The storm fell upon them like a wave. Winds crashed into Skippii, lifting him off his feet and turning him around. Falling into the dirt, he rose and ducked behind his whicker shield. Tumultuous debris filled the air, battering the exposed skin of his chest, legs and cheeks. Grabbing his cloak as best he could while shackled, he wrapped it around his stomach, shield raised to protect his head, and staggered backwards. Screams of panic filled the air as the prisoners fled, forming a mass at the rear of the arena. There, they huddled like chicks against the rain, but a brave few of their company strode forwards. Armed as they were with sticks soaked in tar, they charged headlong into the storm.

One of the prisoners ran ahead and snatched up a chain on the floor. Wrenching it, the links tightened around the neck of one of the Coven. The warmagi sprung forward, falling into the mud, and it seemed like the rains abated a fraction before the fallen magi rose again.

Hooting with success, the Ürkün man grabbed the chain again, encouraging others to join him. Skippii hesitated though. Why would the magi encumber themselves intentionally? It all seemed so contrived. There had to be a trick. Beside him, the tall legionnaire Gallus strode forward, but Skippii caught the hem of his cloak and held him in place.

"Wait. Not yet. Stay together."

Well disciplined, the legionnaire fell back in line. The four of them made a pitiful phalanx of wicker shields and staves, like the mock battles which he had engaged in during legionnaire training. Could that explain the arena and the chains? Ahead, the gathered Ürkün tugged once again on the warmagi's leash, but as they did so, a vortex assailed them. The Ürkün slipped, flung backwards by the invocation. At the opposite end, the magi stood firm, two of his companions at his side, combining to summoning a concentrated gust.

More Ürkün took to the chains, but their efforts were countered. It felt oddly rehearsed to Skippii, as though they were fish taking the bait, being toyed with. But for what purpose?

Two large Ürkün men charged ahead of the pack and were picked off their feet by a gust of wind. The sky darkened. An electrical energy filled the air, seeming to shimmer in the wet surface of everything.

There was a flash. The energy discharged, and the forerunner lay dead upon the ground, struck by lightning, the smoke of his corpse mixing with heated vapour, rising into the air and gathering with the clouds above.

Cheers rose from the acolytes watching from their vantage atop the palisade. They had drawn their cloaks about them and were chanting in unison, growing louder with the storm. The Coven, too, chanted, moving in unison, gliding towards the prisoners like eagles swooping upon their prey. Skippii took an involuntary step backwards, then stopped himself. There was no running, no place to hide. This was his time to die, or else be granted a second life.

Drawing power from the earth, he focussed it into his hands where metal clasps chained him. Heat rose about him, turning sleet into mists, hardening the mud which coated his body into a grey crust. His companions startled and fell back, but he did not falter.

"To me, men. I am a weapon that cannot be dulled or diminished." He looked each in the eye, raising his voice over the winds, defying the storm. "Fight with me brothers. Reclaim your honour. For the Legion"

Straightening in defiance of the storm, he squinted as mud and stones pelted his face. His cloak flowed out behind him, and about him, a flame danced, fanned into a frenzy by the warmagi's wild winds. Energy coursed through his veins, burning his muscles like a blade held to the heat of a furnace until it glowed white. Straining in his bounds, he pulled the chains taught as the metal clasps softened, but did not break.

The earth beneath him shook with the effort as, within his core, the ruby pupil alighted. Skippii panted like a horse after a long run, filling his lungs to capacity, then stretching them more, overflowing them with radiance. His throat stung as murky waters carried by the winds flowed into him. But it was far more favourable than the air in the prisoner's pit. He did not slow the bellows, nor cough out the sludge.

He grew with intensity, unabated, indulging in what rage festered within him. It burned, fueled by so much hatred. Clenching every muscle in his body, he drew on more than he felt possible to contain. His halo shone, forming an aura around him like an imperceptible shield which opposed the Coven's winds. The heat was too much for his fellow legionnaires to withstand, they remained close by, arms raised to protect their faces, staring at him in disbelief.

Through the torrent emerged three magi, their dark cloaks unmoving in the wind like heavy chainmail. They came upon Skippii, arms thrust forward, and the air crackled with electricity. The world took on a silver sheen as the clouds above his head rumbled with wrath. However, moments before the thunder struck, three red cloaks sailed towards the magi. Skippii's legionnaires rallied together, batons raised to strike.

At once, the silverish sheen over the world shrank to three single spots in the palm of each magi's hands. Three serpents wept forth upon the wind, colliding with the legionnaires. All but Carus was floored by the assault. The short, stocky legionnaire pressed on, wicker shield raised and brought his batton down upon one magi's head. The woman did not flinch as the attack struck her, but she fell to her knees, face blackened with its tar tip.

Before Gallus could make good of his victory, the two remaining serpents wheeled in the air and struck and encircled him in a vortex. The silvery winds picked him off his feet, tossing him in the air.

Skippii's heart stretched towards the man, desperate to go to his aid, but his legionnaire's tempering held him back. Carus had performed his role upon the battlefield. His valour had granted them valuable time, and he would not squander an advantage bought in blood. With a bellowing breath, Skippii dredged himself in fires, empowering his core. Smoke swirled around the iris–an invigorating burn–the likes which he had submitted in recent weeks for fear of losing control. But now, his mind was unrestrained. He had nothing left ot lose, except the shackles around his wrists.

As Carus was brought high into the sky, Skippii forced himself to bear witness to the man's deed. The winds changed. Carus was dashed against the earth. There, his body lay crumpled, limp.

Skippii roared with hate. Dizzying as black spots filled his vision and an all-encompassing choir filled his ears–angels singing in a discordant pitch. He was passing out, but he would not abate. He would not die in these chains, for they branded him a heretic. He did not care what they did to his body once his soul had gone, for while he was alive, he was a legionnaire.

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Suddenly, his arms shot open as the clasps around his wrists broke free. Then, with his last vestiges of control–as his fingers slipped from the ledge, and the power within him burst free–he struck the ground with both fists and fell to his knees.

An ear-splitting blast tore through the earth, muting the roaring skies above. Chunks of the earth dislocated like limbs as fiery torrents belched between them, wreathing the three magi in flame. Their screams pierced the heavens and they ran, icy winds bellowing in haste. But all of it seemed quiet as Skippii suspended himself, empty of breath, and focussed on what had finally come to fruition: his core, all three layers, shining in glory. The golden halo, ruby pupil, and a liquid amber iris.

Flames erupted over his flesh and the ground trembled beneath his feet; so too did his heart pound, blood boiling in his veins. Slowly, he looked up. The remaining Coven rushed forward to aid their comrades, who in overeagerness to claim Skippii's life, had paid the price. The acolytes upon the arena palisade had all gone quiet. The clouds above parted and the rains thinned. Standing tall once more, Skippii raised his arms to the sky and bellowed a challenge, letting loose his flames.

"Face me. Burn!"

A cheer erupted behind him. The prisoners tumbled like the crashing of rocks, bringing their ferocity upon the Coven. The slowest of the three whom Skippii had struck fell into the mud, disorientated, seemingly blinded. The prisoners pounced on her bludgeoning her with their clubs. The elders amongst them brandished crossbows, while many Ürkün women took up the chains, tugging and destabilising the magi.

Striding forward, Skippii fought to control his mind. A senseless rage warred with better thought. But if this were to be his final fight, he would do it well, and kill many of the Coven before his time came. Breathing deeply, he considered his weapons. As destructive as his Seismic Quake had been, it had only worked because the magi had ventured too close–too keen and overzealous. He doubted they would make that mistake again. As for his ability to forge Blazing Fists, it too required being toe-to-toe with the enemy. However, the padded staves could be turned into a Firetail Lance. Skippii searched the turmoil for one such weapon as the prisoners clashed with the Coven.

A gale swept upon them, and the magi rushed to the aid of their downed companion. No warrior could withstand the winds, except to brace behind wicker shields, whose bindings flew apart and scattered, stinging the faces of all those nearby. Skippii's own shield had been consumed by his flames, but about the ground and in the air tumbled many battons, striking the heads and arms of the emboldened prisoners.

It seemed as though the staves had a mind of their own as a dozen turned in flight like hornets and dove towards him. He raised his arms to his face, bringing a Blazing Armour into them, but the battons struck from every angle–his shins, spine and skull. Ducking and flailing, he tried to evade them, but was swarmed, until suddenly, many shields came to his aid.

Ürkün warriors surrounded him, their bodies painted with tar and doused in mud, just like his own. They came like oxen to a calf, putting their bodies between him and the hail. Skippii's mind staggered. It felt wrong to be sheltered by the enemy, but for the moment, he was their ally and only hope.

As one such stave flew overhead, he snatched it out of the air. Wielding it like a sword, he waded into the Coven's winds. But the storm was growing, their strength returning. It seemed, reunited, their power doubled.

Fighting a retreat, the Coven banded into a semi-circle formation with their leader, Aetheria, behind their ranks. Leaping forward, Skippii poured his power into the stave and launched it as a Firetail Lance at their ranks. It rocketed through the air with a fiery tail, lighting the earth beneath it to defy the stormclouds above. But as it neared the Coven, a gust of wind carried it higher, high above the palisade where its flame died in the cold mountain air. He would have to get much closer to land such an attack, however, with a pang of fear, he realised he would not have the chance.

The air glowed with energy, but before Skippii could prepare himself, lightning struck. Bolts of bluish fury stabbed from the heavens, killing the Ürkün where they stood. A hail crackled upon them like the sudden pouring of water on a wax fire, filling the arena with a seizure light. Pain gripped him, and all the world went black before vision returned.

He found that he was kneeling in the dirt. Sucking in the moist air, he drew the earth's fires within him and stood against their volley.

All around him lay the bodies of the dead. The remainder of prisoners were cowering, or else had retreated to the back of the arena. Only he and the bravest amongst them remained to defy the coven. However, it was not enough. One by one, they were picked off their feet by the winds. The air around Skippii's ankles rushed this way and that, unbalancing him as though he had stepped into raging rapids. Spreading his legs wide, he planted his feet and drew strength into him, preparing for one last assault–one last blazing glory to see him into the afterlife.

The eyes of the Coven's leader struck him from where she hid behind their formation. Suddenly, Skippii was filled with belligerence. Why should she shelter from the fight? She–his accuser–the cause of his strife. With a change of heart, he cared not to hurt the other magi, but to burn with all his being the flesh from her body so as to reduce every poisonous word she had ever uttered to ash, and scatter her in the winds of her making.

"I didn't ask for this," he shouted. "I was willing to be your ally, to face the heretic of Nerithon together. But you have no sense. No faith in the legion. The Imperator himself gave me leave. You have no right."

The storm died to a hush as Aetheria stepped forwards, her calm voice carried clearly on the winds. "Speak not of what you do not know, heretic, for your fate is already decided, it is only the manner by which you shall die that is undetermined. Do not temper me, that I might subdue you and kill you slower. Die today, instead, and feed the storm which conquers the skies."

"Coward!" he yelled. "Don't you have the favour of the Gods? Then face me, and know no fear. Do not shield yourself with the bodies of your subjects. Face me, Aetheria. Or else Kylin shall learn today of your faithlessness. The Pantheon must be weak, that it takes twelve of you to best one of me. How frail are Auctoritas' Gods that even their strongest champion is such a coward? What sort of sacrifice is this, where I, your lamb, have already cut down one of yours, and I would do so again if you came forward with an honest challenge?"

Like the shutting of a door, the winds died. Silence fell upon the arena. Skippii's heart pounded. He felt many eyes upon him, not all of which felt meagre and mortal. The earth quivered, and it seemed that the sun had grown brighter, despite its disappearance beyond the horizon. The trees rustled without wind and the air grew icy cold without flow. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck as all the world fixed him with predator eyes and rose knives to his neck, but the heat inside his veins did not falter; it was made of something different than the Gods.

"Feel that?" He split the quiet. "All the Pantheon watches us now. They wait to see what their champions shall do. Kill me, all together, and my blaspheme shall never fade." He raised his fist, part in challenge, but part as the legionnaire's salute. "Fight me, Aetheria. I invoke the witness of the Gods. Kylin herself judges your quality this day."

Breathing heavily, Skippii waited poised for her response. When it did not come, he lowered his arm. If she should deny him, he would strike them all quickly and brutally, before they could muster up their strength.

The head warmagi stepped forward, head bowed beneath her dark hood. She raised her face to the sky and withdrew from the confines of her cloak two long-handled, curved blades of polished steel. Her robe parted as she raised the reaper's sickles high, and for the first time, he looked upon the warmagi's outfit. A layered, leather skirt and thorax were fixed with steel greaves and vambraces–the seeming quality of which matched a senior legionnaire. But Skippii was almost naked, body bruised and cut by the Coven's storms, defenceless except for his innate power.

She shrieked and startled him, turning his blood cold. Aetheria crouched, then spun and lunged into the air as the wind rushed beneath her, blades carrying her like a sycamore seed.

Skippii drew what energy from the ground he could, and filled his arms with it, making of his limbs two burning blades to match her razors.

With screams, the two clashed, and the Gods above bore witness.

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