2412 Qintax 25, Briss

Nelnifa closed one eye as she peered deep into a rifle's barrel. The metal's condition was pristine, so she didn't need to clean it with such attention. Most of the dirt that made it past the floorboards were sand shaken from the cooks' sandals. She never left the command tent since they returned to the mountains from the Oraytan fortress, spending her waking hours sharpening their figurative swords in preparation for the next stage of their plan.

Eyes pinned at her movements, and she was aware of that. The Marshals watched her yank open the bolt to gain access to the chamber where the original bullets still sat. She turned over the rifle and shook it, letting the metal-cast ammunition clatter to the table. Even her father, who usually strayed from the sight of weapons, leaned his elbows on the opposite side of the table.

If Nelnifa from years ago were in the same position, she would have curled into herself and botched her job at the prospect of having an audience. It's not like she could afford to make mistakes. Especially not now, when lives could be put at stake with every decision. Not now, when she held a volatile weapon which could kill a grown fairy if she so much aimed at them. These rifles and flintlocks needed conditioning, after all. Who knew what time did to their calibration?

She snapped the bolt back to place and propped the rifle up. A distinct clacking sound echoed in the entire tent when she cranked the stock to load the next bullet and clicked the safety off. Then, she pulled the trigger.

The exploding sound made the Marshals flinch—Laie certainly ducked underneath the table—which poked a strip of delight into Nelnifa's gut. All her life, she looked up to them for all the things she had to learn, and they couldn't resist pulling a prank or two over the years. Now, it's her turn, albeit an unplanned one.

The familiar smell of burnt grass wafted across the tent, carried by the smoke curling from the hole the bullet made on the chopped salvia trunk propped on a stool. A soft sigh flitted off her lips. She still had the aim. Here she thought she had lost it after months of not handling a rifle. But the calibration needed tweaking, that's for certain.

"Pass me the driver, please," she said aloud before it registered they probably had no idea what a driver was. Ilphas was the one who answered by giving her the correct tool. She cocked her eyebrows. How did he figure it out? "Thanks," she said, ducking back to her work to avoid the triumphant shade of his smile. Such a know-it-all.

She stuck the driver's tip into the inner workings of the chamber and adjusted the strings and other mechanisms that replaced the bullets loaded in the barrel. She had to reduce that annoying lag between clicking the trigger and spurring the bullet out of the muzzle and into the target. Such differences in timing could mean life or death on the battlefield.

Save for the clicking noises Nelnifa made from maintenance work on the weapons, the Marshals were strangely quiet. Ever since they made it back from the Oraytan fortress, she waited for one of them to grill her with questions about everything, but none of them did. Not even her father, who must be feeling as if he had missed out on his eldest daughter's life...or lives, for that matter.

"Come here for a second," she gestured at the Marshals who perked up with her attention on them. None of them stepped up, all four elbowing each other, thinking she couldn't see them do it. "Nothing to fear. It's just a little demonstration on how to use a rifle."

Finally, Ilphas stepped forward. Laie's playful smirk burned by her periphery, but she pretended it didn't bother her. She climbed out of the stool she sat on and held the rifle out in the space between them. "Stand beside me," she instructed and Ilphas couldn't have followed that fast. His eyes never strayed from the rifle's parts, but who's to say he wasn't sneaking a glance at her face every now and then? "This is how you set it up."

With practiced moves, she shut the chamber, replaced the bullet slotted in the barrel, and propped it level to her shoulder. "Let's practice your stance," she said, handing the rifle to Ilphas who held it as if it's made of gooey clay. A chuckle ripped from her throat despite her strict inhibition. "Relax. It's not going to go off if you don't pull the trigger."

She positioned his hands on the rifle and fixed the angles of his arms, awfully aware of where and how she touched him. Laie and the other Marshals must be having the time of their lives with glee while her father stood in graphic horror. "Stop tensing your shoulders," she chided, forcing Ilphas' hackles to ease down with a touch. "Now, train your eyes along the muzzle—that end bit there, yeah."

"Once you have secured your natural aim, try pointing the muzzle towards your target, doesn't matter where," Nelnifa continued, running her hands down the length of the muzzle and pointing it towards the spare salvia trunk she pilfered from the timber people yesterday. "Then, place your finger in the trigger here. Yeah. That's good. Fire."

A fat explosion rang across the tent. The salvia trunk remained untouched. Instead, a charred circle sat on the compact soil next to the stool. "Not bad for a first try," Nelnifa patted his shoulder. She couldn't even fire it without containing the recoil on her first shot. She turned to the Marshals whose eyes started glinting in awe. "Anyone else?"

Laie raised her hand and skipped to Nelnifa's side. She was about to give it to the Marshal when a different kind of explosion shook the ground, if not the entire mountain. A curse flitted out of her lips, and she shoved the rifle into Laie's hands. "Take care of those!" she called on her way out of the tent. "We're under fire!"

They snapped to attention, scattering around the command tent, shoving files and other hand-held supplies into satchels, crates, and wheeled carts. "I'll meet you in the next camp," she said. "Take everyone. I'll catch up."

She burst out of the tent to see streaks of spells rain from the sky, clearing a way past the canopies. Water sprites zipped around in panic, narrowly avoiding the collisions with the fiery spells. From the distance, with arms raised with wicked intentions, people clad in black rushed towards the camp.

They've been discovered.

A rush of pink hair burned in Nelnifa's periphery. She reached out, and her hand closed around Kethat's arm. "Nifa!" her friend huffed in surprise. "What's going on? How did they find us?"

"Magic, probably. I don't know," Nelnifa answered, stilling her friend by gripping her shoulders. "Listen to me, Ketha. Round everyone up and run for the forest. I'll keep them off your heels. Remember to avoid the traps."

Ketha bit her lip but nodded. "I will," she said. "You're coming back to us, right?"

Nelnifa could only grin. "No promises."

Then, she turned to the source of their troubles and met them head on.

Her magic hummed to the surface, churning in disturbed waves underneath her skin. When she whirled, blades of water bled from her fingertips and arced across the first line of black that made it past the circle of the undergrowth. Blood splattered in wet splotches. They wouldn't die. Not when she used her magic.

She whipped her dagger from her belt, tackling the first soldier who survived from her initial attack. Sparks rained on her with the violent twang of an opposing blade. She shoved the enemy forward, making him lose his footing. Then, she struck once. Twice. The soldier fell to the ground and gave his last groan before falling silent.

Good riddance.

She raised her hand in the air, a wall of water forming overhead. Spells from the canopies slammed into it. Instead of dissipating, they sank into the carpet of malleable liquid, still blazing. With a mighty sweep, she hurled the wall and the absorbed spells back to where they came from. Fire and water melted into a hissing explosion of steam as they collided with the branches. Several forms fell screaming to the ground, their spent magic barely saving them from breaking their backs and limbs. She whipped the spare flintlock she stuck to her belt and aimed.

Two shots. Three. Four. There, by the trunks. Five.

The chamber emptied. Cursing, Nelnifa stuck the flintlock behind her again. A streak of silver slashed in the air, aiming for her neck. She raised her dagger too late. It pierced through her personal space. Then, the trajectory changed, followed by the pained gasp and the shower of blood flying in the air behind her attacker. She sidestepped the falling form to reveal Ilphas shaking the dripping blood off his blade.

"Don't leave us out of the fun like that, Princess," he grinned. "It isn't fair."

Nelnifa chucked her dagger to the right where it buried itself into the chest of another attacking soldier. "The world isn't fair, Marshal," she said, before launching herself to the renewing front lines coming up from the incline of the mountain.

All around her, the four remaining Marshals clashed against the tempest of spells and blades with experienced flair. Water turned to steam, to ice, and to a bloody ink, weaving past scampering boots and flailing limbs.

Nelnifa turned to her own battle. Spikes of water hardened mid-air, skewering the clambering forms and driving them back down the slope. She withdrew her hand when a stabbing pain speared through her side. It's a message. These were her people, but at the same time, they didn't feel like it. If they were still water sprites, they wouldn't scale Zoriago with the aim to take down their own kin. But was killing her kin the answer to ending this war?

It's not.

"Marshals!" she raised her voice into the air, praying to the gods it carried past all the noise. "Retreat! Let's meet at the camp."

Nelnifa stepped backward, leading the enemy to what they believed to be a stadian mine amidst the expanse of sand. The Marshals took to the trees, swinging and cutting branches with nothing but arcs of water. It's part of the plan—to make their pursuers think Nelnifa was trying to get rid of them to avoid being followed back to the camp.

A ghost of a smile played on the corners of Nelnifa's lips. The traps have been set. They only need something to fall into it.

The forest flitted past them in a blur of green, yellow, and red. Spells never stopped raining, and Nelnifa swerved behind trunks and thorny bushes to avoid them. Cuts and bruises peppered her exposed skin, but she paid it no mind. It'd heal. Everything would, if she didn't meet Pidmena somewhere along the way. She craned her neck to the sky and found a thick veil of leaves and branches. The ocean had never been so far away, the sandy scratch of the air being replaced by the crisp and smooth breeze ripping through the forest.

The surroundings became familiar, so she swerved a final time, leading the thickening sea of black behind her straight into a wall of spindly vines. Closer. Closer. A spell whizzed behind her, locked into a spot on her back. She pumped her legs, jumping at the last second for the lone vine hanging from a sturdy branch. Her fingers wrapped around the rough and woody surface, propelling her across the leafy ravine. The momentum drove her hair off her forehead, making it flutter against the wind as she sailed across.

Their pursuers weren't so lucky. They punched through the leafy wall and tumbled head first into the hungry pit of carquet flowers.

Nelnifa pulled herself up the vine as she watched the Cardovians, some of them had been water sprites, succumbed to the burning white threads of the carnivorous flowers. The screams weren't something she would forget soon.