A Perverted Path to Victory

Chona

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“He will do things that you consider idiotic,” Evie said, her jaw jutting forward, eyes lit afire by some old, unresolved anger. “It is not, unfortunately, your right to stop him. You can try, of course, but he will either directly rebel against the control you attempt to exert, or, if he capitulates, will come to resent you for the restrictions you placed upon him. This is, of course, occasionally worth the backlash, but you must weigh the value of the moment carefully.”

Chona didn’t know what to say. Even if she did, there wasn’t a chance for her to get it out. Evie’s lecture had begun some ten minutes ago and showed no signs of slowing down. The only break in the monotony came from the occasional breaths she took between words, and even those seemed too few and far between for Chona’s liking.

“In combat scenarios, the relative capabilities of you and your partner must be taken into account for a given situation. In your case, Tinvel’s ability to defend his person is fairly limited within the scope of most traditional physical altercations, yet exceeds yours in the most common scenario you will find him to be endangered, namely aerial combat. It is of the utmost importance that you place and acknowledge his expertise in that realm as being beyond your own, lest your mismanagement of his superior abilities lead to disaster.”

At first, once she had recovered from the horrible mortification of the moment, Chona had been interested in what Evie had to say. She’d known for some time now that her concern for Tinvel’s safety could be debilitating. At the very least, even if it didn’t cause her to take any problematic actions, it made her feel absolutely sick with worry, even when she had very little reason to do so. She’d instinctively tried to hide it, but she’d been interested in what Evie had to say.

The lecture had now moved far beyond that. Though Chona didn’t yet know the word, later in her life, as certain Champion-borne advancements continued to spread throughout Tulian, she would pick up a new term for what she was being subjected to in that moment:

Projection.

Chona was deeply, deeply uncomfortable. It seemed that the Governess had thought that Evie’s experiences with protecting her wives would make her a useful person for Chona to talk to, allowing them to compare and contrast how they managed their anxiety.

It wasn’t.

Chona was concerned for Tinvel. Though she’d never admitted it, much less spoken it aloud, she had been subjected to constant and repetitive nightmares of Tinvel’s death. They’d begun after the crash she had caused, and they terrified her. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was so fearful of the possibility that, at times, it made her physically ill to even contemplate. She’d saved him once. Could she do it again? She hoped— prayed, even— that she would never have to find out. It was a deep-set fear, maybe even a phobia, and when she was forced to confront it, she knew it was something she truly did wish to work through.

But Evie? The neuroses which consumed her mind were nothing like Chona’s.

“Of course potential threats can be addressed before they rear their head,” she said, idly summoning and twirling her rapier. “While you are not as capable as I am, you are a mage who specializes in flame spells, and there are very few non-mages capable of recovering from being lit afire while asleep. Though an ambush is difficult to achieve when one’s enemies are on the other side of a battlefield, as is inevitable when one is prosecuting a war, the great dividends provided by such a possibility require the possibility to be evaluated. Ideally multiple times, as a plan of action dismissed earlier may be subject to shifting circumstances, and one must take care to ensure that a new opportunity is not missed.”

This was not helpful information. Chona had long since given up attempting to parse the borderline psychopathic ramblings, and was now desperately looking for an opening to speak up. The moment Evie paused to take a breath, she finally butted in.

“Thank you, really,” Chona said, hurrying the words out before Evie could continue, “but I’m so, so certain that you and I have different approaches to this problem. I want to protect Tinvel. Hurting the people who would attack him isn’t what I’ve been trying to do.”

Evie pursed her lips. “Truly?”

Chona winced, but nodded.

Evie huffed, tucking her hair back. “Thank the gods for that. What a worthless conversation.”

Chona stared.

Evie moved to the plane, flinging open the storage hatch and grabbing one of the geodes with a single hand. “Sara believed it would be beneficial for me to empathize with your struggles, considering their similarities. I’ve no interest in doing so, and now that I know you don’t either, we can spend our time more productively.”

“Ah.” Chona was at a loss. She drifted after Evie, grunting with effort as a geode was dropped into her waiting hands.

As they began to work, Chona considered what, exactly, Evie had spoken of. Her philosophy in regards to caring for her wife, and what it implied. Her mouth went dry.

Personal safety, Chona decided, would be their foremost priority for the coming flight.

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Tinvel

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“Of course Chona’s her own woman,” Sara was saying, her legs crossed beneath her as she and Tinvel sat beside the road. “A lot of the advice I just gave you is pretty generic. Not every vanara is going to be the same.”

“Of course,” he nodded, jotting another line.

At some point in the conversation, though he couldn’t point to when, Tinvel’s terror had puffed into smoke. Now he and Sara were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the shade, with her looking over and checking his notes.

Yes, he was writing notes. Sara had started throwing a lot at him, and Tinvel’s university instincts had taken over. He was finishing up his second page, moving to the third.

“So this device,” he said, “you’re sure rubber will work fine? I would think that would cause a lot of friction problems. The movement speed you specified is pretty extreme.”

“Eh, I’m pretty damn sure. Maybe if she was bone dry it’d end up hurting, but you can just test it on your arm or something. You want buzzing, not rubbing. They’re pretty good for giving massages, too.”

“Really?” Tinvel, running out of space on his current line, dashed out that note by sketching it vertically along the page’s edge. “Seems hard to believe.”

“I’ve got experience that says you should trust me. And,” Sara nudged him. “Remember, if you do build this, you know I want at least one, right?”

Considering the topic, he should have been blushing beet red and stammering until his jaw fell off. But Sara was just so damn disarming. She handled everything so well that it almost seemed impossible to be embarrassed around her.

“Yeah, I figured,” Tinvel said, chuckling. “Two wives? That’s gotta be rough to keep up with.”

“Yeah, no,” Sara snorted. “Not in the way you’re thinking, anyway. But I think I’ve got some advantages you don’t.”

“What kind-”

“And that’s this topic over!” Sara slapped her thighs, pushing herself to her feet. “You ready to go meet Hurlish? We’ve got some shit for you and Chona to do before we leave.”

He stood, following her. “I thought Chona was working on the plane with your wife?”

“She was, but they should be finishing up and heading that way by now. And you can just call her Evie, y’know.”

It was already a struggle to refer to the Governess— Sara— by her first name. Doing it for Evie Brown, General and Steward of Tulian, heir to the wealthiest House of Sporatos? A woman whose upbringing left an aura of royalty dripping from her every pore? That was borderline impossible. Tinvel didn’t even want to try. He’d been nine when Old Tulian fell, but nine years was long enough. You didn’t grow up under a King and come out the other end with a willingness to address royalty by anything other than their title. That had been made abundantly clear to him from an exceptionally young age. If they’d caught him addressing a Lord or Lady by their first name, his parents would have strangled him, if only to save him from the hangman’s noose.

“Uh, sure,” he said, because he was a coward petrified of arguing with Sara fucking Brown, “but what does Hurlish need our help with?”

“Just a few things, nothing big. Easy stuff. And she wants to see you two again, y’know. She likes to check up on her kids.”

He sniffed. “She calls everyone she teaches her ‘kid.’ Chona and I weren’t special.”

“Nope,” Sara cheerfully agreed. “Not different at all. She cares about you as much as she does all her other apprentices.” Sara waved down a figure walking along the road, a scruffily-dressed man with a bulky wooden box strapped to his back.

“Hey, Pot!”

What kind of name is that?

Pot’s head rose, a smile gracing his face as he spotted the Governess.

“Ah, there y’are, ma’am. Been waiting for you.”

“Appreciate you helping me out,” Sara said, coming up to him. Her arm blurred faster than Tinvel could track, then the box slid off the man’s back, landing with a dusty thump. Sara lifted the hem of her shirt, sheathing a black dagger he’d never seen her draw. A second later, ropes that had been tied around the box fell to the ground.

“You should be good to head back to the Powdered Lead now,” she told the man. “Walk back if you want, or just rest here, whatever works. We’re all good, won’t need any more help.”

“Thank ya, ma’am.”

Sara cracked open the box, tossing the lid aside. She grinned over her shoulder at Tinvel.

“So. How fast do you think you can learn to ride a bike?”

Oh, gods.

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Pretty fast, it turned out. It wasn’t his own natural talent, however. The Goddess of Diplomacy didn’t screw around with choosing her Champion, nor with blessing said Champion in the powers of communication. Through Sara’s nearly precognitive instructions (and his own determination to not make a fool of himself), it was only a few minutes before Tinvel could keep himself upright on the bike while traveling in a slow circle. That was when Chona and Evie arrived, and by the time Chona had gotten the hang of it, he was downright confident.

At first, Tinvel had wondered why they were bothering to learn how to ride a bike just to go meet Hurlish. The army was large, stretched out over several miles, but surely it couldn’t be that bothersome to walk up the column by foot?

The following quarter-hour proved his ignorance. The dirt road, though still humming with the subtle glow of ancient enchantments protecting against wear and plant growth, had been utterly demolished by the passage of tens of thousands of feet. Mud bubbled in puddles as wide as Tinvel was tall, turned rancid by contamination of dark, putrid-smelling water filling the improvised latrines beside the main road. That horrific concoction was further worsened by mixing with the ruts left by (shockingly rare) man-drawn carts, which criss-crossed the road in hazardously erratic trails, as if the carters had been deliberately trying to create an obstacle course for those following behind.

Tinvel tried to distract himself from the nauseating scents by analyzing the enchantments. He’d quickly decided that they had to be the work of an archmage. No common artificer could have layered such a vague, formless enchantment, not over such a large area. It wasn’t enchantment as Tinvel knew it, with the creation and subsequent empowering of layered runes. It was a far deeper, more powerful construct. Space itself had been altered, the very soul of the land given a new natural state. It had been devastated by the passage of this army, but it wouldn’t stay that way. Neglect, instead of degrading the trail further, would cause it to revert to its spell-shifted natural state.

The enchantment’s awe-inspiring complexity, while a wonder to behold, meant he couldn’t glean much from it. The spell’s workings were as far beyond Tinvel as his own enchantments were beyond a newborn baby. That meant he was forced to confront the revolting realities of such a large army on the march, and it was one he certainly didn’t enjoy.

Eventually, however, their biking carried them directly to the head of the column, where the lucky few selected to travel the army’s elite were beginning to set up camp. The sun still had hours of light left, but, Sara explained, it would take that long for the tail end of the army to catch up. The privilege of an early end to the day’s march was balanced by the requirement to begin a day’s labor before the sun had even risen.

They found Hurlish easily enough. Her mobile forge was set up at a bend in the road, tucked into the space that the traveling army would naturally avoid as they cut through the corner.

She was almost exactly as Tinvel had always known her to be. Sleeves rolled up her barrel-thick arms, sweat shining across her brow, a focused grin lit from below by the flickering of glowing coals. Several young assistants were running from place to place with tongs gripping glowing iron, handling the products she was smashing out at an unbelievable pace.

“Oh, hey!” Hurlish’s voice boomed, her smile brightening as she raised a hand. “There y’all are! ‘Bout damn time ya got here!”

Tinvel set his feet down, dragging his bike to a wobbling stop. Chona joined him a moment later, with Sara and Evie far more gracefully sliding up alongside.

Hurlish tossed a misshapen lump of iron back into the coals, slamming her hands together in a booming clap.

“Sorry, kids!” She shouted. “Gotta have some private time, now. Y’all go do something for an hour or so, then come on back for dinner.”

Hurlish’s voice, Tinvel noticed, seemed to echo slightly, a hidden set of strange words carried underneath those he could understand. A translation spell, he thought. Considering the way Hurlish’s Imperial helpers quickly responded to orders spoken in Continental, it had to be.

Hurlish thumped up to them, her arms still spread wide. Before he or Chona could escape, she crouched down and wrapped her wingspan around them both, sweeping them up into a crushing hug.

“How’ve you two been?” She asked, lifting them into the air. He didn’t even bother trying to respond. With how hard he was being squeezed, Tinvel was half surprised he wasn’t blacking out.

“Oh, gods,” Chona managed to grunt, “you smell awful.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Hurlish said, dropping them both. “Just what an honest day’s work smells like. Mages aren’t used to that, I know.”

“Gotten a lot more used to it than I used to be,” Tinvel said as he landed, shaking out his bruised shoulders. “Engine artificing is a lot more grunt work than I’m used to.”

“Sounds like it’s good for you, then.” Hurlish clapped a meaty hand onto Tinvel’s shoulder, stumbling him, then began guiding him into the forge. “Speaking of which, we got some work for you. Need to be quick about it, especially if you want to take off tonight, but I think it won’t be too hard.”

“Sure,” Tinvel said, following after her. He hadn’t expected anything else; he’d never known Hurlish to waste time on idle chatter. She led him over to a large iron-wrapped chest beside a sturdy table, the wooden container wrapped in enchanted runes.

“Chona,” Evie’s voice chimed in. “You have a different task.” Her voice raised, switching languages. “Keo! Mk tinih!”

A young Imperial boy darted towards Evie, an anxious expression on his face. He was clearly one of Hurlish’s helpers, judging by the coal dust scattered across his person, but he seemed far from eager to respond to the summonings. Tinvel and Chona traded confused glances.

While Hurlish began unlocking the chest, Evie looked at the boy she’d summoned, speaking the Imperial language. She made a number of hand gestures between herself, the child, and Chona.

“Nih kuchea Chona. Neang nung banghean anak tha pril chea avei.” Evie looked up at Chona, abruptly returning to Continental. “You should be capable of casting a spell to summon ice, yes?”

“I am,” Chona said cautiously. “But it’s really not my specialty.”

“Only a small amount will be required. I promised young Keo here that I would find him a mage to show him what snow looks like.”

Tinvel’s instincts had him waiting for the punchline, but it quickly became apparent none was coming. Evie remained expectantly expressionless as she awaited Chona’s response.

“Oh.” Chona scratched at her cheek fur. “Is that all? I mean, is there anything else you need me for?”

“No, but this is not something I considered lightly. I would rather not owe any of the Imperial mages a favor, no matter how small.”

“...Okay,” Chona said, blinking her confusion. “I guess I can… well, give me a second to think about it. Ice and snow are kinda different to cast, and I’m out of practice with that entire field of conjuration. I’ve never even seen snow in real life.”

“Take your time. So long as you cast the spell before Hurlish’s work is finished, I will be satisfied.”

As Chona walked over to Evie and the boy, Hurlish finished the process of disarming the armored chest’s defensive wards. Sara then left Evie beside Keo, moving across the forge to what had to be, at least as far as Tinvel could imagine, the world’s most heavily defended crib. It was being protected by all four of its guards, standing stoically with their ominous green robes. Tinvel wished he could get a peek at their weapons, terribly curious about how well they were holding up, but their disguises were impenetrable.

“So,” Hurlish said, reaching into the crate and pulling out a familiar weapon. A long, thick-barreled revolver, its steel skin glittering with runes Tinvel knew like the back of his hand. It was a testbed revolver, one that she’d made for him to experiment with new types of enchantments. Hurlish dropped her voice so only Tinvel could hear; a rarity, to hear the big woman actually try to control her volume.

“The reinforcements have been working pretty damn well, but I’ve been noticing its recoil has been slowly increasing over time. Going by the notes we took on the first tests, a forty-grain powder load is now producing recoil force equivalent to, oh, about forty-five grains or so. Not the worst, but I don’t like it. You scale that up to a cannon’s size and it could be the difference between a good shot and a bomb. I need to know what the enchantment’s doing, why, and if it’ll happen again.”

“A twelve percent increase in effective firing power? Really?” Tinvel reached into his flight jacket’s pocket, fishing out a magnifying glass. The leather may have him sweating like hell, but he refused to give up the storage space. He started inspecting the runes, looking for fractures. “That’s definitely not the symptoms I anticipated for these enchantment’s failure states. And I’m not seeing much damage here…”

“Hasn’t been used in fights or anything,” Hurlish said. “Just practice shooting. So it hasn’t taken any dings or dents or anything like that.”

“Huh.” Tinvel bent further down, resting his elbows on the table as he ran his gaze across the revolver. It was a second-generation crystal-ignition revolver, patterned off the work of the otherworldly “Samuel Colt.” After discussing the man’s work with Professor Brown, as well as seeing the innovations introduced by his engineering prowess, Samuel Colt had become something of an idol to Tinvel. The 1861 Navy was a work of art. Its elegance rose from the simplicity of its mechanisms, a tightly interlocking system whose design had not a single wasted movement. Though the pistol contained dozens of moving parts, every last one was essential. There was nothing left to remove, nothing to simplify. By design alone, it was a perfected weapon.

Of course, that didn’t mean there was no room for improvement. Samuel Colt, brilliant as he may have been, didn’t have the advantages that Tinvel did. His revolvers had come from their factories with the cylinder sporting an engraved scene of Earthly naval warfare. Hurlish’s enlarged copy, once placed in Tinvel’s hands, had come away with something far more fantastical.

“So, what’re you thinking?” Hurlish asked. “Is it a-”

“Not done yet. Give me a minute.” He ignored Hurlish’s laugh as he knelt down in the mud, adjusting the revolver to better catch the light.

Heat distribution enchantments appear fully intact, he noted, squinting into the magnifying glass. The powder should still be benefitting from omnidirectional distribution of spark crystal heating.

“What’s the cylinder look like after a shot is fired?” He asked. “Can you estimate the volume of unburnt powder?”

“I haven’t measured it or anything, but it’s pretty good. It’s still a better burn than the unenchanted models.”

“Huh.”

Tinvel flipped the revolver, inspecting its opposite side. He knew that Evie was left-handed, but the enlarged trigger guard told him that this gun was mostly used by Hurlish, a right-hander. Asymmetric wear of the enchantments wouldn’t explain an increase in recoil, not in the traditional sense, but the consequences of interwoven enchantments suffering a cascading failure was nearly impossible to predict.

“How long ago did you start using this gun?” He asked. “And how much have you been using it?”

“It’s been a good while,” Hurlish responded. “You got your hands on it a few weeks after I was done. It was the fourth revolver I built, and the first one I made for myself. And yeah, I’ve shot it plenty. It’s what I use when Evie and I go out to practice shooting.”

“Hm.” Tinvel stood, glancing Evie’s way. She was standing near Keo with her arms folded, both of them watching Chona mutter to herself as she worked her way through a half-forgotten spell. Opening his Magesight a touch, he felt the half-hidden glow of her rapier, its plane-shifted form hovering near her hand.

“You know Evie’s rapier?”

Hurlish raised an eyebrow at the sudden topic change, but nodded gamely. “Sure. I made it.”

“You didn’t enchant it, though. How many swords have you made that ended up with summoning enchantments?”

“A few. A lot of times the nobles just took the sword the minute I was done with it and handled that part themselves. What’s it matter?”

Tinvel nodded to Evie. “You’ve seen her summon that sword plenty of times. It drops right into her hand. From what I’ve heard, she can summon it so fast she’ll even dismiss and resummon it in the middle of a fight. Did those other swords you get enchanted work that well?”

Hurlish glanced up and to the side, lips pressed thin between her tusks as she tried to recall. “Don’t think so? Usually a second or so before they get it in their hand, I s’pose. You’re saying Evie’s sword is popping up faster because it’s doing something different to those?”

“Kind of.” Tinvel picked the pistol up and flipped it around, offering Hurlish the grip. “I can’t find anything wrong with this. Just like I wouldn’t be able to find anything wrong with Evie’s sword. It’s not the pistol. It’s you.”

Hurlish took the revolver, clicking the hammer back to half-cock. She spun the cylinder, inspecting its flawless lines, then eased the hammer down.

“Huh. What’s that supposed to mean? You’re saying it’s not something we need to worry about with other enchanted guns?”

“If I’m right,” and Tinvel felt certain he was, though not certain enough to stake his life on it, “it’s something you should be trying to replicate. One of the enchantments I put on that gun was something to help the interior surface of the cylinder distribute heat, to help the blackpowder burn more evenly. At first it was doing alright at that, but now it’s doing even better. The gun’s burning more powder, faster, because it knows you can handle it. If you couldn’t, it wouldn’t bother.”

Hurlish eyed him. “Guns don’t think, Tin.”

Tinvel didn’t know about that. There was plenty of study into whether or not inanimate objects had souls; Chona’s own experiences with her Magesight certainly seemed suggestive of some type of naturally-infused Intent inherent to all objects. But not only was that a controversial field of study, it was way more academic a topic than Hurlish would ever care about.

“Guns don’t think,” he agreed, “and spells don’t think, either. Yet they treat certain people differently anyway.” He gestured at Evie. “That sword was commissioned by one wife, forged by another, and it’s saved all three of your lives more times than any of you can remember. If you ever wanted a weapon to get attached to its owner, I can’t think of a better way to do it. Summoning enchantments are weird. I’ve never managed to make one myself, of course, but from what I know, most summoning enchantments use a person’s soul as a guide for where they should cross the planes, like a lighthouse. Evie’s sword, though? I bet it’s closer to being a part of her soul than just attached to it.”

“Okay,” Hurlish said, chewing on her thoughts. She scratched a tusk. “But this pistol’s not Evie’s sword. It’s never done anything except pop targets.”

Tinvel nodded. “Yeah. But did you like doing that?”

“Well, of course. Wouldn’t do it if it was no fun.”

Tinvel inspected the pistol again, this time with his Magesight fully opened. Even without a summoning enchantment, the imbued steel was curled up in Hurlish’s palm like a lost puppy that had just found its way home.

“It’s more than that, though,” Tinvel said. “It’s gotta be. If the enchantments are changing on their own? Without failing? You’re doing more with it than just passing the time shooting targets.”

“Well,” Hurlish drawled, emptying her lungs in a big, long sigh. “I guess those days are a bigger deal than just fun, yeah.” She jabbed a thumb at Sara, then Evie. “You know how hard it is to get those two to stick around for a while? Even a few hours? Especially Evie. Gods, these days, I think going shooting with her is about the only time I get her to myself. I’m glad I manage to get her once a day, I know some people don’t even get that from their wives, but damn.”

She shook her head sadly. Later, when he had time to think over the conversation, reflecting on Hurlish’s wistful expression, Tinvel would have time to grow embarrassed. He hadn’t meant for the conversation to be so revealing. But in the moment, all of his mind’s efforts were devoted to analysis of artificery, and he didn’t give Hurlish’s comments a second thought, at least beyond their implications for the enchantment.

“Well there you go,” he said, dusting his hands off. “Two people that love each other bonding over a shared passion? As far as spellcraft is concerned, that’s about as important as saving a life.” Tinvel bent over the chest, looking at the weapons and goods inside. “Did you want me to take a look at all of these, by the way? Because if we’re gonna start flying some time this afternoon, I’m gonna need to work fast.”

Hurlish scoffed, then pulled out the next weapon.

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Chona

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For how effective it was proving, this was a remarkably strange form of torture. While a vast and alien army swirled all around her, speaking languages she didn’t know, carrying weapons she didn’t recognize, and generally ruining her focus, the deadliest woman in Tulian was forcing Chona to play babysitter.

Chona wasn’t bad with kids, necessarily. It wasn’t like there’d been a shortage of them in her village. But this was definitely not how she usually interacted with them. Keo stared at her with blank eyes, not even bothering to speak in his own language, and, to add another layer of peculiarity, Evie herself seemed terribly discomforted by the circumstances she had created for herself. She kept glancing up to Hurlish, Sara, and then always, constantly over to the crib where her child lay. That was when her expression would turn to something Chona found more incomprehensible than all the other sights surrounding her. It was a skilled diplomat trying to smother emotions that couldn’t be suppressed, resulting in a twitchy, inconsistent flickering, like a smoldering candle half-starved of air fighting to return to life. The fingers of her left hand were repeatedly curling and uncurling, a spasm that would have meant very little if Chona couldn’t sense what was waiting in her palm, half-hidden in another realm of existence.

Chona, meanwhile, was forced to focus on creating snow. Not only had it been over a year since she last summoned ice of any kind, she had never once in her life summoned its more powdered form. The spellform was as slick as its subject, infuriating in its tendency to slip from her mind’s grasp. Professor Brown’s lessons on the states of matter and the way they transitioned from one to the other was proving helpful, but not enough so that she could conjure up a snow flurry on a whim.

Harming her focus further, perhaps doing the most damage of all, was the population of the camp around her. The Empire was a more ancestrally diverse place than any in Tulian. Humans were still the largest group, but they weren’t even fifty percent of the crowd. Catfolk and orcs were equal in presence, their familiar shapes accented by the addition of a smaller number of azarketi, who varied much more heavily in scale tone than the universally blue azarketi of the Tulian coast. Lizardfolk were also counted amongst the crowd, though they were by far the rarest of the groups, heavily outnumbered by the final group, the ones who were driving Chona to so much distraction.

Vanara.

If she had to hazard a guess, they were slightly more populous than the azarketi, yet she wished there were none at all.

Because they were all, of course, wearing clothing.

Until now, Chona had been absurdly lucky. She, her mother, and her father were the only vanara she had met in all of Tulian. When she had moved to the city, her ancestry’s exotic nature had allowed her to finally, finally be free of the utter pointlessness of wearing clothes. All her life, she’d never understood why people bothered, and despite everyone in the village saying she would, Chona had never grown out of the impulse. She told those she met that vanara fur was too sensitive to be comfortably covered with clothing, which was why she only begrudgingly wore the bare minimum required to maintain some semblance of decency. To those in Tulian, Chona went into the streets wearing less than would be considered appropriate for sleeping in the privacy of their own home. Yet most who questioned her, when told of the itching and irritation even her minimal outfit supposedly caused, would simply express sympathy for the inconvenience.

Tinvel was among the people who fully believed that half-lie, and it was one reason (amongst many) that she’d adamantly refused to introduce him to her parents. Showing up to her mother and father’s home mostly naked, a partner in tow was… No. She refused. Tinvel was nice, but even he couldn’t make enough of a good impression to overcome that awful first impression.

She glanced away from her spellwork to inspect him. He was, as usual, utterly absorbed in his work, speaking quietly to Hurlish. He wasn’t facing the army at all. That was a relief. He hadn’t seemed to notice how many vanara were wearing full armor yet, with even those out of military uniform wearing full shirts and ankle-length breaches. She was praying to Amarat that it stayed that way.

It took her almost a half hour of struggling with the spell to finally get something worthwhile. Her first attempt was just a splash of water, the second a cold splash of water, and the third a single, tiny, impossibly dense particle of ice, one smaller than her pinky finger’s thumbnail. That had actually been interesting enough to Keo that he’d fiddled with it for the short while it lasted before melting, but it still wasn’t snow. It was only on the fifth attempt that she produced a small spattering of flakes, and it took two further tries before there was a volume enough that it piled up on the ground, allowing Keo to push his hands in, finally beginning to babble in his language.

Evie answered him in the Imperial tongue, but, to Chona’s considerable disappointment, didn’t seem any less tense than she had before. If anything, she seemed to be a coiled spring, every passing minute winding her tighter and tighter. It felt like standing next to a lit fuse, one that was hissing and fizzing its way to a place she couldn’t see. The only solace Chona could take was the realization that she herself wasn’t, apparently, the source of the woman’s mounting frustration. Even when Chona left her and Keo with the pile of snow to join Tinvel in his work with Hurlish, Evie’s scowl kept deepening, her ears tucking flatter and flatter to her skull.

Eventually, thankfully, Sara made her way over to the woman. A quiet conversation passed between them, one in which Evie spoke only in sharp, clipped sentences, with Sara slowly stroking a hand down her shoulder and arm. Whatever was said didn’t resolve the issue entirely, but it did calm Evie to a degree. She returned her focus to Keo, answering a few more of his questions.

Another hour or so passed as Tinvel discussed blackpowder weaponry enchantments with Hurlish. Chona didn’t have much to contribute there, aside from tossing her own opinion in every now and then. Despite his inexperience in absolute terms, Tinvel was the single most veteran enchanter of firearms. Even the Artificer’s Union in Tulian lacked members who’d attempted a fraction of what he’d done; they were stretched too thin, never allowed to truly specialize. Even Chona could understand what their work was. She could even replicate some of it. The conversation held by Tinvel and Hurlish, meanwhile, was incomprehensible. They were obsessing over problems using terms like pressure gradients, bore windage, rifling wear, cartridge capacity, hangfires, minutes of angle, keyholing, and a dozen other words that they used so casually, as if they were normal things that made sense to anyone but themselves. Even the Governess got in on it after a while, discussing some of the more advanced details of steel manufacturing that Hurlish was dabbling in and how they might affect the necessity of certain enchantments.

Chona, feeling rather useless, eventually drifted back over to Keo. For such a young boy, he was very reserved in the way he was speaking to Evie. Chona recognized it. That level of maturity, at least in a child so young, was hardly ever a good sign. She knew that well. He’d had to grow up too quickly, forced to confront things that a ten year old child never should even know existed. It made sense, Chona supposed. He’d grown up as part of an army’s camp followers. Still, it was sad to see.

She crouched down in front of him, drawing his attention. She looked at him as she spoke, even as she addressed Evie.

“I think I can cast another snow spell. Would he like me to?”

Evie repeated the words in the boy’s language. After a moment of consideration, he nodded.

Closing her eyes to focus, Chona cast the spell. The air around her hands grew frigid and dry, her fur crackling with particles of ice. A small rain of flakes dumped out of her palms, piling up on the ground.

The boy’s eyes were alight with delight as he watched. She was too focused on the spell to smile back at him, but she was glad. He looked like he needed something to be interested in.

Behind her, she heard Tinvel begin to finish up his work. His and Hurlish’s voices rose, no longer concerned about being overheard, and soon they’d joined the scene, creating a little crowd around the pile of snow.

“Does he have any questions?” Chona asked Evie. “He seems rather taken by the spell. I wonder if he’s been evaluated for magecraft potential.”

“I’m unsure. Hurlish?”

The blacksmith shrugged, massive shoulders rolling. “If he has, he didn’t mention it to me.”

“Hm.” Evie spoke again, distracting Keo from his play. After a moment of looking up at Chona, seemingly confused, he replied.

“He doesn’t believe he has been tested for mage aptitude,” Evie replied, “but he does have a question for you, Chona.”

She smiled. “Sure. What is it?”

The boy spoke.

Evie frowned, and a few dozen feet away, Sara broke into boisterous laughter. Evie said something back to him, and little Keo replied, more insistently, prompting Evie to say yet more, and all through the exchange, Sara kept laughing. The Governess scooped her child out of the crib and put him to her chest, walking over.

“What?” Chona said, looking around. “What did he ask?”

Evie pursed her lips. “Something that he, at his age, should really know better than to-”

“No, no, it’s a fair question!” Sara said, still laughing. “Chona, you want to know what he asked? He wants to know why you aren’t wearing any clothes.”

Chona shot to her feet, fur rising across her entire body in a rippling blush.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Tinvel said. “Vanara fur doesn’t work well with clothing, kid. Too rough on ‘em and stuff.”

Evie made a face. “I don’t believe it would be the best course of action for me to translate-”

“Hey Keo,” Sara said, then spat out a rapid procession of Imperial words.

The boy looked up at Chona, confused, and spoke again.

Sara laughed louder.

“He says, Tinvel, that he’s met plenty of vanara, and they—”

Chona turned and bolted, moving as fast as she could without breaking into a full sprint. She swiped her hands over herself again and again, trying to hide the blush, but nothing could stop the fur from sticking right back up. She heard Tinvel say something behind her, incredulous, and glanced back just in time to see Sara pointing into the Imperial Army, head thrown back in obvious delight.

Chona snagged a bike off the ground, hastily straddling it. Her fur was so puffed out that she looked like she’d gained fifty pounds, and it was still refusing to go down.

She looked back at the small group. Tinvel was staring at her, mouth agape, while Sara had doubled over, clasping her knees to keep from collapsing entirely.

“Well!” Chona yelled, trying her utmost to sound snappy and irritated, “are we going to get the plane off the ground tonight or what?”

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King Sporatos

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It was that dream again. It was as real to him as any waking moment, despite its impossibilities, despite knowing it was nothing but the invention of his sleeping mind.

Knowledge did not stop the terror.

He was on his knees. He couldn’t stand, no matter what effort he exerted. Strength that could shatter stone and twist steel was useless here. He felt the cool, wet soil soaking through his clothing, chilling his legs, and fought with all he had to lurch to his feet, but he never succeeded.

He saw the man. Sometimes it was a man, sometimes it was a woman, yet somehow, he knew not how, it was always the same figure. Different faces on the same person. Tonight it wore the face of a man, for what little that mattered.

The man stood on a lump of dirt, looking down. He had rotted, broken teeth, revealed by the cruel sneer he wore. His shirt was threadbare, holes eaten away by moths and rats, stirred by the bitter wind to show his body’s patina of dirty, diseased flesh. He was marked by bloody mud all across his body, coating his face, his limbs, and his hands most of all. He coughed wetly, took a step forward, and spat into the ditch that lay before him.

His saliva spattered across Artahilde’s back.

King Sporatos’s dearest daughter lay in the stream. Crimson ran down her armor, bubbling up from her lower spine, a round hole punched straight through the enchanted steel. She was sobbing, trembling with hypothermic cold, her neck’s muscles bulging as she fought to keep her lips free of the running current of brown wastewater. Her anguished cries weren’t those of the daughter he knew now, the one well into her third decade, an accomplished swordswoman and proud Knight. They were the weak, effusive sobs that King Sporatos still recalled so well, born of the tears shed when they’d learned of her mother’s death.

The revolting peasant wiped a streak of snot onto the back of his hand, then lifted his musket to a shoulder. He coughed slightly, wobbling on his feet. A grin of drunken lust rolled across his putrid face.

The firearm he held was spotless. The peasant’s thumb went up, pulling back the hammer with a metallic click.

Artahilde’s sobs grew louder. She spoke, crying out, every word a mirror of that terrible, terrible day.

“Father! Father, no! You promised me!”

Another voice echoed. To taunt, to respond, to simply remind him, he didn’t know which, but he knew it was Her voice. It thundered, shaking the world, reverberating in his very bones.

“Your daughter, dead, face down in the mud. And a peasant standing above her.”

The peasant’s finger twitched.

The world was filled with smoke.

The King shot up, heart thundering. The air was brutally chill against the sweat coating his body, a puddle of which was seeping into the bedding around him. He cursed, tearing the bedding apart as he flung it off him, resisting the urge to roar in fury. When he was clear and bare, he pressed his hands to his face, wiping downward.

It was pitch black. The barest thread of morning light hadn’t yet slipped through the room’s window, leaving him blind to his surroundings. With his chest still heaving heavy breaths, he fumbled in the darkness, eventually uncovering a crystal light.

His quarters were as he’d left them, of course. No disturbances, no sign of intrusion. The local Lord’s castle was not appropriate for one of his status, but it was secure.

There was no one to blame for the nightmare but himself.

King Sporatos moved to the edge of the bed, standing. The dry, cool stone beneath his feet was solid. Reassuring. A reminder that what he had seen had been a dream. Nothing more than that. Mage and archmage alike had assured him it was not prophecy.

He didn’t know how they could be so foolish.

King Sporatos stumbled to the water basin, blinking the burn of sweat from his eyes. Her voice still echoed in his head.

Your daughter. Dead. And a peasant standing over her.

The King shuddered. He had asked others about that day. Surreptitiously, of course. He had asked them if the woman’s voice had seemed strange to them, if there was any sign of magic in her words.

They all said no.

How did they not hear it?

The words had not stopped echoing in his head. The rattle of gunfire. The sound of that cannon, its bronze muzzle gleaming between the Champion’s cancerous fortress.

They said it wasn’t prophecy. How could they believe that? The first cannon shot in all the world, and it had struck him down. Slammed into his chest, turned his bones to sand, left him broken and helpless. Those around him fell like hail as they fought to drag him away, their armor little more than bloody rags against those sulfurous weapons, but he had never been hit. Even after his armor had been ruined, even after he was as vulnerable as he had ever been. How could they explain it? He had been spared.

The Champion wanted him to see her prophecy come true. She wanted him to suffer.

Hands cupped in the basin, he took a deep breath, then flung icy water into his face. The shock of it was brilliant, bracing, shocking his system awake. The tremors of the nightmare began to fade.

He didn’t have the dream every night. At first it had been rare. Once a week, perhaps. But the months had seen it progress, more and more and more common, until he abandoned afternoon rests, until he was forced to expel all the guards from his chambers each night, lest they see him thrashing in the bedsheets, calling out his daughter’s name. He’d already had to have several men executed for witnessing that, and he refused to allow it to happen again, even at risk to his own safety. They had been good, loyal men, and he mourned their loss deeply. The Champion’s curse had taken them from him. It was another thing he would never forgive her for.

He looked into the glass above the basin. It would have shown the city beyond, an exquisite view from the very peak of the keep, but it was too dark. With the only light coming from within the room, King Sporatos saw only his own haggard reflection.

They don’t understand the dangers they court. How is it that only I see the serpent that lives amongst that black sand? What more will I have to do to show them it? How many more will fail to see the danger until I force their hand?

King Sporatos did not know the time, but if the sun had not yet risen, the cabinet meeting would not be for many hours yet. His agents told him that the Dukes and Duchesses would be trying to force him to rescind his decision regarding firearms yet again.

How many times had they tried? How long would it be until they understood? King Sporatos had the strength to enforce his demands, that much was clear, but why must it always come down to such tyranny? What good was a Kingdom which forced its King to puppet his subject’s every motion, lifting and jerking their limbs to his liking? They should be able to understand, by the gods! What would it take to make them understand?

Cracking stone greeted him from below. King Sporatos looked down, shocked. When he lifted his hands, chunks of granite came with them, stuck to his palms. Water poured onto the stones through the gaps, chilling his feet.

How long has it been since I lost control of my strength? Decades, at the least.

Slowly, purposefully, the King closed his fists. Granite snapped and cracked, filling the air with its death throes.

It is well that the war is soon to come, he decided. His hands finished closing, leaving nothing but dust between his fingers. I need an outlet for my frustrations.

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