BANG!

  The thunderous shot of the hunting rifle resounds across the vast desert, followed by the exhalation of the man holding it. Both the barrel and the shooter exhaled the same substance: smoke.

  He looked up at the sky with his red eyes, padded clouds drifting above them.Took a deep breath, letting that pure light wash over him. Still exhaling plumes, he pulled back the bolt to eject the casing from his weapon.

  "I prefer sand over the snow," he exclaimed with a low, gravelly laugh, preparing to aim. "We got more toys hanging around, you know? You don’t have to always use the same ones."

  TRRRRR!!!!

  At his side, the young girl furrowed her brow, tensing her trained shoulders to keep a firm grip on her submachine gun. She didn’t hold the trigger like a madwoman; he had taught her that automatics are fired even in short bursts with microsecond variations. This was to maintain a continuous flow of projectiles, preventing them from scattering due to the recoil pushing against the user.

  She felt her forearms tremble with the shots. She missed that. That tingling sensation one feels, like a drum galloping through your veins, screaming all the way to your fingertips: Do you feel that?! You’re alive!

  She was alive. She really was. Smiling, and sweating a little under the hot sun overhead. Is this what summer feels like? Strange, considering she’d been raised her entire life in frigid climates.

  How many months had it been since she’d fired something? Fireballs at the academy didn’t count. Sure, it was fun to burn dummies, to dominate friendly Arcane Defense duels, to earn the admiration of first-years and the jealousy of fifth-years who could barely form a flaming yoga ball without draining all their mana.

  But pistols? Oh man… that was pure euphoria for her. Every time she went out into the city and saw police officers her gaze immediately dropped to their waists, to the holsters, to the heavy metallic grip that under the reflection of light hypnotized her like a child walking past a candy shop. He knew it better than anyone, since he was the one who taught her to practice at six years old against cans, bricks, and even corpses.

  The magazine dropped at her black boots. The girl reached for another from the table in front of them, she spat out her unlit cigarette in her mouth, the filter damp from her lips falling on the sand.

  "Come on, old man! Nothing beats ‘em," she said with a mischievous smile, giving her tool a small, proud pat. "MP5K, light, effective. Thirty rounds. More than enough."

  She reloaded, and this time emptied the magazine in one go to prove it to him. The targets, and the poor watermelons, took at least two holes each. The man arched an eyebrow, noting the loose aim, silent and holding his rifle across the back of his neck with his shoulders.

  "Short range," he corrected, exhaling smoke. "You’ve lost a bit of practice."

  She let out a small groan, realizing it was true. You forget your own edge when you don’t cut often enough. She spoke with apathetic seriousness, but that was her default tone of voice.

  "Not my fault. Mom doesn’t want me going to a shooting range."

  “Can’t blame her.”

  She placed her weapon on the rack beside them and pulled out two G40 pistols.

  "Too big. You’ll break your wrists if you go akimbo."

  Two M9s. Feralynn turned over her shoulder to seek his approval, and he nodded, satisfied with the wise choice his daughter had made.

  She extended her arms, waited for the practice targets to regenerate, and once the boards were clean she began to fire.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  She smiled, happy to hit ten of them right in the center of the head, and fifteen more in the throat. Blake didn’t take long to join in. He hit the center of the heart of each target with his sniper rifle, the stock having no jarring effect against his burly shoulder.

  A good father-daughter day for the two of them, without a doubt. As uncommon as it might have been.

  "How are your studies going?" he asked while they reloaded.

  They didn’t look directly at each other; they needed this to be able to talk: adrenaline and fire. Especially fire.

  "Good!" she replied, having to shout over the new round of shots she was firing alongside him. "Well, more or less! How bad is it to have a D minus in three subjects?!"

  The gunpowder kept roaring.

  "Only three, are you kidding?! Ha!" Blake laughed loudly. "At your age I got eight retakes!"

  Feralynn let out a small, almost tender giggle, like that of a little girl, even as her hands spat lethal lead.

  "Fucking hell, dad! Eight?! How the fuck did you not repeat the year?!"

  The magazines fell empty.

  "Well, let’s just say I convinced a friend to give me the answers for five final exams."

  Curious, Fer raised an eyebrow.

  "Who, Astera? I doubt you had many friends back then."

  "Ouch, that hurt. But yeah, it was her. Not surprised that nerd ended up as your headmistress."

  Before Fer reloaded the pistol in her left hand, she stopped.

  "What about the other three subjects, how did you pass those?"

  Blake stopped with the barrel ready. He paused before answering, remembering.

  "I robbed a jewelry store and bribed them," he said with the most relaxed casualness in the world. “Saved the rest, got some juicy money at a pawn store.”

  Feralynn snorted through her nose, almost laughing in disbelief.

  "You’re shitting me, right?"

  Her father glanced at her out of the corner of his eye without turning his neck, and only smiled arrogantly before firing. Feralynn looked at him in surprise, then laughed as she emptied the rounds, imagining her dad handing rings and expensive necklaces to the teachers.

  "Are you going to keep using that same old rifle? You whine about my guns, but as long as I can remember you’ve had the same sniper."

  Blake lifted it with one hand like a trophy.

  "M1903. Classics are eternal."

  Feralynn snorted, rolling her eyes at her father’s stubbornness, unaware that she had inherited it completely. Through coexistence, more than genetics.

  "I saw you named our little secret fire spell. What did you call it?"

  Setting the pistols aside, she made the gesture with her thumb and index finger extended toward him.

  "Gun. It’s called Gun."

  “Gun, eh? Sounds cute.” Blake tilted his head, analyzing her. He nodded, feeling proud. "Give it a caliber."

  "What, caliber?" Fer didn’t understand. “It’s not a real gun, you know."

  He copied the gesture, aimed far into the endless sand, and cast the spell.

  Click– BOOOM!!!

  An explosion worthy of an anti-tank missile. Fer whistled in awe, she had forgotten the power of her father’s mana.

  "It’s a pistol. All of them got a caliber."

  The idea lodged itself in her mind. Giving a caliber to her fire bullet, to her signature spell that had earned her curious looks from everyone at school. She looked at her own hand in the gesture. She nodded, sealing the desire to practice when she had the chance.

  "I will."

  They continued. Fer switched weapons. She delighted in shotguns, got tired of assault rifles, tried her luck with the sniper rifle, but it wasn’t her thing. She preferred the bursts of akimbo pistols or submachine guns.

  "What about mom?" Blake asked now.

  Fer shrugged.

  "Normal, I guess. She watches her romantic comedies at home when she rests, lets me help her with household chores more than before. Now I’m helping her practice driving like you taught me. Annya’s parents are lending us their other old car for now. Though we still can’t rent one."

  "Hm. I see," he exhaled smoke. "School is expensive."

  "Yeah…"

  A comfortable silence stretched between the two of them, occupied only by the bursts of their dangerous toys.

  "She hasn’t replaced me yet," Blake swallowed, heavy as his rifle. "Or does she have candidates already?"

  Fer barely tilted her head, not caring about the cigarette that had just fallen from the corner of her mouth.

  "As far as I know, no. Some idiot gave her cute little looks at the flower shop. When he left, I went out to lie to him that he’d dropped his wallet. I shoved him into the alley next door and tore his left wrist apart."

  BANG!

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "Then I told him that if he came back, it’d be his ankles."

  Nothing else to say about the matter.

  "..."

  Blake fired again without looking. She fired about twenty more times.

  Her dad went silent for a moment without blinking. He snorted, and the two of them smiled with shared familial malice.

  In another silence that followed, Blake dared to push further.

  "What about your little freckled girlfriend–?"

  THWACK!

  He didn’t get to finish the question. Feralynn slammed both pistols onto the ground so hard they almost bounced. She spun around abruptly to yell like a spoiled child who’d been denied a pony for Christmas.

  "UGH, DAD! ANNYA IS NOT MY GIRLFRIEND!"

  Blake’s eyes flew open.

  He stayed quiet for several long seconds before bursting into tremendous laughter at the sight of his daughter blushing like a tomato.

  "DON’T LAUGH, YOU DAMN IDIOT!"

  He paid no attention whatsoever. She tackled him, lunged to choke his neck with all the strength she had, and that didn’t stop his laughter. In the end, she ended up laughing with him on the desert sand. A mix of embarrassment and much needed joy.

  ...

  ...

  ...

  The hook fell onto the crystalline lake water.

  When Feralynn realized it, she was now in a canoe. The desert with the shooting range completely forgotten, in the blink of an eye. As if from one second to the next the two of them had changed scenery without noticing, and without giving it any importance.

  "We never went fishing together before," she said with a melancholic smile. "I thought it’d be more boring."

  "World peace is easier than finding a damn fish that isn’t frozen in Soleria," her dad replied with his fishing rod.

  They were sitting back to back, pressed together. A cooler was open, with cans of energy drinks and beers.

  They didn’t need to say much, maybe nothing. Both of them were people of few words. Talking to give or receive orders. Being together without snow, without war, without having to survive was unusual. Not uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar.

  The canoe gently rocked.

  "Hey, dad."

  "Hm."

  "Am I dead?"

  Blake fell silent at the casually dropped question.

  Instead of answering, without taking his eyes off the hook, he gave Fer’s ear a firm tug.

  "HEY, SHIT, THAT HURTS!"

  "Still alive."

  When he let go, she immediately rubbed her ear, looking at his back with mild annoyance as she complained.

  "Makes sense," Fer said, opening an energy drink. "If I were dead I’d be in hell with you right now."

  He shrugged with complete indifference and adjusted the line on his rod with a firm jerk.

  "Does it even matter where we are?"

  "Well, duh. Obviously. If I’m not dead then I should be studying for my history exam."

  He smiled, shaking his head.

  "Any luck, fisherwoman?"

  Sigh.

  "No. This stupid lake has nothing."

  Silence. This time a long one.

  "Fer."

  "Yeah?"

  He didn’t answer for several minutes.

  "I love you."

  "..."

  Feralynn almost dropped her can. Her breathing hitched, and she swallowed hard to keep the tears from spilling.

  "I love you too, pa."

  Both smiled, still with their backs to each other. Fer wiped her face with the back of her hand. Time allowed itself not to move for them, letting them enjoy not catching a single fish.

  "This is a dream, right?"

  Another voice spoke this time.

  "Would you rather it be a nightmare?"

  A familiar voice, without its characteristic mocking and theatrical tone.

  Startled, Feralynn let out a shocked gasp. She spun around abruptly, and the entire world around her went completely black. Her body stayed still, but she felt as if she were traveling through a hole at faster than light speed.

  She covered her face, clenching her teeth tightly, bracing for the impact that never came.

  Blinking rapidly, the figures gained shape and color. Especially the one belonging to the person, or thing, standing in front of her behind a desk.

  "Good morning, my little crow."

  Feralynn rubbed her eyes, her mouth half open in disbelief.

  "Smiley...?"

  The headmaster was smiling at her with wounded tenderness, having seen everything that had happened, allowing himself to break the image once a good while had passed.

  "Please, take a seat."

  She didn’t obey. She looked at herself. She was wearing her school uniform. Then, looked around, trying to understand what was happening.

  "Wh–Why am I here?!”

  Smiley sighed, interlacing his dry wooden fingers on his desk.

  "You fainted in class. You suffered a rather severe nosebleed. And..." he pointed to the floor with a tilt of his head, where there were red droplets. "Also here, less than five minutes ago, when I called you in to speak. Don’t you remember?"

  "I...don’t...what? My nose…" A sudden dizziness forced her to sit. "Fuck, my head!"

  Smiley bit the inside of his cheek, worried as he looked at the dark circles under his student’s eyes.

  "Insomnia?"

  Fer shook her head, lying as she held her head, squeezing her eyes shut from the pain.

  "Nosebleeds, dark circles, headaches, sudden fainting..." the headmaster reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small dropper bottle. "I took the liberty of rummaging through your backpack, and I found this little marvel."

  Fer lifted her gaze, squinting at the medication.

  Nullwine.

  Smiley put it away again. He sighed heavily through the nose he doesn’t have.

  "Professor Romina’s sessions leave psychological aftershocks in critical patients. I don’t blame you for resorting to... extreme measures, in order to sleep."

  Fer felt her nose start to drip again. Smiley raised his pinky, and a white silk handkerchief levitated gently toward her.

  "Don’t tell my mom," Fer asked, frustrated at being found out, and for not following the medication’s instructions. "I’ll do anything, just... don’t tell her about this. Please…"

  The puppet didn’t answer. He stayed silent for a long while, thinking. He slowly raised his right hand.

  SNAP!

  He snapped his fingers, the wood resonating through the office. A white porcelain jar fell onto the desk, decorated with painted rose petals. He slid it toward her.

  Feralynn inspected it, confused. Slowly she took the lid with two fingers and opened it. Inside were ground dried flowers. Ordinary at first glance. She lifted her gaze, raising an eyebrow.

  "From the castle’s sealed herbology vault. One small cup of tea, and tuck! Snoring like a log."

  "...?"

  Seeing that she didn’t appreciate them by her look, Smiley insisted kindly.

  "Go on, take them! What were you expecting, chamomile with siren tears? Huh, no. I don’t give my special teas to just anyone, little girl!"

  He laughed playfully to soften the girl’s concern.

  "Your mom won’t know anything about it."

  He said it with such theatrical courtesy that Feralynn knew it was a bribe disguised as kindness.

  "But…?"

  Smiley tapped the desk with his index finger like a metronome.

  "But, I’d like a small favor in return. Nothing laborious, don’t worry. Just a little help between friends."

  "We’re not friends."

  KRASH!!!

  She said it so dryly that Smiley clutched his chest, faking a heart attack.

  "YOU'RE MORE CRUEL THAN YOUR FATHER!"

  He flopped backward with his legs in the air, showing off his yellow ducky socks. When he landed, he cried loudly and dramatically. Feralynn sighed, disappointed. The girl smiled faintly, unable to prevent her headmaster’s little antics from easing her even just a bit. That was his best spell: making you smile even when the day is the darkest of all.

  "Okay, stop crying for fuck’s sake!" Fer protested, seeing Smiley continue on purpose. "Just tell me what you want, I don’t like your office."

  Smiley popped back upright.

  "Is it because of the cat paintings? They’re by a very famous painter, such a shame he developed paranoia and blew his head off with a shotgun–"

  "HEADMASTER!"

  "Eep, don’t burn me! I’m made of expensive wood!" Smiley squeaked like a mouse and hid under the desk, barely peeking out his eyes. "I want you to stay after classes with Miss Frostweaver," he asked, raising one finger.

  Feralynn opened her eyes wide, blinked twice.

  "Frosty, why?"

  "You see... while you were debuting your beautiful nosebleed magic in the infirmary, our little Princess Elsa gave one of her classmates a nasty black eye. For obvious reasons, I punished her."

  Fer couldn’t help letting out a small laugh, delighting in knowing her rival was in trouble. Miria, punching someone in the eye? The girl is so refined she folds her napkins four times in the cafeteria at lunch.

  "Wow, I didn’t expect that from her." Her smile faded, remembering what she’d seen on television. "It’s because of the news, right? Her brother had some kind of problem or something... I don’t know."

  "A fatal train accident," Smiley corrected. "Thirty-two injured, and seven dead, including her brother’s butler. There are no traces of the firstborn heir of House Frostweaver."

  Feralynn didn’t know what to say. She lowered her gaze, imagining the pain and frustration that must have driven her rival to such explosive catharsis. Without a doubt, a familiar feeling for her.

  She was going to say no, that she didn’t care, but that would be lying to herself. Because the guilt of almost having killed her still tormented her inside. The last nightmare she’d had was her smashing her head in with a hammer. That night, Fer woke up abruptly to vomit from remorse.

  "You want me to keep her company during her punishment."

  "Bingo!"

  She crossed her arms, offended with every right in the world.

  "And if I do it, you won’t tell my mom anything?"

  "Double bingo!"

  She rolled her eyes.

  "You’re evil. You know I’m supposed to feel guilty about what I did to her at the start of classes."

  "And because the two of you have far more in common than you think," he replied kindly. "She’s like you in that regard. She doesn’t tell anyone her problems, and expects to heal alone. She needs help, Fer, and I don’t want to send her to Romina."

  "..."

  A very, very deep breath, followed by an exhale of resignation.

  "So what do I have to help the ice crybaby with?"

  Smiley let out a satisfied little giggle.

  "Organizing every single book in our main library. Without. Magic."

  Feralynn let her head hang as if she’d been hanged at the gallows. The library wasn’t big. It was colossal. Enormous. The shelves were so tall you could lose sight of the flying books.

  "...Fuck. I hate you. A lot."

  "I know~!" he sang cheerfully, satisfied. "You must be busy with your studies, but it’s just for today. I can convince the professors to postpone exams for a few days."

  She shoved her hands into her pockets, shrugged in feigned apathy.

  "If that’s all, I’m leaving. Bye." But before Feralynn turned the doorknob, she looked back. "While I was unconscious... did I say anything weird?"

  Smiley raised his hands.

  "Mumbling, mostly. Why do you ask?"

  Because she needed something to tell her whether what she had with her father was a dream or not. Before she could answer, Smiley lowered his hat slightly, gripping its brim with two fingers.

  "Reality is nothing more than the sum of illusions, little crow."

  The girl lowered her gaze. She only knew that Smiley must have seen something. Or everything. He spoke in riddles in these kinds of ambiguous situations. She looked at him one last time. He tipped his hat, smiling calmly.

  Click.

  The door closed. Smiley stayed watching it.

  "I hope your little plan works, dear Astie..."

  The standing lamp in the office transformed into the body of the elven woman, as serious as the puppet.

  "It will. Trust me."

  ...

  ...

  ...

  ?