The crypt beneath the fortress reeked of death from the bodies of the fallen.
Minerva waded through them, trying to reach the lone ray of light streaming through the fracture in the ceiling above. Screams came from there, but at least they were the cries of the living. Spider web cracks crept outward from the fissure as the ground shuddered and shook. Dust rained down, sticking to the layer of blood that slicked every exposed inch of her body.
If she didn't hurry, they'd bury her alive.
She tried to ignore the squish of still warm limbs beneath her as she crawled. Her hands sank into the decay and dripped with blood when she pulled them out. Unseeing eyes stared up at her. Mouths twisted in wordless agony.
So close.
A bony hand reached up from the heap and grabbed her by the throat, dragging her under.
The familiar nightmare didn't end when Minerva startled awake and she choked on a silent scream. It never played out in the same way and didn't always stick to reality—she'd never set foot in one of the Terron tombs. But the ghosts of the dead always haunted her. She took a deep, shuddering breath and pressed a hand against Mala's wing to sit up, leaving the warmth of the manticore's side.
A couple sniffs of the air confirmed her fears. Burnt metal.
When she grimaced, the scabs that had formed on the right side of her face cracked open beneath the poultice she'd applied and tied with a cloth. After cleaning the slashes the day before, she'd raided Nola's medicine cabinet for the ointment her nurse applied as a catch-all cure.
Nola herself had been strangely absent, a circumstance Minerva couldn't help but view with a measure of relief. Her last words to the elderly woman hadn't been kind. Though—she thought with regret—Nola knew healing better than any battlefield medic. If someone hurt was placed in her hands, any gruffness melted away and she became as tender as a mother dragon with her egg.
Minerva waited while her eyes adjusted to the early morning darkness. In the meantime, she threw a robe on over her thin clothes and eased her two swords out from underneath the carpet—long sword in her right hand and short sword in her left. Matsudo had been skeptical about teaching her to dual wield, but had given in when he'd seen how heart-set she'd been on learning to use Edina's old blades.
There was a saying among the Pyros: The spirit lives on in the sword. Only when both are laid to rest, will there be forgetful peace.
The double meaning had especial relevance tonight. If you let your ancestor's sword collect dust for too long, chances were the enemy would catch you sleeping.
Minerva hoped not many had been caught unawares.
Mala rose, her eyes glowing like two flickering lamps. The manticore's scales gave a soft rasp as they opened to expose the stinger of her tail.
"Quiet now," Minerva murmured. Someone should have rung the alarm by now—the palace's system of bells connected by the ropes strung in the spaces between floors. Unless you've reached the point where your nightmares leech into waking. She'd heard of such cases, but after testing the air again, Minerva couldn't convince herself she was still dreaming.
The chamber she slept in connected to Nola's before leading out into the main corridor. Minerva dove headfirst into the hollow place within, its echo chamber of emptiness welcoming her. She eased the door open.
The other door out into the main hall opened at the same moment. From this chamber, Minerva could hear the deep timbre of battle cries.
The palace had been compromised.
She stared for a split second at the two Terrons—one dark-skinned man, the other a flame-haired woman—before leaping forward into a somersault. Shards of rock peppered the air. The wooden walls broke into splinters around her.
Take out the Terra wielder first.
Minerva's sixth sense—what she called the effect of tapping into the hollow place—couldn't always be relied on to alert her of passively dangerous intentions.
It rarely failed when the enemy planned to use slivers of earth to impale her body in deadly acupuncture.
It did fail when the pale-skinned Cultio wielder tripped her with a blasted plant root.
Minerva thudded face-down on the floor. She scrambled to gain some form of purchase before the armed Terron severed her spine with his axe.
She'd made an effort not to look at her enemies' eyes during the fight, despite the disadvantage. But even she made mistakes.
A link of metal connected the two facing her—one cuff around the man's left wrist, the second around the woman's right. His earth-brown eyes marked him as a Terra wielder, one of their elite citizens and warriors. He'd already raised his axe to strike her down.
The woman didn't want to be here.
Lilies—those with light skin in the Rocklands—served as slaves, dragged into battle by their more powerful counterparts to utilize their half of the broken Elementon Talent.
Her eyes were the danger. Bright green like emeralds and shining with terror.
And Minerva found herself paralyzed with similar fear looking into them.
Every fiber of her being screamed of approaching death, echoed the hollow place's warning, but there was nothing she could do.
The axe's blade fell and all she could smell was coppery rust.
Mala's roar split the air. The manticore rammed into the Terron, jaws closing around his arm. The spike of her tail sunk deep into his thigh. They slammed to the ground.
Minerva hurriedly gained her feet.
Fear is a prison. Don't let it trap you.
Roots sprouted from one of the Cultio woman's hands. Her other hand had closed around the chain to brace herself as Mala and the male warrior wrestled on the floor.
Minerva didn't have the luxury of time for hesitation. Even before her thoughts fully approved the action, her feet propelled her forward. With practiced hands, she drew a precise line with her short sword through the woman's wrist. The detached hand flopped uselessly to the floor, finally free of the handcuff that landed with a clink beside it.
The Cultio wielder stared dully at where her stump spurted blood to where her master twitched on the ground. Mala held him pinned beneath her giant paws as he succumbed to her venom. Vines budded from the woman's arm, staunching the flow of blood.
She looked to Minerva with tear-filled eyes. "Just kill me now, please," she said tiredly. Her shoulders sagged with untold weight. She tilted her head to expose her pale neck for the death blow.
Minerva shook her head. "Why are you here?" This was supposed to be over. The war ended.
The woman laughed bitterly. "Do you think I wanted to be?" She looked both young and old at once—spirit and body worn from the shackles that had bound them. Her gaunt features and bony frame were at odds with the flaming vibrancy of her red hair and the rebellion in her green eyes.
"Burn you!" Minerva cried out. Fire rushed through every vein in her body, seeking release—release she didn't dare give. "Why didn't every blasted one of you stay in Terron!"
Some semblance of life surged back into the woman's body. She straightened, strands of flowering stems shooting through her hair to weave around her neck and shoulders. When she spoke, her teeth ground together. "That's your problem right there, Pyro. We're not all from Terron. Your people attacked first—stole our resources, raped our land—all while not understanding a thing about it!" she screamed.
Minerva felt her blood stilling. The heat reneged its claim on her as a vessel, leaving only a cold emptiness in its place.
The Cultio woman calmed as well, delicate white blossoms flowering in the quiet before retracting. Her tears spilled down, but were wiped away by the retreating leaves. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "You may not have even been born then, but we humans tend to not make allowances for the crimes of past generations. But you must know that those like me were forced to fight. We had no choice in the matter and we still don't."
A small smile lit the woman's face like soft candlelight. "I have children about your age. Thank you for reminding me of them and not ending my life as I asked."
Minerva choked, heart constricting. How could she tell this woman that, not only had she been there for the war, but that she'd been instrumental in the Pyro victory? She dropped to her knees, completely aware of how vulnerable she'd made herself.
She didn't care. I'm guilty. So guilty. How could I ever do anything to make the past right?
A lonely tear streaked down the side of her face, a single pure drop in a bucket of blood.
The last thing she expected was for the woman to embrace her.
Minerva tensed at the contact, at the warmth of the arms wrapping around her. The motherly woman smelled of a fresh meadow, of life. Minerva relaxed and rested her forehead on the Terron's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said. She couldn't explain everything, couldn't fully expose her sin. For now, this would have to be enough. "I'm so so sorry," she cried softly.
A hand stroked Minerva's hair. "I forgive you." The woman then pulled away and Minerva found herself wishing for the brief warmth to never leave.
"My name is Mag, short for ... Magnolia," she said. The name left her tongue slowly, as if it had been left in disuse for a long while. Magnolia gestured at the manacle with her vine-enclosed arm. "Thank you for setting me free."
Minerva nodded. "Where will you go?" She hesitated, glancing at the unconscious Terron. "I can ... get rid of him for you, so he can't follow."
A cloud passed over Magnolia's features. "That won't be necessary. He was kind to me and should be left to assume I died if there's anything you can do to make it so. You asked why we are here—slaves aren't told much, but from what I gathered, our mission was to incite a war between your people and the Hydros. You might still be able to prevent it. As for me—I know where I'll go." The woman walked to the room's window and opened the shutters.
"Back to your family?" Minerva asked.
"Ah." Pain entered Magnolia's eyes. "No, they're all dead. We—" her voice cracked. "We with the Cultio Talent speak of our family and friends as if they're always with us. They live on once they're buried—in the trees we plant on their graves. And it's ... difficult since there are so many. My children ..." Magnolia pulled viciously on her hair with a wild keen.
Minerva didn't recoil when Magnolia grabbed her. The woman wouldn't hurt her. She'd never intended to.
Magnolia pressed a kiss to Minerva's forehead and murmured, "My blessing on you, the life of my bones to yours."
With a gasp, Minerva shook from the tingling that swept through her body.
Magnolia turned away without pause and jumped out the window.
Minerva stayed in the middle of the room, much as she wanted to make sure Magnolia hadn't fallen to her death. She couldn't bear watching someone else leave again.
Instead, she checked the Terron warrior. His breathing was shallow and a white film lay over his open eyes, but the paralyzing effect would only last two or three days. Mala on the other hand—
"Oh, Mala." Minerva gently cradled the manticore's paw in her hands, wincing at the long sliver of rock that had fully penetrated the bottom of the paw and poked out the top.
The lioness groaned.
"Gonna have to pull this, try not to claw me," Minerva whispered. She gripped the bottom of the shard in her hand and yanked it out.
Mala's roar could have shaken the Nefelibata out of the sky.
"At least it's over with, right?" Minerva cooed. "You'll have to stay off this paw for awhile, but I'll make sure to put ointment on it and we'll change the bandages every—" A piercing, inhuman scream cut her off.
A kat's scream.
"No, no no," Minerva said. She shoved Mala down when the manticore tried to stand to follow and rushed to pick up her swords. "You're staying here," she growled sternly. "And if you raise a fuss, the Terrons will hear and who'll protect me when you're gone?"
Either the Terrons had shut the door when they entered the room, or it had been slammed closed during the following fight. When Minerva opened it and hurriedly shut it before Mala could charge through, her guts leaped to her mouth.
A kat hung from the opposite wall, little stakes of wood skewering its paws. Someone had cut off its two tails which lay in a disheveled heap on the floor beneath.
Minerva spilled her insides into another pile not too far from it.
Ribbons of red blurred her vision. This hadn't been the kat she heard. This little one's body already grew stiff. "Azuki!" she screamed. She raced down the halls. In the back of her mind, she remembered Magnolia's words and angled toward the section of the palace where the Hydros would be quartered.
Another kat scream sounded down the halls ahead, so she knew she'd chosen the right direction.
Rounding a bend, she encountered a band of Terron warriors. On the other side of their barricade of bodies, a blue-clothed Hydro wielding a spear and jets of water fended them off. A golden kat clung to his shoulder, every hair of its fur raised and its tails splayed out like a fan.
Azuki.
Heat blazed through Minerva's body unchecked. No one touched her kat.
She tore down the hallway. Her heart beat like a war drum and her boiling blood sang of death.
The Terrons didn't see or hear as her cold blades neared them. Not only had she tapped into the empty place, she'd submerged herself in it.
As she readied herself to take Terron lives yet another time, she remembered more of her conversation with Matsudo on that fateful night.
"Since you're comparing me to a sword, is what the others say true?" Minerva asked.
"What do they say?" the general replied, though he'd doubtless heard the whispers.
Minerva hugged her knees to her chest. "That I'm only a weapon."
Matsudo chuckled. "Oh no, most assuredly not." A feral grin crossed over his face. "You're not a weapon.
"You're a one woman army."