He surveyed the scene before him; the dark mass of the enemy and the gathered forces of those under his command. Behind him, he knew, the empyreal capital endured, the snowy grounds around it merely accentuating its transcendental, yet solitary, existence. Beside him, watching the enemy as well, the Alchemist Magister, Healer Magister and Invoker Magister stood, clad similarly in light but resilient armour of identical cut - only the hue enabled the distant eye to distinguish among the four. The Alchemist Magister, his armour a faint cobalt shade, turned to him, as did the other two, their armour shimmering emerald and amethyst as they moved. In the centre of them, a three-dimensional map slowly rotated; the enemy’s and their own forces clearly shown on the mountain’s surface.

“The Invokers await to provide backup and the long range assault capabilities.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, the Combat Magister brought his attention away from the battlefield map, and his survey of the foes, to the three other Magisters.

“The Alchemist contingent is ready. The transmutational offensives wait in anticipation.”

The Healer Magister smiled faintly as the Combat Magister turned to him.

“We stand ready, by your side, as always. The new deployment’s already completed.”

His armour a pale steel-grey, the Combat Magister turned back to his troops. Subconsciously, he compared them with the enemy forces, number for number. They were outnumbered, two to one. However, the grounds were in their favour and as far as he knew, the enemy were without Alchemists. With a quick glance back to the other three Magisters, they settled back, ready for the inevitable rush that was to come. Separating, each Magister went towards their specific contingent, save for the Combat Magister. He was the overall Commander, in charge of the entire battle. Of course, his respective contingent was the main one: soldiers. His attention returned to the map, the Invocation-manipulated earth sinking back into its original shape of mud. Briefly, his eyes wandered over the enemy, too far to make out any details.

The dark mass of the adversary shuddered inexorably forward, shambling slowly like a black mudslide crushing the white snow-laden ground and tainting it into a brown sodden mass of mud. Then, like a damn that had just buckled under the onslaught of the raging waters, a tsunami of foes charged forward, towards the defenders awaiting them across a great expense of pristine white. Almost immediately, the Invoker contingent rose into action. The roar of a Great Sphere screamed into a crescendo; its effects erupting amongst the enemy. Fireballs, which no battle could ever be complete without, slammed into the heaving mass of scuttling adversaries, churning up explosions of mud, snow and fiery debris. Icy storms of crystal shards rained upon them, the water-hardened projectiles piercing through black-steel armour; unhampered as though it were nothing more than paper. A generous sprinkling of lightning arcs danced amongst the enemy forces, leaping from one to another, blazing through their bodies and leaving behind nought but the acrid stench of ozone in their wakes and burnt flesh within empty shells of blackened armour. The ground beneath their tramping feet literally warped, oozing into a quagmire of quicksand, even as boiling magma burst forth. As the bolts tore into the first wave, a transparent bubble-like barrier wafted into existence, white nova-like eruptions rippling across its surface as each Invocation-manipulated force met with it. Return volleys of Invocation-manipulated assaults passed between the two armies, as the invading forces moved onward. Each assault on the defenders however, was smoothly absorbed, the projectiles passing through a plane of anti-magic, melting away like they had never existed. The defensive Invokers were a force to be reckoned with.

The first wave shattered by the Invokers’ initial assault, the second wave continued onwards, irregardless. This time, protected by the transparent barrier, the successive waves were unaffected by the Invocations. Still, they were pounded by it nonetheless, their barrier continually heaving with every bolt, force against force. As the second, and following, waves rushed closer, the Alchemist contingent acted. Caustic acids splashed over foes, the steel, once though to be invulnerable, bubbling and burning. Such drastic effects happened to steel, let alone flesh. Those that were untouched by the acids were given a worse fate. Steel armour transmuted, transforming into an extremely reactive chemical, scorching the flesh and eating into the body, ripping them apart in scant seconds, blazing with a coloured flame of lilac. Underneath the glare of fireballs and scintillating rainbows of ice shards, they appeared as violet will ‘o’ wisps, winking out of existence. Carnivorous plants burst forth from the ground; courtesy of Alchemical tampering with their genes. Vines bearing barbs of scorching venom coiled into armour, snaking inside chinks rapidly. Seeds, thrown violently from exploding pods lodged into bodies and grew, tearing the unwitting host and victim apart as they escalated into maturity, bearing more pods. Exhibiting savagery unparalleled by all, save humans, these mutated plants ripped apart oncoming foes. Those that escaped these horrors had one last fate awaiting them: transmutation of the flesh. Detonating into a nova of high-velocity bone shards and red droplets, their fate was one that none wished to undergo. Between the plants, acids and the transmutation, much of the second and third waves were incarcerated within the halls of death. The remaining was mopped up with the more mundane methods: melee battle. Leading the charge, the Combat Magister gave the signal for battle as the final contact with the enemy began, his long sword raised, as the vanguard of what was left reaching them. Four feet and a half of fortified steel pulsed within his grip, the solid blade resplendent within the rapidly shifting light of bolts and magic. Then the enemy was upon them.

The wave hit the wall of defenders. Just as a surge of water would have halted, so did the army now. Now, he had his first close detailed look of the enemy. Soldiers were held in a loose wave-formation, the mass broken up by the loss of the earlier waves. Blackened steel, tempered into armour, was what they wore. Like black shadows, they trod upon the white ground; soldiers swinging broadswords as their battle-magi wove incantations and spells. Their faces hidden behind closed visors, he could only hear their harsh breath, echoing his own. Scanning the army within the scant split-seconds he had, he found what he was looking for. The leader: the mage-king. Having set his target, he began the battle towards his aim. Steel met steel as he crossed swords with the foes opposing him, feeling the parried blow jar his entire frame. Snarling, he returned the stroke, feeling a sense of satisfaction as his carried through and dispatched the enemy. There was a split-second warning; the whistle of air parting before a steel edge. It was not enough for him to turn. However, it was sufficient for another manoeuvre. Twisting slightly, the blade missed its mark, glancing off his shoulder-plates. His weapon, however, stabbed right into its target. There was no time given to him to feel anything, save a slight worry for his soldiers. In that single second he paused, a shard of concentrated magic tore past his armour, blind reflex and instinct saving him. However, the rushing air’s impact was enough to destabilise him. Growling softly, he heard the surge of Invocations that heralded the oncoming magical missile. Immediately, beheading the last few that stood in his way without more than a thought, he struck directly at the magi. A lightning bolt cracked through his mind, blasting his off his feet and into the snow-laden ground, his armour taking the brunt of the damage. Still, the force was enough, despite the dampening effects of his armour, to deal an austere card from fate. There was a brief splintering before the agony rushed in like boiling lead.

The excruciating pain, despite its tendrils reaching throughout his entire system, was walled off, its effects barred only by the strength of his mental restraint. Sounds filtered into his mind, faint but clear. There was agony, but it was detached; it felt as though it did not belong to him. He supposed it did not. All he saw was a faint red haze that pulsed. There was the usual tang of spilt blood and steel, but some of his senses were dulled, the smells indiscernible. There were footsteps, heavy, metal shod footfalls. He was on his feet and his blade travelling in an arc towards the sound. The murmur of incantation gurgled into silence, but not before a blazing inferno of heat erupted around him. The acrid scent of ozone and smoke burnt his throat, but it went on unheeded. Through the miasma of red, only one of his swords arose, slicing right through the flaming walls of fire; they guttered out, whispering into nothingness. The other, still in his grasp, remained by his side, the entire arm rendered almost useless; the fractured bones within had taken care of that. Ignoring the smouldering pain that throbbed in unison with his heart, he strode forward. The air tore apart in a dying wail as the piercing scream of an arrow hail arose. This his deadened hearing detected. His wings flared into readiness, as both blades jammed into the ground, point first. A tremor ran through his arms, escalating the fractures into critical breaks. A thunderous roar rent the arrow’s howling passage, the sound carrying the taint of pain.

“VENTUS - OBMOLIOR!” (Wind- Defence)

He felt the winds immediately respond; at the same time, he felt his wings shred into shards of bloody flesh and membrane. The pain nearly overwhelmed him but as suddenly as it had risen; it subsided, reinforcing the pulse of burning nerves within his body. Every single arrow and projectile, whether magical in nature or not, shattered into useless fragments, torn apart as his wings had been by the claws of the chill winds. Exhaustion rushed through him, taking away whatever energy he had left. Falling to his knees, he felt a ghoul chill steal over his body, bludgeoning his weakening mental barriers. Panting heavily, his breath coming in short gasps, he tasted the warm acrid tang of blood. The red haze surrounding him abated slightly, but not enough to allow him to see. His sight, smell and hearing were recovering, albeit slowly, excruciatingly slowly. Then there was a whisper of steel and his reflexes avoided the first stroke, but not the next few. His ground-beaten armour was insufficient to deflect these and they bit hungrily into his flesh. A weakened roar burst from his throat, his vocal chords raw and afire with pain. Almost instantly, he retaliated, his claws ripping through armour plating and flesh. Claws were a dragon’s natural weapon; Irregardless of how proficient they were with blades and the like, claws were inevitably the most deadly of their melee arsenal.

With fatal accuracy, he was tearing through the surrounding enemies, fighting onwards, relying on the few senses that still functioned even as the red fog continued its slow abating. A few enemies got in some lucky hits. They were not so lucky after that. Then, suddenly, it was over. The roar of the battle that crushed all the senses, the shrill cries of the trumpets and the bass poundings of the drums that sent the pulse of the blood reverberating in echoes, had faded, replaced only the silence of desolation. The roars of the magical battle had long echoed into quietness. The previously unfelt cramps within his gauntleted claws began to form knots of aches, making themselves known. The grey haze of the battlefield melded with the fading light of dusk, forming a red mist over the blasted lands, a pale reflection of his recovering sight. Twin pale arcs of silver flashed through the fog, his blades still where he had left them, standing over the dead like twin steel gravestones. A single raucous screech of a raven brought his attention to it. Hopping amongst the dead and the fallen, its black beak pierced into the grisly visage of a corpse, emerging with an impaled eyeball, the white orb gleaming uselessly and pale, staring lifelessly in his direction, the last of the red mist fading away from his vision. His mouth felt raw, with the salty tang of blood; his own. The fetid stench of rot would not be here, yet. For now, there was only the smell of iron; the smell of blood and sweat. His armour weighed heavy on his shoulders, the mirror-like steel plates splattered with brown; from the mud of the battlefield and blood. Grasping the two blades with his unbroken arm, he tore them free of the bodies, ignoring the fresh splatter of crimson upon himself.

“Magister?”

He did not bother to turn around.

“Gather the fallen. Transport the wounded to the Healers’ Compound. Ensure that each Healer is with an escort; the dead may not be dead.”

Leaving his lieutenants to carry out his orders, he began the grisly task of making sure the fallen enemies were truly within death’s halls. At least, he tried to. It was scarcely a few steps into his self-appointed task before his body gave out, dumping him into the mud. Through the haze of rapidly dulling senses, he felt the reassuring grip of another Ascendant dragon. The emerald gleam of fading light glancing off the Healer Magister’s armour blocked out the battlefield.

“By the Claws of the Planesmaster…”

The warm glow of Healing surged through his veins, breaking down the barriers he had erected against the pain and hurt, rebuilding the damage caused. After a moment’s silence, when the fatigue of Healing the worst and the potentially fatal had passed and the normal process of recovery had started, his companion rose from the half-kneeling position, supporting the injured Combat Magister, one arm resting along his shoulders.

“Suicidal as ever, Impi…”

There was no reply to the comment, not that the Healer Magister had expected one. The Combat Magister was still too preoccupied with what he had to do. At least, what he felt he had to do. Giving the weakened battle veteran a glare tempered by concern, he ignored his patient’s hoarse protests.

“Delegate it. I don’t care to whom, or how, but you are not going to do it, not in this condition.”

Shaking his head, he continued on, back to the city gates.

“Taking on the mage-king like that…”

The long trudge across the muddy mess of snow and blood was disheartening. Despite Impi’s best efforts to keep the casualties to a minimum, there was always a chance. Still, the new deployment of healers had helped, if the latest reports were anything to go by. The worst that had happened was Impi’s, and there were, thankfully, few deaths. The alchemists and the invokers had done their job well; the main army whittled down to the bare structures, allowing the bulk of their own army to wipe it out with relative ease, especially with all the enemy magic-workers removed, save for the main magi. True, the Ascendant dragon army was not, by any standards, large, but each dragon was the equal of many good warriors, or so the battles had proved.

- - -

“ARDOR - FERIO!” (Flame - Strike)

The blazing inferno destroyed the invading battalion, but it was not enough. Too many had entered already and there were more. Driving his blade into the ground, the steel edge biting through the solid bedrock, he dropped to his knees, ignoring the waves of pain that surged through every nerve from the numerous wounds, holding the other remaining blade uplifted to the heavens.

“TERRENUS - TERRESTRIS CLAVUS!” (Earth - Earth Spike)

The ground beneath his feet rumbled a second before rows of spikes jutted out from the ground, coated with molten magma as they did so. Three lines surged outwards, fanning across the black-armoured invaders. In spite of the exhaustion that washed through him, he stood ready. There was too much at stake; life and death were being decided within this cataclysmic battle. As soon as the invocation had been completed, the twin blades were in motion, ripping through steel armouring.

At his sides, he could hear the harsh pants of Ascendant soldiers as they fought alongside with him, defending the breech in the city walls. Built from reformed rock, the walls were solid, and as strong as bedrock. However, no matter how strong the walls were, gates could never match it, a weakness in all perimeter defences. The assault had concentrated fully on the gates, forcing the defenders to split their resources, holding all three. However, one had fallen inevitably to the almost endless rush of invaders. It was at this gate, that the Combat Magister and a handful of soldiers held back the flood.

“Magister!”

Ducking instinctively, the war hammer slammed into the wall, the reverberating crash temporarily deafening all around. Almost immediately however, it was flying through the air again, this time in a downwards blow that threatened to break bones as a minimum. Sidestepping it, he brought his blades to bear, slicing through the shaft of the weapon and gutting the wielder without hesitation. Black armoured attackers came at him and his battalion relentlessly. For every member of his group that fell, at least a score of the enemy fell as well. However, they were like a stream of endless roaches, with no end in sight, slowly but surely whittling down his small company. A quick glance showed his original had shrunk to at least half.

Claws… Gritting his fangs, he growled softly to himself. In his claws, the twin blades gleamed silver before reshaping themselves into a single long sword. Gripping it with one clawed hand, his gold eyes flashed a momentary red before flames exploded around his free claws.

“ARDOR – FERIO!”

A searing blast of heat shot forward, scorching those unlucky enough to be in its way. The flaming blast tore through the crushing mass, consuming wildly and wilfully. The fiery blaze ripped through the oncoming soldiers, clearing wide swathes with only ash and charred steel in its wake. In such close proximity, even a minor fire-blast had a profound impact. However, he had no time to appreciate that fact. Already he was cutting through the remnants of what had once been a force to be reckoned with. Overhead, dark clouds had gathered, lightning churning within their roiling bellies. Grinning to himself, he took care of the last and allowed himself, as well as his small force, to rest and recover. Taking stock, he found that the losses were not as extensive as he had first thought, though still heavy.

The reason for his sudden levity became apparent almost immediately. Accompanied by the roar of thunder, lightning raked across the swarms of black-armoured soldiers, arcing from soldier to soldier. The acrid, stench of ozone was welcome, as was the sudden warmth of healing energy. Nodding gratefully at the healer, he returned his attention to the battlefield before him, taking heart in the devastating strike from the heavens. Already, much of the besieging soldiers had been dispatched, with a small fraction of the original left. However, the turning of the tides had come at a high price and Impi could see it reflected in those that had fought alongside him. The battle had cost the Ascendant dragons many lives and he saw more in the coming future.

“The main gate’s under attack!”

Shocked out of his thoughts, he whirled around, cursing as he saw the concentrated push on the main gate. By scattering the attacks randomly on all three gates, it had effectively split up the resources, leaving only a third against a contingent that had been held in reserve. The sudden dawning was bitter in his mind, as he raced off towards the main gate, shouting orders to soldiers as he passed to reinforce the gate’s defences.

The thundering of the storm only served as a bleak backdrop of the attack. The flashes of electrical fury took down many, but they were quickly replaced. Tactics presented themselves as he raced up to the site, where a ranking officer came alongside him, fresh from the battlefield. The grey tone of his armour was totally obscured by blood and dirt, his claws stained, though whether from battle or tending to injuries, it was not known.

“The enemy outnumbers us, at least three to two; that is using the total of our current forces at all three gates.”

Taking all this in, Impi nodded for him to carry on. He had a plan in mind, but he needed a few more details before it could be finalised.

“The Spell-Breakers are doing their best to immobilise their magic-workers, leaving Invokers free to support in the battle. The alchemists are already mobilised and defending.”

Giving Impi a nod that indicated the end of available information, he waited expectantly for the orders that came almost instantly.

“Invokers to provide aerial assault. All soldiers from the west gate to defence, east gate to assemble there.”

Saluting, the dragon fell back as Impi dismissed him. A second later, the gold-scaled dragon could hear his orders barked out to messengers and soldiers alike. Concentrating fully on the task at hand, he hoped that all he was doing would be enough. Such was the efficiency of the Ascendants that Impi found the expected soldiers already assembled as soon as he arrived. The ranking officers moved out to flank him, awaiting his orders.

“Eltroi, Lycom, assault the contingent from the left. Tryn, Ryll, the right. Repeated flash strikes.”

The four addressed saluted and moved off, leaving one with Impi.

“Kronril, we engage the enemy, striking directly at the leaders.”

The other four were already in motion, moving out. One advantage that Ascendants had over their attackers was the power of flight. That alone gave them greater mobility as well as rapid flash-strikes. They gave a new meaning to the word “blitzkrieg”.

Battle was cruel, and no matter how well laid plans were, they inevitably got lost somewhere in the chaos. Hence the term: flexibility in planning. Impi knew full well how easily this could happen and had taken it into account. Besides, simple plans were the easiest, most effective and usually, what won battles. Complex manoeuvres usually ended up with botched army movements. The heat of melee battle surrounded him, the sounds of steel against steel accompanied by grunts of pain and dying cries. This was his element, what he was groomed for. His entire life led up to this, and he rose to the occasion. This was his element: Combat.

Twin long swords in his claws, he ripped apart foes with ease, all the time heading towards his target: the leader. His grim expression betrayed none of his feelings, not that there were any. Trained to kill, for battle, Combat Magisters invariably hardened to bloodshed and learned to wall away almost anything, starting with pain. Every wound upon him was merely another to ignore, no more, no less. A blast of fire surged at him, but a single blade sweep tore it apart, the flames guttering into silence. Cutting down the soldier who stood between him and his target, he glanced at Kronril, a short way off, also killing his way to their common goal. Their eyes met briefly for a moment and the ranking officer nodded before changing course, ever so slightly. His attention back at the leader, he growled as he found his target shielded by another layer of soldiers.

Bursts of blue lightning cut across them, dropping almost half where they stood. A dark green overcoat covering the light armour, the only portions visible were the steel gauntlets and shin guards. Around the single wrist blade emerging from the left wrist guard, arcs of electric blue danced, the same covering her claws. Flashing Impi a warm grin, the Spell-breaker plunged into the remaining guard, lightning bursting from her claws while the blade sliced through steel. Get moving. Don’t worry about your back. The thoughts slid through his mind easily, shimmering like crystalline raindrops.

With a gleam of silver light, the twin long swords reshaped themselves around his claws, armouring them and forming longer rending talons. With the pathway clear for him, he aimed directly for the leader, an amused thought noting that it was another magi. A blast of acid shot at him, but he dodged it instinctively, only a few droplets hissing on his armour as the vitriolic attack went past, landing onto a victim of friendly fire. That was the only attack the magi made before he went down, under Impi’s claws. However, as the body of the magi slumped to the ground, it faded into nothingness. Illusion! Whirling around, he was only in time to meet the spell-woven mace as it slammed through his wings, shattering the main bone. The agony was so strong that the nerves burnt into silence before he could even register it. Staggering back from the blow, Impi regarded the magi with smouldering hate.

“Your ‘heritage’ is mine, pathetic dragons. The artefacts are wasted in your possession.”

Fighting to remain upright, the battered Magister snarled, his claws gaining a blazing scarlet glow. A sharp wind tore through them, lifting the dust in a spiral around him.

“ANIMA - AETERNO IRACUNDIA!” (Soul -Immortal Fury)

The ruby light surrounding Impi’s claws intensified, gaining the depth of blood, the effects of the Invocation greatly bolstering his speed and strength.

“Fool.”

Again the spell-mace swung, only to crash against the silver blade of a long sword. Slicing cleanly through the spell-woven mace, it struck down through the magi. It tore right through the foe, leaving no visible mark behind, yet the dark figure stiffened and cried out as though it had torn through flesh and bone. As the blade left him, a ghostly glimmer melded with the red before fading away.

“ANIMA - FISSIO PERCUTIO!” (Soul - Dividing Transfixion)

The blade gleamed silver, reforming into twin blades that slashed in arcs forming a cross, rending across the foe’s body. Once more, the grey mist arose around them, but this time they did not dissipate. They remained clinging around the blades, stretching away from the enemy. Then, with a screech rivalling that of banshees, they tore away, ripped asunder by the soul-striking talons. Collapsing into a howling heap, the enemy leader fled, cursing them through pain-wrecked tears as he half crawled, half stumbled away, the teleportation whisking him away from Impi.

“You will all die! All of you!”

His screams rang out through the battlefield. All around, the black armoured soldiers tried to make a valiant last stand in spite of their leader’s fall. Yet only after a second’s resistance, it crumbled and they fled. Fatigue coursed through his veins, the deep-set exhaustion leeching even the minor strength to move. His wounds were serious as well, but he shrugged it off. Dropping to one knee, Impi kept himself upright on his twin blades, head bowed from weariness. Then, with only force of will powering him, he got to his feet and surveyed the aftermath of the Ascendant’s successful repulsion of the invasion.

- - -

Alone, he remained silent. Shadows huddled in corners, almost no light in the chamber. The candles placed around were silent, their tongues of flame absent. Thin streams of wax ran down their sides, frozen in the descent. A single candle was lit, enough to cast a weak glow that only served to enhance the grip of darkness. The gold-scaled Ascendant dragon slowly turned a blade over in his claws, the length of hard steel shimmering as he did so. Ruined wings stretched out from his back, like distorted talons. With a snarl, his hand closed tightly around the blade, its unseeing edges pausing only a second against his scales before slicing through them, into the muscle layer beneath. Red glistened wetly on the dry steel, but it went unnoticed.

He remembered the dead, the fallen. Soldiers, Invokers, Alchemists and civilians; their faces breezed across his mind’s eye. Some were pain-filled, others shock, a few calm and resigned. He looked down onto his claws, and the outlines of the blade misted over. Shutting his eyes tight, he let the tears fall, splashing against the floor and blade. They did not have to die. None of them deserved to die. His claws closed around the blade even more firmly, pushing the edge deeper. He felt nothing, only remorse and guilt. If you had planned for this, they wouldn’t have died. Some of them would have lived to see the dawn. Choking back a sob, he felt his throat constrict. His vision was totally clouded now. Nothing was visible through the blindfold of transparent tears. He was the Combat Magister, the one who lived only to die, his sole purpose to protect and to ensure the survival of as many as possible; he had failed. A crack echoed in the room, but his grief-deafened senses did not register it. Almost immediately followed by another, the blade snapped, shattering into shards of steel.

That awoke his nerves to the conflagration of agony along his claws. Looking down upon the deep laceration, he felt the pain in them and accepted it. It was right, after all; blood on them, blood of the dead on his claws. Though his claws were not the ones that had torn their life from them, it was the same. He had killed them, by not taking the proper precautions, for not anticipating this, for not preparing for the contingency that had rocked the city. He was a murderer, no matter that he was not the one who had extinguished the flames. He had allowed it to happen. Nothing would ever absolve him of the responsibility of their deaths. He had not just failed in preventing unnecessary deaths, he had failed in protecting the city. Invaders had run through their streets, destroying and killing wantonly. He could hear the flames burning, consuming homes and buildings in their fiery maws, blazing across the dying and the dead.

He failed the city, its inhabitants, and those who had gone before him. What good was your training? Where were you when the gates crumbled? Where were you when death walked the streets? His thoughts did not answer, and he did not bother to come up with a reply. Trembling claws rose before his eyes, bloodstained with the death of Ascendants and of enemies, with his blood and above all, the death of his city, the city he had sworn his life to defend. I failed. His claws reached towards his dual long swords, still stained by blood. Drawing one, he felt pain blaze as his injured hands struggled to retain a grip on the weapon, aimed at him. It wavered in his weak grip, but as resolve deadened the pain, the edge stilled into motionlessness. Opening his eyes, he looked at the candle, its thin flame burning silently. Its tiny light, weak and feeble, fought a desperate battle with the overwhelming darkness. He shut his eyes once more.

There was no room for failure. Those who did had only one path to walk.

The blade moved. The flame guttered out.

- - -

Fatigue and exhaustion pawed at everyone, leaving few untouched. The city had been invaded, but had successfully repulsed the attack. The aftermath, however, was one that required many a year of repair, and not just for the physical body. Everywhere he looked, destruction’s claws had wrought scars upon the once proud city. That city was nothing more than a memory now. In its place, another was being formed and the hubris that had clung so parasitically to the old would not grow on the new.

Sparing himself nothing, the Healer Magister tried to heal as much as possible, healing wounds till they were able to recover on their own. Healing was naught but a tool to help the recovery process, not to take over it; though certain cases warranted such treatments. The healing wards were sites of constant comings and goings, not the peaceful place for rest and recuperation. He would have to remind himself to arrange for an expansion in the wards’ area. However, more pressing matters had to be dealt with first. As he surveyed the injured, he noted with a grim interest that, in spite of the despair the numbers gave, the situation was not as bad as statistics presented. The worst damage was in edifice, not spirit.

Looking back onto the towering sprawl of the Academy, he grinned to himself. It still stood, withstanding the heavy bombardment that had rained upon the city. Like a testament to the Ascendant dragon’s resilience, it was still proud, an ever-present shaft of golden light shining down into its centre: the Library. Shrugging his thoughts away, the soft glow of healing light wrapped itself around his claws, and he returned to the business at hand: repair.

Silently, a gold form swept into the wards, coming to a halt beside him.

“Pykael, how bad?”

Shaking his head, the Healer Magister replied, not looking up..

“Casualties and wounded are heavy, but-”

Impi nodded, an unnerving calmness within the clear, empty amber of his eyes. Glancing up at the Ascendant as he completed the task at hand, Pykael hesitated.

“How long?”

“Give me a week.”

The gold-scaled Ascendant did not reply. Turning, he left, as soundless as he had entered, disturbing none and leaving no indication that he had ever been there. Standing there, slightly shaken, Pykael watched his retreating back, his thoughts scattered. Shaking himself, he blinked and scolded himself mentally for neglecting his patients. However, something niggled at the periphery of his thoughts. It took a while before it came to surface: white bandages, badly stained, were wrapped around Impi’s clawed hands. Impi, what is going on?

Mirroring those thoughts, Ilune Silverstar watched him direct the rebuilding teams, allotting priority to homes and dwellings, then the public buildings. Of the latter, many had survived, the main structures being part of the mountain itself. The ancient Invokers of the past had called the stone to flow into the foundations and walls, but the knowledge to do so was lost with them. Her thoughts, however, were not on those. It was on the one she had given her heart to.

The balcony balustrades beneath her were warm from the sun, a warm breeze pulling her auburn hair back, as if to tug her gently into the library behind. Even with the distance between them, Ilune could see ever so clearly the bandages on his hands, the bloodstains growing ever so slowly. It had been a week since the invasion, and the rebuilding was almost complete, with a few minor repairs to the Academy left. However, in the entire time, the wounds on his hands did not heal.

Lost in her musings, her attention drifted from the scene before her, thinking only of Impi. The gold Ascendant dragon had lost his power of flight in the recent battle, the main bone of his wings shattered beyond even Pykael’s ability to repair. That, and the deep gashes across his hands were deeply impressed upon her mind. Worry and concern about him wrung her emotional stability into shreds, so much so that she had been ordered to go onto leave till she was better. It wasn’t my fault that the lightning went out of control and burnt everyone’s scales ash black.

“Ilune.”

Startled, she nearly fell off her precarious perch, barely managing to retain her balance through a complex series of frantic limb and tail waving. Once the momentary panic of falling off had quelled, anger replaced it instantly and she whirled around, a furious glare on her features. However, the speaker left her speechless, the verbal barrage forgotten, as was the past moment.

Sitting on the balustrade as well, but at the corner where he could lean against the wall, Impi’s eyes were closed, his thick tawny mane catching the evening sunlight. The perpetual light plate was absent, replaced by training leathers that only served to enhance his already impressive frame. Resting by his sides, fresh white dressings covered his claws, faint red beginning to colour them.

Ilune came up beside him, sliding along the smooth polished wood. Weariness flowed off him, almost overwhelmingly. A warm smile crept across her face, as she committed this image into memory. Those swift heartless claws were quiescent, as was his cold fury. Tentatively, her tail touched his, lightly brushing amethyst scales against gold. Just at the moment of contact, his shifted, just moving a fraction away. Impi…

She stared at the minute space between them. A gulf that was so easily crossed, yet impossible to transverse. Something within her heart threatened to break, but she locked it away with firm resolve. Tears threatened to fall nevertheless. Rejection breaks even the strongest of us all. The one who held her heart, the one who she would throw the world away for, was before her, so near, yet so far. She turned away, suddenly unable to look upon Impi anymore, least the tears fall. A single teardrop did.

- - -

Standing in the fields, she found anxiety and nervousness besetting her at every corner. Weapon craft? Spell-breakers don’t need weapons! They’re walking magical powerhouses. Every book she had read mentioned nothing about them utilising mundane weapons. Instead, they contained passages about their spell-immunity, and most importantly, ability to twist any spell, friend’s or foes’ into anything they wished. An extract rang out clearly in her mind. Spell-breakers are learned individuals, knowing every single form, and aspects, of magic available. It had surprised her then, that the book was true, but not to what she had expected. Her magic instructor, a Spell-breaker, had only smiled indulgently at her expectations and promptly dispelled her false notions by telling her what magic they truly used: the basics, namely, energy and nothing more. However, they did learn every aspect of magic in all its forms.

“Leaf gazing, Trainee Silverstar?”

Snapping off a salute and starting a reflexive apology before she even registered who spoke, she found herself stammering into silence as Ilune recognised the speaker. A warm, but reserved calm expression resting upon her, the golden-scaled Ascendant dragon stood a half-foot above her, clad in light plate armour. Of all people she had the luck to make a misstep in front of, she went and did it before the Combat Magister.

“Attention should be paid to everything, all the time, no matter where you are.”

Sighing, he waved a claw at her attempt to complete the apology.

“What are you here for, anyway? I don’t deal with Trainees. I train the Elites.”

Taking a deep breath, both to steady her nerves, and to hopefully, hide the trembling in her voice, Ilune told him.

“Weapons training, Magister, sir.”

Some of her disbelief and incredulity at having to undergo training must have shown through, for Impi’s eyes narrowed as she spoke.

“You fancy yourself above weapon training, Trainee Spell-breaker?”

Her thoughts argued at this point. Half wanted to agree, but the others spoke of self-preservation and to split with the statement. However, her mouth worked on a different wavelength from her mind.

“Yes, Magister.”

He was silent for a moment, before nodding.

“At least, you’re honest.”

Walking a short distance away from her, the Combat Magister turned to face her. With a short sentence naming himself her weapons instructor, he proceeded to beat her black and blue. After an indeterminate amount of time in which she spent half of it on the ground, he stopped.

“Next class, we start on your weapons training.”

Next class? Then what was today?

“Hey! Then what was all this bruising for?”

He paused in mid-stride, turning to face her, mildly surprised.

“Weapon selection.”

- - -

Before she could react, his mouth was upon hers. Soft bandaged claws held her close, not that she wanted to pull away. Every nerve was afire, and she suddenly felt that everything was right in the world. Electrifying emotions ran rampant through every fibre of her body and soul, swamping every thought but one: Impi. Then, the world around her shattered.

Twisted loathing, a single candle alight. Light gleaming off a blade. Steel shards piercing deep into his hands, ripping through scales. Failure and hate. Shadows and a single glimmer of light. A blade through him, ripping through his soul. Empty amber eyes.

All the images fell away, and she found herself looking into the depths of Impi’s eyes, his calm empty eyes.

“There’s more than one path, Impi.”

A tiny flicker of something flamed within his eyes for a moment before fading away. Silentl and inscrutable, he looked at her. However, his claws did not let go, nor did she want them to. Settling for silence, Ilune leaned against him, head against his chest, hearing and feeling the steady heartbeat. The images were something she needed to think about. If she was not wrong, it would explain a lot. However, Ilune set them aside for now, while she was in Impi’s warm embrace. Her tail snaked around his, as his reciprocated, tightening around hers. Taking Impi’s head into her claws, she drew him closer and she kissed him again. This time, the images did not interfere.

- - -

A dry cough woke her. Sitting upright, she noticed the darkness of night through the windows of the room. The bed was off to one side, pressed against the wall, with the rest lined with cupboards and shelving that held piles of books stacked irregularly everywhere. What drew her attention, however, was the desk just before the windows. Rather, it was the person sitting behind it. A chill pre-dawn wind blew in, extinguishing the remnants of what had once been a roaring fire in the fireplace. Looking down upon the bed, she smiled gratefully. Arms cushioning his head, Impi was asleep on the desk, exhaustion delineating his features. Whatever rest he was getting was definitely not enough.

“Awake?”

Going straight from sleep to full alert, the Combat Magister rose to his feet, his motions graceful and silent, despite the heavy cloud of fatigue hanging around him. Moving over towards her, he hacked out a dry cough again, wiping away the thin dark line that flowed from the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. In his claws, still bandaged, she noted, was a mug of cold juice which he offered to her. As she took it, she brushed against his scales and found them cold, unnaturally so.

“Impi, you’re-”

He was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

“-sick.”

Looking down at the juice, she took a sip, all the while thinking of Impi. Then, as she thought of the Ascendant, going about his duties in spite of his illness and injury, coupled with heavy emotional devastation about his wings, her determination solidified. If he could be strong in the face of such adversity, so could she. How else could Ilune Silverstar prove herself to him? However, she would stay here a while longer, savouring the juice and absorbing as much as could about the room’s resident from the quarters itself.

The bed was soft, but unused often enough to leave it still firm and almost new. The scarred, but smooth wooden panels lined the floor, warm in spite of the frigid night air. Wandering across to the desk, she saw the light-coloured scrapes where Impi had been, evidence of him sleeping there very often. The surface of the furniture was worn, with papers neatly stacked in, ironically, disorganised piles. The high-backed chair was padded, but the cushioning was enough for comfort, but not for sleep. Indentations in the worn padding were in the shape of his armoured back, and she ran her claws through them, lost in her imagination for a moment. Then, cradling the mug, she walked out, into the slowly dawning day. After a moment, she ran back, tidying and making the bed before giving the room a critical look-over and finding it satisfactory. Only then, did she truly leave.

- - -

“Dismissed!”

With the precision granted by hours of hard practice, the contingent of Ascendant dragons filed out in uniform ranks. Each one carrying a grim visage, there was none that the destruction had not touched, physically, emotionally, or spiritually. Watching them march out from the field, Impi only felt a detached sadness settle onto his shoulders, the light weightless shroud almost bowing his shoulders. However, he knew his burden was no heavier than anyone else’s. They all had their own dark shadows to deal with.

Shoving his hair behind his twin horn-like ears, he sighed. The memorial service had taken more out of him than he had expected. At least, he had not collapsed halfway through it. Moving away from the field, another coughing fit struck him. Pausing only a second, he wiped away the blood, though barely able to maintain even his normal stride. His vision blurred for a second, blinding him for a moment. Stumbling, he felt someone steady him, supporting by the waist and pulling his arm over his, or her, shoulders.

“Drink.”

Forcing the coughing to a halt, he managed to choke down half of what was poured into his mouth before gagging and losing the rest. However, it stopped the coughing, at least for the moment. Giving him a gentle thump on the back, Ilune winced as she belatedly remembered the plate armour he always wore. With a soft hiss at the soreness spreading through her hand, she frowned in concern at Impi.

“Forget your medicine again, Impi? Pykael already warned you that-”

He placed a claw against her lips, his face a map of exhaustion, but with a gentle smile.

“Ilune. Don’t worry about me.”

Turning back to watch those who had participated in the memorial, his eyes filled with a fatigued sorrow.

“The needs of the people are far greater than the needs of the leader.”

So saying, he walked away, leaving Ilune behind. However, the unspoken words remained in his mind: the leader who failed. Holding back against tears that threatened to fall, he shut his eyes tightly. I’m so sorry Ilune. You deserve better than a failure the likes of me. He felt like a traitor twice-over, to those he had sworn to serve, and to Ilune.

All his thoughts remained unknown to her. Spell-breakers had an arsenal of varied skills, mind-reading and telepathy being just the surface of the depths. However, Impi’s natural mental shields were not something that Ilune could just bypass, nor did she have the heart to break them down. The effort would have left both of them close to death’s door.

Still, there were times when his shielding was inexplicably weak, and some of his thoughts could become visible to her, his entire memory and mind open. When he had kissed her was one such time. Unfortunately, now was not such a time. Yet, another facet of the Spell-breakers’ talent pool reared its head. Watching his retreating back, Ilune felt the steadying feel of the current reality suddenly wash aside, as the waters of the possible futures surged around her.

- - -

Gold scale against white, tawny hair against aquamarine. Holding Impi in her arms, a white Ascendant, ceruleans eyes heavy with concern, had healing energy glowing around her claws, healing the wounded Magister, though failing to rouse him from his unconsciousness. Glancing upwards, the healer sighed, whispering a few quiet words to the wind, unheard by all save one: Ilune.

“Impi, I’m sorry, but I am not what you think I am…”

The words puzzled her, but the future was like that. Never quite understandable till it had passed, it dealt with numerous possibilities, too many too predict accurately. However, many were similar, and those that appeared before a Spell-breaker were very likely to appear, but this was not a hard and fast rule, she knew.

- - -

Impi, badly wounded and weak, glared up at the strange white-silver dragon standing before him, his expression one of intense fury. In his claws, she recognised the trademark silver blade of the Combat Magisters. However, it was subtly different, more powerful now. With a snarl, the gold Ascendant dragon was on his feet, crossing blade against claw. Every one of his strokes was carried out with a precision that harked of many centuries of intense practice, and, with a spark of fear as she realised it, the burning hate. Yet, with every exchange, he came away with an extra line of red across his body, his armour being little protection.

Nothing more than a spectre, a bodiless, insubstantial wraith of the present, Ilune could only watch as the stranger tore apart her loved one with an apparent lack of emotion. Her heart screamed at her to help, and she instinctively moved to Impi’s aid, gathering the trademark blue lightning in her claws. However, nothing came, and she could only drift on as a passive spectator, no matter how much she tried. Then a claw touched her shoulder, and she turned, to face steel-grey eyes and silver-white scale.

“Planesmas-”

- - -

The paths of time is never constant. Prescience is only a guideline, nothing more. Sometimes it is even something to deliberately go against. The words echoed softly in her mind, but she did not recall who had said it. It was extremely familiar, as if someone had just spoken them just then, but she was alone, Impi a few steps away and moving. However, the voice which had spoken them was one she would never forget. One that hinted at the ability to shape the worlds, the speaker was definitely one that could walk the pathways of time easily.

She whispered the little nugget of wisdom to herself, thinking of Impi.

“I will change the future for you.”