Confusion marred the chorus of battlecries. The Heiress whirled to find most of her supposed faithful cohort looking around without aim. She turned to Rhys with a look so acidic she could have blasted him to dust with it. "What did you do?"

The only reason he was still alive was because the Heiress would rather demand of him the knowledge of what happened. He shook his head, though. "I'm just looking for the exit."

Were all-powerful beings like the Heiress capable of reading minds or detecting lies? Because he technically didn't have anything to do with the purple fumes, but he had something to do with who he thought sent it.

He wasted no time, though. While the Heiress was busy scanning the damages to her people and her camp, he threw himself forward. "Get him!" the Heiress screamed more like a whiny flower-child who couldn't get her way rather than a legendary leader of a big, bad interracial organization. "Those of you who can still follow me, bring him to my feet!"

Or she could just do the work and bring him to her feet herself. But big, bad leaders weren't known to do that, right? They always needed some henchmen to do manual things for them. And in the Heiress and the Sovereign's cases, if they couldn't find enough loyal ones, they just drug them up. Great.

A different sort of squelching sound erupted behind him. He swept his gaze over his shoulder to find the Heiress engaged in a different thing, altogether. In her immediate radius, pools of blood and twisted, lifeless forms lay on the simulated grass. His gut turned at the sight and the smell of rust wafting in the air. Xalim had been right. No one was supposed to get out of places like this. Death was the only freedom reserved for them. Did that mean the same thing for Rhys?

Silver whizzed towards him, and he turned too late. A blade pierced the air. Pain. A sharp clang. Embers colored the blue sky. He uncurled from the ground—a stance he had thrown himself into by instinct—and found a tall shadow looming over him. Dark hair fluttered like a curtain against her back.

Xalim flashed him a quick grin. "Nice to see you too," she said. "It's a feast, yes?"

A grin pulled Rhys' lips wide. "Never knew you can wield a blade," he pressed his back against her and summoned his sword from his stash. It's a weight he missed from his days of playing tame. "Foraging taught you that?"

"You learn some things on the job," came the girl's answer as she met another blade and Rhys lunged to tackle another. He swore he heard the words through a smug smirk. It might be why he liked her. She has spunk.

Rhys ducked under a swinging sword, bringing the pommel of his up, slamming it against a chin. A man crumpled to the ground, unconscious. He'd live—if he didn't fall to the Heiress' wrath first for failing to stop him. "Where's Bertha?" he called over his shoulder, flapping his wings to add momentum when he twirled in the air. Just an added flair to his combat technique, really. "Is she with you?"

Xalim grunted, falling back before slamming her heel into the gut of a Cardovian. It could be an initiate or someone in training because the black-clad girl stumbled to the ground, whining about being in pain. Rhys scoffed. Amateur.

"We weren't able to get some people out," Xalim replied. "But Bertha's handling most of those who did—just to make sure Kriachoria doesn't get them back."

Wise. The kid would be better off being away from the real battlefield. Rhys wouldn't wish that on anyone. "What are you doing here, then?" he asked after disarming another trainee and confiscating their sword. As expected—Dwarven metal. "Shouldn't you be with her?"

"I figured out how to make plumes," Xalim answered as if it encompassed every aspect of the question. She fell into step behind him again and they both lunged to meet their attackers. The clangs of their swords rang in the air. "Besides," she cried once, driving her blade deep into the defense of her opponent. "We realized you probably need help. And we're right."

"Yeah, thanks," Rhys said through gritted teeth, holding his ground against a blade pressed against his. This trainee was strong, lasting against his mere force even though she couldn't have been older than Bertha. A worthy opponent, by the looks of it. Blond hair, determined green eyes, and bared teeth—it reminded him too much of his sister when he trained with her in the streets.

A shame he wouldn't get to learn her name.

He removed his force, sending her crashing forward with her arms flailing. His leg swung, his knee hitting her square in the shoulder. She crashed to the ground, but tucked herself into a roll to absorb most of the force. Smart. This girl trained well. He watched her roll back up to her feet, searching for her sword. He answered by kicking it aside, sending it skittering to a crowd of fairies rushing towards the exit. These must all be the people the Heiress held unwillingly.

"You'd do better out there than here," Rhys said to the girl.

Her green eyes flashed with hate. "Shut up."

She lunged, but Rhys was prepared. He leaned away from her strong hook. She wasted all that energy for that one punch, and didn't see his hand fly from the opposite direction. It slammed deep into her neck, hitting the sensitive vein. She crumpled to the ground. This time, she didn't rise. It's only sleep. She'd get over it.

Rhys found Xalim dealing with the last of their enemies, pulling her borrowed sword out of a thigh. They didn't kill anyone, but judging from the muffled groans of the crowd around them, they surely did a number. His shoulders relaxed. Destruction rolled off his feet, starting from the lopsided and collapsed tents, the stain of blood splashed across canvases like a senseless painting, down to the charred marks on patches of grass. He glanced at Xalim to find thin cuts marring her cheeks and forehead. Not bad for a first try.

"Let's go," he jerked his chin to the swirling exit calling out to them. The outside world lay just beyond it. Let them be free now.

But...why was it quiet? And most importantly—where was the Heiress?

His question was answered when screams tore from the stone marker itself. He whirled to find most, if not all, of them turning away from their found freedom and towards him and Xalim. "What's going on?" he muttered under his breath to the dark-haired girl.

"No idea," Xalim answered. "I've never seen this magic before."

Fools, the lot of you, the Heiress' characteristic malice rang across the plain, if not, the whole camp. The voice was everywhere and nowhere at once, sending shivers down his spine and locking his limbs in place. Up ahead, the people gazed at him with unseeing eyes—all dark and lifeless like the Heiress' when she began casting spells—and mouth hanging partially open. When the Heiress spoke, their lips moved as one, like a puppet tied to strings.

Do you think you can escape me?

He finally got his answer to yet another question at the back of his head. The Heiress kept him alive and sent her soldiers after him not because she's being merciful or lazy. It's because she couldn't blast anyone to oblivion with magic. She'd need a proxy—someone who would be willing to take Pidmena's judgment on them and not her.

Which made it all the more vile.

Moreover, she was wary of going on a rampage because the fight was inside Cardovia—a place she couldn't afford to be exposed to the whole island. She was cautious, and that's the only thing keeping Rhys and Xalim up and moving. But...for how long?

The people were possessed, through some lost rysteme listris, he knew not. Somehow, the Heiress managed to implant her consciousness into several souls at once and use their forms to do their bidding. That much he gleaned from when he briefly lowered his gaze to the trail dimension.

No one defies me and lives to speak of it, the Heiress spat one last time. Then, the possessed people burst forward.

The fight was short lived and otherwise anticlimactic. Their movements were sluggish, making it easy for Rhys to his sword, hitting foreheads, napes, and noses—incapacitating but not murdering. These people could have been friends of others, but instead, they're stuck here, getting their forms stolen by a megalomaniac lady.

But the more he knocked over, two more seemed to heal and renew the fight. These were just forms—empty shells—who could swing swords and cast spells meant to fry him into curdling embers. Soon, his arms felt heavy. The wound on his palm started stinging, his skin becoming aware of where it had split open and bled. His grip on his sword started slipping.

There's no end in sight.

Xalim cried out behind him. He whirled to find her felled by a huge arrow to the leg. Blood oozed and joined the many puddles around them. His throat clenched. He didn't see another sword slashing down until his shoulder seared with pain. He fell to the ground, clutching at his own pooling blood. Weaved armor was useless against Dwarven metal—he ought to make a mental note of that.

Shadows loomed over him as he twisted to face the sky. His breathing was labored. Shallow. His vision danced with black spots and blurry patches of color. Beside him, Xalim's whimpers faded into ragged sniffles. The crowd parted to reveal the Heiress, back again in her true form, or at least, some of it. Artificial light rimmed her form from behind, giving her some sort of holy aura. She was the last goddess Rhys would pray to.

"My, what a fight you put up," the Heiress said. "I would have no trouble running a sword through you."

She snatched the first blade she saw out of a man's hand, the soldier giving it without a fight. Well, he's still probably under the Heiress' control. Nothing to be done about it. She sauntered towards Rhys and laid the tip against his neck. Her lips spread into a wide smile. For once, it was of amusement. That's...sick.

"Say your prayers, young Torlin," she said in her toxically gentle voice. "Perhaps Pidmena will have mercy for you."

He looked at the sky—one last attempt at saying he controlled his destiny. A derisive laugh tore through his chest. Here he was, about to die, and all he'd see last was an artificial sky. The Heiress raised her sword, aiming to sever his head from his neck. Something clicked in his mind. Artificial. Magic.

Trails.

The sword swung with a metallic song. Warmth rose to Rhys' veins. He directed it to the sky. Then, he brought the heavens down.

Cracks splintered the simulation, making it glitch in a show of lights. Nighttime, day time, then back again. The shifts quickened, dousing the entire camp with flickering lights. The stars dimmed and the clouds shattered into tiny debris of magical energy. The sword never found his skin. Silence reigned for a short while. It couldn't last forever.

From the cracks, complacent groans emanated. Then, an ear-splitting shatter swallowed the Heiress' cries for someone to fix it, to put things back to order. Chunks of the sky—now reverted back to their original forms which were literally rocks—rained on them, crushing tents and people along the way. The Heiress raised her hands, but the strain twisting her features told Rhys holding up the sky wasn't an easy task, even for her.

It gave him plenty of time.

He gripped Xalim's arm and hauled her up. "Let's go," he eyed the falling debris and tried calculating their trajectory. It didn't help. "This place wouldn't hold for long."

"Go without me," Xalim yanked his grip away. "I have to help others. The Heiress won't go easy on them after this."

He appreciated the sentiment, but he also needed Xalim alive for her to do that. He crouched in front of her and casted a healing spell on her leg. She stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It's fine," she said. "It's from dwarven metal, so magic's useless. You should worry about yourself. Get out of here. Fight for the rest of the island. We'll hold the fort."

"Are you sure?" Rhys whipped from her and the entrance slowly becoming overloaded by confused and panicking Cardovians.

Xalim gave him a pained smile. "Go."

With his heart waning and guilt gnawing on his gut until there's nothing left, he summoned his magic to the surface and blasted raw weaving magic into the exit's header. Stone groaned and rained over the escaping Cardovians, creating a hole for Rhys to squeeze through. He spread his wings and with one last, lingering look at Xalim, launched himself into the air.

He didn't bother seeing if she waved at him or not, or what she did after he removed his gaze from her. It wouldn't do him well to think about the fates of each and every person he met. Xalim had her journey. He has his own.

And his path lay somewhere beyond stone markers and Desara. It awaited him from the moment the ocean's heat and the scratchy air hit him in the face.