2412, Strilaxis 14, Daleth

Marin raised her arms, keeping Kymalin in her periphery. The banshee was known for her violent twirls, and those needle-thin daggers she used were a pain to deal with. It wasn't even a full month since Marin joined, and she's already getting pounded well. Maybe at the end of it, she'd be nothing but a jar of fine Marin particles.

A blur of blue and black zipped from the left, and Marin angled her dagger to intercept it. Her side erupted in pain as Kymalin's knee slammed into her ribs. She stumbled back, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. Her skin came away red. Oh, that's going to bruise later.

What was Kymalin's problem? It's not Marin's fault the mission a few days ago was a bust. Reeca, that elusive varichria with a ton of tricks up her sleeve, was more elusive than Marin's wish to the Heiress. What was Kymalin's issue with Marin, the one who succeeded in actually hurting the varichria where it mattered and snatched some interesting prizes along the way?

Oh, right. Kymalin, being a Magistrate more bent to the Heiress' will than what she's comfortable with, would get her lecture later. A punishment would be expected, but it wasn't an excuse to treat Marin like a punching bag though. Kymalin failed on her own accord. Marin had nothing to do with it.

She had to do better than this to make Kymalin realize she's not merely a trainee. Most recruits sent to the field returned worse for wear, much to the Heiress' and the Magistrates' chagrin. But Marin...

Marin found Reeca in Depandes, leagues away from where Kymalin lost the varichria in Lifver. Marin chased the witch down and cornered her in the Alkaran palace. Most importantly, Marin obtained a strange gadget, figured out what it did, and used it to give the brownies the handicap the Heiress had been aiming to inflict someday. It was Marin who read the Heiress' wish and fulfilled it weeks and months earlier than what was thought possible.

She's better than some sand-filled pouch meant to take punches of frustrated superiors.

Kymalin lunged again, twin blades slamming against Marin's lone dagger. Marin's feet made trenches against the simulated grass covering the training field. She gritted her teeth, peripheries in alert. A kick would come sooner or later. It's always like that with the banshee priestess. It's only a matter of time now...

The banshee reared her head back, braids flicking at the edge of Marin's vision, before slamming her forehead against Marin's. Her vision doubled. Tripled. Rudik's breeches. Marin growled, twisting her blade to wrench out of Kymalin's lock. She ducked low, slashing her blade against the banshee's knees. Kymalin leaped out.

Gold whizzed from the sky, streaking for Marin. She fell down, her free hand wrapping around Kymalin's ankles. She pulled. A loud yelp rang in the plain as the banshee slammed chin-first into the grass. Marin scrambled for Kymalin's blades. With bared teeth, Kymalin swept her arm in a wide arc, a closed fist hitting Marin square in the jaw.

Her rear hit the ground, her dagger skidding elsewhere. No. Not yet. She dove towards it, but a dark boot speared into her periphery. She swerved out of the way, in time for its tip to slam into the dagger, sending it flying to a place Marin couldn't reach in time. Didn't mean she wouldn't try. She turned towards it, wrists digging into the compact soil, ready to haul her weight off the ground in the fastest four-limbed marathon she'd ever run.

Instead, a cold weight pressed at the base of her chin, stopping her dead.

Slowly, her eyes traveled from the golden tip pressing against her skin towards the black-clad arm holding it before settling on the familiar features of Kymalin Iaro.

"Time's up, kid," the banshee said. Deep inside, Marin relished on the breathy words and the heaves of Kymalin's chest. Marin made the banshee work her way towards winning, and that alone should be enough to wipe off that smug smile off Kymalin's lips. "Don't provoke me. I'm already pissed enough."

Marin answered by slapping Kymalin's golden blade off her. It wouldn't matter if it left a trail of blood across her throat. It'd heal. They weren't using Dwarven metal for training. "What? The Heiress chewed you out?" she retorted, straightening and retrieving her dagger in case the banshee was that cranky. "It's not my fault. Don't take it out on me."

Kymalin averted her eyes, lowering her blades. The tapered tips remained free of blood save for the imperceptible trace drowned by the sunlight. It's a huge improvement from Marin's first day. "You didn't have to take those shadows," she said. "That's beyond cruel."

Marin's memory flashed to the maximizer—as the brownie prince called it—in her pocket. She brought it everywhere she went, the merchant's words ringing at the back of her head. Trust no one. When she figured out how it worked, she thought of the easiest thing to take from someone's soul.

She had spent a good while learning about it, and she settled on the shadow. It's everything one has been—their pasts, memories, and personality. Without it, a soul would live a bit longer. It wasn't being cruel. It was genius. Marin had discovered how to hurt the enemy without actually hurting them.

Besides, who was Kymalin to start talking about cruelty? The banshee manipulated Reeca into supplying her the recent designs of flintlocks before stealing the models and forcing the mechanics team to mass-produce it. She even went as far as to encourage them to develop it, to upgrade it, and it brought forth inventions like the rifle and the cannons. If Marin was to be asked, Kymalin was worse off.

The banshee was also part of the reason Marin was out here, waging a war she fought without any weapon. As she thought about it, one thing became clear: Kymalin Iaro played a part in Jarvik Draswist's death. So did Reeca. Xanthy wasn't the sole perpetrator.

Marin should never let herself forget that.

"Are you developing a heart now?" Marin snapped, sheathing her blade on the empty spot on her belt. "Last I checked, you're the one who turned your mother's army against her."

A sardonic laugh bubbled up Marin's throat. "And cruel?" She waved a hand in the air in disbelief. "Do you have the guts to say that because you're a banshee? That you understand souls more than I do?"

"Well, I don't care," Marin fired, bracing her hips. "Leave me alone. I'll please Peredeira more than you will. And if you care about souls so much, go back to Carleon."

A stinging pain ripped across Marin's cheek. With slowness to rival a komodec, she touched the searing trail on her skin. Her fingertips came away slick with warm blood. Instead of fear, amusement rippled across her chest. In an alternate world, Marin would have curled in on herself out of fear or bolted across the field to save her skin.

This time, though, she stood her ground. Oh, she knew what to say, and she could say it in a way it'd hurt. And it'd better hurt good.

"Get out of my sight," Kymalin hissed, fist clenching around her remaining golden blade.

Marin bowed with as much venom as she could. "Much obliged," she said. On her way, she dug her toes against Kymalin's fallen blade—the one used to draw her blood—and kicked backwards. She raised an arm and waved without turning around with as much as a glance over the shoulder. "Diante."

Kymalin didn't follow her. As she should, because Magistrate Ventora's servant strutted towards her, no doubt bearing a message from the master of information. And with just a nod from the boy, Marin got the idea.

The Heiress was asking for her.

When the tent flap flew open and revealed the woman still behind her desk, Marin ducked her head in reverence. She learned through observation to keep her face as relaxed and passive as possible to keep her thoughts from spilling into her expressions. The Heiress couldn't read minds if one didn't let her. The woman was just good at reading the slightest hints in a person's gait, even the unconscious and involuntary.

"Peredeira." Marin approached the desk, remaining the constant three paces distance. "You called?"

The Heiress tilted her head to one side. "Are you aware of our recent efforts in Carleon?" she asked.

Who wasn't? That's the real question. After Kymalin's success in stealing the Necrom from the High Priestess' nose, everyone talked about the possibility of going to war with the banshees. The news set the camp abuzz, and Marin just got the worst end of it. Ilya would spend all night ranting about how to best decapitate a banshee.

"If we're going to make those necros fight each other, might as well join in on the fun, right?" Ilya asked, and Marin could only agree. Even if she didn't admit it, her nature fairy tentmate was as deranged as Kymalin.

"I am, Heiress," Marin said aloud before her thoughts flit off to paradise. "Do you require my help on that front?"

Another twinkle shone in the Heiress' eyes. Marin seemed to be getting better at making it come out. "Indeed, I do," the Heiress replied. "I need you to do spy work on the Temple of Souls. Bring back important data, such as entry and exit points, patrol and security systems, and any traps waiting for our people. Include all their hidden magic. Everything."

Marin bowed again. "As you wish," she said. "I'll depart at the earliest instance."

She turned to go but the Heiress gasped. "Oh, before I forget," she wagged a finger in Marin's direction. "I need you to get another thing for me."

Marin pivoted a bit, facing the Heiress with her other foot pointed towards the door. "Is it in the Temple?" she asked. "What is it?"

The Heiress' lips pulled into a manic grin. "The Soul Spells," she replied. "And if you succeed..."

Marin's breath locked in her throat as the next words left the Heiress' lips. "We might even get a more direct way of getting your wish fulfilled."

Oh, the hunt was on. And Marin would bring home victory just as she did for the entirety of her stay in Cardovia.

Just for her to have a family again.