MARIN DRASWIST IS CLOSE. Her goal has never been within her reach. The island is already divided into two warring sides, and Cardovia, the organization she serves, grows more powerful by the second with her help. But when a war against an extinct bu...
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2412, Diori 20, Reshpe
Marin whipped, her blades glinting with the sunlight beating down on her back. Blood splattered in the air, but it wasn't because of her daggers. All around her, screams of defiance and pain mixed into an untainted chorus, ringing in Marin's ears minutes after she heard it.
The walls of the Penleth fortress floundered with activity, with archers scrambling to fill every gap in the battlements. Cardovic and Synketrian soldiers rammed against those whom Xanthy and Reeca rallied behind their walls. Overhead, the vast shadow of the floating island the Heiress commissioned out of the blue cast a looming darkness all over the battlefield.
Explosions were the music of this havoc, and Marin did her best to steer clear of the lines of fire from both sides. Black clad soldiers flitted out of her way, seeing the dwarven metal weapons in her hands. Marin narrowed her eyes and lashed out. Her blade sank into the shoulder of a Synketrian. He went down, stumbling to the ground with a shriek of pain and confusion. She yanked her blade out and slashed a wide arc at a Synketrian who saw the action and rushed to help or to persecute her. The soldier toppled to the floor too.
They both writhed, struggling to pick themselves up. Marin slammed both their heads on the ground. "Stand down," she hissed under her breath. "Those in Penleth will rescue you, regardless of your allegiance. Go there. Save yourselves. You don't need to die."
The soldiers bobbed their heads, their expressions betraying some kind of relief washing over their system. "Pretend to be unconscious," she added. "I'll be in the battlements."
Before she saw if they followed her advice, she dashed straight into the thick of the battle, which was at the foot of the walls. Her blades streaked silver trails in the air, hurting but never killing. Every time, she repeated the same words—telling them to stay down, play dead, and wait for the people of Penleth to get them. There, they would have a choice whether to lay down their arms, go back to the Heiress and the Sovereign's stupid war, or join the resistance and fight for something that mattered.
No one disobeyed her. Everyone saw the reality of this battle and the effects it would bring, not just to their lives, but to the people around them. They might have loved ones they fought to protect, yet they were here, tearing others' loved ones from them. It's the same cycle of taking and hurting, of violence and bloodshed.
If she wouldn't stop it now, who would?
Shots from rifles rang in the air, followed by the stringent strings of curses of the soldiers who bore them. A malicious smile curled across Marin's lips. Last night's efforts paid off. The mechanisms were all off, and the bullets didn't contain a hint of odian. It wouldn't spark. Not in a million years. The chopped oshella she loaded the cartridge with would make sure of that.
On her way to teleport up the battlements, she sent darts and blades across her comrades' ankles, sending them to the ground and delaying a fraction of the attacks mounting closer to the walls.
