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Safety.
I’ve always wanted to feel safe. To be rid of the fear I feel every time I step outdoors. Whenever I’m surrounded by people. It’s an internal struggle that no amount of magic could ever cure.But the physical and very overwhelming threats in the citycanbe dealt with.
So I pour that deepest and truest desire of mine into the iron, mix it with all the pain I’m already feeling. I put everything I am into the magic.
I feel a pulse of heat so strong that it sends me flailing onto my back, my eyes temporarily blinded by the white light.
When I can see again, I feel curiously empty inside.
No fear. No panic. No pain.
But also no joy. No triumph. No relief.
The magic took everything from me and put it into the iron.
The smoke in the mine becomes too thick for Temra and I to withstand much longer. Temra doesn’t speak, though she sheathes her shortsword and takes my hand. After retrieving Echo from Kymora, I slip both hammers back into my belt.
We bolt for the exit, coughing and clinging to each other the whole way. Temra is weakened from the fighting and the running and the smoke inhalation. I feel like I could run for days and never stop, despite the smoke affecting my lungs.
With every step, I can feel the pulsing flow of magic around me. The same way I’m aware of all the weapons I’ve made. But this last magic was cast on no singular weapon. I cast it on the veins of ore in the mine, which connect to the whole of the mountain. To the deposits beneath the city.
After all, when I heat the tip of a blade, am I not still capable of magicking the whole sword?
I’ve magicked all of Lirasu.
We find the warlord’s men gathered at the base of the mountain, near the city’s edge, just beneath where the second wave of fighting took place. Our soldiers are there with them, bound on the ground, kneeling, weapons removed.
Prince Skiro sits cross-legged next to the princess. Serutha is there, too. To the average onlooker, she appears to be applying pressure to Marossa’s wound. I know better. She’s magicking it where none can tell. She hid in the city for the fight, but I’m sure the wounds of the dying called to her, encouraged her to make an appearance even though we’ve lost.
It’s not long before Temra and I are spotted by Kymora’s soldiers. They eye us carefully; some even put their hands on their sword hilts.
I see a pile of weapons near the warlord’s horse. She likely wanted them all gathered so she could sift through for the magical ones.
While I process everything around us, Temra says to the group before us, “The warlord is dead. You’ll find her body in the mine.”
“Thank the Twins,” Skiro says. He stands.
“Back on your knees, Prince,” a woman out of sight says. Skiro glares at her before kneeling on the ground again. She steps forward.
It’s Elany. “If Kymora is truly dead, then we, her loyal followers, will take things from here. Starting with the executions of the prince and princess.”
A few soldiers detach from the rest and approach the royal siblings, but as they bend down to grip them with their hands, they pause.
One of the guards squints, adjusts position slightly, tries to reach for the prince again.
“What are you doing?” Elany asks of them. “Grab them.”
“They can’t,” I say, my mind still devoid of all emotion. Talking to Elany now has no effect on me. My anxiety is absent. “You cannot wrong another human in the boundaries of Lirasu. This is a safe haven. Magically protected.”
Elany scoffs, draws a bastard sword, and strides for me. Temra tenses at my side, but I hold her in place with a raised hand. Elany raises her sword to strike.
And it meets invisible resistance in the air.
She tries again. Again. Again.
I wish I could feel pride at what I’m seeing, but still there is nothing within me but clarity. I poured a lifetime of anxiety—which was brought to unbearable levels by all Kymora put me through—into that iron.
That magic will hold forever.
