Chapter 21: - The Cold

  Ksenija awoke in pain, but she awoke nonetheless, and that in itself was a surprise that made everything else pale by comparison. At least for a moment, And then she was in reality again.

  In a strange room—a strangely clean one at that—in strange clothes, and with a strange man staring out the window at the edge of it.

  Ksenija thought about the possibilities of what a strange man might do to her, and expanded those by being aware that she was in an even more vulnerable position than she might typically have been in—belly hurting, head spinning, and lights dancing in the corner of her eyes. She seemed to have been treated, which made things worse rather than better. Maybe the strange man was the one who did it. Maybe he felt Ksenija owed him something for the trouble. That would explain her being moved to this strange place and tucked away in secret. She had to act quickly and decisively.

  With her breath held, Ksenija looked around for something she could use as a weapon, and found a tiny blade in a tray waiting for her. She picked it up, tightened her grip around it, and slowly got to her feet.

  Ksenija waited for the nausea to pass, steadied herself, and dashed at the man, glinting metal first.

  What happened next seemed unreal. First she was looking at his back, and then his chest was facing her. She didn’t catch when he’d turned. The enemy caught her by the wrist, twisted the metal out of her palm, caught her other hand when she tried to slam a fist into his groin, and shoved her down on the floor.

  Ksenija scurried to her feet instantly, backing away, and glaring up at the enemy. He was a grown man. Perhaps in his forties or late thirties, wearing a handlebar mustache and the greys and reds of the Kingdom.

  “You have just attempted to assault one of the Twin Consuls of the Bessmertnyy Republic. Ordinarily, the punishment for such an offense would be death by hanging. But I will be exercising my right to waive it.”

  “Bull. Shit.” Ksenija almost scoffed at the bluff. Then she weighed the man’s eyes, and found them unyielding. Oh gods, it’s true. She nearly pissed herself right then and there, felt the blood leak out of her face, and the world spin that much faster now.

  He seemed to see her realization, and nodded with it. “Thievery?” he asked, disapproval showing.

  Ksenija considered lying, but doubted it would make a difference. So she just spoke truthfully. Who was he— sitting on his throne—to judge her for anything she did? “I did what I had to do,” Ksenija held her ground.

  “Yes, but you did not do it well now did you,” the General noted. “Faces shown, names spoken. When I stole from the Torgovyyes they didn’t even know they had zlakta gone until I was halfway across the city. Then again I can hardly blame you when you had Exia in your ear.” The disapproval in the man’s eyes coalesced, but it was aimed at something distant now. “That boy is as impulsive as his Father ever was.”

  Ksenija nearly dismissed the lies before remembering it was common knowledge that the General grew up in Lyubov’s lower districts. According to the stories he’d been born homeless, penniless, and had risen through the ranks right from its very base, all with a chin held high, and his jaw kept strong. How much of that was truth, and how much of that were falsities spread to lighten his image, Ksenija did not know. She did not, however, sense any deception in him. At least not for now. That only left her actions—and those she would defend.

  “I’m not a coward, I was—”

  —“Trying to prove yourself as brave as the boys?” The General interrupted. “Do not. They live by different rules than you do. Are subject to less severe consequences,” he said, looked at her belly and Ksenija felt the sharp pain of the knife-wound throb again.

  Ksenija felt her tongue leaden under his words.

  The man—the General—the consul, kept on speaking. “Ksenija Lyubushkina,” he said, and the knowledge that he knew her name terrified her to no end. “Self taught reader, self taught writer, and self taught fighter.” The man’s eyes were narrowing in on her now, peering deeply. “My interview with Navtej gave me a rather efficient profile of you. The men I sent to investigate corroborated his report with their findings.”

  Ksenija forced herself calm. At best that meant he knew as much about her as she did of him. He was the General—one of two men who ruled this kingdom. His face was everywhere, his history was everywhere. He had no advantage now. Other than being one of two men who ruled the fucking kingdom.

  “You are highly intelligent. As smart as my son, as smart as the King, possibly smarter even, and yet you are smothered under the unfairness of the world while they live in marbled palaces,” he noted it all as if it were an idle curiosity.

  And Ksenija realized that she was not just speaking to a man. She was speaking to the ruler of the land. She remembered days in the cold, the wheezing sound of her father’s last breath, the weeks of hunger—barely eating just enough to keep on living, never full, always hungry, always hungry, always hungry. “You world!” Ksenija snapped. “Your unfairness, your crushing!” she growled with nothing but hate and malice dripping from her tongue.

  She had lashed out at a twin Consul. He could kill her, he could lock her away, he could do much, much worse to her than she could have ever imagined. Because that was what the powerful did when the weak stood up to them. But for some reason, for some stupid reason, she was almost certain he wouldn’t. What he did do shocked her more than a backhand to the face ever could. He agreed.

  “Yes.” The general nodded, and took a single step towards her now. “And how would you like to change that?”

  To become a soldier? No. He was asking that she become a Mage. Uniformed, fed, and with power over life and death. Not just any Mage either, she realized, but one crafted to become the next Consul. Not just power over life, but thousands of lives, millions even, and the quality of said life as well. She would have everything she wanted, and give everyone everything they wanted. Food, money, clothes, housing.

  She looked up at the General. And wondered what he had wanted. Food, money, clothes, housing. Not just for him, but for everyone else as well. And he was now in the best position anyone in the country could ever be to ensure such a thing. And yet here he was, a man overseeing a dying country from the comfort of his marbled palace.

  Was that what she would become?

  No, no, no, I’m stronger than him.

  But she had thought she was too strong to die as well, and when that came for her she was helpless to stop it. Could she stop herself from becoming the very thing she was looking at now?

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  Ksenija took a step back, and then another—frightened. She shook her head. “N-no,” she said, and it hurt her to say. Because she hated being always hungry.

  She did not find disappointment in the man’s eyes. Only understanding, and a soft nod. Something about that made it all much worse.

  “C-can I see Exia?”

  “The King is two left turns and one right away from you. You can see him today, for two hours, and after which you’re only permitted visits to the manor on the weekends.” Volkov informed her.

  “The King?” Ksenija asked, and her head started spinning again

  ###

  “Your arm’s broken,” Navtej told Exia. “It’s best we end this now.”

  Exia pulled himself up fully to his feet and hissed as he jarred his limb. He met his brother’s eyes and said no words, because no more words needed saying. His arm was on fire, the blow had been Kinetic—a Shifter technique that amplified the power of their strikes—normal Kahangil punches could not have done this much damage to Exia. He couldn’t win like this—not with this big a disadvantage. So he had to level the playing field.

  Shroud.

  Burst.

  Wrapped in thick smoke, Exia dashed at Navtej, covering the distance between them, and getting up close with the Shifter.

  Navtej’s surprise was etched into his features for a moment, and then he recovered quickly, swiped at Exia, and missed when he leapt into the air and jumped over and past him.

  Drain.

  The smoke enveloped Navtej, crackled with blue lightning, and birthed a hiss from his brother.

  Hand of Zcigmagus.

  Blue limbs erupted from Exia’s good palm—four of them—and wrapped around Navtej’s arm from behind like a cast. Navtej pulled at them, Exia was dragged forwards, he planted both feet against Navtej’s back, and pulled, and pulled and pulled at his arm from behind.

  Stun!

  The limbs crackled, and he heard his brother groan, growl, and struggle against Exia’s efforts. But he did not let go—if he didn't manage to break Navtej’s arm then the outcome of the fight was already decided.

  That did not mean his opponent had any intention of making the affair easy for him.

  The Khangil thrashed around wildly, the world turned into a whirl of colours—pale blue and cloud white—Still, Exia held on. His useless arm wailed under the motions, nearly bringing Exia to tears with the agony that bit serratedly into his mind. Still, Exia held on.

  Navtej used his Roar. But Exia was behind him so the pulse of debilitating air ran harmlessly through the cold.

  He pulled, and he pulled, and he pulled, and he pulled. Feeling pain, then exhaustion, and just when he was certain he was finally going to be thrown off, something gave, he heard a snap, and then a cry.

  Navtej roared, a primal thing, one of pain and agony. He threw Exia off of him, and stumbled back, clutching the ruined arm.

  Exia slid against the ice, rushed to his feet, but found exhaustion turning his every motion sluggish. He was panting, hard, harshly, and his lungs burned.

  Navtej seemed to be doing the same, both clutched at their ineffective limbs.

  The stakes were fair yet again. But that didn’t make a victory certain.

  Navtej came on with fists, Exia answered with magic.

  They met harshly, madly, and with a power that would squash lesser beings if caught between. Everytime Navtej covered the distance, Exia would widen it, he would strike with blue death, and make his brother pay for his misjudgments. But not before receiving glancing blows that shook his core, not before having his flesh cut deep like steel through wax.

  He reminded him what it meant to fight an equal. Not just of the mind, but of might too. Someone that did not fear him because of his gloves, for they knew they could meet his fury just as much as he could meet theirs.

  It should have made him weary, it should have filled Exia with despair. But it only made him certain, certain that he could not give up, he could not give in. Because this was what it meant to have a brother, and he would sooner die than lose it.

  Navtej clipped Exia once more, he slipped, skidded against the ice, and barely got to his feet this time. He stretched a palm out, saw a limb chase Navtej, and fade into blue, smokey ink before reaching him.

  Zcigmagus’ voice was still a hungry thing, but his gifts were as distant as they had ever been. He’d run through them, burnt it, and what was left now were the embers of his god’s might, with even that retreating slowly.

  He saw it in Nav as well. Hunched over, bleeding from his head, his cheek, and burnt everywhere else. The orange in his eyes was fading; the fur along his body was drifting into the air in thin black wisps.

  Exia laughed. “You’re clearly onto your last leg,” He said, pulling a bloody fist up and wincing with exertion as all his injuries seemed to flair up at once. “I’m in peak condition. So you might as well give up now,” he told him between heavy pants.

  Navtej said nothing, he just came at him.

  Exia met him with fire—weak fire, the kind that barely licked his skin and left singe marks rather than burns. Navtej argued with his powerful fists—weak now as each blow was a sluggish, laboured thing. They collided, sent Exia stumbling back, but did not shake his world as they had before.

  Navtej approached, Exia shot fire at him, the Khangil struck, Exia stumbled back, Navtej approached… and so on, and so on. The battle continued as such, like the rhythmic beating of violent instruments. Each round was the same, and each round brought both players closer and closer to the final tune.

  Only one question loomed: would it be the whoofing of fire that was the final beat—naming Exia victorious as Navtej fell onto the ice. Or the striking of fist—signifying the Khangil’s victory, as Exia’s legs gave in.

  Whoof, strike, stumble, whoof, strike, stumble, whoof, strike, stumble.

  Whoof.

  Navtej met the ground, back first, eyes up ahead. And did not get up. His Shifted form faded away like ash in the wind, and he looked up at Exia with shock, awe, and sorrow.

  Exia stumbled towards him on heavy legs, and felt Zcigmagus retreat fully from him. The god had no more to give Exia, and Exia no more need for his Gifts. He smiled, and felt his face ache as with the exertion once more. “I win…”

  “I was wrong.” Navtej smiled up at Exia, tears streaming from his eyes. “You were never going to stop, were you?”

  “Never.” Exia held his hand out to Navtej. “Brothers forever, remember?”

  The tears ran more furiously from Nav’s eyes now, breaking like a dam. “Brothers forever.”

  Navtej raised a hand, but it was not to take Exia’. He reached into his coat, pulled out his pistol, and aimed it at Exia.

  Exia’s eyes widened. “No, wait, Nav, don’t sh—”

  But he did. The gun spat sparks, the bullet ripped through the air, tore through the side of Exia’s neck and birthed rivers of red in its wake.

  Exia clutched at his wound, felt the blood fountain between his fingers, stumbled back, and felt the ground rise to meet the back of his head.

  The sky was above him. The sky and a smoking barrel leveled to his head. Navtej’s gun. His brother looked down at him, with a trembling hand, with pouring tears.

  “N-a-a-v,” Exia tried. But the words were hard to breathe.

  His brother gave Exia one last look, and it was one of resolve, hardened and unyielding. Navtej pulled the trigger once more, winced, but the weapon jammed. He looked at Exia, at the weapon, and tossed it across the ice.

  Navtej Volkov turned around, and limped into the snow. Fading, fading, fading. Until he was gone.

  And it was only the snow, the ice, and the Last [Mage] King dying between them.