With Navtej around, Ksenija found that the Zimya ball had soon transitioned from intimidatingly beautiful to incredibly entertaining.

  First they had visited what he had called a ‘table of delight’, and found the assortment of sweets and foods there quite filling.

  Then they had listened to the music, danced and sang and finally decided to grab a seat and joke their way through the rest of the night.

  It was great really, to know what it was like to live among the bourgeoisie. Even if it was just for one night, even if it was going to come to an end the moment the lights died out and the building’s doors closed. Even if she knew, deep down somewhere in her heart, that she would have to return to the lower districts and find a small hole in the wall to sleep in.

  That was hours away from now. Incredibly close, but not now. Now, all that existed was the Zimya ball and Ksenija eagerly existed alongside it.

  “—and to this day, I still can’t figure out how a goat

  got into the parlour!” Navtej laughed.

  And Ksenija laughed too.

  But then he stopped, and Ksenija thought she might have said something awful. Then she noticed that the entire room had stopped moving as well. All eyes were affixed to something at the door—eyes wide, whispering.

  Ksenija stood up to check, and felt Navtej’s hands wrap around her wrist. He met her with heavy eyes and a soft voice. “Sen. You don’t want to see him.”

  “I think I fucking do,” she replied, freed herself of his grip, and moved through the crowd in search of who she already knew it was. She slid between adults—a great many instinctually shifted out of her path, thinking her the daughter of some great wealth or import.

  And then she could see him, dark hair, blue eyes, black suit—Exia Vansfoster, the King of Bessmertnyy. Her friend, or rather someone she thought was her friend. Now she didn’t know what he was. Well that was what she was here to find out.

  There were a great many girls surrounding the boy, a great many adults as well, many with questions, all with bright smiles.

  Ksenija stormed through them all with a furious intent. She felt her heart race, felt her jaw tense, felt every bit of her flare up in an anger that she could barely contain. All that flashed through her head was the scent of that soldier’s sweat, the fear that twisted in her stomach, the rawness that marked her neck. Why? Why had he done it, what had she done to deserve any of that?

  “Exia!” she roared.

  And saw the boy’s eyes turn to meet hers. Ksenija saw them stiffen, saw him tense, and saw a fear in his eyes.

  Good.

  No words left his lips however, he just stared, as if trying to think her out of her existence.

  “What? Not so strong now that you don’t have your guards to protect you?!” she asked. “Nothing to say, nothing at all to say? Why did you lie to me? If you didn’t want to see me anymore you could have just said so! You could have just told me, you didn’t need to—Why?!”

  Still, she got no response, just a stare, just silence. Less than she wanted and far less than she deserved. It was no surprise really, Ksenija had long since become used to living a life of getting less than she deserved, letting those above step on people like her as if they weren’t even there, like they weren’t even people—but not this time. This time she would demand what she deserved—an answer—and she knew this was her only chance to get one from him.

  “Answer me! Or are you too much of a coward too. Do you need to call in a uniform to do that for you as well!?” She hissed.

  Still he said nothing, and still her blood boiled, her heart raced. Kesinija just glared, locking his eyes on hers, not giving the boy a moment of relief. And then finally, when she was beginning to lose hope, Ksenija saw his lips begin to form words. “I’m sorry,” he began, anguish in his eyes, and Ksenija found herself ready to forgive him in that instant. She did not know how those two words calmed her rage so quickly. And she did not know how the ones that followed could so thoroughly destroy her world.”…I don’t know who you are.”

  “You—what?” Ksenija felt words escape her, the world spin faster. She was suddenly aware that all eyes in the room were on the pair, silent, observing, judging and quickly turning to mockery. Her breath dragged in her throat, her lungs turned heavier. “Why would you say that?”

  “That’s Ksenija Lyubushkina,” she heard Yelena say. She was behind Exia, stained dress cleaned, yet eyes still holding malice. The girl smiled bitterly at Ksenija. “I believe she’s from the lower districts, no idea how she got in here however. Perhaps she stole the dress of some poor young Lady.”

  Ksenija searched for Exia’s eyes. “Why would you say that?” She found this gaze averted from hers—in shame, in guilt, in cowardice. She snapped. Ksenija stormed towards him and shoved the boy in the chest. “Why would you say that?!” she roared.

  Exia went stumbling backwards and was caught by the crowd. Ksenija stormed towards him but was caught herself, and by far less gentle hands.

  Soldiers grabbed her by the shoulder, and slammed her against the wall with enough force to leave her head spinning. She gasped, struggled, felt the warmth of blood run down a gash in her forehead, then felt a sharp twist of anguish as her arm was wrenched wrongly behind her back. Ksenija screamed, out of pain, out of rage, it was all the same. “Let go of me!” She roared.

  But the men did not listen. They dragged her across the room, grip tight on the back of her neck, hair pulled so her head hung agonizingly. Tears stung in her eyes, and the world became a blur of faces, features unreadable, but expressions clear—pity, mockery, laughter, revulsion. It was all there, all on her.

  And then there was Exia, staring blankly as she was made into a spectacle for the world to see.

  Ksenija was thrown out the door, fell down the stairs and hit the hard ground rolling—scratches tearing at her skin and dress ruined in the dirt.

  She scrambled up to her feet just in time to see the doors shut—locking her out. Because it was never her place to be in the Zimya ball at all.

  She was from the bottom, the place where their dirt and waste drifted down. So Ksenija hurried back there. When she could not run, she limped. When she could not limp, she walked, but whatever she did, she did not stop moving.

  ###

  Ludwig’s men were dead, a surprise attack tended to do that to most people—Sorcerer or Mage.

  But Ludwig was still alive. And that was where the problems began and ended.

  Ksenija was panting, not tired, but at the start of getting there. She gave a quick glance at the warehouse to find most of her men dead and those still alive in no position at all to keep on fighting.

  Ludwig however looked virtually unhurt. His uniform was torn and scorched at the chest, but the skin underneath was untouched, unscarred and unyielding. Just like the man whom it belonged to. His rage was clear however, blue eyes burning like twin flames. “A betrayal?” he asked. “Why?! Did the cripple pay you?”

  “I wish I could tell you myself…” Ksenija replied and for the first time in a while found no lies in her words. What was she doing? She did know who she was going up against, yes? Why? Why? Why? No use kicking herself. The time for that was gone; thanks to his soldiers throwing themselves in front of their Duke, the time to kill him before he could put on those deadly rings was also gone. All that remained was the violence.

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  “It matters little. You chose the wrong side little whore,” Ludwig helpfully informed her—as if the fact that she was being stared down by a giant rapist of the Eighty-Eighth magnitude wasn’t evidence enough.

  “Yes. Yes I did.”

  Ludwig splayed his palms, and a mass of blue energy spat forth from them.

  Will of Kroviz: Shield! She thought, and a sanguine fluid emerged from her palms and shaped itself into a round shield—thick as a brick wall and twice her size in width and height.

  The Sorcerer's magic slammed hard into Ksenija’s shield. She felt her teeth rattle, the shattering of her shield, and the impact sent her skidding backwards, bursting through the warehouse walls and stumbling out into the open streets of Snegovetska.

  “Shit!” she hissed, but could barely get the words out before projectiles the shape of birds came flying at her from the Duke’s palms.

  Chase!

  She stretched out her hand, spawning crimson liquid snakes in the air. They swam with the wind, coiled around the birds and Ksenija watched the constructs dance in a deadly battle—Talons cut through crimson and fangs bit into cyan. In the end it was the Duke’s birds that stood victorious—two now where there were once three.

  They chased Ksenija and she killed them dead with a thought. Bolt. Ksenija played her palms and a deathly red projectile crashed into the constructs. No satisfaction came from that however. Every spell was more magic used, every drop of magic used was less magic stored. And her mana was the only thing keeping her alive.

  Yet she had to choose between consuming it or dying.

  Well, she made her choice.

  Curse of Kroviz: Surge.

  Ksenija felt her heart race, the blood in her veins rage and the muscles under jacket tense. The strength that came with Surge was addictive, exhilarating. So addictive and exhilerating in fact that were she a younger Mage she might have thought it great enough to squash the gap between her and Ludwig.

  But she was no young Mage, and when she saw the Duke stepping out of the warehouse like a man who owned the world, Ksenija felt not strength, but a depth in her stomach. It didn’t matter how much intoxicating strength she had fuelling her, here was power.

  He stretched his hand forwards and death spat from it. “Cleaver!” A bright arc of energy raced towards Ksenija and she ducked just in time to see her hair and scarf sliced through like butter.

  Ludwig covered the distance between them with a single leap, his entire body was burning with a smokey cyan aura now. His fists came angrily, roaring with every throw.

  Ksenija barely managed to dodge each one that came for her, knew that a single strike could spell the end of this fight and was certain that she’d run out of luck soon. That meant she needed a plan—when facing off against a superior Caster the only way to victory was to hinder their ability to cast. So Ksenija got to work.

  Writhe!

  Not many Sorcerers were used to fighting a Mage of Blood. If Ludwig had been, he perhaps might have been able to recover quickly from the blood in his body pulling against his will—forcing spasms in the limbs, and opening his guard. As things were, he could not help but grant Ksenija her opening.

  Blade!

  Red gas coiled between her fingers, coalesced into liquid, and then solidified as a long, cruel sword. Ksenija thrust her construct for that sweet spot between her enemy’s arm and his torso. The weapon bit into Ludwig’s shoulder—an inch before his other arm came down hard on the length of the weapon, shattering it on impact, and leaving a spray of red shards in its wake.

  Ksenija resisted every burning urge to back off and widen the distance between her and the enemy. She couldn’t let him decide the pace of this battle. To do so was death.

  Blade!

  Now it was two weapons that curved into existence, each as angry as the last. Ksenija slashed them at Ludwig, cutting through flesh, drawing blood, and forcing the Superior Caster to back away from his unrelenting enemy.

  Most of the cuts were superficial, made more to panic her enemy than deal any serious damage.

  She knew this wouldn’t last; eventually, Luwig would gather his bearings—realise that a strike through her attack might end the flurry. So Ksenija had to act quickly.

  River!

  Ksenija’s blade cut a straight line across Ludwig’s chest. From the tip of her weapon, her magic tugged at the blood within the enemy, like a magnet snatching iron filings—drawing it out and spilling a river of blood where one might have expected a trickle and widening the wound.

  From the look in Ludwig’s eyes he was terrified too. But not enough to miss a sword to the face. He cocked his head to the side, Ksenija’s attack met air, and his hand wrapped around her arm with a vice grip.

  Ksenija winced, first from the pressure then later from the burning blue energy that radiated out of his skin and burnt against hers like acid.

  Ksenija tried to pull away, failed, saw the Duke pulling his arm back and acted.

  Coat!

  The blood wrapped and solidified around her just in time for the Duke’s fist to thunder into her ribs. Ksenija’s feet left the ground—for a moment she was weightless—then she crashed into it.

  Ksenija hit the pavement hard, bounced, and crashed into a wall. There was an ache like fire in her ribs—something had cracked surely, broken perhaps. There was a hole in her armor where he’d struck her, and a wisp of cyan smoke drifting up.

  Ksenija coughed, regretted it, and groaned in raw agony.

  She uncast Coat, and her armor evaporated into smoke—not because she did not care for protection but because she had to watch every bit of mana she called upon and sustained.

  Ksenija pushed herself up by her fists—slowly, methodically, and painfully. She was hunched over, barely able to keep herself upright, the world twisted and swam in the corner of her eyes.

  Ksenija knew death when it was coming, and that didn’t change when it wielded Sorcery in place of a scythe. Why did I do it? For Exia? They were kids when last they’d met, kids, just fucking kids. Years and years of lies and deceit and you blink at a childhood friend. Fucking idiot. You deserve to die.

  Ludwig for his part was in great condition—compared to her that was.e was bleeding profusely from the mark in his chest, and slightly from the hundreds of cuts she’d left around his form. Ultimately however, he looked more pissed than hurt.

  Well, if she was going to die, she might as well make the bastard work for it.

  Blade…

  Once more, a weapon oozed into being between her fingers. Her fist tightened around the grip. She shifted her footing just right to hide the weapon behind her thigh.

  Distraught…

  Ksenija pumped what little magic she had left into the blade’s edge, feeding it with poison. It would not kill an enemy as powerful as Ludwig, his magic would burn through it in time, but it certainly would make the moments before quite unpleasant.

  “I am going to rip you to bits,” Ludwig promised, grinning ear to ear.

  “You better,” Ksenija smiled back at the bastard.

  A Sorcerer as powerful as Ludwig could have killed her with a projectile, but a man like Ludwig would stand for nothing less than getting his hands dirty. Especially if she made him think he wasn’t scaring her.

  He came at her, like a beast, like a monster, like a noble, a Duke, like a man who had never known a world where his desires were not willed into reality.

  Ksenija ducked under a ferocious right hook, raised her weapon then pushed all her weight behind it. The blade’s edge sank into Ludwig’s shoulder, pouring poison into the meat and erupting out the other side in a spray of blood.

  She heard the man roar and nearly laughed, because she wasn’t even done yet.

  “Havoc!” She croaked.

  She didn’t feel Ludwig’s blood boil, she only heard it in his pained cries and the hissing of snow against the skin.

  Ksenija twisted the blade in him. River!

  Blood erupted from the wound, warm, hot and with a molten reek of agony.

  Ksenija pulled her blade out, then plunged it again at the monster.

  His fist met her before her edge landed. It crashed into her head, turning the world white with a flash and leaving Ksenija’s limbs useless things hanging from a numb torso.

  She saw the next fist, but could do little to stop it. It cracked into her face, splitting her lip, crushing her nose, cracking a cheek and leaving a vicious headache in its wake.

  Her back fell against a wall, the wall died instantly as Ksenija continued through into the building, then exploded out through its back. She coughed, winced, and felt the taste of iron fill her mouth. Her legs gave out from beneath her and she slumped to the ground so that she might await death sitting.

  Death…

  Was she ready?

  Fuck no.

  But she’d never expected to be ready. That was just the life of a Mercenary. Eventually every Mage met a Disciple greater than they were.

  It was only logical that that be an Aristocrat. They tended to be the most powerful Disciples statistically, all that easy hunting of Angels and Fae. That did nothing to quell the rage. Death by aristocrat… They had tried to kill her back in Lyubov, by making the place of her birth a living nightmare, filled with disease, violence and pain at every corner.

  They had failed. And now they aimed to finish her off not in the slums of Lyubov, but on a battlefield hundreds of miles away.

  Kroviz was a distant thing, leaving Ksenija alone to her fate. The bitch.

  Ludwig raised his boot—his chosen weapon of execution.

  Ksenija raised a finger, showing him a rude gesture, because in the end that was all she could ever do to people like him—gestures.

  An old never-general had once told her that as long as they kept on showing little signs of rebellion like this then the fight was never truly over. That there was some sort of dignity to it. The fool had died in a nameless corner of Lyubov years ago with as much dignity as any other rotting corpse.

  And Ksenija waited for very much the same fate—just in a different city.

  Instead it was fire that came, blue—not cyan—and cold where she might have expected heat. It slammed into the Duke, throwing him off his feet and burying him into the side of a wall as the swirling debris fell down around him in great clumps of ice

  Ksenija’s gaze fell on Exia Vanfoster and found blank eyes on him, the kind that she’d only ever seen once, in the ball— not the last time they spoke, but the last one that mattered. His focus fell back on the Duke. Not a smile in sight, not a jest in the air. “No,” he told him, voice soft. “Not her.”