They had breakfast at four in the morning, although nothing tasted good at that hour. Schemel chose something other than oats. She was not a horse, after all. Erisa ate at the other end of the table, keeping her head down and her mouth shut.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” asked Schemel.

  Erisa stopped eating. “I don’t have to answer that.”

  “You’re rigid.” Erisa did not know how to respond. “What would you have done if Pariston had staked me through the heart last night?”

  “Thank him.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I will defend the High Commander with my life,” Erisa said, louder this time.

  Similar to herself, Erisa wore a green shirt, similar to those worn by students at Se Fina or the Green Corps. However, there were notable differences, including the silver emblem on the Gaverian’s shirt. The emblem, positioned on the left side of the chest, indicated the Gaverian’s rank. Schemel’s uniform bore the emblem of a circle of flame, representing the highest rank, Animus. In contrast, Erisa’s emblem was a screaming skull, denoting the rank of Wraith, fourth out of five. Unimpressive.

  “If we make it out of Tardis alive,” Schemel said, “I will promote you.”

  Erisa continued eating, showing little reaction to the promise.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Schemel asked.

  “Now is not the right time to bring it up, Renna, but you said the same thing before my trip to Blackwood, and I wasn’t promoted then.”

  “You let a hostage die in Blackwood.”

  “How about the Mach Operation?”

  “Votress and Alakam carried you.”

  “Dock Six?”

  “You would’ve died without my support.”

  “The hijacking at Darwin’s Bridge.”

  “I forgot. Look, this kind of attitude won’t get you far. Others work for the love of this country, and you’re here keeping score like some petty child.”

  “I learned it from Se Fina.”

  “I get enough lip from Jay. At least he’s earned his ego. Forget I brought this up.”

  A phone rang. Firios.

  “We have a problem.”

  “What is it?” Schemel asked, hearing men grunting, coughing, and cursing in the background.

  “Hannik caught a local following him around. Took a lot to get the truth out of the man. Turns out he’s a Sexite. Calimer has soldiers lurking in the city. We don’t know how many.”

  Schemel squeezed the phone until the screen cracked.

  “We keep the plan going,” she said. “Nothing changes.”

  “Are you sure?” Firios asked.

  “Keep it going,” she said, hanging up.

  The next meeting was scheduled for eight in the morning, and Schemel couldn’t wait for the sun to rise. The streets of Tardis were empty, even more so than usual. Soon enough, they would discover where everyone had gone—and coincidentally, it was exactly where Schemel was headed.

  Hundreds of thousands of locals flooded the front of the palace, a sea of red-haired savages. Schemel could smell their desperation. Her driver honked, pushing through the crowd. Faces pressed against her window, begging for food, water, and a chance to travel to the great city. Some of these faces belonged to her enemies.

  Her driver got as close to the palace as he could. Erisa helped Schemel make her way up the stairs, fending off the pleading masses. Amidst the chaos, a young woman grabbed Schemel’s hand, but Schemel quickly pulled away as Erisa shoved her aside. Two Treshim stood at the entrance, holding sticks high enough to keep the crowd at bay.

  Moving past them, Schemel and Erisa ascended a set of stairs leading to the upper floor. The noise was unpleasant, but it was nothing compared to the sight of Pariston and Calimer. Sexton’s High Commander sat at one end of the table, with Lari and his note-takers in between. Schemel took the only empty chair, refusing to exchange pleasantries with anyone. Erisa remained by her side, pistol at the ready.

  Calimer picked up a pen and signed a sheet of paper, confident that Schemel would agree to the terms. He passed the pen and paper to Lari, who then handed them to Schemel. The terms remained the same as yesterday: Sexton would receive ten percent of all Midder-Lands commodities as well as one hundred percent of astaphite mined.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  “One hundred percent,” Schemel said, studying the paper. “Did you accidentally add another zero?”

  The note-takers scribbled down her remark. Pariston smirked, placing his hands behind him. Calimer, however, was not amused.

  “I want everything, Sorel,” Calimer said. “And I’m sure you and I both know it is my right to take it.”

  Schemel smiled at the paper and took the pen, feeling its weight and the coldness of the metal.

  She flicked it.

  The pen spun through the air, across the table, and jabbed Calimer in the eye. He screamed. The Treshim rose to their feet. Pariston remained calm, smiling at his screaming High Commander.

  “This is unacceptable behaviour!” Lari roared. “You are finished! The International Court would end you for this!”

  “What if there were no witnesses?” Schemel questioned.

  “What do you mean?” Lari asked, taken aback. “You wouldn’t dare harm me.”

  Gunfire shattered the windows. Bullets pierced through, slicing Lari’s body to pieces. Schemel and Erisa ducked under the table, hands pressed to their ears. Treshim collapsed, lifeless, riddled with bullet holes.

  “Kill her,” Calimer groaned. “Don’t hesitate.”

  Schemel and Erisa glanced at the symbols on the backs of their hands, then checked under the table. Pariston’s boots approached. Though the Treshim were dead, Schemel didn’t want to test whether Shaphet’s Law still held. She would not use any spells until she left Tardis—if she survived Tardis at all.

  A golden gleam caught their attention as Pariston drew closer. He crouched to meet their eyes under the table.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said.

  Erisa cocked her pistol, aiming steadily. She did not tremble, unlike Schemel. Pariston’s smile faded—not because Erisa posed a threat, but because a true rival was fast approaching.

  Pariston gasped as a shockwave rumbled through the walls. A silver streak slammed into him—Firios. He sent Pariston flying out of the window. Both men crashed onto the balcony, tumbling to the ground.

  Gunfire continued unabated on the lower floor, echoing through the palace. Boots pounded up the stairs, accompanied by commanding voices. Schemel and Erisa flipped the table on its side and crouched behind it.

  Sexite soldiers poured in, dressed in local attire, rifles raised, searching for Calimer. Erisa fired with precision—one through the neck, a second through the head, a third through a knee—rapidly cutting down those exposed as the rest dashed for cover.

  Erisa’s pistol alone was no match for the hail of bullets tearing at the table. Schemel pressed her foot against it and shoved. The table shot across the room, smashing through the men blocking the entrance.

  Erisa sprinted forward. One shot blasted through the gunman by the vase; his head jolted back, blood spraying the wall. She rolled and fired again, cutting through a belly, an eye, a collar.

  Schemel waited at the top of the stairs while Erisa cleared the way. Erisa grabbed the first gunman approaching, spun around him, fired a shot through his wrist, and then hammered his belly with more shots. Using him as a shield, she pressed forward, hurling his body into the soldiers rushing up the stairs. One slipped past. She dashed down, swung her boot high, and smashed it into the side of his head—his nose cracking against the metal. She flipped her gun and shot him thrice in the back.

  Another gunman charged up the stairs. Erisa leaned back, grabbed him by the hair, and slammed his face into the metal railing. She waved Schemel over.

  Together, they cut through the main hall, keeping close to the walls as local rebels clashed with Sexite soldiers. They burst into the open and raced down the stairs. Silver and gold streaks tore through the sky, slicing through buildings. Around Tardis, chunks of golden boulders littered the streets, smeared with blood and body parts—the usual aftermath.

  Erisa fired relentlessly, never stopping her movement. She shot a man crouched behind a dustbin, then through a shrub, dropping another.

  “Henrikians!” a rough voice called. A pickup truck barrelled through the dust, stopping just before them. A red-bearded man leapt out.

  “Get out while you still can,” he shouted, cocking his rifle as he climbed the stairs.

  Wheels screeched across the streets as they tore through, paying no heed to whatever lay in their path. Erisa’s driving was as precise as her shooting—a blessing. The city gates were just ahead. Sexite military vehicles pursued them, gunmen perched on windowsills, taking aim at the truck. Schemel ducked as glass shattered at the back, bullets pinging against the truck’s body. They surged out of the city.

  The mounted assault rifle in the truck’s bucket wobbled. Getting to it under fire was near impossible—but luck arrived in the form of Firios. Streaking through the air, he shot past the Sexite vehicles. One of them launched off the ground, hurtling toward him.

  Suspended mid-air, Firios fired the vehicle like a cannon. Pariston, perched on the city walls, watched the incoming wreckage. He clapped his hands, conjuring two curved golden blades. With a single, precise stroke, he sliced through the car and vaulted off the wall, spinning with grace and lethal intent. Firios surged forward, colliding with the Sexite crafter.

  The remaining vehicles pursued, their bullets hammering against the truck. One wheel burst under the assault. Gritting her teeth, Erisa shifted gears and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  Schemel closed her eyes for a split second, muttering a brief prayer, then wriggled toward the backseat.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Erisa screamed, grabbing Schemel’s ankle to pull her back.

  Schemel scrambled over into the bucket, kicking herself free. Wind whipped her hair as she braced herself, gripping the mounted rifle for support. The gunmen took aim, ready to fire—but Schemel was faster.

  GRATATATATATATATATATATATATATA!

  Arms rattling, teeth chattering—she unleashed a torrent of bullets. The first vehicle skidded, crashing into the one behind it. Three more rounds tore through the smoke, and the remaining soldiers returned fire.

  Undeterred, Schemel continued her relentless assault. The Sexite pursuit shattered under the hail of bullets, their cars exploding across the rugged road.

  Two ascenders streaked across the sky, silver and gold blazing like meteors. Pariston overpowered Firios, slamming him to the ground and raising a fist gleaming with golden spikes. The punch missed Firios’ head, crashing into the boulder beneath him.

  A sudden force tipped Pariston over.

  Firios hunched, seizing Pariston by his hair. The marker formed a sign that he pressed against Pariston’s chest. Pariston screamed as a pulse rumbled his heart. Schemel’s eyes met Firios’, her lips tightening into a hard line. She shook her head, and Firios stopped the spell, stepping back. Pariston snarled, crafted a dagger and slashed at Firios’ throat. The marker stumbled, choking, eyes bulging. He yanked Firios’ head downward, and a golden rod erupted from the ground. The rod pierced Firios’ eye, and Pariston drove his head down its length.

  Panting, Pariston stepped away and collapsed on his back.