The Last Spell 40.2

Cyrin thanked the Saints that Shane and Kaja both understood the need to stay completely silent as they all held their breath while the flashlight beam flickered in and out of view down the corridor the bookshelves created. The soft sound of footsteps echoed over, then stopped.

“She was supposed to be here already.” A young woman’s voice that Cyrin didn’t recognize spoke, sounding frustrated.

A mockingly disappointed sigh followed. Cyrin grimaced when he realized it was Sparrow.

“It’s such a shame,” Sparrow said. “So much potential. I made her a queen among Alchemists— I offered her everything. All this just to fall from grace so swiftly.”

“You’re sure she’ll show?” This came from a man, clearly trying to hide his doubt.

“Oh, yes.” Sparrow laughed. “We’re all she has now. She’s driven away everyone else, and she’ll run back to the only place she can.”

Cyrin bit his lip. They were waiting on Clarity, then. He didn’t know what to make of her absence, but there was a sick feeling twisting in his gut at the realization that nothing about the night before had made any difference. Clarity had picked her side.

He wished that knowing that made it any easier to give up on her.

The flashlight moved in their direction again, and Cyrin took the moment to glance at Kaja and Shane in the short-lived moment of visibility. There was a fierce spark in Kaja’s eyes, and her fists were curled at her sides. Shane was completely still, with a glazed look in his eyes and his jaw clenched tightly. It was similar to how he’d seen him in the early hours of the morning, when he’d dropped the truth.

Cyrin still thought having Shane and Sparrow back in the same room was a terrible idea. But there was nothing to do about it now.

“If I get closer, can I trust you two to stay out of trouble?” they murmured under their breath.

“Probably not,” Kaja muttered.

“I appreciate the honesty.”

The beam flicked their way again, and Cyrin tilted their head back to look up at the shelf. It looked like the easiest climb they’d seen all week— it was practically a ladder. Part of them wished it was more interesting.

Silently, Cyrin pulled themself up, scaling the shelf swiftly and perching at the top.

It was difficult to tell how many people Sparrow had with him, because the flashlight was blinding their view, but they thought they could count at least four pairs of legs. They hoped none of them belonged to Pia. The next bookshelf was several feet away—a perfectly achievable jump for them. Taking a deep breath, Cyrin pushed off their current shelf to leap over to the next, then the one after that.

“I don’t like that we’re just sitting on top of the Houses.” A gruffer-sounding woman let out a huff. “Why can’t we just go downstairs and start an ambush? How does it help us to hide up here and leave them be?”

Cyrin could tell her doubt made the group uncomfortable, because they spotted silhouettes shifting uneasily as she spoke. Someone moved to stand in front of the person holding the flashlight, and Cyrin heard the soft whirring of mechanical legs— that was Sparrow.

“I hear you, Ivy,” Sparrow said with sympathy. “But I promise, it wouldn’t be as satisfying as it sounds now. We could raze this place to the ground— we could make rubble out of a monument. But they know the art of using brutal violence far better than we do, and once their brief moment of terror was over, it would be a war on their terms. The Arcade is not an army. I refuse to let them treat our haven, our people like a plague to be wiped out with sheer military might.”

He paused, and Cyrin could hear the group hanging on his every word. Carefully, they crept over to the next bookshelf using the wall, unwilling to risk sudden movements now that they were much closer. They could now see the group in full, and it seemed like Sparrow had a team of six. Most, if not all of them, were likely mages.

“That is why we’ll hit them where it hurts,” Sparrow said. “The Houses think themselves unstoppable, because they haven’t had to stand up to a threat in centuries. Imagine then, taking the power right from their hands by laying claim to that which they’ve built the pillars of their rule on— magic. They’d have to bear the shame of knowing they lost at their own game to those they underestimated, over and over again.”

It was infuriatingly compelling. Cyrin hated to hear Sparrow speak this way, because it forced him to admit that they wanted some of the same things. But he didn’t want it like this.

He saw the woman facing Sparrow— Ivy, apparently— nod slowly, but sharply in acceptance.

“You’ll make them pay,” Sparrow said firmly. “I only ask that you place your trust in me to help it happen.”

Slowly, Cyrin reached for his belt, wrapping his fingers around the hidden knife and pulling it out. With how Ivy was holding the flashlight, he had a clear line of sight to Sparrow, who had his back turned to his direction. The bare skin of his neck glowed in the white light. It was an easy target to hit… if he wanted to hit it.

Did he want to hit it?

Fighting back a wave of revulsion, Cyrin closed their eyes. They didn’t want to do the math on this decision, even if there was the time. The numbers always came up wrong. The amount of averted harm Sparrow’s death would cause was incalculable, and so was the moral decay they felt taking a life— any life— infected them with. They didn’t even know if they were already too far gone for this to matter.

Their hands would never be clean. It was too late for that. That reminder, and the realization that they had their answer, left a taste like bile in their mouth.

Cyrin took a deep breath, steadying their grip on the knife.

“Saints, please understand,” they murmured in Ren.

The blade flew true. Cyrin saw its edge gleam silver, like a runaway comet, as it pierced through the air towards the exposed back of Sparrow’s neck.

And then it hit something where there should have been nothing as a luminous, crystallized barrier materialized in the instant when the tip was an inch away from its target.

Cyrin’s eyes widened as the knife ricocheted off the mysterious shield, clattering to the ground, before they immediately had to dive and dangle off the edge of the shelf to avoid the flashlight that briefly turned in their general direction. They stayed there, hanging by their fingertips off the wooden ledge with a racing heart as they listened to the clamor of Sparrow’s group.

“What just—”

“How long were we being watched for?”

“The Force armor worked!”

All voices went silent at the same time, presumably through some silent command of Sparrow’s that they couldn’t see. A moment later, they heard the scrape of metal on marble as their knife was picked up.

“My, my,” Sparrow mused. “Seems the Specter made it after all. He’s out for blood this time.”

Cyrin closed their eyes, cursing every event in their life that had gotten them to this point. At least half of them were their own damn fault. The others he could blame on being the universe’s least favorite person.

“Search the library,” Sparrow ordered.

Three people from the group didn’t waste a second. He heard their footsteps before seeing them dash right past his row, towards Shane and Kaja’s direction. For Saints’ sake. These were odds he didn’t like, and there was only one thing to do about it.

Time to be a pain in the ass.

Cyrin waited for the other group of three to show up— presumably to search the rows of shelves the first trio had skipped— before pushing off the shelf and launching himself at the closest one from above.

The mercenary didn’t even look up before Cyrin crashed into him, and he sank to the ground like a stone. Cyrin leapt to his feet in time to watch the other two turn from being shocked to furious in the span of a second, but he was ready. He dodged the swing the one in front sent his way, returning it with a punch to the face. As he staggered back, dazed, Cyrin kicked him in the chest and sent him flying into the woman behind him.

The pair fell down, but the first mercenary must’ve not been knocked out, because now someone was grabbing at him from behind. Cyrin pivoted in his grasp, just in time to receive an elbow to the stomach. Winded, he grunted heavily, closing his eyes and ramming his knee as hard as he could into the mercenary’s chest before giving him a shove. The mercenary fell back with a shout, cracking his head on the library floor, and didn’t get back up.

Cyrin gasped a strained breath as he turned around to face the other mercenaries again, fists up barely in time to block a blow aimed at his neck. The young woman let out a battle screech, punching towards his head, and Cyrin could feel her knuckles graze his scalp as he ducked. He kicked at her side, and she stumbled back with a wince, but the respite was short-lived. The other mercenary charged him from the side and slammed him into a shelf with enough force to rattle it, driving the air from his lungs a second time.

Grimacing, Cyrin grabbed a hardcover from the shelf behind him, raising it overhead before slamming it down on the man’s head as hard as he physically could. The mercenary roared in anger and pain, but he didn’t let go, pinning Cyrin against the shelf. Cyrin lifted the book again, but it was torn from his hands by the woman, a second before she grabbed him by the jaw and smashed his skull against the shelf.

Stars flashed in front of their eyes, accompanied by a stabbing headache so intense they were convinced she’d split their head wide open. Cyrin groaned, helpless in that one heartbeat, and that was all it took. Their arms were grabbed and held behind their back.

“Come on, let him have it,” the woman sneered.

The fist that slammed into their chest seemed to have the force of thousands. Cyrin doubled over, gasping, but it turned into a suffocated wheeze when the man struck him again in the same spot. Closing their eyes, Cyrin let out a strangled growl, tilting their head back before slamming it against the man’s head with all their strength. They heard the snap of the mercenary’s nose breaking, followed by another pained roar, but it only seemed to fuel their attacker’s anger. The next volley of punches made the first two feel like they’d been from a small child. Cyrin felt ribs snap in their chest, and pain exploded through their lungs with the heat of a wildfire.

They couldn’t help it. They howled.

“That’s enough,” Sparrow’s voice cut in smugly. “For now, at least. I’d like him to regain his breath so he can beg for mercy.”

The hands pinning Cyrin to the shelf pulled away. They staggered forward, only to be forced to kneel on the ground by a kick to the back of their knees and held down by the shoulders. Hissing as a new wave of pain ripped through their chest, they looked up to see Sparrow stepping towards them with a grin they wished they could punch off his face.

“I did wonder if you had the guts to try and kill me one day,” Sparrow said lightly. “I must say, I’m pleased. Perhaps I did make something of you after all.”

Cyrin spat in his face. They were satisfied to see there was some blood in it.

Sparrow’s smile only widened as he slowly wiped his cheek with his sleeve. “Don’t be upset, my ghost. You had this potential all along. I’m only glad to see that you’re realizing it.”

“I’m not your ghost,” Cyrin seethed. “I’m not your killer. I’m not your anything. I am and will always be more than what you think you created of me.”

“You’re quite right,” Sparrow agreed. “What you will become is beyond my imaginings— if you decide to survive today, that is.”

Cyrin would’ve retorted, if his next breath hadn’t set fire to his ribcage. Clenching his jaw in an attempt to mask the pain, he instead gave Sparrow his most venomous glare.

“I’ll extend the offer one last time,” Sparrow said, leaning closer. “If you wanted to be smart, your help would be invaluable among us. It’d be a pity to destroy such talent. The same goes for Mireya. Maybe I’ll even overlook the shortcomings of your little ex, if she ever shows up.”

“Fuck. You,” Cyrin growled.

Sparrow’s smile darkened as he withdrew. “Let it be known I’m not unmerciful.”

He lifted his arm, and Cyrin saw the familiar glint of metal as his artificed knife appeared clutched in his hand. Blood bubbled past his lips as he let out a delirious laugh.

“Sir!” A man’s voice carried from down the corridor, frantic with urgency. “This one says he’s got the place rigged to blow!”

Cyrin stiffened. The hands on his shoulders clenched tighter. Even Sparrow paused.

“Bring him over,” Sparrow said.

Cyrin was stunned to see Kaja dragged over by two mercenaries who looked… very, very roughed up. One of them seemed to have a vicious blackeye forming, one (who might’ve been Ivy) hobbled over with a limp, and both of their noses were bleeding. He was wondering how they’d subdued her at all when he saw the Force spell binding her hands together. Kaja’s look turned from hateful malice to suppressed alarm when her head turned from Sparrow to him.

His surprise at that was lesser than when he saw the last of the mercenaries backing up, looking pale— and that Shane was the one herding him there.

Shane’s face was stonier than Cyrin had ever seen him as he stepped forward, leveling Sparrow with a cold death glare and his chin tilted up challengingly. He was holding up a spell stone, and Cyrin’s thoughts, slowed by his throbbing head, sparked with confusion when he saw it.

That hadn’t been part of the plan.

Sparrow’s expression was shocked, for a brief moment. It disappeared all too quick behind a delighted grin Cyrin felt sick to see.

“Shane,” he exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise. Was dying not of interest to you?”

Shane ignored the mockery, and his fingers wrapped tighter around the spell stone.

“You’ve seen what a set of these enchanted with Force can do to your precious Arcade.” Shane’s voice had an edge to it that Cyrin had never heard from him before, dark and sharp. “Would you like to imagine what they do could if it were Flare instead?”

Flare? No, this didn’t make sense. What was this?

Sparrow let out a laugh, and the sound sent another stab of pain through Cyrin’s head.

“I never would’ve thought you up to the task,” Sparrow said. “I’m impressed.”

“It’s only fitting.” Shane’s look was deadly poison. Cyrin had never felt fear looking at Shane before, but Saints, did he feel it now. “This is how you stole my parents away from me.”