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renaroo · 4 years

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Super Brothers (1/12)

Disclaimer: Superman and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics. Warnings: Child Abuse, Gender Dysphoria, PTSD and Anxiety, Character Death Rating: T Synopsis: Jon Kent knew he pretty much had the perfect family life, but something still felt wrong with himself. At the height of feeling like an alien in his own skin, however, his world got turned upside down when his parents took in a troubled child who embodied everything he felt he lacked. However, becoming a brother ended up being the smallest of the trials brought by adopting Christopher Kent. And being best friends with Damian Wayne has not exactly helped keep a neutral perspective on the matter.

A/N: I have made no secret over the last few years just how disappointed i’ve been by the treatment and reintroduction of Chris Kent, aka Lor-Zod, in DC Comics. This little guy is one of my favorite comic book characters in existence, and it feels so dirty to see what has become of him. For a while, I’ve wanted to do a story that really tried to rectify the Rebirth version of Chris and the continuity at large with the core of the character I love, so this story is my attempt at that. I can only hope that I bridge that gap gracefully.

On the other end, I didn’t want to erase Damian or Jon and all the positives I have seen with their relationship and additions to the DCU at large. For their parts in this story, I want to focus on being in the middle school age range, all the confusion that entails, and open a dialogue about issues of gender and acceptance.

Obviously, these are a lot of heavy topics, and I am certain that despite my intentions, there can and will be things I mess up. My hope is, when that happens, you all can keep an open dialogue with me on the subjects. I want to learn and better myself and my portrayal of the issues.

That being said, please pay attention to the warnings throughout this fic. I will touch on dark subjects, and I don’t want anyone to read and feel unprepared for the subjects broached, which is part of the reason I chose to make an opening scene that is rather dark and disturbing on some levels. It won’t be ALL dark and uncomfortable, but I want to make this plea now rather than later.

I hope the story is still worth your read <3 Thank you for your time!

Chapter One: The Cost of Friends

Jon hates this.

At the absolute worst of times, his tiny body reminds him of just how unreliable it is. He can’t count on it, it’s not consistent — it’s not a Superman body no matter how hard he tries to fit it in as one. His limbs are gangly, his bones poke through pale kin, and his messy black hair curls untamed out from around his ears. It’s not good it doesn’t do what he needs it to do.

And at that moment, Jon’s terrified that it’s about to get himself and his best friend killed.

Ordinarily, being half-Kryptonian, Jon would easily burst through chains and bindings without a second thought. And he’s still strong, he tore through the ripe around his waist like it was taffy, but the chains keeping his legs and neck locked to the floor aren’t budging. And Jon’s getting progressively tired.

There’s something strange about this macabre carnival where he and Damian take the center ring. Of course, there is, because it’s Professor Pyg and he’s the stuff of nightmares. But beyond even that, the spotlights on them show with a heavy red glow that is making Jon sluggish and weak.

So weak that he’s less than a circus ring away from Damian and he still can’t get to him.

“Come now, come now, wait your turn,” the grotesque villain squeals in delight toward Jon. “Little Bat has been scheduled for this appointment for such a long time! You must be patient, my little bird. So patient. Everyone has their time with the professor.”

“Superboy!” Damian snarls from where he is tied up, flat and without his utility belt. He’s laying on a gurney that looks far from sanitary and, if Jon didn’t know better, it might even look like Damian is actually concerned. “Focus! Red sunlight radiation shouldn’t dull your brains as much as it does your strength!”

Blinking, Jon looks up to the spotlights again and can see, with what vague telescopic ability he still has, that there is something unusual about the spectrum of light coming from them. “Is that what this is?” he asks, voice small but filled with relief all the same.

“Oh, my, I cannot, must not, pass an opportunity to educate my subjects, inform them of their peril,” Professor Pyg pantomimes his way from the circus ring with Damian toward the center stage with Jon.

Immediately, Jon feels his body stiffen on instinct. He looks warily at the flabby, disgusting pig mask as the rest of the pudgy and unkempt professor makes his way toward Jon. He knows he should be focusing on getting free, but it’s a difficult thing to do when he’s being approached by unmitigated evil and brutality.

He isn’t sure how Damian gets his suit on every night if this is what Gotham patrols are really like.

“It is your body,” Pyg snorts and chortles.

A cold splash washes over Jon. “My body?” he repeats with wide eyes.

“Get away from him, Pyg!” Damian roars, his gurney shaking and rocking with struggle.

“It isn’t right, doesn’t fit on your bones,” Pyg bemoans, jerking out his hip and slithering his own arms around his chest and waist. He sways back and forth on his feet with a sashay of his hips. “It misses the shape of your spirit, the delicate frame of your face. And it’ll only get worse with age.”

Despite himself, Jon feels his struggle slow to a complete stop. His eyes widen as he looks at Pyg. There is a chill that travels from the base of his spine up, standing all his hair on end.

Deep inside of Jon’s chest, muscles tighten and his heart thunders. He feels a shiver move from his core. No oh no oh no oh no. HIs guts churn, his jaw trembles.

“Oh, you feel it, don’t you, that deep deep down,” Pyg continues, approaching. “You’re in the last years of it being passable, of being acceptable. Before your bones grind and the sinews snap into shapes thick and unbecoming of your gentle nature. I see what you are, in that deep deep down, because I am an artist who shapes and molds my subjects out from their souls.”

“You’re a monster,” Jon whispers, his voice giving up halfway through.

Pyg’s eyes shine with something dangerous through the outsides of his mask. He reaches forward and cups Jon’s cheek with his itchy gloved hand. Jon doesn’t even know when he got so close; when he started towering so tall over Jon.

“You’ll be one of my finest Dollotrons,” Pyg promises, rubbing his thumb just under Jon’s eye. “But your clay’s too strong, have to soften you up, get you nice and fleshy, then I’ll shave and I’ll cut and I’ll shape you right up.”

It doesn’t come off as a promise, so much as it does a threat, one that terrifies and unsettles Jon deep down within himself.

Jon’s mind draws a blank, his eyes wide and unfocused and he attempts, desperately, to come up with some intelligent response. But he can’t, not while a fear racks his every nerve and turns his muscles to stone.

It takes Jon completely and utterly by surprise when a familiar whoosh in the air flies overhead before glass crashes and electricity sparks. He catches a glance at the familiar shape of a Batarang lodged into the spotlight directly overhead.

He’s instantly overcome with relief.

Pyg releases his cheek and steps back wildly, looking around. “No! Not now! My art is not ready!” he cries out before letting loose some piglike squeals and sobs.

Looking toward Damian, Jon expects to see his friend released but is surprised to see Damian still trapped. He squints, uncertain of what’s happening when a second then third Batarang plunge into the remaining red sun spotlights.

“Batman?” Jon wonders out loud.

“Ugh,” Damian lets out in frustration before struggling with even more force against his bindings. “Overdramatic, sanctimonious, can’t believe—“

Dollotrons are racing onto the tent floor while Professor Pyg whines and bemoans his ultimate fate, but as the lights extinguish one by one, the shadows take on a new form.

She moves like a dancer, each step and hit against the army of zombified victims perfectly paced and timed. She is all in black, save for her golden accents and bat, and she spares not a single motion. A kick becomes a launch for a leap becomes a smack becomes a twirl becomes a fist to the face of the blubbering Professor. And each and every movement grows in its momentum.

Jon has never seen anything like this outside of super speed, and he certainly hasn’t seen it using the shapes and silhouettes of the shadows like a comforting show curtain. He has so many questions and so many concerns that he forgets himself and getting free. Even if he could, with his body still unresponsively slow and dulled from the radiation.

Damian, at the least, is in motion, finally getting one of his hands free and using the points of his gauntlet to slice through the leather of the other bindings. He is muttering to himself, annoyed and embarrassed based on the flush in his cheeks. It’s not a rare sight but it is unusual for Jon to see Damian this way around one of his multitudes of siblings.

The shadowy bat launches into a final attack, knocking out the last of the Dollotrons before pouncing on the escaping Professor Pyg like a hungry lioness.

With her full weight on Pyg, the Bat narrows her eyes and for the first time can really be seen by Jon as she reaches over and yanks Pyg’s disgusting mask off of his face. Her lips curl in displeasure, but it doesn’t take away from her fair features or the delicate, smooth control she has over her body.

“Wow,” Jon hears himself say as Damian reaches his side and begins pulling out a small blowtorch for the chains. “Is that your sister?”

“SHH!” Damian hisses.

Jon strains to listen to whatever is being said between the Bat and Pyg, but it gets him nowhere, only words at a time coming in clearly as his powers remain in flux. Regardless, Pyg is squirming and blubbering too much for it to matter anyway.

“Took her damn time,” Damian snarls, letting Jon lean on him as he glares toward his sister.

“She saved our lives,” Jon reminds him.

Damian’s nose curls. “Tt, debatable.”

Cassandra apparently finishes whatever minor conversation she was having with Pyg and flips him over, handcuffing him swiftly. She’s powerful and strong without losing her leanness or size, it mesmerizes Jon in a way. By the time she looks up at them, her expression has completely changed.

“You okay?” she asks them both.

“No thanks to you,” Damian says at the same time Jon gets out, “All thanks to you!”

Something approximating a smile crosses her face before she gets to her feet and reaches up to her ear. “Oracle. Done.”

Looking at Cassandra, Jon feels like he’s found yet another new hero. “Whoa, your sister’s awesome. And cool. And so in control,” Jon tells Damian, his strength returning. “You’ve got so many siblings, can I have your sister?”

“Father would be displeased, otherwise I’d say yes,” Damian huffs in that way that Jon cannot tell, for the life of him, if it’s sarcasm or not.

***

Damian watches as his friend flies off.

It took the better part of an hour as well as a stop at Big Belly Burger for Jon to feel up to the task, but the half-Kryptonian flies home after departing from them and Damian watches him go.

Cassandra, as it turns out, is also there. She leans back against her motorcycle — a sleek but redundant design, like any of the numerous other bat-themed motorcycles or vehicles any of their extended family has access to — and watches Damian more than Jon.

They haven’t had much time with just the two of them. Their paths rarely intersect. And Damian is pretty sure he prefers it that way.

His cheeks are still on fire from the embarrassment of being rescued by her.

“I would have gotten out,” he informs her, crossing his arms. “Pyg was distracted and far away from me. I was working on my restraints.”

She tilts her head at him, a frown tight on her face. “Distracted you, too,” she points out.

And Damian knows she’s right about that, he was distracted. Just the look on his friend’s face, the growing horror and dread. Jon isn’t used to the types of villains that Gotham can throw at people, the psychological toll it takes. Damian is, or at least he likes to think he is, but Jon still can be scared and surprised.

But what looks crossed Jon’s face at that moment were unexpected even to Damian. He had never seen anything like it. Jon had been soaking up every word and phrase like it had been ripped straight from his dreams.

It was enough that it frightened Damian for his friend, and he didn’t even know why.

Over the course of an hour and a Big Belly Burger, Jon had refrained from mentioning a single thing about it.

That, too, was very unlike Jon.

Such things could be dwelled on at another time, though. Damian had the pressing matter at hand of his own reckoning. And his so-called sister.

Without looking up to meet Cassandra’s gaze, Damian kicked at the ground. “What are you going to tell father about tonight?” he asks.

“Truth,” Cass answers unhelpfully.

Gritting his teeth, Damian looks back at her, eyes narrowed and angry. “That’s not fair, you know,” he growls at her. “You never come around, never work with any of the rest of us, and then you pop in and judge us from on high. No wonder father speaks highly of you. You’re just like him.”

Her brows come together in a way that wrinkles her forehead. It’s hard to read her expression, even with her modified mask and hood. “I’m not,” she says. Her words sound final, but she apparently thinks better of them and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Judging you. I’m not.”

Damian looks her over. She hasn’t moved from her bike but her arms have dropped to her side. She is looking at him rather intently and it makes him want to squirm in his combat boots.

“Tt, sure you’re not,” he finally snaps back. “You’ll still tell father that I was captured by Professor Pyg.”

“Yes,” she said too casually.

“And that I let Superboy get captured, too,” Damian glowered more at that one, his eyes rest on the asphalt beneath his feet. He kicked again.

Cassandra paused slightly longer with that one.

When her hand snaked its way onto his shoulder, Damian flinched bodily. He slapped her hand away and twisted around to get away on instinct. He hated that — no one should be able to sneak up on him. He was trained by League of Assassins, he had been prepared since before he could speak to be on guard.

But Cassandra had, too.

She looked at him passively. “Not your fault, happens,” she said, in reference to Pyg.

“That’s not what father will think,” Damian snaps.

“I’ll tell him,” she promises.

Damian stares at her for a moment, sizing her up and considering all the ways he could make her more respectful to him. But it fizzles out quickly. He knows, as much as he resists the thought, that he isn’t upset with her.

He’s upset with himself.

“In the League, they trained us that there is a cost to every relationship formed,” Damian informs Cassandra like she doesn’t intuitively know from her own history. “Partnerships, even necessary ones, would cost you heavily. They could be deadly. And more relationships than strictly necessary should be avoided. All this family and friendship that is just around me all the time now. I don’t want to pay the cost for them.” He looks to the skies where Jon once flew. “I don’t want my friend to pay for them either. It’s not worth it.”

Cassandra stays quiet, but she places her hand on Damian’s shoulder again. He doesn’t attempt to knock it off this time.

“Sometimes it is,” she tells him.

But Damian isn’t so sure. Especially not hearing it from her. Cassandra does not work with others to the same degree as the rest of their family. She doesn’t go to school. She doesn’t join teams outside of father’s pet projects. She doesn’t operate in a daily partnership like Damian has with Grayson or father.

She seems to be living by those lonesome standards that the League taught Damian. And all anyone can do is praise her.

What sort of lesson is Damian supposed to learn from that?

***

Jekuul feels oppressively hot outside of the crystal palace.

Lor has watched his parents stand, looming in the skies, over the land’s natives as they constructed the palace for them. He watched as their eyes glowed threateningly each time the native population faltered, and he remembered how easily their bones cracked and snapped when corrected by the general and his lieutenant. It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying to witness.

Inside the palace, things are smooth and temperature regulated. The pantries are stocked with foods far greater than anything Lor had tasted within the Phantom Zone, but still foreign and sometimes unexpected.

If he questions what was on his plate, he is quickly reprimanded.

So he doesn’t ask.

It should be easy, if not simple, to follow the rules at this point. Stay in the palace, eat when told without questions, listen to his lessons from the Sunstones without fault.

He is the Last Son of Krypton, and he is supposed to inherit everything the universe owed them for their lost greatest civilization. All he has to do is stay in place, not ask questions, don’t be, don’t move.

But he was not born on Krypton, nor was he born on Jekuul — New Krypton, by his father’s declaration — he was born in the perilous depths of the Phantom Zone. A prison.

Inside of the Phantom Zone, there was no movement, there were no questions, there was not being or doing or screaming or aging — that had been the only thing he’d ever existed and it was torturous.

Outside of the Phantom Zone, he thought, things are supposed to be different. He is supposed to move and change and grow, he thinks.

So even though there is every reason not to leave the palace, Lor-Zod leaves in the oppressive heat and feels the sun against his Kryptonian skin as he flies under the two yellow suns.

As he moves across the lands, the violet skinned natives of Jekuul fall to their knees and avert their eyes. They whisper and whimper in a tongue completely foreign to Lor-Zod and it feels, well. It feels good.

Lor-Zod knows that they react this way to his parents, but to have even adults of the alien race fall in reverence to him, he feels more powerful. He feels like the Last Son of Krypton that his father insists he is.

He wonders, vaguely, if it is something his father would like to see.

Deep down, Lor hopes so. Because it is easy for Lor to imagine what his father would think or say when he doesn’t like something Lor has done. He has no concept of what would happen when he makes his father pleased.

He is nearly at the end of the primitive village when Lor’s eyes fall on an unusual sight.

One of the Jekuul natives, a young female no older than Lor and having not yet earned her yellow stripes, stands and stares up at Lor. She doesn’t drop to her knees or avert her eyes.

For a few seconds, Lor continues flying, arching his head back to watch for the girl to finally do as she is supposed to but she never does.

Aggravated and surprised, Lor turns in his flight path and descends, landing promptly in front of the girl.

“Why aren’t you kneeling?” he asks before his feet are even secure.

She stares at him, head tilting. Her black eyes are large and reflective, Lor can see himself in them.

He huffs at her, crossing his arms like he has seen his father do so many times before. “Don’t you speak Kryptonian?” he sneers.

After a quiet moment, she scratches at her head and looks around. That seems to answer Lor’s question for him.

“You’re supposed to kneel,” he groans. “Look, like this,” he says, bowing down to one knee and lowering his head. He’s seen so many others do it before.

Then he hears laughter.

Lor looks up and sees the girl covering her mouth as she giggles before she gets down on both her knees and dips her body down in a silly, teetering display. A mockery. Then she gets back to her feet.

“No!” Lor snaps, getting back to his own feet and grabbing her shoulders.

At first, she stiffens, surprised, and looks at him wildly. Her hands grip onto his wrists and she seems afraid.

“Like this,” Lor repeats, then pushes down on her. He dips with her, down to the ground on their knees. But when they both lower their heads, they immediately smack foreheads.

It feels like nothing to Lor, but for the girl, she jolts back and begins rubbing at her skull.

Instinctively, just like he follows his parents’ motions, Lor reaches up and rubs at his own head. They stare at each other as they both sit there on their knees, rubbing their heads.

Then, despite himself, Lor giggles.

The girl giggles.

They both giggle.

Once the giggles subside, they are both sitting on their knees in the dirt and staring at each other expectantly. They don’t speak the same language. They aren’t remotely the same and, yet, Lor has never felt more of a need to communicate with someone in his life.

He points at his chest, at the house emblem emblazoned on his armor. “Zod,” he tells her. “Zod,” he repeats.

For a moment, the girl is quiet, absorbing his words, then she points at her chest and the purple skin. “Jekuul,” she says.

“No, not what you are,” he mutters, catching on quickly. “I’m not…” He is a Zod, though. Maybe more than he is a Kryptonian, if only in his own mind. He sucks in a breath and tries again. He points at his face. “Lor,” he tells her.

Understanding fills her expression and she points at her own face. “Ti’ahl.”

And, maybe for the first time, Lor feels a wide smile cross his face.

From that moment on, their afternoon is filled with delight.

Ti’ahl points at every structure, every creature, every plant with words and phrases that will not stop saying until Lor repeats. Repeatedly, Lor picks Ti’ahl up easily, flies her from location to location, lifts up every boulder and animal they come across as she claps in delight.

It’s thrilling — and Lor laughs more than he has ever laughed before in his life.

By the time the second sun begins to set, a chill quickly crosses the lands, and Lor can see Ti’ahl gain a shiver. It makes Lor feel bad to see Ti’ahl uncomfortable in any way.

“Hold on,” he calls to her at one point, slowing her run through the grass. He reaches up and carefully unclips his cape from his armor. Grinning, he floats toward Ti’ahl and drapes her with the heavy fabric.

After Lor ties the cape closed over her neck, Ti’ahl looks down and touches the knot. A funny look crosses her face and she looks at Lor.

Ti’ahl leaps onto a nearby rock, standing tall and crossing her arms. “ZOD!” she declares herself.

Realizing what is happening, Lor giggles and drops obediently to his knees. “I kneel!” he laughs.

At first, Ti’ahl joins his laughter, but then she becomes strangely quiet.

Confused, Lor looks up at her. “Ti’ahl?” he asks before realizing that a shadow has crossed over them both.

Heart sinking, Lor twists around and sees his father, arms crossed, standing over them both. He looks displeased.

“Father,” Lor gets out, voice thin.

“Is this how I find the Last Son of Krypton? Kneeling before his lessers?” the general snarls. He drops his hands to his sides as Lor begins to stand up and easily kicks Lor back down. “If you lower yourself in the dirt for a mongrel child, you will stay there for your leader, do you understand?”

Breath catching in his throat, Lor nods. “Y-yes, Sir.”

“To the palace. Immediately,” General Zod orders, his gaze carrying over to Ti’ahl. “There will be a price to pay for this, Lor-Zod. Let us see if you are grown enough to pay it.”

Lor cannot bring himself to look at Ti’ahl as he leaps to his feet and takes off in the air. His blood is rushing to his ears, tears building up in his eyes even before he reaches his top speeds of flight.

It isn’t until he was home that he realized he had left his cape.

#Jon Kent #Chris Kent #Superman #Superboy #Damian Wayne #Cassandra Cain #writing #super fic #Super: Super Brothers #Professor Pyg #General Zod

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tenecity · 6 years

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from haters to lovers; zhu zhengting

from haters to lovers—a series where nine percent and you have the cliche, typical love story

warning: mentions of gender discrimnation

sosososososososo after much procrastination, crying and cracking my head, i finally got someth to possibly hate abt zzt hell yes god

also! taking into consideration tt china is still a v much conservative society, gender discrimnation is everywhere and rlly, as of yet, cant b helped

so which is why, imagine ure a chinese woman you found it weird, almost distasteful that a boy would be in yr dance class

i mean, guys are suppose to be strong people, doing more physical stuff like wushu or smth, and then there’s this boy here, doing pointe and perfect turns

“zhu zhengting is here!!!! oml doesn’t he look like a fairy?” your best friend tugs your sleeve as she discreetly point to the said boy. you roll your eyes. youre tired of this whole rave about him. literally, the entire class fangirls abt him; and apparently, it is not just for his looks, for also for his dance

spsjssjnsnsbs hE IS SO ELEGANT

you wld nvr admit it, but ok i guess ure borderline jealous.

i mean, his lines r clean, force controlled in his movements, perfect timing for rushed movements and then he slows down with such grace that you will never have

but its still irks you, that a boy should dance so softly and gracefully. doesn’t seem to sit well with your traditional thinking

so anyway, sidenote! you suck at turns wowww so coincidental

and every lesson, you usually would stay back just to practice it and you always end up with bruises and what nots as you fall repeatedly, no one there to catch you when you fall

somehow, zhengting stays back today as well, rehearsing his main role in the upcoming performance, “swan lake”

and you can’t keep your eyes off his figure

it is mesmerising, how he can convey emotions, feelings, an entire story, through mere movements of the arms and legs. you observe how his every move is calculated, strength justttt the right amount that it looks elegant instead of overly powerful.

and then you stare at the mirror and you sigh. probably why you only got a minor role in the performance.

shaking your head, trying to push all those nonsensical thoughts out of your brain, you continue trying to turn, but you just can’t find the balance

yixing: balance baLanCe bALANCE

once again, your arms aren’t fully stretched out and it creates an imbalance, causing you to once again, fall backwards, out of turn

you shut your eyes, bracing yourself for the impact

but it doesn’t come

surprise surprise

eyelids fluttering open slowly, you realise just how close your are to zhengting, his ragged breath from his exhausting rehearsal fan across your face, inevitably making them the colour of cherries.

“you ok?” he softly asks, as he lowers you down.

“...yea im fine.” you mumble, head bowed.

“....do you need help with the turns?”

“....”

“you know, you’re almost there. its just the part at the 180 degree mark, where you have to pull in your hands. your arms don’t always cross, or are pulled in too fast, which breaks your flow and speed and causes you to fall out of turn.”

how does he know? bc he has been looking at you, dumbass

also i hve no idea how accurate this is i suck at body anatomy

you nod slowly. he makes sense. and its true, you always fall when you are just about to spin to the opposite side.

getting up, your arms are poised, ready to try again.

andddd they become frigid as hands land on your middle, firm and supportive.

“look, its not even straight here. you need it to be 90 degrees here, before you can even start turning.” he adjusts you accordingly.

“im going to spin you slowly, and we try to perfect each section, ok?”

he spins you slowly, your arms closing in in slow motion. he corrects you at certain parts, one hand leaving your waist as he repositions yr arm.

and now, ure facing him, head bowed as a flush colours your cheeks when u realise how close the two of u r. a slight movement will just allow yr lips to brush against his.

but of course his hand is steady as hell and he just turns you slowly and you face the other direction

which, makes ur stomach churn and disappointment flows thru u????

so skipskip next scene

its after class and ure packing up when u hear some commotion at the corridor

n u follow ur busybody classmates

u can barely see who is shouting bc u a cute shortie :)

but u recognise the voice

"NO i'm staying dad. this is what i want to do."

"No, no, no. teacher, im v sorry, but i will like to pull my son out of this dance class now. i will pay the rest of the fees, but he will not be performing that stupid recital-”

“i am performing, dad.” the voice is calm and collected and you try to tiptoe, just barely catching sight of the brown locks

“no u r not. zhu zhengting, u r a boy, u cannot do this kind of girly things! it makes u look v 娘* do you know that? a disgrace, an utter disgrace!”

the voice rings as everyone falls silent, heads turning towards zhengting, waiting for his response to the harsh comment.

“i will prove to you that there is nothing to be ashamed of.” he quietly says, bowing and turning his heel, head held high, with no sign of regret or disappointment

as you watch the figure go, everything falls together like pieces of a puzzle

why he works so hard

why when it already seems perfect enuf, he still practices, saying there is still space for improvement

why he was so desperate to get the main role

he wanted to b in the spotlight and give a flawless performance bc he wanted to prove to his father, that boys dont have to b restrained to a singular activity and stereotype. they can do whatever they want, so long as they like it

guilt washes over u as u watch his father storm after his son, realising that this man is a reflection of you

new found respect is the word u will use on zhengting.

everyone applauds him. an art form shld never be restricted to a gender.

ur heart opens up to him more, and admiration for him blooms as u watch him place high expectations on himself, doing a particular move over and over again, even tho in your eyes, it alr seems perfect enuf

just like how he is to you; perfect and flawless

its addicting to watch him. his pale arms, his clean movements, his strong legs, his silky brown locks, the way his eyes sparkle when he talks about dance, the way the edges crinkle when he laughs, the way he is so bubbly about everything.

and he starts to take notice of you too, helping you to readjust properly, telling you tricks and tips on how to keep perfect balance, how to put the correct about of strength into a movement.

for the next few weeks, you end up gg hme later than usual, staying bck with more than an hour just to spend time with him, and not gg to lie, you r falling for him

but... you kinda don’t rlly knw i mean

he’s nice to everyone

what makes you so special?

anywayyyyyyy

FINALLY RECITAL DAY WOOHOO

everyone’s pretty hyped about it

but u knw the main dancers will be extremely nervous and u decide to go find zhengting in his dressing room, just to give him assurance, if he needs any.

“zhengting?”

“hmmm?” he says (???) as he turns around and oMLORD JESUS CHRIST IS HE A BEAUT

the eyeshadow makes him look sultry, the foundation emphasising how his skin is flawless and hydrated, his eyebrows strong and dark, a true prince indeed

he snaps his fingers, pulling u out of yr trance. “did you want to say anything?” u hear a hint of hope and u almost smirk

“uh...you look good? and good luck.” you mumble, tripping over your words, unused to a god-like creature looking at u with such intensity in his dark eyes

“what did you say?” he teases, cheekiness flowing through his words

“i said,” you clear your throat. “you look good and good luck for your performance

how you wish to wipe that smirk off that face, if not for the fact that u secretly find it EXTREMELY HOT and your cheeks are flaring red at the sight of it.

“if u want to wish me good luck,” he leans forward. flirtatious. “how about a kiss on the cheek?”

you roll your eyes and try to push him away but he is quick to grab your hands and stop them midway, intertwining your cold, clammy ones with his own.

“please?”

“fine,” you try to sound nonchalant but the nervousness is so evident that u see the smirk creeping up his face again.

lips barely brush over the smooth skin and you pull away, blood surging upwards into the blood vessels of your face.

“bye,” you want nothing more than to dig a hole and hide your burning face

“see you afterwards?”

but u’ve already rushed out and he chuckles to himself, warmth oozing thru his being, and his cheeks flush as he thinks about the kiss you give him.

he will definitely have to find you later to give you a proper one ;)

you guys wld b cute buBS UWU

my endings suck dbhasdjbfhjdbkjf

#i gave up on the three parts #i just let this flow

21 notes · View notes

beatificallys · 4 years

Text

(2) at the same time

AZUS

robert carlisle raises two children. a boy and a girl. the kingdom rejoices.

but the two of them look nothing like their father. they share the same colouring as the queen. they are the only remnants of her left in the palace.

the queen of the north is here one minute and gone the next. she appears in portraits, hung around the palace. in the central one hanging in front of the ballroom, there’s robert, with his dark hair and sturdy gaze. both his hands are perched atop his sword from legend. the devourer. said to have felled dozens of kings from all different kingdoms and subsumed their lands. next to him is a slight woman with skin as pale as milk. icy blonde hair falls to her waist. she seems to stare out of the portrait, sadness in her pale blue eyes. the queen is here one minute, and… disintegrated the next.

ellena carlisle has disappeared, and no one knows what happened to her.

prince lucien always meets her gaze as he’s going down the stairs, on his way to his father’s office to meet him. it’s himself. pale skin, fair hair, eyes so pale they look grey. mother and aurora and him look as if they are portraits drained of colour. he feels as if he understands her more than his father, even though they have never met. there’s an unspoken connection between him and her, and lucien feels that there’s something the woman in the portrait wants to tell him. its as if if he just leans forward a little bit more, she’ll come out from the portrait, pale eyes twinkling, and whisper to him.

he pushes the door to his father’s study open.

“boy,” his father greets. the way the sun’s shining towards lucien, he can’t see his father’s face, only the silhouette of him. standing beside him is the king’s advisor, lord siam cortez. lord cortez is a dark-skinned, slender man, with a strange imperceptible look in his eyes, as if he’s always observing people and cataloguing information about them.

“yes, father,” lucien says. his chest grows tight and his palms begin to sweat. he’s grateful for the sunlight, because he doesn’t think he can meet his father’s eyes.

“i will be leaving for myrr. while i am away, you will doubly focus on your lessons. your elocution lessons will be at the same frequency, but your swordsmanship will double. you will also start reading lessons.”

“reading lessons?”

“yes. with siam’s son, balthazar.”

his father suddenly says, “lucien.”

“yes, father.”

“do you know what makes a great king?”

it’s an open-ended question and one that has never been asked before. how was he supposed to know the answer? his heart trips over itself. “wisdom to know how to run a kingdom.”

“no.”

the answer makes lucien wince.

his father’s shadow speaks to him again. “elocution lessons, reading lessons… they’re all useless. they make a fancy king, but fancy kings are useless. a real king is powerful. he can defend himself. just look at me. i may not speak the elite tongue, or understand which cutlery to use at dinnertime, but i have a kingdom under my control. I’m the richest man in the country. and at the current rate you’re growing—” he gives lucien a once-over. lucien goes red. he was scrawny and short, nothing like his father, although he liked to think he was still developing. “I’m worried. you will train with the royal army. you must get stronger. and when i return, i will spar with you.”

his last words feel like a threat rather than a statement. lucien knows his father will not hold back.

“yes, father.”

his father’s voice morphs into something angry in a split second. whiplash fast. “stop saying that,” robert snaps. “you sound weak. be a man.”

the words hit his heart like targets. he almost cannot breathe.

lord cortez glances at him appraisingly through half-moon spectacles. “robert, if we are to leave for myrr, we need to set off now.”

a beat passes and the shadow dismisses him. “remember, lucien. you are my only child.” lucien thinks about aurora and the sick feeling balloons in his throat. he wonders where she must be now. “you are azus’s only hope.”

lucien nods. “of course,” he says, and strides out of his father’s study, cold sweat dripping down his neck, releasing a breath of relief once he steps out. outside the door, he runs right into lord cortez’s son. balthazar jumps back, surprised, then quickly rearranges his features into an unaffected expression.

“my prince.” balthazar bows. he looked a great deal like his father. he was brown-skinned and slender, taller than lucien. like his father, he had the same calculating gaze that he viewed lucien with now. lucien can almost hear the gears and cogs churning in his mind.

lucien frowns. “what were you doing outside my father’s study?”

“i was simply passing by,” balthazar says. his congenial smile revealed nothing.

lucien’s frown deepens. he’d been eavesdropping.

before lucien can continue interrogating him, balthazar quickly segues into safer ground. “is my father inside? i’ve been meaning to speak with him.”

“yes, he’s inside speaking to my father.”

“then i will have to wait for him to be done. thank you, my prince. i must be on my way.”

balthazar quickly steps away and turns the corner, gone as quickly as he appears. he didn’t trust the advisor or his son. they both looked like they were always up to something. or maybe that was just the nature of advisors and their sons. after all, lord cortez helped father plan all his wars.

today’s one of the rare days lucien finds himself at a loss for what to do. usually there would be chambermaids needling and rushing him to change, classes he had to attend, or guests he had to entertain. but there was nothing to do today, and no one to spend it with. the palace was echoing. servants bustled about, one of them carrying a pile of linen twice his height. the weaponry took up the largest amount of space in the palace, and it was impressive, state of the art. there were a dozens of knives lucien hasn’t seen before, all from different parts of the continent.

caught in his thoughts, he finds himself wandering along the east wing, where he rarely visits. the east wing is, in actuality, not permitted to him. it’s his sister’s side of the castle. when she was born, aurora couldn’t speak, so the king sequestered her in an isolated corner of the castle. a makeshift asylum for her to spend her days.

a massive marble stone lion crouched in front of the entrance to the east wing. its maw was gaping so that each pointed tooth could be counted. it looks as if its freshly devoured its inhabitant.

before he can set a foot in, however, there’s a hiss behind him. he turns. the head chambermaid, dolores, glares at him.

“my prince,” she says, voice struggling to modulate itself. he jumps. dolores terrified him. “what are you doing here? you are not allowed here.”

theres a pause as lucien tries to figure out what to say. he blinks furiously. “i… got lost,” he lies.

dolores looks unimpressed. “and a terrible liar. go on. don’t come here.”

lucien shakes his head and sighs, turning away from the maw of the lion. dolores tuts, muttering something disapprovingly under her breath.

he wonders about aurora, snatches of memory coming to mind of when she was born. lucien had been standing outside the door where his mother was in labour, pacing back and forth and back and forth, worrying the loose cuticles from his nail bed. suddenly, there was a huge commotion and the gigantic wooden doors cracked open. his father slid out as midwives and chambermaids dashed into the room. he stood there for a while, silent and unmoving, as if ossified, face invisible to lucien from the angle in which he turned it to.

“father,” he said, taking a hesitant step forward. then the king looked up at him, the hollow look in his eyes self-evident, and lucien understood.

something horrible happened in that room.

***

a wooden sword flies past his face, narrowly avoiding splitting his skin. lucien pulls back, panting. his wrist is tiring from an hour of swordsmanship, and his sword feels ready to slip from his grip. in front of him, the commander of the royal army hardly seems tired.

“you’re too slow,” brunswick says, “and you’re holding yourself back.”

“well, we’ve been at this non-stop,” lucien argues. sweat runs down his neck. “can we break?”

“no,” brunswick insists. brunswick was middle-aged, tan-skinned, and sporting a five o clock shadow. he was hulking. thick muscle corded up either side of his arm, and honestly, how could anyone look at him at lucien and think it was a fair fight? “if you break once, you will want to break twice, and then you will want to break three times, four times, until there’s practically no lesson. come on! come at me.”

lucien heaves a deep sigh and charges. brunswick dodges his first attack. his wooden sword cuts nothing but thin air. he tries for a second, and brunswick neatly sidesteps, then he parries lucien’s third hit, and at the fourth, he must grow tired because he simply sticks his foot out and lucien goes tumbling over it. the sword clatters out of his grip.

“too slow. i can read you like a book.”

lucien groans from the floor. “why don’t you read an actual book?”

“not good. you need speed training. you need muscle training too. no way you can put up a good fight.”

“noted,” lucien mutters sourly, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“hey! don’t go to sleep,” brunswick shouts. “try to at least knock me down.”

thankfully, the doors to the training room opens and the chambermaid interrupts. “prince lucien has reading lessons now.”

lucien feels like jumping up and enveloping his arms around her. his guardian angel. he doesn’t think he can tolerate another session of brunswick eyeing him like a cat toying with a mouse.

brunswick throws the weapon on the ground and leaves, mumbling disappointedly. lucien can’t blame him. when his father returns and finds lucien still with the same tensile strength as a bale of hay, brunswick was the second person he’d blame, right after lucien.

lucien showers and towels himself off before making his way to the reading room, where his reading lessons were to take place. reading room. reading lessons. how apt. he entertains this stupid thought as he open the door, and he finds balthazar waiting at a table, an annoyed eyebrow arched in his direction.

he looks at the gilded pocket watch opened on the table. “fifteen minutes late,” he says.

tension suddenly snaps into lucien. his body becomes a string on an instrument, ready to break. “I’m sorry, i got held up by swordsmanship classes.”

balthazar’s lips are pressed into a straight line. lucien wilts further. it feels almost instinctive, he realises. the disappointed look in balthazar’s eyes triggers memories of disappointment in another man’s eyes.

“please sit down,” balthazar requests, somehow remaining cordial.

lucien slides into his seat hesitantly. all throughout the while, balthazar seems to be scrutinising him. lucien feels like a rough-hewn stone underneath the sharp eye of a jeweller. he’s probably disassembling lucien right now into his lesser parts. lucien wonders if balthazar knows lucien’s deepest fear.

“shall we start with this book? its the most important reading.” balthazar gestures to a tome lying on the table, which reads A Brief History Of The Four Kingdoms. theres a stack of books lying on the table, all presumably fished out from the library, as well as parchment and ink, and now lucien can see what a careful person balthazar is. just as what is expected of the advisor’s son, of course.

“I’m sure you know about the four continents,” balthazar says. he has a lilting kind of voice, like the swell of waves. “firen, vors, myrr, aeko. tell me what myrr is known for.”

lucien clears his throat. “myrr is a sea country. water is a major part of the way their country runs.”

balthazar opens the book to a symbol of myrr, three dashes that spiralled out in a torrent of water. “myrr is a sinking island. houses are built on stilts and people travel on boats to get from one place to another. now, how about firen?”

lucien looks at the symbol of vors on the pages, a mountain. “firen is earth land. they are very focused on architecture.”

“minerals are extracted from the ground to use to construct buildings. and the architecture of buildings is a source of pride for firen. the more complex or beautiful an firenians’ house is, the more rich they are. tell me about aeko.”

“ice country. its located far away from the rest of the other continents, in a region such that its caught in a perpetual blizzard. its a wasteland there.”

on the pages: a white flower. “aeko is a known practicer of witchcraft. relationships with aeko and the other three countries are non-existent. they imposed a sort of self-isolation on themselves. until recently.”

“my mother.”

balthazar watches him carefully. “yes. the vors-aeko treaty. your mother married your father, now there is a tie between the two countries. its a monumental incident. aeko has never had relations with any country. for them to do so to such an extent is unimaginable,” balthazar says. he’s grave, sounding like he was there to witness it happen, though he can’t be more than lucien’s age. he seems like he wants to say more on the topic, but he catches himself. “now, vors.”

“vors,” lucien says. “that’s where we are now. azus is the capital of vors. azus prizes fire and weapons, because they are seen to be gifts from the gods.”

“people who use traditional weapons are seen to be elite, and those who use non-traditional weapons are typically those from the slums.”

balthazar flips the pages to the symbol of a lion. just like the one crouched outside aurora’s bedroom.

“now, the capital of vors is azus, which is where we are now. the palace resides here. a lot of important country matters take place here too. now, the thing about vors, is that azus is surrounded by slums. as much, we can see that there is a great wealth gap.”

“great wealth gap,” lucien repeats, as if not fully comprehending.

“yes,” balthazar says. “the slums also have high crime rates as they are unmonitored. there is no official authority for the people there to go to if they are in trouble. gangs run rampant, opium dens are plentiful, gambling is also very prominent.”

“why doesn’t the king do anything about those things?” lucien asks.

there’s a glint in balthazar’s eyes, as if lucien has just struck gold. “azus is short of funds from the recent war. most of our funds are diverted towards mending infrastructure.”

lucien blinks thoughtfully.

“the previous king was joseph goulding. he was disliked due to the fact that he was ineffective in ruling the country. vors was losing its war against myrr, which is when your father came. king robert carlisle brought with him strong notions about self-defense and military, and he was determined to strengthen vors militarily and transform it into a military state. when joseph goulding was killed in a coup organised by your father, he transformed the military into something the country had never seen before. he trained them personally, too. everyone was surprised, because his majesty came from nowhere. he wasn’t a government official, and he wasn’t anywhere near the throne. he was a mere commoner.”

lucien is silent. he’s heard this part many times.

“where does your father come in?”

“my father worked in the royal army as a strategist. he, too, was dissatisfied with goulding’s rule, so he teamed up with his majesty to take the throne.”

“wow,” lucien says.

balthazar gives him a wry smile. “next time, your name will be the one in these history textbooks. king lucien carlisle.”

lucien laughs hesitantly. “let’s not hope for the wrong reasons.”

again, a smile flickers across balthazar’s face, amiable and pleasant, but lucien can only think of things furthest from it.

“well, my prince, i think we can call it a day. the history of the four kingdoms is not something so easily digested.”

“do i have homework?” lucien asks. it just seems customary to do so.

“homework?” baz echoes. he seems taken aback by the idea of someone asking for extra work. “well. perhaps you can mull over a question and tell me your thoughts during the next lesson.”

lucien nods.

“what is a king?”

suddenly he’s jolted back to his father’s study, illuminated in shades of mauve and puce, the silhouette of him speaking to lucien, the very same question. he stares at balthazar, who watches him in a peculiar fashion. his mind fills with images of balthazar pressing his ear to the door of the study, hearing the same question delivered to lucien by his king. theres that glint in balthazar’s eye again. lucien now knows it as a premonition.

“and above all,” balthazar continues, watching lucien carefully, fox-like, “who chooses him?”

*****

he spends the next few days mulling over balthazar cortez.

for one, he’s wicked with a sword. against brunswick, he almost manages to disarm him if not for a careless placement of footing. he’s quick and fast and sharp, like a needle threading its way through brunswick, twisting and swinging with acute precision. its amazing how balthazar manoeuvres a guy three times his size. though baz was about lucien’s size, he wasn’t scrawny and friable like lucien. there was a lean layer of muscle underneath his training armor. lucien watches from the rafters as balthazar’s pinned to the ground with brunswick’s gigantic sword pressed against his chest. brunswick appears considering.

“this boy’s a natural,” he says.

“I’m not a natural,” balthazar wheezes from beneath the sword. his brown hair sticks to his forehead in sweat. “i just know where to look.”

he spends his time alternating between talking to his father and spending time in the library. sometimes lucien will catch siam and balthazar conversing in serious tones in the pavilion or under the arches, no doubt talking about something political and beyond his comprehension. and when he visits the palace library, most of the time he’ll find balthazar with a book opened in front of him. lucien finds that he wanders the castle sometimes, catching him displaced in locations he shouldn’t be in. he’s seen him make his rounds around the garden, and the pantry, even seen him secretly nick a pastry from the kitchen.

most strange of all, lucien finds how balthazar spends his free time. balthazar’s room is located directly below lucien’s, so that if lucien peers down from the balcony attached to his room, he can sometimes see balthazar watching the city. just like how now, he lounges languidly on a chaise, slender body stretched across the plush material, basking in the sunlight like a lizard in the afternoon. golden rays of light drape themselves over the planes of his tan skin. balthazar has one hand placed under his head and another resting atop his stomach.

the sight is disarming. its hard to see balthazar like this and not as he usually is: eyes slanted in guile.

balthazar closes his eyes. his eyes become soft crescents.

when its time for their next lesson, lucien tells balthazar that he can’t think of an answer to his questions. balthazar’s lips twist, as if he’s been expecting it.

“fine, then,” he says. “you can tell me anytime you think of the answer.”

then he opens another book titled Wars In Vors And All About Them. surprisingly, its at least half the size of the one that balthazar picked the last lesson. his quick fingers find the pages he’s looking for easily.

lucien entertains himself with how wars and vors rhyme, but he doesn’t think balthazar will appreciate the thought.

“now, the entire history of wars that vors has been a part of,” balthazar says. his hair is slightly damp. its evident that he’s just trained and is fresh from the showers. it occurs to lucien how hardworking balthazar is even though he is only the son of the advisor. lucien probably puts in a fraction of the work that balthazar does, preferring to spend his time in the palace gardens, observing the flowers that grow there. he looks tired. “as you can see this book is not very thick. thats because vors has always been a peace-loving nation.”

lucien’s eyebrows shoot up.

balthazar looks amused. “yes, its hard to believe when vors is in its current state.”

“the entire kingdom is weaponised. my father has fought so many wars.”

“wars which he started. vors didn’t start to become a violent country until your father, king robert carlisle, stormed the throne and took it by force. he ousted the ex-king goulding. some people think that vors’ anti-combative stance under ex-king goulding is what left it in such a horrible state in the first place. in the past, vors lacked natural resources and money. many times, other nations tried to colonise parts of vors land, but vors did nothing. as such, some of vors land is occupied by the troops of other nations.”

“how did my father take the throne when he was just a commoner?”

“your father was an anarchist. he spread anti-goulding ideas to the populace and rallied a group of men together to take the throne. his efforts gained so much traction that it got my father’s attention. my father was dissatisfied with the current kingship as well, and he decided to help my father. with the help of some anti-goulding soldiers, they stormed the castle.”

“what happened to king goulding?”

“they killed him,” balthazar says. “on the spot.”

lucien stills at the morbid story.

“siam cortez was goulding’s most trusted advisor,” lucien says. pieces of information come together in his mind to form a disquieting picture.

balthazar raises an eyebrow. “so?”

“don’t you think by doing what he did, it was an act of disloyalty? and he’s kind of… a traitor to the crown?”

balthazar narrows his eyes. “are you saying something about my father?”

lucien shakes his head. “no, no… it just doesn’t make sense to me. how could siam cortez just turn against the crown?”

“well,” balthazar says, indignation coating his words. “how can you just presume my father to be something as low-lying as a traitor and immoral man? clearly you don’t understand what it must be like to have been him. goulding was an imbecile. it was a decision between right and wrong, and of course my father made the correct decision — “

he’s definitely set off a trigger. balthazar’s gaze turns sharp, a surprising difference from his usual facade of disinterest he so usually wears. its the first time lucien sees him expressing emotion. under his angry tirade, lucien feels himself shrink, sorry for the even letting such a stupid question slip out of his mouth.

“will lord cortez advise me when i am king?” lucien asks, tentative.

balthazar laughs dryly. theres an unmistakable hint of anger in his eyes. “perhaps if my old father lives long enough for you to be king. but i will probably serve you as advisor. though in the entire history of kings, i don’t think i’ve known one to spend his days smelling daises rather than read up on the history of the four kingdoms.”

lucien’s cheeks burned. so balthazar was indeed observing him.

after a pause, balthazar clears his throat, assembling his self back into its usual composed state. “where were we? yes — the end of goulding’s rule. shortly after your father took over the throne, he implemented several laws in vors that changed its nature irrevocably.”

“what were the laws?” lucien asks.

“the first is that the military was directly under the control of the king. the second is that the entire city would be weaponised so that non traditional weapons were to be brought in from the slums to the city center. however, the second did not work out, because knives were sacred. they were part of religious rites. vors society rejected non traditional weapons and now we’re back to the original law. non traditional weapons in the slums, and traditional weapons in the city center.”

“thats why it is so important for you to be skilled in swordsmanship,” balthazar says. it sounds accusatory.

lucien winces. “I’m going to be the worst king ever.”

“what makes you say that?” balthazar remarks innocently.

“I’m just no good at any of this stuff,” lucien says, shaking his head. he’s a million miles from where he should be, not even fit to spar with his father by the end of the week.

unexpectedly, balthazar’s gaze softens. he looks at lucien as if looking at a rat caught in a maze, alone and helpless and desperate. “careful,” he says. “your common tongue is slipping through.”

he thought at first he could find a friend in balthazar cortez. after all, they are about the same age, but its apparent that the two of them are diametrically opposed. balthazar’s his age and already knows twice the amount of things that a grown man does, is already playing the game of politics and is good as it. on the other hand, lucien doesn’t seem to be able to do much. he’s survived this far by bowing his head and repeating, “yes, father.”

theres a shift in the mood of reading lesson. he’s sure balthazar can sense it. he senses everything. a blade of grass bowing at the slightest gust of wind. they both seem to come to the silent consensus that lucien is stuck in something he has no place in. anyway, it will be balthazar who will steer lucien in the correct direction when it comes to his turn to take on the mantle of king. lucien will just have to smile and look pretty, which is even something he’s failing at, by the way.

“perhaps reading lesson should stop here,” balthazar suggests. he closes the book and clears his throat. “you might need some rest.”

lucien slides out of his chair, bows his head and says, “thank you.”

hell, he sounds so daft. even now, taking the nearest exit when it is offered.

theres a moment of considering silence, but its only for a fraction of a second before balthazar nods back. lucien leaves the room, never feeling as bereft as he does now.

his feet bring him to the east wing again, where the stone lion still crouches mid-roar, unmoved. his heart beats an unsettled rhythm. the garden seems like a terrible place to go at this point in time, only serving as a reminder of his inadequacy. anyway he needed peace, and the east wing constantly seems empty. hardly any servant entered or exited the wing.

he needs to see aurora. no matter what his father keeps saying, it can’t be possible that he’s the only child who’s fit to rule the kingdom. aurora might be mute, but she may be more able to rule the kingdom than he is, which is not a high target to hit. theres no sign of dorothea. the east wing is entirely silent.

lucien takes a foot forward, then another step. he hurries in past the stone lion.

this wing takes on a different hue than the rest of the castle. everything seems rosier. the breeze seems to sweep through the entire room though theres only a small window in the wall. sunlight filters in from the window onto the floor tiles, illuminating the intricate pattern painted on them. its an old vors legend, lucien realises. a woman with hair falling down either sides of her face, eyes closed as a halo spins at the top of her head. the woman who couldn’t wake up. under the sunlight, the picture comes to life, greens turning jade, oranges turning amber, reds turning ruby.

he curses at himself. he doesn’t even know if aurora is alive, or what she looks like, or how old she is even. what if she only has half a body? or three legs? he can’t shake the look in his father’s eyes that day.

lucien stills when he hears something. when he strains his ears, he realises its people arguing. curiosity gnaws at him. hardly anyone came here. he follows the source of the sound, careful not to make a sound as he treads across the tiles, stopping in front of a door deeper into the east wing.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

its dorothea’s voice.

“you have to let me speak to him. many people are going to die.”

another voice filters into his earshot. this time, a stranger’s. its sweet and soft and distinctly female, an undercurrent of anxiety running through her words. it strikes him. can it be aurora? but she’s supposed to be mute. how can it be her who’s speaking? a weight settles over his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe.

“the king wants you here,” dorothea insists. “you cannot leave this place.”

“at least carry my message,” the other person pleads. “i can’t just sit by and wait for it to happen. i can’t sleep because of this. I’m kept up nights just thinking about it. let me help.”

“no,” dorothea says, absolute. “you must stay out of this.”

the door creaks open. lucien jumps, and before anyone walks out of the room, inserts himself into a crevice between two walls. he mentally thanks his small build for allowing him to fit inside. from where he’s crouched at, lucien sees a pair of matronly shoes step out. dorothea shuts the door behind her and walks away, the sound of her footsteps gradually getting softer. after waiting until theres no sign of her returning, lucien slips out of his hiding spot. his heart jackrabbits against his ribcage as he teeters between the exit and the door, torn.

the door handle is there, sitting in wait for him to twist it. he can picture himself taking it. he can open the door and see someone who is potentially his sister, and its so easy, but lucien finds his feet moving towards the exit of the east wing. shuddering, he crouches down at the mouth of the stone lion and places his head in his hands. why didn’t he take it? why didn’t he want to see his sister? it all doesn’t make sense. so many thoughts whirl in his mind he thinks it might break. at the forefront of which, that his sister is alive and healthy and speaking. she can speak. why didn’t anyone tell him that?

a moment later, he hears footsteps and dorothea’s there, pulling him up by his arm.

“my goodness,” she says. her eyes are big and worried. “what happened to you prince lucien? why are you here?”

he shakes his head. “i suddenly felt sick.”

“would you like a tincture? i can ask the kitchen to make it.”

“no, no, its ok,” he mumbles, pulling his hand from her grip and scurrying away. he practically sprints to his room and slams the door behind him.

why didn’t dorothea tell him? why isn’t his sister allowed to roam the castle? who are the people who are going to die?

lucien puts his head in his hands. his mind has begun to hurt.

it feels as though his entire world has been pulled from his feet, and all he can do is stand still.

****

its a few days after lucien’s had the life-altering revelation that the lives of several people now depends on him. its also a few more days until his father returns and he’s hardly ready for a spar with him. robert carlisle is a master swordsman who won many wars. not only will lucien get battered, his father will also be furious. although those two things are rarely mutually exclusive.

balthazar still holds himself at a cold distance and occasionally looks at lucien in dislike. but these days, he’s friendlier to lucien, though its driven by pity. he’s even offered to teach lucien swordsmanship. he’s a much better teacher than brunswick, in that he doesn’t knock lucien down for the fun of it, even goes easy on him just to let lucien get in a few hits.

lucien fumbles with his giant wooden sword. his wrist hurts. it might be sprained.

“its not sprained,” balthazar says, looking bored. he folds his arms as he waits for lucien to stop looking at his bruised wrist woefully. “now are you done?”

lucien pulls his leg back in the fighting stance that balthazar taught him earlier, and wields his sword but its tip keeps drooping down with the weight. he charges and swings, knowing he must look rather stupid, and his sword lands squarely on balthazar as he parries. his arm shudders from the force of it.

“move,” balthazar orders. “keep your steps light.”

lucien quickly takes a step forward, taking another swing. balthazar neatly sidesteps. its amazing how minimalistic balthazar’s fighting is. one small step can entirely disrupt the entire fighting sequence lucien has got planned up his sleeve.

balthazar feints to the right. lucien stumbles and theres a gaping opportunity for balthazar to jab him in the stomach. he winces, bracing himself for the attack, but balthazar doesn’t take it. instead he withdraws and waits for lucien to ready himself again. sweat shines along balthazar’s brow and his cheeks are reddened from exertion.

lucien takes another step forward, ducking as the blade of balthazar’s sword whizzes above him. it happens so quickly that lucien doesn’t completely understand it. just as he ducks, some part of his mind brings to keen awareness an opening in balthazar’s side. lucien feels himself moving before he realises what he’s doing. he whirls around and jabs his foot in between balthazar’s and gives his sword a swing. his muscles groan. after a moment, balthazar blinks.

the flat edge of lucien’s sword skims the tender skin at balthazar’s neck. lucien’s eyes widen in surprise. his sword’s pressed up again balthazar’s neck, balthazar’s own sword poised mid-strike, hanging uselessly from his hand. he’s so close to balthazar he can see a droplet of sweat wind its way down the side of his face, see the tentative bob of his adams apple as he swallows.

he can’t believe it.

“good job,” balthazar says calmly. he steps back. “you did it.”

lucien drops his weapon. he can’t completely register what just happened.

balthazar is so calm, as if he doesn’t recognise how much of a feat it is for lucien to do something like that. for it to be lucien and to be able to disarm someone proficient with a sword. his eyes take on its usual glow of disinterest.

“keep it up and you’ll be ready to spar with your father at the end of the week,” balthazar says, striding over to the weapons rack. his fingers dance over the weapons before selecting one. he throws it up and catches it in his palm, then hands it to lucien. its a smaller sword than the one he wielded.

“you’re not strong enough to hold that sword, so use this one for the time being. in the meantime, you’ll need to build muscle so that you’ll be strong enough to wield that one.”

lucien still hasn’t recovered to be coherent. “t-thanks…” he stutters. then he clears his throat. “funny, brunswick said the same thing.”

“well, then you know you really need to get to it,” balthazar says, towelling himself off. “shall we end here?”

“yes.” just as balthazar leaves the training room, lucien calls out, “thank you.”

balthazar does not look back. “of course, my prince.”

****

the idea of living up to his father’s expectations has consumed lucien. so much so that he’s began waking up late in the middle of the night to practice by himself.

balthazar is correct, as always. the smaller sword helps with his motion. now his wrist no longer hurts whenever he wields it, and he doesn’t stumble every few steps he takes. he mimics the foot patterns he remembers seeing balthazar doing, an intricate series of steps that may as well be as complicated as a dance. a droplet of sweat glides down his neck. lucien picks up his sword and strikes, keeps striking the place where his opponent will be.

the moon hangs in the sky, opalescent and stoic. the cool night breeze kisses his skin. in the background, theres an audible hum of birds and insects. luciens breath comes out in white puffs.

he envisions his father in front of him, strong and sturdy and glowering. his swings falter. lucien clutches the grip harder.

after he’s done, he does a few exercises to build muscle, then slings his towel over his soldier and heads back to his room.

he’s halfway to his room when theres a glimmer of silver dancing around his peripheral. his head whips around, just enough to catch the luminescent hem of a dress turn the corner and go into the reading room. its a spectre. it has to be. it must be ellena carlisle, coming back to tell him something. there isn’t anything specific in vors about spirits of the dead haunting a house, according to what he’s read up on, but there have been sightings of dead relatives.

his footsteps quicken. he swivels around and follows the ghost.

but once he steps inside the reading room, its as he’s last seen it, not a hair out of sight.

lucien’s heart sinks. he’s imagined it. late night exhaustion seeping into his mind, causing him to see things that didn’t exist. ellena carlisle isn’t coming back. he turns to leave, but hears a soft ‘plink’ as he shuffles his foot forward. he stills, then goes to a crouch, and finds a hairpin lying where his foot was. its distinctly feminine, so it can’t belong to balthazar or his father. its lies heavily in his hand, so it has to be expensive too. it can’t be dorothea’s or any other female servant’s either.

something burgeons in his chest. he pockets the hairpin.

****

the toll of the bell resounds through the castle, signalling his father’s arrival. its the day he spars with his father. it may be something he will finally succeed at, and perhaps his father will look at him differently. looking in the mirror is always an exercise in self-deprecation. even with all the training he’s been doing recently, its done nothing for his size. theres nothing resemblant about him and the king, and there are bruises under his eyes from how he’s kept himself up late practicing. sometimes he regrets his mother. and he hates himself for thinking it.

lucien goes down the stairs, quick-footed, offering baz a quick smile when he runs into him. its not returned. baz turns away quickly, hair neatly combed back, turning his assessing gaze out the window, like a fisherman casting a hook. in a split second, his face grows dark. confused, lucien looks out the small window etched into the stone wall and sees it too. theres only one horse returning, not two, like when they first left.

balthazar and lucien run down to the main doors which are flung open and lined with soldiers. the white stallion whinnies as it comes to a halt. robert carlisle swings a leg over the horse and drops down on the ground beside it. its bone-chilling, he’s hardly seen his father like this. its his usual demeanour, but then again, something is off. theres something lethal and dormant lying beneath his stoic exterior. he tries to catch his father’s eyes but robert looks over him as if he is nothing more than a shadow. instead, they come to rest on the person beside him, balthazar.

“sir,” a servant says. “your bath is prepared — ”

“not now,” his father says. it feels as though a bomb has been dropped into the atmosphere. the air is charged with tension.

the servant bows and disappears.

“i need to see the young cortez now. in the weaponry.”

balthazar’s expression is as seamless as a mask. no drop of emotion even appears. his features are smooth and unaffected. he follows his father into the weaponry with no qualms, footsteps soundless against the tiles. the king moves with such power. he strides into the weaponry before balthazar, hard muscle coiling up both of his arms, towering over everyone else. theres the pull and snap of sinew. lucien is fearful for balthazar.

once the two of them disappear behind the door, the crowd disperses. the soldiers push the doors closed and a servant brings the horse to the stables. the chambermaids make themselves scarce, and suddenly its only lucien who is standing still in the middle of the crowd. he pushes aside the thought that his father barely acknowledges him when he returns and heads for the weaponry to eavesdrop.

the two of them are speaking in such low tones that lucien can hardly decipher what they’re saying. theres an occasional muffled noise but apart from that, nothing. a word suddenly filters into lucien earshot. ellena.

he presses his ear closer against the door but he fails to realise that the door is not properly bolted. his breath hitches and he tumbles into the room. the creak of the door stretches out over the silence. in the end its him, balthazar and his father, standing in a triangle of suspension. for a second no one moves. they both stare at him.

his mouth works to produce an answer, but it just opens and closes without any sound. then he sees balthazar: on the floor, bruised and bloody, beaten to a pulp. red blooms across his cheekbone. one of his eyes is swollen shut.

lucien gasps.

his father’s eyes gaze turns malevolent. “close the door,” he orders quietly.

stunned, lucien does as he’s told.

his father turns back to face balthazar. lucien can only see the hulking back of him, muscled and powerful and overwhelming.

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redtigerfitness-blog · 5 years

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12 Signs You Belong to a McDojo

As most people know, McDojo is a term used to describe successful martial arts schools that seem to churn out black belt students who have no real skill at a high rate. Typically, when you see an article that tries to identify the traits of a McDojo, most often the dojo, dojang, kwoon or school is criticized on the characteristics of success; such as displaying many trophies, having a thriving children’s program, the leaders sound like motivational speakers, or wearing “flashy” uniforms. This stuff is surface level, though, and sure, may be a turn-off, but these things do not really indicate the value of the program. Listed below are some obvious and not-so-obvious signs that you belong to a McDojo:

Abusive attitudes or actions toward students.

You never spar/ All you do is spar.

Rank awards based on time or fees paid, not skill.

You are required to compete / You are not encouraged to compete.

Status comes before students.

There is a sales pitch around every corner.

Your relationships have not improved.

Your health has not improved.

The techniques don’t work.

The instructor cannot explain “why”

You cannot ask questions.

You don’t know the history of the art.

1) No one should tolerate abusive attitudes or actions toward themselves or others in the martial arts environment. “Martial” does mean military, and a high degree of self-discipline is required to to not only learn new skills or techniques, but more importantly when and where to use these potentially damaging skills. Just like you would not want an irresponsible person wielding a firearm, you do not want a person like that with empty hand or cold weapon skill. However, an instructor's feedback or use of consequence should never injure a student mentally or physically. Push-ups may get you sore and words may be harsh truths, but at the end of the day, it is the instructor’s duty to educate and uplift. Students should not be punching bags for an instructor’s ego.

2) If you never do any type of live skill challenge, the purpose of the art is lost. You won’t really know what works in reality, or what works for you, or when and where to use what works. If classes are just sparring only, “fight club”, then you have the tendency to reinforce bad habits, skill refinement will be neglected, and you will only be as good as your physical attributes. Again the purpose of the art is lost. A true combat system has the potential to give you and edge in the event a physical attribute like size, strength or speed is less than your opponent’s.

3) It is hard to believe that some instructors may dishonor an art by selling a rank, and this is a sure warning sign that it’s time to move on to a better environment. However, there are many places that emphasize skill with the absence of rank, and it is easy for a student to get just as discouraged, It is important to remember that the skill is the reward, it is better to be a black belt that to have a black belt.

4) Being required to compete isn’t inherently a bad thing, it just means you joined a sports team. Unfortunately, if you just want to reap other benefits of martial arts such as physical fitness, coordination, stress relief, and had no intention of testing skill in a public forum, this may not be the school for you. If the instructor does not respect that, then it is time to move on. However, if an instructor deprives his students of the option to engage in the competition experience, then they are limiting their students’ potential and growth, which is the opposite of what a good instructor should do.

5) Many times, an instructor’s desire for status is related to #3 and #4. An instructor may decide that they need a certain number of black belts to become a master, and may award rank to those who may not have the skill. Or, they may feel in order to become more respected as a coach they need to field a larger number of competitors in order to increase the odds of their school winning. These types of behaviors are a result of the ego taking over, causing backward thinking. Rank is an acknowledgement of skill development for the student, a true validation of an instructor’s methods is the amount of skill that any number of their students possess. Competitions are a way for a student to test their skill. The focus should be on the student’s experience. Win or lose, the instructor should feel privileged to have been a part of a growth experience.

6) In this day and age, martial arts is a business, but no one likes to feel they are being sold. If a product or membership tier has value, then it should be expressed during honest interactions between the instructor and student or students. The mentor-student dynamic shouldn’t be exploited for financial gain.

7) The lessons that can be learned from a martial art should be much more than just about physical fighting. A true martial arts system provides the tools to resolve conflicts in all areas of life. The goal of most Eastern martial arts is to harmonize in combat, as opposed to clashing. If you can harmonize on the mat or ring with an opponent, meaning the ability to adapt to the energy coming at you in order to avoid damage, and getting a better position to seize an opportunity to flee, strike or control, then you should also be learning, by studying your art, how to resolve conflicts with acquaintances, co-workers, and loved ones, thereby improving the way you relate to people all the way around.

8) There is a saying that, “The practice of martial arts without conditioning is just the flailing of arms.” Though most real fights are over in a matter of seconds, those few seconds can be exhausting no matter who “wins”. Just like you would not want our soldiers fighting with dirty, rusty firearms on the battlefield, the human body should be kept in the best shape possible for the worst case scenario. Any school that neglects physical (emotional, and mental for that fact) fitness is teaching an incomplete art.

9) if a technique violates the principles of physics, or the human anatomy, the it is obviously worthless. Techniques that rely solely on individual attributes, where mechanics cannot be developed are only worthy only to a few. If a technique cannot be demonstrated in a realistic or lively scenario, this is dangerous for the student, and it may even be safer to avoid the technique altogether in a real-life situation.

10) If an instructor cannot explain how or why a technique works, you will have a very difficult time learning or using it.

11) Again, martial or military arts must have a degree of etiquette and protocol in order to provide the most benefit to the student, but a student cannot grow if they are not given the opportunity to respectfully ask questions, and the teacher can grow if his perspective is not challenged.

12) Context is everything. Why was your art developed? When was it developed? Who developed it? You have to know where you come from to know where you are going. Knowing our history contributes to our sense of purpose. The answers to those three questions can also answer a multitude of other questions like: “why do we use this technique?” “why do we use these weapons?” “when do we use this technique?” among others. It is the responsibility of the instructor to have a deeper knowledge of the art, so he can broaden the perspective of the student.

This may not be a comprehensive list but if you encounter any of these indicators where you are training now, then know that there is a better place out there for you. If none of these indicators are present, I believe that means you are fortunate enough to have found a martial arts home.

https://www.redtigerswc.com/new-blog-1/

#martial arts training #kungfu schools #consumer reviews #traditional martial arts #martial art recommendations #mcdojo #buyer beware

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entergamingxp · 4 years

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Snowrunner’s another beautiful game about getting nowhere slowly • Eurogamer.net

When it comes to Snowrunner, what I really want to tell you about is the back window of the starter truck. I appreciate this is not a normal sort of thing to come away from a game with, but isn’t that just Snowrunner in general?

Anyway: most of the time the back window is just a back window. Through it you get a partial view of the truck interior – the dash, the seats, a guy at the wheel trying to stay in control. But then the truck jounces and rolls and lists and yaws and that window catches the light a certain way. Suddenly, the texture! The glass is not just something you look through but something you look at – it’s covered with a fine layer of sprayed mud, tiny particles of the stuff, and it almost looks like someone’s tried to wipe all the grot off it before moving on to better things.

Details matter in Snowrunner. They matter because, like Spintires, the origin story of this strange and wonderful series, you have time to notice the details. It’s not that you’re up close as such, but more that the landscape moves past you at about two miles an hour, and that’s when things are going well. This is a game about being stuck right in the moment – often a moment in which you’re stuck, right, in the mud. You get time to see the breeze in the trees, the speckles of the earth, and the smear on the surface of a window.

Spintires! That was a game! Soviet trucks stuck in the earth and often not moving very far at all. If Ridge Racer is all about ghosting around that first air-cushioned curve as a jumbo takes off overhead, Spintires was all about fighting your way up an extremely modest incline and then finding your tires sinking into the mud and moss at the top. Wheels weren’t for moving forward so much as they were for churning you deeper into the ground. It was a driving game about being heavy, about inertia. It was a waft of gritty incense directed at Sisyphus.

Compared to Spintires, Snowrunner, like Mudrunner before it, is practically a radio-friendly unit-shifter. After about a minute of play in the opening Michigan section, I’d actually started moving forward! Moments later, whisper it, there was tarmac under my wheels. Tarmac! I skipped Mudrunner, so Snowrunner came as something of a shock. So forgiving! So eager to please! So ingratiating! Look! I’ve travelled 50 meters without blowing my engine to fragments. It’s only half-ruined!

Obviously this is all relative. While I was cruising along at great speed in Mudrunner, which meant that I was only watching a single tree move past my window for five minutes or so, I got a text from a friend who was jumping into Snowrunner totally cold, as it were. “Is there, like, a button for going fast?” he asked. No, friend. There is not a button for going fast. And you shouldn’t want one. Blocked and reported.

Spintires felt like proper outsider art. The mud was thoughtfully, obsessively modelled and thoroughly convincing, but the rest of the game was a glorious ramshackle thing indeed. You made your own fun, which is actually the greatest compliment you can pay a game, but whatever. What I’m getting at, I think, is that Snowrunner, like Mudrunner, sees the series shedding a little of its outsider appeal. It’s no longer a mouthful of ulcers from start to finish. But it’s also a long way from being Burnout.

I’ve had amazing fun so far. The Michigan starting area is filled with classic Spintires stuff: mud and gravel and mud with gravel in it. You tootle around very slowly, using 4WD or low-gear mode or both when you get really struck, trading extra fuel for traction. There’s a bit of a story about a flood that’s ravaged the place but it’s just an excuse for simple jobs – fix a bridge, ford a river, carry this heavy stuff from here to there. You earn money and unlock trucks. The Americana is of the rusty, threadbare sort. The FM radio has the tang and twinge of AM. The businesses on main street all look like they’ve had their insides eaten away by Wal-Mart.

God it’s lovely in its barrenness, its sagging loneliness. Just you and an expanding roster of trucks. Just you and jobs. Just you and your winch to get you out of trouble, you and a churning river you cannot get across, you and a moment of hardwon progress as you spy, on the map, a dirt path that might take you around the river and right to the embrace of an Ed Hurley-style gas station.

The Snow part of Snowrunner crops up after you’ve got used to Michigan. Suddenly we’re off to Alaska, where the rusty landscape is now frozen, bisected by oil pipelines and filled with teetering firs. The mud’s still there, but it’s often covered with thick snow, so that’s two things to sink into at once. There’s also ice of various flavours – thin and deadly on the road, absolute carnage if you venture onto the thick, cracking surface of a frozen river. After not moving at all, suddenly you’re moving too far. We had a cat with arthritis once and my mum foolishly had the floorboards in the hallway varnished. This cat would leave a room moving forwards and then hit the floorboards and go sideways for a little while before coming to a stately rest in the middle of nowhere, totally unable to move or get any traction. It was horrible for the cat – I think we gave in and unvarnished everything – but it’s brilliant in Snowrunner because it’s a new kind of disaster to think about.

More than the actual mechanics offered by the snow, though, Alaska does something magical to this game. It gives its knockabout exterior a coating of pure Kubrick white. It makes the whole thing crystalline and austere.

This is the secret, I think. Spintires, a series about cars so toxic and mechanical that many of them have little factory chimneys stuck to the sides, is actually a game about nature. It is great to be in nature here, whether it’s leaf-strewn Michigan giving way to autumn or sparkling, clear-aired Alaska, where you can turn off the engine when you’re terminally stuck and just look at the trees, the powder all around, the absolute silence riding the air.

Beyond Alaska I gather Siberia awaits. I will work my way there, no doubt, one mindless freighting job and vehicle purchase at a time. But I will not be getting there quickly. This is a game about wallowing and loving the act of wallowing. It’s a game about getting stuck and then enjoying the view. And there is no button for going fast.

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/05/snowrunners-another-beautiful-game-about-getting-nowhere-slowly-%e2%80%a2-eurogamer-net/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=snowrunners-another-beautiful-game-about-getting-nowhere-slowly-%25e2%2580%25a2-eurogamer-net

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thefuturesendbysan · 6 years

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Chapter 7

Kira and Akari proudly walk through the forest, away from the city. The sun starts to set as they continue their slow stroll through the woods. Suddenly, they stop in their tracks when an unfamiliar woman materializes out of thin air in front of them, blocking their path. The stranger is incredibly beautiful. Her flawless complexion suggests that she cannot be a day over twenty years old. She wears a light blue dress that perfectly complements her wiry blue hair and bold green eyes. Stowed in a sheath around her waist is a particularly intricate sword. Diamonds and other precious gems adorn its golden hilt.

The stranger approaches Kira and Akari, a stern look in her eyes.

“Who are you?” Akari asks.

“My name is Alicia,” she replies. “The more important question is who are you? I just had to deal with a major attack from my greatest enemy and at the same time, you two just happened to be in my city. Why is that?”

“What does it matter to you?” Kira sneers.

Alicia walks around them, staring intently. Kira and Akari turn to face her, and she continues, “I know you two have been keeping an eye on that young boy. Why?”

Akari quickly draws her sword and points it at Alicia’s chest. “Again, why does it matter to you?”

“It matters to me,” Alicia starts, raising her arms above her head, “because I am the wizard that oversees Aldcliff.” With her last word, she swings her arms back down. A shock wave pulses outward, catching Kira and Akari and knocking them back several feet.

Kira quickly gets to her feet, plants one foot in front of her, and throws her hands as if she were lifting a pair of heavy dumbbells. Four rectangular slabs of granite rise up from the ground and surround Alicia on all sides, towering over her. Satisfied, Kira throws her arms to her sides like a bird spreading its wings. The four walls of rock slam together directly where Alicia stands. Boulder-size chunks break away in the force of the impact, raining down onto the forest floor. Everything comes to rest in a large dusty mound where Alicia once stood.

“What a pain,” Akari says. She and Kira turn around and begin to walk away.

“You are one hundred years too young to best me,” says a powerful voice.

Kira and Kari twist around to see Alicia standing on top of the newly formed mound of granite, sword drawn and pointed to the sky. Alicia locks eyes with them as her blade begins to glow a vibrant gold. When she swings her sword down, a blast of wind shoots out in all directions. The gale-force gust whips up dirt and debris, blinding her adversaries. As quickly as it started, the wind stops, and the dust begins to settle.

Opening their eyes, Kira and Akari see uprooted bushes and debris strewn about, but they remain unscathed. Kira looks at Alicia, who still towers over them from her perch on the rocks. A gentle breeze dances through her hair.

“Point?” Kira asks.

Alicia smiles, jumping down off the rock pile. Her sword continues to glow. “You will leave and never return,” she says in a stern voice. “If you do return, I will personally kill you.”

The two women look at each other and scoff. “Is that something you think you are really capable of?” Akari asks. “That little show right there was far from impressive.”

Alicia smiles and looks up at the sky. Dark and heavy clouds begin to form where she focuses her gaze. The clouds churn violently. Lighting dances across the sky.

Alicia returns her attention to the women. “As you can see, I am very adept at controlling wind,” she says with a self-important smile. She jumps down from her perch and casually strolls around Kira and Akari, like a hawk circling its prey. “It may not seem like much, but with this ability I can generate violent storms. It is an art that I have perfected over the last two hundred fifty years. I may be a young wizard, but I am very powerful.”

She hops back onto the mound and raises her sword in the air. The lighting intensifies as she does.

“Allow me to demonstrate.” Without warning, a bolt of lightning tears down from the cloudy twilit sky, striking the tip of her sword. She swings the blade down, casting the bolt of energy toward the two women. Akari causally raises her hand and catches the full force of the bolt, absorbing it into nothingness. She looks back to the mound to mock Alicia but finds her gone.

Alicia suddenly appears behind them. Blue sparks dance all over her body and extend down her sword. The sparks intensify as she cuts the two across their backs. Their bodies seize up from the shock, and they fall to the ground. They quickly pull themselves back up. Blood trickles down their backs. Alicia darts behind the rock mound, leaving a trail of sparks in her wake. For a moment, all is silent as Kira and Akari await her next move.

Boom! The chunks of granite abruptly break into thousands of piercing shards, hurling toward Kira and Akari at unimaginable speed. They kneel down and hold their arms in front of them in an attempt to shield themselves.

Without a moment’s pause, Alicia charges at them, her movement unnaturally fast. Kira jumps to her feet and swings her hand, unleashing a fierce wave of fire that bursts toward Alicia, stopping her in her tracks. Alicia plants her feet in a defensive stance and her sword glows brighter than ever. In perfect time, she swings her sword at the flames, unleashing a forceful wind. The hurricane-force gust effortlessly extinguishes the fiery onslaught. Alicia surveys the scene, looking for her opponents, who are nowhere to be seen. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of a giant boulder careening at her like an arrow. She whips around and chops it cleanly in half with her glowing blade.

As the two halves fly past her, she turns around to see another wave of fire plowing toward her. Without enough time to deflect it, she kneels down, bracing herself for impact. As the flames close in, she jams her sword straight into the ground, unleashing a torrent of wind. Using all of her might and concentration, she plays tug-of-war with the vortex to hold it close to her body, effectively creating a shield around herself. The fire passes, leaving her untouched. Alicia gets to her feet, rips her sword from the ground, and points it to the sky. Lightning strikes it once more, and Alicia absorbs its energy. Tiny blue sparks of energy dance around her body. She turns around to search for any sign of her opponents. An eerie silence fills the air, as the songbirds have long since flown for cover.

After a painfully long ten seconds, Alicia finally hears something—the sound of gravel crunching beneath someone’s feet. Alicia spins around to investigate the source of the noise. She watches as, about ten yards ahead, Kira and Akari step onto the path from behind the cover of a large tree trunk. Kira pulls a dagger out from under her black cloak and charges. Alicia watches as the dagger starts to glow. The light quickly intensifies. The metal soon burns white-hot with magic. Still running toward Alicia, Kira cocks her arm and hurls the dagger like a throwing star straight at Alicia’s heart. With godlike speed, Alicia reacts instinctively. She falls forward, performing a dive roll as she connects with the ground, safely out of the dagger’s path. The dagger jets into a tree, immediately exploding with the force of a hand grenade upon contact.

Using the momentum from the roll, Alicia jumps back to her feet and runs forward. Now on a collision course with Kira, she balls up her fist and…thwomp! She nails Kira directly in the gut. There is so much power in the blow that Kira is flung backward down the dirt path like a rag doll. Before coming to a rest, her head slams into a large rock, which cracks from the impact.

Akari steps forward to finish the fight. Without a moment’s pause, Alicia slams her foot into the ground, using the force to lunge at Akari. When she reaches Akari, she plants her foot down and grabs Akari’s arm, dragging her along as she skids to an abrupt stop. She tightens her grip on Akari and flips her over her shoulder straight into the ground. A small crater forms from the impact. The sparks of energy surrounding Alicia disappear.

With both of her adversaries on the ground, Alicia breathes a heavy sigh. “Well, that was disappointing,” she says.

“It truly was,” Kira says, standing up and brushing dirt off her cloak.

“So,” Akari starts as she, too, stands back up. “You are using electricity to amplify your speed and strength.” She wipes the dirt from her cloak. “Impressive, no doubt, but it seems that there is a fatal limitation. You cannot actually generate electricity with your magic. Instead, you must capture and store it using lighting from the storms you generate.”

For a very brief moment, fear appears in Alicia’s eyes. She quickly brushes this aside and unsheathes her sword. “Well, I guess it is time for round two,” she says.

“We really don’t have time to play with you, little girl,” Kira says as she steps forward with another dagger in hand. Like the last one, this dagger begins to glow.

“It is you who is outclassed,” Kira continues. “When it comes to age, we are over five hundred years old, and you are just a mere two hundred fifty.”

Alicia steps back, and sweat runs down her face. “What?” she gasps. “You are that old?”

“Yes, and as your elder, allow me to demonstrate what true power is,” Kira says. She points her dagger in the air right above Alicia. A tiny, brightly glowing orb materializes just above Alicia’s head. The ball of light hovers about ten feet above. It is almost mesmerizing. Realizing that nothing good can come from this, Alicia prepares herself to run when a tangle of roots shoots up from the ground, binding her arms and legs and causing her sword to drop to the ground.

“Good-bye, my dear,” Kira says as she lowers her dagger.

As if released by an invisible hand, the mysterious orb comes crashing down. Its orange glow reflects in Alicia’s eyes as it plummets toward her. Alicia strains to summon another shield of wind, but without her sword or the use of her arms, it is a weak one. When the orb crashes into her feeble shield, it detonates with a force so powerful that it leaves behind a twenty-foot crater. A shock wave explodes from the impact point. The wave travels over six hundred feet, flattening everything in its path.

Kira and Akari release their shields and look down into the crater. Satisfied, they whisk around and continue their walk through the woods as if nothing had happened.

In the center of the crater, Alicia lies splayed out on her back. A couple of minutes pass before she starts to move again. She rolls over to her side, coughing up blood.

“OK, that hurt,” she says as she uses the last of her strength to get to her knees. She gazes up at the night sky, peering through the giant hole in the forest canopy generated by the powerful explosion. She struggles to stand up and then stumbles her way out of the crater.

Alicia looks around at the aftermath. All around her small fires burn in the trees. She raises her hand in the air, summoning a gust to extinguish the flames.

“Man, the fun has not even begun,” she says to herself. “I have not been hit that hard in a long time, but I think I at least managed to wound them.”

She hobbles around the perimeter of the crater to the petrified remains of a tree into which her sword had randomly flown. She pulls it out, walks to the other side of the crater, picks up the sheath, and reunites the two. As she continues to look at the battlefield, she hears someone call her name. A woman dressed in leather armor, barely visible in the darkness, runs toward her.

“Alicia! Alicia, are you all right?” the woman yells.

“Yes, Akio, I am fine,” she replies as she stumbles toward her.

Akio comes to a grinding halt when they reach each other. She looks around her, eyes wide. “What happened here?”

“I had a disagreement with the two women I told you about,” Alicia replies.

“A disagreement?” she says. She places her hand on Alicia’s gut. “You have cuts all over you, and it feels like you have a couple of broken ribs, too. I told you to wait for me.”

“What could you have done? It was a fight between wizards,” Alicia replies as she flinches from Akio’s touch.

Akio looks at her, eyes full of mother-like concern. “It does not matter!” she replies. “I am your military adviser, so you are to come to me with these issues,” she continues sternly. “Simply put, I would have advised you not to go after them.”

Akio points to the blood now streaming from Alicia’s nose. “You are not a god,” she says. “You still need this lowly human’s help.”

“Sorry,” Alicia replies. “I did not mean to say it like that. My pride is a little hurt that is all.” She pauses for a moment to wipe her bloody nose on her sleeve. “What are we going to do?” she continues. “It’s apparent that I cannot beat them if they come back, but I cannot let them attack Aldcliff again.”

“Maybe you should talk to the others about this,” Akio suggests.

“I think you’re right,” Alicia replies, gazing up at the sky.

“What are we going to do with the boy?” Akio asks. “You said that he seems to be their target.”

“Indeed, he is. I confirmed that,” she replies. “Did you bring any of that stuff with you? I can barely stand.”

Akio reaches into a bag she is carrying and pulls out a flask. “We are down to the last bottle. We are going to need to find more soon,” she says as she passes it to Alicia.

Alicia takes a giant sip. Her wounds instantly begin closing, and the odd sound of bones cracking as they move back into place echoes through the trees. “Ever since Utu’s crop became diseased, I have no idea where we can find more of that flower. For all we know, it might have finally gone extinct,” Alicia says, handing the flask back to Akio.

“I can send some men to go search the woods first thing tomorrow morning, if you want,” Akio replies as she replaces the flask in her pouch.

“Don’t be silly,” Alicia replies. “You have to send the men at night. The Hikaru Yuka only blooms under darkness. During the day it looks just like any other flower.”

“My mistake,” Akio replies. “Would you like me to see that it’s done?”

“First, I want you to collect that boy, Makoto, and his friend Chelsea and deliver them to me in the castle,” Alicia says. “Makoto seems a bit thickheaded but is a good guy at heart. The girl…I am not sure what to make of her. When she is with Makoto, she is a charming young lady, but she has done some things that make me worry. I imagine separating those two would be a mistake. They shall be trained as members of my personal guard. Let’s see how strong of warriors they will become.”

“But is that not doing exactly what those cloaked women want?” Akio questions.

“Exactly. We will play along for now. I want to keep a close eye on Makoto to try to figure out what is so special about him.”

Alicia, now completely healed, starts walking back to Aldcliff. “Start training him as soon as possible. I am going to send you the names of two other individuals that I want him to train with. We will make this group of four an unstoppable team.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Akio replies as she follows Alicia into the darkness.

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