A flurry of blows, like leaves in a storm, flashed before his eyes. Panting, he filled his body with fire, radiating a Blazing Armour. There was a shower of sparks as the blade sliced through the flames on his flesh and struck his golden-glowing skin. But the raw energy of his evocation warped the strike, deflecting the blade's edge. But the warmagi's blades were deadly sharp. They sliced his flesh piece by piece, blow by blow. Sparks burst as Skippii raised his forearms to protect his head. Backing up, he ducked and wove on the edge of panic. Aetheria's curved blades cut him before he could react, slicing his knees, stomach, elbows, head.

The chants of acolytes grew to a fervor pitch. The sky was dark and streaking with rain. Unnatural winds howled in his ears from every direction, at once pushing on his back and blowing in his face. Flashes of silver harried him wherever he retreated, giving no quarter. Pain flickered over his limbs like being tossed into a bush of brambles. Only his Blazing Armour kept him alive. The fight was slipping away from him.

Urgency seized him. He thrust forward, swinging with both arms, seeking to catch the warmagi on the backfoot. But she spun away deftly, well beyond the reach of his Blazing Fists. Stomping the ground, he brought the earth upwards with an explosion of energy. Caught in his Seismic Quake, Aetheria staggered. Skippii snatched the opportunity, driving forward into the smoke and mists of his attack, grasping for her, seeking to pin her. He caught the tail of her cloak, but it was snatched from his hands as the warmagi ascended above him. Her dark cloak spread out like wings as she was suspended by an updraft, seemingly accelerated by the fires which Skippii had wrought.

He chased after her as she spun through the air with grace. Behind her, the remaining Coven moved almost in unison, like a wave cresting and falling. They rambled, expressions of hate, aiding her invocation. She landed before them, and they drew their arms in, leaning backwards as though to take a huge breath. Skippii was halfway towards his foe when Aetheria unleashed their combined energy.

A face appeared in the wind, formed of silver snakes–like the light-streaks of a brand swung in the night. A female face, larger than any man and growing in size. Sharp eyes and a scornful snarl. The Goddess Kylin herself.

A blistering wind battered him like a ram, throwing him backwards. The winds cascaded over him like a waterfall, howling in his ears. A screeching voice pierced his ears–stinging his mind. Falling to the ground, he tumbled and grasped for a purchase. Unearthed stones pelted his face, blinding him. Whipping his eyes, Skippii drew what power from the earth he could to feed the flames of his Blazing Armour, but it was not enough to withstand the gale, and each breath came more laboured.

Glancing up, he expected a killing blow, but it seemed that Aetheria could not advance while she channeled her spell. Perhaps, if the Coven had channeled it instead, and she had been free to attack, he would be dead already. But holding true to their duel, she acted alone, hands thrust forth to unleash the winds, with the Coven lending her strength from the reserve.

All around atop the palisades, the watching acolytes hid behind their cloaks from the gale. Suddenly, one such face stood out to him in the chaos of winds, dark eyes penetrating the storm: arcanus Clarivoxa Kylinissa, her expression one of horror.

Still, the winds pinned him. There was no knowing how long she could invoke them. Would she batter him until he was spent, then come again with the blades? How long could he last before hope dwindled? What powers did he possess to oppose her expertise?

None that he could recall, but perhaps one which he could conceive.

Lowering his forehead to the ground, Skippii pressed his hands into the dirt. Blotting out the world above, he focussed on the earth below. Giving himself to it, his mind melted away, and he felt his presence mingle with the dirt, burying himself for death. Beneath him, rivers of fire carved out vast plains. Streams of water clashed with the fires, shaping mountains. He surrendered to the power absolutely, feeling his mind burn to ash until there was only a charcoal core remaining.

The layers of his magia effused with power. The elusive iris came to life, superheated smoke billowing in rivulets. With its awakening came indignation. Scorn, for the Coven, for the world. A yearning to burn.

Far beneath the earth, an entity pulsed in sympathy. The heartbeat of the earth. Vast beyond imagining. Skippii reached out like a child extending their finger towards the hearth, cautiously, fearfully.

Therein he sensed a sleeping presence, more ancient than all the life that took shelter upon the earth, or the Gods who claimed it as their domain; a consciousness so vast, that it seemed as though he was staring into the pits of an empty white sky before realising that, in fact, all of the expanse was its blinding mind. He had been here once before when his powers were first awoken. And he had come again to finalise the pact.

Somewhere in that vast ocean, a mere droplet turned its gaze upon him, and beheld his soul.

Think yourself worthy of my chamber? Begone.

The voice shook his very mind, deep beyond reckoning.

"Give me more!" he beseeched. "Burn me alive. Give me the heat."

Bastard boy. Begone.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"I must slay Kylin," Skippii screamed into the void. "I must burn her disciple."

Then go.

A heat too intense for him to bear surged through him, pushing him upright. In a blink, his body was returned to the world. Caught by the wind overhead, he was thrown backwards and rolled to a stop, lying on his stomach. But the heat inside him did not dissipate. It thronged with a nervous energy, like that of a horse before the charge, or a dog before the hunt. And rather than dispel it, he contained it, let it soak into his muscles and saturate his bones. The sensations of the limbs disappeared, replaced by a single burning entity.

And there, at the centre of his being, was his core, burning bright with completion.

Fire boiled in his veins, turning his flesh raw and pink like one scalded by a kettle's water. Rising to his feet, he sprinted into the winds. An aura emanated from him, opposing Aetheria's spell, deflecting the sludge and debris before him like a ship's bow against the sea. The tempest howled in his ear, but he was not slowed. Nothing could stop him. His legs bore the strength of an oxe's and his heart raced like a stallion's.

He flew at Aetheria in a flash. The magi darted aside, lifting into the air, but Skippii moved too quickly. Grabbing her by the ankle, he pulled her back to the earth. She writhed and struck him with her blades. The sting ripped through his chest, splattering blood across her face, but he did not cease. He fell upon her, snatching her wrists, pinning her easily. Her flesh burned where he grasped her.

Aetheria's crystal blue eyes were wide with horror, shimmering in the flames of his creation. Black hair stuck to her cheek as mud plastered her tanned complexion. Gone was the imposing priestess who had stalked his fears, vitriolic and unaccountable in her zealotism. In her place, a girl stared back at Skippii–one stricken by her master, and at his mercy.

He raised his fist, burning with condemnation. He had only strike her, singe her, and claim his revenge.

But beneath him was a defeated foe, whispering Kylin's name for mercy and forgiveness. He saw–almost in the reflection of her eye–the executioner in him.

Icy reason touched his mind. To kill Aetheria now would only confirm to his adversaries that he was a heretic. He would win one fight only to lose a more important war. Suddenly, he knew what was required of him: not to act like a rabid dog or vengeful cutthroat, but a man. A legionnaire.

Releasing her, Skippii rose, locked with her gaze. She crawled away whispering the words of an invocation, then slowed to a stop. He sensed her fear turn to confusion, then in a moment of divine clarity, something communicated between the two of them: an understanding, whose logic had yet to form shape. So close to death as they were, the veil over mortality was lifted for a brief second. The world around them grew muffled as though dampened by snowfall, and they each saw one another for the first time, naked in their carnal forms. Aetheria's heart was full of sores and wounds, bleeding and aching with each breath. Fear fueled her cruelty like a poison. She too, saw him, and he bore it bare. All of his pride, all of his ambition, all of his duty to the legion. He had nothing to hide.

Steam rushed past his face, obscuring Aetheria from his view, and suddenly, he was picked off his feet. The ground fell away beneath him as a hurricane lifted him on high. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glance of the remaining Coven, locked in invocation and marching forth. They had not stalled during his display of mercy, and now he was at the behest of their wrath.

The fire which he had taken into his body remained, but his connection to the ground had been severed. Filling his limbs with a Blazing Armour, Skippii was tossed this way and that, turned about until direction became meaningless. Debris battered him, some of it rocks and battens, but more than that, he was cut. A coarse sand carried on the wind abrased his skin in a shower of sparks, as though his body was being pressed to a grindstone.

Skippii panted as his magia ebbed, but the torrent raged faster, twisting and tossing him like an infant. Before long, he had lost his senses. All was impact and turmoil. Something struck his temple, and he raised his hand to his face with difficulty, limbs splayed out in the wind. He was struck in the groin and knees, in the soles of his feet and ankles. Skippii cried out in pain, but even his voice was torn away by the wind, scattered and ripped to pieces. He clenched his eyes shut, desperately stretching out for the earth's embrace. Where was that megalithic power now, so vast, yet so out of reach?

"Help me," he screamed. "Feed me fire."

Skippii crashed to the ground in a heap. The very last vestiges of his magia were dispelled upon impact, but still his spine twisted and head slammed painfully into the dirt. Before he could even think to reform a connection with his power, he was lifted into the air again. Floating on a current a metre from the ground, he turned slowly his gaze upon Aetheria. She sat in the mud, stooped in shock, blank eyes staring back. Behind her, a gate in the palisade wall opened. A dozen or more acolytes in their brown cloaks had emerged from a hidden door and were wading through the mud towards him. All the walls were painted with dirt, but shining cleanly in their hands were silver daggers. The fight was done, now came time for sacrifice.

Skippii turned onto his back to behold the sky. A few bright stars twinkled magnificently in the twilight–crystal eyes of the Gods. When he came to their halls, what would they think of his power, and of his mercy? Would they treat him with derision for not slaying his enemy when he'd had the chance, or would they applaud his compassion? He would soon find out.

He listened while the acolytes approached, but would not turn to address them. He wanted his last moments to be with the sky. He was proud of how he had acted. A legionnaire to the end, no matter what accusations were made. He would not have it any other way, and if the Coven executed him, that was for their sordid souls to reconcile, not his. He had died fighting, and true to his heart. What more could a man ask of this life?

A woman's face appeared in his periphery, faded, as in the shine of the moon; her skin white as snow. She brushed his brow and smiled. Then she was gone.

A trumpet blazed through the night air. Skippii's head shot around to the sound. Again, it blurted, then through the sky above the arena flew a bolt. The javelin landed with a thud at the feet of the acolytes who had sallied out to claim his life. Atop the palisade rose the bronze helmets of fifty or more legionnaires, their red cloaks firm and still against their backs.

"Cease this madness!" A voice echoed over the arena, bouncing off the distant rocky mountainside. "I, Custos Maritor, Primus of the Sixth Tonnage, superior of the Second Cohort, have come to claim my legionnaire."

Tears welled in Skippii's eyes like a flash flood as he witnessed, standing beside his Primus, was Tenoris and Orsin, spears raised to throw, and beside them still, Kaesii, Drusilla, Fulmin, Arius, Cur and Cliae, and what appeared to be the entire tonnage to which he belonged.

"Stay your weapons," Tenoris announced boldly over the winds. "Or else suffer ours at your throats."

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