held, except that there was no image associated with her, here. Here, words were powerless. “Come on, wake up Applejack.” Applejack heard them, somewhere in the darkness, though she didn’t intuit their meaning. Words, lacking the meaning behind them, were nothing more than white noise, colouring her empty existence. What else was there, but this endless floating? She did not think this, so much as feel it. There was no rationalisation, no understanding. All that remained was sensation without memory, and perception without power. Somepony poured water down her throat, up her nose, and into her eyes. It splashed over her, shocking her into clarity, and slipping into her lungs. Applejack—ah, yes, Applejack—sat up with a violent cough, hacking at the water in her chest. Fluttershy was behind her, thumping her on the back, wearing a mild frown. “Wha-“ “Applejack, what happened?” “She touched Him with pain” Nephele said, hovering nearby. Applejack wiped at the water on her face, clearing her eyes before opening them. “How long was Ah out?” she asked, glancing around. “Just a few minutes,” Fluttershy said. Applejack nodded. It was the same, after all; the same torn tents and splintered beams, the same dusty ground and sparkling lake. The same bodies, piled together as if to be a pyre. “Applejack . . .” Fluttershy began, placing a hoof on her shoulder. “What happened to you?” “She said it best,” Applejack said. “Ah reached down, into the ground. There’s . . . there’s a river down there, Fluttershy.” She turned, meeting her friend’s gaze. “That’s where the water’s going. Somepony—something—must be drawing it north.” It made sense, now. They were taking all the water in the region, gathering it together. They’d used it to create the storm, hurled all that water back south, and now they were pulling it back. That was why the reservoirs, the stores, the plants themselves had been drained so quickly. Applejack had half-expected to see wide eyes and trembling lips on Fluttershy. The notion that something was behind this, the notion that something had created this atrocity, was almost too much for her. It was a truth sunk deep into her gut, twisting at the core of her being. But Fluttershy wore not a mask of fear, but one of resolute anger. Her mouth was set, locked into place. Her eyes bored a hole through Applejack, and passed to her an agreement, and an offer. Applejack nodded sharply. This knowledge brought with it not only pain, and furious anger, but a release. She was not responsible for this attack. She may have drawn the storm across the desert, but she did not unleash its might. And by Celestia herself, she was going to bring the perpetrator to justice. “We will,” Applejack said, softly. “We will,” Fluttershy agreed, pressing her forehead to Applejacks. After a moment, they pulled apart. Fluttershy turned, scanning the makeshift ward they were in. There were still buffalo awaiting treatment, resting on pallets on the ground. More, with less serious injuries, were waiting outside. Applejack watched as Fluttershy stood, her gaze fixed on a young buffalo in the corner. She stepped forward purposefully, reaching his side and settling herself on the ground next to him. Applejack could see some sort of warmth, emanating from Fluttershy’s wings. They began to glow, the soft yellow hue turning into a vibrant golden colour, like slices of the sun itself. Applejack winced. She really shouldn’t be pushing herself so hard, so soon after her ordeal. But she had no right to tell Fluttershy that she couldn’t help these souls? Not when she’d have given almost anything to be able to do the same. Still, if she didn’t have the talent to apply her emotions here, she could at least provide her mind. Braeburn had sent that letter, the one that had started all this, about a week ago—accounting two days for it to reach her, another two to get out of Ponyville, then one travelling, meeting Strongheart, and finally today. The settler ponies wouldn’t have turned to outside aid quickly, though. It would have been seen as weak. That meant . . . they had about two weeks. Two weeks to gather the water together, to prepare another storm. Two weeks to find whoever was behind this, before the next storm killed more. Hell, what if it wasn’t aimed at her? She’d never considered that—her appearance had seemed too much of a coincidence for it to be mere chance. If it wasn’t her or Fluttershy, if the buffalo or the Appleloosans were the targets, then the next storm could be aimed at the town. Without Fluttershy to slow it down, without her to take the brunt of its force, Appleloosa would be obliterated. Lost in thought, Applejack didn’t notice the buffalo behind her until a hoof fell on her shoulder. She started, spinning to see Strongheart standing there, her expression flat. “Applejack,” she said. “Strongheart.” “Are you in control of yourself?” “Yes . . . yes. Ah’m sorry, Strongheart. Ah didn’t mean . . . “ “Forget it,” she said, mouth tight. “You’ve said enough.” Applejack closed her eyes. “Ah’m going back to Appleloosa. Tonight.” “I’ve arranged for a caravan of water. We’ve got plenty, now.” The enormity of that simple statement swelled up in Applejack like some great bubble, pushing at the confines of her throat. She regarded the buffalo leader before her, standing tall in spite of all the chaos engulfing her people. Achak . . . it seemed fitting. She considered the truth. It weighed on her, pressed her down. It could bring Achak to her, bring her to Appleloosa where she could protect them all. Equally, it could drive her away, cause her to withdraw herself in fear, and take her water with her. Appleloosa needed that water. The storm hadn’t swept through there, and what little remained was still being sucked away. They’d be dying of thirst before the week was out. But here, the reservoir had been nearly completely filled. There was enough for both groups for months. Except . . . it was being drained. They needed to get that water into storage, where it couldn’t be lost to the river. The buffalo didn’t have the kind of material. Applejack felt a small smile plaster itself on her face. “Achak,” she said. “Ah’m gonna get you a whole lot of barrels. Ah need you to fill them all from the waterhole, and take ‘em back to the town. Hunker down there until this is all over.” “Why?” Achak said, flatly. “Because that storm ain’t gonna be the last. Something’s pulling the water through the ground, Achak. And Ah promise you this. Ah’m gonna stop it. Ah’m gonna stop it, and Ah’m gonna take the son of a bitch that did this down.” *** “Agyrt,” Daerev said, standing before the empty river. His mentor had not been waiting for him when he’d arrived, and ten minutes later he still hadn’t shown up. Unusual, that—as a Seer, he had to have known Daerev would be coming, and he’d always had the courtesy of making an appearance, even if he didn’t have the time or inclination for a lengthy discussion. Daerev let a small frown crawl over his face. The few times Agyrt had been absent in the past, it had been because of something big, something that required his direct attention. It inevitable ended up dragging Daerev into it, as well. Those times, Daerev had simply left. If Agyrt didn’t want to be found, then Daerev wouldn’t be the one to find him. Then, there’d been nothing else he could do. It was irritating, but then, so were many things in life. Part of his lessons, throughout his time with Agyrt, had dealt with perspective—when he’d first confronted the differences between Agyrt’s outlook and that of Twilight, of those he knew in Ponyville, of Equestria itself, he’d been shocked. Ponies looked at life as a gift, a right, even. It was magical, wondrous—sometimes tragic, but ofttimes joyful. Each day became a celebration, a splash of colour on an otherwise drab canvas. Life was what you made it, they said, knowingly nodding at each other. You couldn’t waste a second. Agyrt had no qualms with expressing his derision for such ideals. When one had lived for thousands of years, and could expect to live for thousands more, life took on a different shade. To him, it was not special, not something grand and unknowable. Life was. Each day, each moment came, and passed, without meaning or rhythm. Daerev had initially spurned his words. They stank of cynicism, a world-weary attitude hardened by years beyond number. He’d thought himself better than that, in the peculiar arrogance of innocence. Surely, each moment of life could be more than simple existence? Or was there no value—no vibrancy—to be found in the world? He’d missed the point, of course. Agyrt hadn’t refuted the beauty of valour, or compassion, or love. Nor had he argued for cold logic, the soulless capacity to think without feeling, driven by nothing more than the base needs of propagation and proliferation. Rather, he took each day as it came. He did not bemoan the fate, merely used what he had been dealt. So Daerev did not grow impatient. Agyrt would come in his own time, and Daerev’s feelings would make not one whit of difference. And yet, in this, he was unwilling to turn away. Boundless was more than a passing distraction, or a temporary vendetta. Twilight could not take vengeance on him without losing herself to his passion. Nor could anypony else step in, acting as her surrogate. Daerev, however, was a separate entity. He could kill, and, perhaps more importantly, he could do it for himself. For Shining Armour, and not for Twilight, and that distinction made all the difference in the world. “Agyrt,” Daerev repeated, wiping the frown from his face. He’d arrived at the river hours earlier, under the pre-dawn light, sparkling through the glade. Lethe itself seemed lower than usual, faster, as if something was drawing the water downstream, though that pressure, whatever it had been, had ceased some forty minutes ago. He didn’t really know why he was speaking at all. Nothing about Agyrt had ever suggested that he would respond to such a summons. Indeed, it seemed more likely to drive him away. But there was something hypnotic about the name, dancing on the little waves flowing through his river, as if it retained its power though nothing more than a whisper on the wind. He thought little of it until it had returned to him. A subtle shifting, a tension, humming through the air, it resonated in him, straightening his back and clearing his throat. Daerev turned sharply, to the left, looking downriver. There, from around the bend, he saw Agyrt’s sleek body, churning the water as he swan swiftly towards Daerev. “Agyrt,” he whispered, and saw the name reach his mentor, tighten the scales around his eyes and snap shut his jaw. “Daerev,” Agyrt greeted him, his arrival sending a wave of water splashing up onto the bank and falling onto Daerev. It was shockingly cold, and Daerev drew on his inner flame to burn off the chill. Water dripped off him, soaking into the damp ground, and evaporated, hissing, in trails of steam that rose from his back, shrouding him. “You know why I’ve come,” Daerev said, stepping forward. He tried to hold his fire, without showing it, tried to sink its heat into his voice. “I will not turn away, Agyrt. Not from this.” “I cannot allow him to be harmed,” Agyrt said, his tongue flicking out to taste the air. The fire in his chest leaped up at Agyrt’s words, seared his throat and demanded release, demanded expression. Daerev set his jaw. He needed to be persuasive, not aggressive. He needed to let Agyrt see his resolve, feel the heat of his passion. He couldn’t afford to grow angry. It would only make him seem a child. “I must have him,” Daerev said. He rolled his shoulders, and then lifted his head, meeting Agyrt’s stern gaze. “It is not justice, or vengeance, or anything of the ilk. I must have him for me. I must stop him, before he hurts anyone else. Not because I think myself a hero. Not because it is noble. Because I could not live with myself, knowing that I had the opportunity to stop it.” Agyrt nodded slowly. “You have learned well, Daerev Quitu.” “Then you understand?” “I understand.” Daerev waited, gaze steady. One moment passed, then another. He realised he was holding his breath; chest growing tight, and throat constricting. Carefully, slowly, he loosened his muscles, relaxing, and opened his mouth. Air flooded him, fed the fire inside, and sent it rising, again, to his mouth. Daerev clenched his jaw, forcing it back down. Agyrt sighed. “But I cannot give him to you.” “But . . ..” “I am sorry,” Agyrt said, shaking his head. “But he is more important than you, or I. There will be time for vengeance. There will be a time for principle. It is not now, not this time. Not before the coming storm.”