2412, Diori 20, Reshpe

Marin whipped, her blades glinting with the sunlight beating down on her back. Blood splattered in the air, but it wasn't because of her daggers. All around her, screams of defiance and pain mixed into an untainted chorus, ringing in Marin's ears minutes after she heard it.

The walls of the Penleth fortress floundered with activity, with archers scrambling to fill every gap in the battlements. Cardovic and Synketrian soldiers rammed against those whom Xanthy and Reeca rallied behind their walls. Overhead, the vast shadow of the floating island the Heiress commissioned out of the blue cast a looming darkness all over the battlefield.

Explosions were the music of this havoc, and Marin did her best to steer clear of the lines of fire from both sides. Black clad soldiers flitted out of her way, seeing the dwarven metal weapons in her hands. Marin narrowed her eyes and lashed out. Her blade sank into the shoulder of a Synketrian. He went down, stumbling to the ground with a shriek of pain and confusion. She yanked her blade out and slashed a wide arc at a Synketrian who saw the action and rushed to help or to persecute her. The soldier toppled to the floor too.

They both writhed, struggling to pick themselves up. Marin slammed both their heads on the ground. "Stand down," she hissed under her breath. "Those in Penleth will rescue you, regardless of your allegiance. Go there. Save yourselves. You don't need to die."

The soldiers bobbed their heads, their expressions betraying some kind of relief washing over their system. "Pretend to be unconscious," she added. "I'll be in the battlements."

Before she saw if they followed her advice, she dashed straight into the thick of the battle, which was at the foot of the walls. Her blades streaked silver trails in the air, hurting but never killing. Every time, she repeated the same words—telling them to stay down, play dead, and wait for the people of Penleth to get them. There, they would have a choice whether to lay down their arms, go back to the Heiress and the Sovereign's stupid war, or join the resistance and fight for something that mattered.

No one disobeyed her. Everyone saw the reality of this battle and the effects it would bring, not just to their lives, but to the people around them. They might have loved ones they fought to protect, yet they were here, tearing others' loved ones from them. It's the same cycle of taking and hurting, of violence and bloodshed.

If she wouldn't stop it now, who would?

Shots from rifles rang in the air, followed by the stringent strings of curses of the soldiers who bore them. A malicious smile curled across Marin's lips. Last night's efforts paid off. The mechanisms were all off, and the bullets didn't contain a hint of odian. It wouldn't spark. Not in a million years. The chopped oshella she loaded the cartridge with would make sure of that.

On her way to teleport up the battlements, she sent darts and blades across her comrades' ankles, sending them to the ground and delaying a fraction of the attacks mounting closer to the walls.

But she was only one soul. The Heiress didn't even care if she lost a few soldiers to Penleth today. Not a mention of Marin's contributions would end up in the battle logs. To the commanders, the Magistrates, and the generals, they were just numbers to be collated and data to be presented.

And then, the battle would start anew tomorrow. As long as Xanthy and everyone behind that fortress continued fighting, as long as the Heiress and the Sovereign had hopes of getting their hands on the Virtakios, the fighting would never stop.

Even if the ground bled crimson, the war would go on.

That's what went on across Marin's head as she joined countless soldiers back to the camp beneath the floating island's shadow. Tents bearing both the Sovereign and the Heiress' soldiers littered the expanse closer to Penleth's borders. A little more, and what's left of Alkara would be at reach. With the territory still under the Sovereign's jurisdiction, they have every power to continue supplying weapons and supplies to the camp in Penleth. If Xanthy and the others could target those import outposts first, then they'd have a chance.

But as it was, they were spread too thin just by defending the fortress. What's supposed to be their protection became their cage. If this dragged out, their enemies would just keep getting stronger, and them, weaker.

When that happened, what would become of Marin? Of Umazure? Whether she liked it or not, she had nowhere to go save for this chunk of land in the middle of the Sea of Sirens. If it crumbles down, where would her soul go? Would Pidmena be there to welcome her?

She didn't need to hide it—the thought scared her. As much as she wanted to be with her father, going there herself wasn't something she's in a hurry to experience. She's just thirteen. That's too short, even by human standards.

She's got a lifetime to live, and she might not get to, along with thousands, if not millions, of other souls like her.

Sitting in the shade of the moonslight, she craned her neck to the sky. Past the glinting stars lay a world out there, a world they should treasure and protect. A world...where blood should never be shed without justice.

She knew a different truth now. Cardovia was not her ally. It wasn't her master either. The organization was nothing but a hateful bully.

The Heiress was nothing but a monster.

And for Marin to strike a tree dead, she wouldn't burn a bunch of leaves or cut branches off; she had to go straight to the root. Even if it killed her.

2412, Diori 22, Velpa

The camp flared up with activity, each soul up to their own thing. Marin sat inside her tent, running everything through her head. It's easy to plunge a dagger into the Heiress' back when she wasn't looking, but what's hard was to find the perfect time when she was not.

In the months of working for Cardovia, Marin observed the Heiress to have some sort of omnipotence on the things she deemed necessary. She could figure out the location of the Virtakios at any given moment, sort out kinks in a plan to take over a territory, and even be all around the command center high up there, while having been absorbed in battle for the whole day. But, the Heiress blanked out on the number of soldiers that were killed and taken into Penleth on any given day. She didn't know how many bullets it took to bring down a specific soldier on the battlefield. She couldn't be certain that it wass Marin who had been tripping her comrades in the plain, sending them to Penleth's refuge in the only way she knew how.

Marin only had the smallest faith she could muster—one that told her the Heiress didn't know a traitor was in their midst.

Perhaps, Marin could catch the Heiress in a vulnerable time. The woman seemed to trust Marin enough to have looked for her at the first chance of not feeling the Virtakios' presence. She didn't object when Marin proposed going to Dwanzeig at her behest, just to look for the chalice. Moreover, the Heiress answered questions she wouldn't ever when it was Marin who asked them.

Another shred of the plan was to brew the deadliest potion to ever exist in Umazure, serve it up on a glass of Mirasatra, and have the Heiress drink it. Maybe Xyth's Bane would do. That was, if she could get her hands on some meridis ore and steal the ingredients from the neighboring camp.

It's not a sustainable plan because it involves many spots of discovery, and Marin couldn't afford her only chance to be ripped from her by some nosy snitch. She could use Aera and Valri, but it's like doing the same thing the Heiress did. Marin would be playing with lives, gambling them as if she's the one who made them happen.

Well, she'd stick to the assassination route. But...how? Cardovia taught her a ton of ways to kill a grown fairy (or human) without them feeling any pain. Was it evil of her to wish the harshest and most painful death on the Heiress? For all the lives she destroyed, may she feel every single one of them. A painless and quick death was not a mercy she deserved.

But who was Marin to dictate which fate got handed out to who? Even Xanthy wasn't that powerful.

She gritted her teeth, hands gripping the hilt of the dagger made of Dwarven metal. Using it would be a fitting end—killed by her own weapon. Now that's a story. And the plan? Marin would just wing it. Even though every synapse in her mind told her she shouldn't. This was the Heiress they were talking about. The same woman who built a fripping floating island out of nothing. While she hasn't shown everything she could do, Marin had no qualms about her power. Simmering under the professional facade was an insane warmth that trumped every soul in Umazure save for the Sovereign and the Virtakios. Marin didn't need to descend into the trail dimension to see that.

How could a mere girl like her make that much of a difference?

Well, whatever. She crawled out of the tent, sticking her dagger into her belt. Figure it out when one got there—it's another proverb her father made up. It's not the best advice to give to a dirt-poor child in search of a way to revive him, but Marin would be happy with just about any shred of wisdom even if it's wrong and not for this context.

Her boots brushed debris off the compact soil on her way to linger near the command tent. The Heiress was most likely in the other command center just before they went to battle later today. Marin would have to figure out how to climb up to the floating island without any fleck of feathers.

Easy. She could just teleport through the shadows and alert everyone up there with her magic usage.

Figure it out when she gets there. That's the mantra. She exhaled, releasing the tension gripping her muscles. It's just scouting. Maybe she wouldn't do it today, but she'd certainly do it later. Tomorrow? She could always reschedule until she couldn't.

She shook her head, no doubt looking like a mad woman to anyone who watched her. It had to be now, before the Heiress and the Sovereign got to put more lives on the line. Before any of them perished under the oppressive hand of war.

A hand clamped on her shoulder, its grip hard. What the—

By instinct, she lashed out, hooking her leg around her attacker's calf. She pulled, sending them crashing to the ground, chin-first. Male, judging from the grunt muffled by the soil. She was about to ignore him and keep walking, when he rolled over and did the same thing. Her world whirled with the explosion of pain behind her leg. This witch—

His hand closed around her arm, and before she hit the ground, she felt herself being whirled and shoved into an empty tent in the middle of the camp. When she shifted her scattered hair off her eyes, she came face-to-face with a man with dark brown hair, plain features, and quite a tall physique. He towered over her, his form covered in the blandest combination of clothes—one Marin had seen far too many times in Cardina. His gait was something Marin had seen before, making her teeter between the edge of knowing him and not knowing him.

"What in Rudik's ass?" she demanded. "Who are you?"

The man extended a hand towards her. "Marthiaq Lebayou," he said. "Dwanzeig Espionage Division."

Marin didn't need to go to the trail dimension to tell what he was. "You're a brownie," she said, a question so far from her tone. "What are you doing in Dwanzeig?"

"Not important," Marthiaq waved a hand in the air between them. With him looming over her, they looked like father and daughter, the former telling the latter off. "I came here for another thing, but I didn't expect to find you. I must ask—what are you planning to do?"

Marin narrowed her eyes. "What's it to you?" She crossed her arms over her chest and straightened her back. Might make herself look taller. He couldn't dominate the conversation just by his height. "I can be working for the Heiress, intending to k—I mean, see what the next order is."

"You're not even a magistrate," the man scoffed. "You're here to eliminate her, right?"

Silence.

Marin clenched her jaw before raising her gaze to the man's. "What if I am?" she said. "Who are you to stop me?"

"Someone who knows better than to let you do it," Marthiaq answered. A different melancholy laced around his tone, something Marin couldn't place. "I have a debt I have to repay, and your father will not have you gallivanting around, going into trials you're not ready to face."

"Are you going to eliminate her, then?" Marin snapped. "Because I don't see any other way of getting out of this war without dying."

Then, it registered. Her arms loosened over her chest. "Wait. Did you mention my father?"

"Jarvik Draswist, correct?" Marthiaq said. "We have been good friends since our Academy days."

"And what debt is it?" Marin ventured.

A dark cloud passed across the brownie's face. "That I'd watch over his children should he perish while doing what we failed in doing," he said.

Marin jerked her chin at him like the petulant child she was. "You know I'd ask what this thing that's so important was."

"Protecting the Virtakios," Marthiaq revealed.

Oh, great. Another facet of her father's life that she had no idea. He knew something about Xanthy and what happened to her. Maybe he had stayed in Cardina all his life not to protect his children but to watch over Xanthy. It's always Xanthy, Xanthy, Xanthy. And now, his friend was saying he went to the Academy of Magical Arts—the most prestigious school in the island, met some friends there—friends who happened to be spies, and was now involved in some age-old conflict involving the Heiress and the Sovereign?

Unbelievable. How much of her father's life had she not known? Moreover, did she even know her father at all?

"Tell me one thing," Marin said. "How far would you go to bring him back?"

Marthiaq's eyes glossed over, as if he's processing everything riding with that set of words. Finally, he sighed. His stance deflated a little, making him not seem so tall anymore. "I wouldn't," he answered. "Bring him back, I mean."

"But—"

He raised a hand, stopping Marin in her tracks. "It is not our place to determine who lives and who dies. That's fate, and if fate dictates when and how we should lose people, then who are we to stop it?"

"So, that's it, then?" Marin argued. "Just plain acceptance? You haven't stopped to consider that, maybe, you haven't said goodbye to your friend, or that his daughter—the one who needed him the most in this time of war—might be looking for him and not finding him? How am I supposed to accept that?"

"Regrets are a fairy's only companion to the grave," Marthiaq said. "I regret not arriving in time before Erin clicked the trigger. I regret ever leaving Cardina. Believe me when I say I regret asking Jarvik to take on the role after Airlene died. I just...couldn't do it. Blame it on me. It's my fault things turned out the way they did."

Marin stepped backwards, faltering at the sight of a grown man crumbling down in front of her. If this was life—just a pile of heartache on top of another—would it be better to just let the Heiress destroy everything?

"But I wouldn't bring him back, even if I can," Marthiaq said. "The beauty of life was that we are a sum of our victories and our mistakes. That's why I can accept what fate had dictated, even if it was a damned lot unfair. And it's something you have to learn in your lifetime. No one can teach you that. Not even your father."

Marin averted her gaze, burning a hole into the ground between their boots instead. "Then, what are you here for?" she asked. "It can't be to get me out of this road. I chose to be here, and now, I can't get out without laying my own sacrifices. And what for? I didn't even want to do some magic hula to get him back. I just...want the memories. The good times."

"And they will always be there. In your heart. Your memories," Marthiaq said. A much gentler hand rested on Marin's shoulder. "Turn back now. Perhaps fate has something more in store for you. But I won't let you throw yourself into the fire just because you thought you had to correct things the way you know how."

"Isn't that going against fate?" Marin asked. "What if my destiny is to kill the Heiress or die trying?"

Marthiaq winked. "Then, it's better we don't know what lies ahead, isn't it?" He gave her shoulder a light pat. "That way, we can still make the choices we would. We can still write our stories the way we wanted to."

He moved towards the tent flap, one spelling the exit. "Where are you going?" Marin asked.

Marthiaq smiled. "To write my ending," he said.

Before Marin could say anything more, she was alone in the tent—as if he had never been there.