2412, Iclis 18, Briss

Malin tramped across the corridors, gunning for the library once again. As soon as his magic and form recovered enough to support his weight, he stumbled towards the familiar abode and gathered everything he could about barriers and militia spells. He had gotten to half after pulling an all-nighter, and if not for Master Leneris finding him and dragging him by force back to his room, Malin would have finished this stack already.

Ymbril was right about him not knowing enough about the world he lived in and the circumstances he found himself in. Hexen has turned her face away when they snuck into the Temple. She might not do it again the second time. That's why he has to cram all this knowledge into his head. It's not because of a test from the Masters coming up at the end of the week; it's because hundreds of lives would be at stake if he didn't find another way to maintain the barrier without putting the High Priestess' soul as a gamble.

Sometimes, he had this uncontrollable desire to go back to when times were simpler, when he only had to study because he wanted to and not because he had a ticking timeteller held over his head and lives to lose.

Growing up sucked that way.

He flipped through the next pages and skimmed through the contents. Barriers were types of militia magic used to protect a huge area against strong outward attacks. That's common knowledge. These protective spells could be scaled from city-wide covers to personal covers. A memory flashed in his head. He was sure he'd seen Xanthy use a Cover spell more than once. They belonged to the same branch of spells? Cool.

Barriers could be from maxia, escuira, or rysteme, with varying strength, duration, and magic usage. To find out which one Ymbril maintained...

Another tome answered that question. The High Priestess was using an advanced form of barrier spell and she confirmed it herself. An anti-magic barrier—made from combining two advanced-level escuira spells to cut out magic from the outside and use said magic to fuel those on the inside. The catch? Everyone aside from the caster would benefit from the absorbed magic.

Which meant...

Malin had enough reserves now. Maybe he and Ymbril could take turns maintaining the spell. How about the transfer clause? His fingers turned frantic as they traced line after line of research findings and magical procedures. One claimed transfer was possible, but it didn't tell him how. Magic, despite it being the cornerstone of their existence, was as arcane as the midnight sky.

Maybe he would propose the idea to Ymbril and they could go from there. They also needed to think of another way to get the Civil Guards and Synketros off their hairs. Defense wasn't a good tactic to adopt forever. While Synketros was a bully, it also didn't have a stock of patience to humor something it had the capacity to crush like a bug.

He rushed out of the library and found his way towards the altar where he figured the High Priestess carried out her emergency operations. It's used for all kinds of ceremonies and official correspondences. It's Malin's best shot at finding Ymbril.

Dust fluttered to the air when Malin dashed past the velvet rugs lining the corridors. The cleaners' efforts were wasted quickly. He coughed into the crook of his arm, pressing his nose against his sleeve. He didn't want to be sniffing before the High Priestess. His chest heaved with muffled breaths when he made it to the altar's back door. Beyond this room was the Temple's lobby, then the stairs. At the foot of those stairs were the Civil Guards.

Malin threw the door open and burst inside. Ymbril was there, standing in the middle of the room with her back to him. The Civil Guards were there too, but something was different. Today, their rifles were pointed to the sky, silver muzzles glinting against the early sunlight. Malin's gut turned. What had been the reason why they hadn't used those weapons from the start? Why resort to magical ammunition first, knowing the type of barrier Ymbril used against them?

Unless...

The rifles fired, one exploding shot after the other. Bullets whizzed towards the barrier. Instead of being deflected, their pointed cases touched the barrier and stayed there, slowly burning hole after hole in it. Like little pieces of circular flames, they ate away at the barrier. It'd only be a matter of time before they finished their meal in its entirety. Malin rushed forward. "Ymbril!"

The High Priestess' arms shot to the sky. She didn't appear to hear him. Magic streaked through the air, raising the temperature to an electrifying degree. Malin's gut wrenched, seeing the green veil in the sky flicker against the silver dots. That's Dwarven metal. They existed to feed off Umazuran magic. Nothing keijuis produced could fight against them. That's the harshest lesson everyone had to face eventually.

"Ymbril, stop!" Malin reached for the High Priestess' shoulder and yanked her backwards.

She seemed to break out of her trance to whirl towards him. "Malin! Do not distract me!" she hissed. Her magic rushed to the surface once more, burning a hole in the air between her and Malin. The barrier glitched and sparked.

Tears stung at the corners of Malin's eyes. No. She had no right to make him promise something she had been doing herself. Even if she was called for this, sacrificing oneself to save others wasn't the proper way to greet Pidmena. He wouldn't let it. Especially Ymbril.

He was about to summon his own magic—to force the transfer or to drive off the Civil Guards with one explosion, he didn't know—when the heat broke with a snap. Ymbril was thrown forward, shock registering in her face. He lurched, catching the High Priestess' form before she tumbled down.

"Ymbril!" Malin didn't fight against the tears now, seeing how pale the Priestess' face was as he righted her on his lap. Not like this. Nobody deserved to die like this. He's had enough deaths already. "Hold still. I will heal you."

Weak fingers curled around his arm. Ymbril's lips moved, but no words came out. Malin was about to lean down to attempt to hear her words, but the Temple's frieze burned orange as it met a fiery spell. Ringing burst into Malin's hearing along with the stringent collision up ahead. He hunkered over the High Priestess, squinting through the hazy veil of debris and hissing smoke. Dark figures bearing silver sticks formed and enlarged by the second. Safeties clicked open. Fingers hovered over triggers, waiting only to find their target.

Warmth flooded Malin's veins as his magic flared to the surface. He sent a part of it towards the High Priestess. It was enough to make her stir, open her eyes, and lock gazes with him. "Go," he whispered. "Get up."

Ymbril stole one look at the Civil Guards rushing across the steps. It's only a matter of time before they made it inside the Temple. His hands circled around the Priestess' shoulders, and using all his strength to haul her up, they stumbled towards the inner workings. Ymbril attempted to push him off, to tell him to mind the others or issue one of her damned orders. Nothing of the sort happened when the first line of bullets shot past the barrier and peppered behind them.

Malin pushed the Priestess behind a pew, throwing his arms over his head as empty bullet casings and splinters rained down on them. "Ymbril," he called through the whish of rifle shots overhead. "Are you hurt?"

The Priestess huffed. His last-minute healing worked up to a fault, but she's far from being the best version of herself. "No," she answered, not bothering to look back at him. Even half-dazed and weak, her eyes scanned the bullets' trajectories, tracking where they're going and where they're coming from. "Are you?"

He checked his form for any pain. "No," he replied. "What do we do?"

"We take cover," Ymbril's lips pursed into a line so thin it's just a white mark on her face. "We may have to abandon the building if this gets too much."

That's what the Civil Guards were hoping for. The Temple of Magic has coffers, and Synketros was a house for thugs through and through. It's like flushing out clerets out of their colonies so Synketros could build a house over it. Malin couldn't decide which one was worse—being compared to a mimicking bird or a scampering rodent feasting on scraps.

He couldn't let Synketros have their way. People with no regard for the condition of others shouldn't be the ones in power. His teeth ground against each other. He was about to shoot up when a hand reached out to pull him down.

"What do you think you are doing?" Ymbril hissed.

Malin stared over the pews to find the Civil Guards accompanied by a few black-clad individuals pass through the entrance and sauntered into the altar room with not a drop of reverence. "I am going to defend our Temple," he said. "I can do it."

"I will not burn you in a pyre," Ymbril insisted. "Not today."

He shook his head. "It is not up to us," he said. "But I will not burn you in a pyre today either. It is the last thing I want. That is why I am standing up."

Ymbril looked like she wanted to argue but her grip loosened. That's when the altar room's backdoor slid open and an ear-splitting battlecry rose from the people streaming from it. Malin's eyes widened and his jaw hung partially open as he watched temple workers, still clad in their every day clothes, wearing not a chink of of armor, dash forward with spells and various tools brandished.

"Go and rest," Malin told Ymbril who started swaying upwards. "We will handle it here. It is our turn to protect our home."

This was no time for tears, so Malin clenched his jaw and leaped straight into the battle. The temple workers clashed with the line of Civil Guards and Synketrians. Forms fell to the ground with various thuds. Malin's magic swirled out of his system in bursts of light and sparks, seeking out their targets and carrying out their missions with dizzying speed and strength. In his periphery, he saw a couple of Masters pull at the rugs to trip the enemies over into the waiting shaft of a mop. Feathers from the dusters transformed into deadly darts, digging their quills into exposed necks and backs of hands.

But as they brought down Civil Guards through ingenious ways, the enemies brought down more of their numbers. Malin already saw one blue-coat snap the neck of a man wearing the white robes of a senior priest. Bullets cut down more than the temple workers' magic did. If this continued, they would be obliterated.

Instead of driving the Civil Guards back, Malin and the others were being herded somewhere. A quick glance at the opposing flanks. A circle. They're piercing through the back to trap the temple workers into a circle where they could point their rifles down and feast on spilled blood. Malin cursed. In his periphery, he saw Ymbril's robes slip into a hidden door in the walls.

She's safe. Probably.

The Civil Guards answered by pointing a bigger gun towards said wall and firing a bullet the size of a man's head towards it. The force of the explosion knocked everyone from both sides back, stirring more splinters and debris. A heavy smell of odian settled over the entire room, followed by the faint crackle of tapestry threads snapping and succumbing to flames.

No...

The rest of the Temple's corridors lay in the open. Beyond them were several workers who didn't want to see the battlefield as much as be a part of it. Ymbril had been right. There was nowhere to go but out. But even then, the Nobility region wasn't the least bit safe. Not for outcasts like them.

Synketros has forced them into a corner. And what do creatures do when they're desperate? They bite.

Malin charged forward, straight at the Civil Guards training their weapons at defenseless workers. These were honest people who had been so good to him, never holding back in helping and in making him feel not so alone. He slammed against a blue-coat's back just as a bullet pierced multiple forms beyond him. No!

Blood stained the floors, the walls, and the soles of Malin's boots. Not again. Why was this happening again? Was their existence such a misfortune for them to be chased down wherever they went? It's such a mystery—one Malin wouldn't ever unravel in his lifetime or in the next.

A familiar figure burned in his periphery. He turned to find Ymbril dashing towards the heart of the Temple. At least five Civil Guards have picked her out from the ocean of forms crowding against their forces. They knew who she was. He gritted his teeth and lunged forward, hands ablaze with magic. The spell left his mouth before his hand could slam down. Bright sparks whizzed against his ears, knocking the Civil Guard over with a mad gash against the cheek.

Ymbril turned at the source of the commotion and their gazes locked. A flash of silver from behind, and Malin's hand shot up by instinct, a spell already flying out of it. A blue-coat crumpled to the ground. He picked up his pace, aiming to meet the High Priestess in the middle. They needed a plan, or at least something to get them out of this mess. So many souls have perished already.

Silver flashed in the High Priestess' eyes and Malin turned too late. Wait—

Strong hands gripped his arms and whirled him out of the way. His face pressed against cloth. Ymbril lurched forward, a cry flitting out of her lips. A hand reached up and clutched Malin's head closer to her form like how he dreamed his mother would countless nights before. The smell of odian was heavy behind her, and when his hands slipped from her waist, his fingers came away slick with red.