Hey, I'm going to kick things off with a short fic. (I love how Dream Splashes seem to coincide with my short vacations in the mountains, since it gives me a chance to write.) I intended it to be shorter, but the scenes I had planned spanned to 5500 words, so sorry if the length is intimidating. This is a prequel to Radical Dreamers, though only in the temporal sense; it doesn't necessary continue the themes. More about it to follow in my second reply.
~
RADICAL DREAMERS: The Mystic Key
Porre Acropolis, 1019 A.D.
Serge lingered for the view, one forbidden except to servants and the fortunate souls who dwelled within this sprawling hill community. The sea turned dark and silent on the far eastern coast. The day's light had already disappeared behind the purple musk of the horizon, allowing a temperate September eve to wrap the realm. Crickets alighted with song; groundskeepers lit torches in surrounding gardens, while tender light bulbs flickered on in the houses affluent enough to afford them. Even in deep enemy territory, Serge felt pleasant anticipation for the coming night, and wondered which lively den the three would settle into. His guitar, firmly strapped to his back, weighed on his frame with expectant song.
"It's up there," Kid pointed. "We're gonna knock it right over, mates."
What?
"Wait, wait," Serge paused. "I thought we were finding an inn for the night?"
"Huh? It'll be easy, c'mon."
Serge remained frozen in concerned surprise as Kid and Magil kept walking.
"Are you serious? Do you even remember where we are? This is the Porre Acropolis! Every high-ranking civilian in the empire is here! This is suicide!"
"Whoa, the hell's eating you? We've pulled off bigger jobs than this. Quit being a damn baby!" Kid turned impatient.
"…But I've still got my guitar; I mean, I would have dropped it off somewhere if I'd known we'd been thieving tonight!"
Thieving. Magil still couldn't get used to that word.
"Oh, who gives a damn? Quit sleeping all day if you're so pissed! Just c'mon," Kid insisted.
"Your guitar is your most potent weapon, after all," Magil joked.
Serge winced at this rare personal involvement of the masked marauder. He kept promising himself that one day, he would corner Magil with some yet-discovered leverage and force him to teach him magic. The thought made him shiver in fear, but he was tired of being the weakling in the group. He'd have to rely on his trusty dagger, stolen with recklessness from a Chorasian dignitary three years ago. Kid's own dagger undulated with her hips, harmonizing with her moves just as smoothly as it did in combat. He wondered what else she carried beneath her drab green dressings; he knew at least two redundant blades awaited their opportunity to kill. He adored that about her; while often careless and sometimes insane, she had a way out of any situation—usually one that left her on top, holding her bounty with a fierce smile.
Maybe that's why Magil follows her around, he wondered. Since joining the two, they'd become legend, feared and loved alike in this turbulent age; but he still wasn't sure what made Magil tick. Fearless, dependable, and charismatically silent, Magil nonetheless seemed to bend to Kid's folly, as if having fun and protecting her were far more important than the scores of each burglary. Even Magil's jabs at Serge seemed calculated to get a rise out of Kid; so too did Magil seem to intervene on Serge's behalf only because Kid wanted him in the group. Perhaps it was his song and mirth that endeared her to him, or maybe she wanted a storyteller so that the tales of the Radical Dreamers would never be forgotten. Probably because it's really lonely for her, he settled upon, remembering the story of her caretaker's death near Guardia. Or something more? He dared…
"We're here!" Kid yelled.
"Take care of the gatekeepers," Magil commanded."
"Wait," Serge stopped. "I still don't know what we're supposed to be doing!"
"Not the first time, heh heh," Kid snickered. Magil sighed.
"Serge, this is Ronchetti's mansion. The Porre High Councilor. He possesses one of three extant copies of Naile's Antiquities, which will help us find the Mystic Key. Remember?"
Yesterday's memories flooded back.
"Wait, we're doing this job tonight? I thought this was a week off?"
"Why wait? We were in the neighborhood, mate," Kid smiled.
"Did anyone tell our inside man?" Serge asked.
"…We'll just find him. Come on; do your part," Magil asked.
Kid grabbed Serge's hand and gave it a painful squeeze. The two romped towards the front gate, drunkenly meandering and giggling. Serge caught the form of a stone silhouette in the twilight. He'd heard of Ronchetti before, supposedly one of the more progressive domestic councilors. Such was the road to unpopularity in Porre, as domestic investments presently competed with military expenditures in the budget. His homely expanse still bore the telltale marks of a forward thinker; electric wires, garden irrigation systems, and a prototype automobile dotted the grounds. They reached the distant side gate, where Serge slovenly asked to be let in for the party before dropping to his knees and pretending to retch. Magil imparted his light touch, charged with a somniferous spell, upon the guards' shoulders. They crumpled over, and the Radical Dreamers stalked their way into the servants' wing.
"…You really sure you want to do this tonight?" Serge asked.
The halls were abuzz, suggesting recreational fanfare in progress. Attendants and servers rushed about with emptied plates and refreshments, imparting a low buzz to the environs. Serge's mouth watered as he watched pitchers of sparkling Medina sapphire mix carried out of the cellars. Magil couldn't help but wonder how the fresh-picked cherries from Fiona's Forest on a platter before him might taste; Kid satisfied the same curiosity by popping two in her mouth.
"All right, here's how it's gonna work," she said, spitting out the pits. "Magil and me are guests at this party, right? It's a right masquerade ball! I think… Anyway Serge, you're gonna be a waiter showing us around or somethin', so go find one of those uniforms."
Brilliant plan. Everyone keeps their dignity but me!
They disappeared into the servants' wardrobe, and reemerged led by a dashing young waiter resembling Serge, still carrying on a guitar on his back. The trio ducked in and out of the galley and pantries, searching for their contact, and painfully hungry from the aroma of sizzling shiitake mushrooms. Serge had a private laugh at how uncomfortable Magil seemed in this electrically-illuminated house: Magil of the Shadows indeed. The silent beauty's piercing eyes searched for their mark behind his golden mask; Kid ran behind a lone chef and spun him around with a shoulder tug.
"Hey, you!" she burst.
"…This doesn't seem to be—," Magil started.
"Oh right, the code phrase! 'The cat seems to have escaped,' savvy?"
The sweaty chef's mouth dropped, the tips of his mustache drooping in horror.
"KITTY!!" he screamed, sprinting out of the kitchen.
Magil suddenly forgot he was wearing a mask, and loudly smashed his palm against his forehead.
"I'm really hoping that wasn't the one," Serge coughed.
"Heya, there's some kinda courtyard out here. Maybe our guy's on break or somethin'?"
The three leaned behind the wall of the servants' yard; outside, two cooks drew long puffs on their cigars—one cheaply made in Guardia, and another exported from the rare plants of the Hydra marshes of the El Nido colonies, Magil wagered. He struggled to hear their conversation amidst the din.
"…shouldn't have gone at all," the smoker of the fine cigar posed, stroking her chin. "I don't know what they hoped to accomplish by pandering to a bunch of tree-dwelling bandits in Regiorra."
"Stability," her opposite replied. "Guardia's a quagmire, Sarkand is sucking the blood out of our divisions, and that god-damned pact between Medina and Choras is probably going to pass within the next year. The last thing we need are a bunch of Robin Hoods leading a peasants' rebellion in the heart of Zenan. Bunch of rural morons," he cursed.
"Ahaha," she smirked. "You're afraid they'll turn the Acacia Dragoons, aren't you?"
"I'd piss in Staik Lake before that happened. Thos're the noblest Porre's got, even if they're stuck in the middle ages."
"What if that fearsome Count Lynx is a rebel spy?" she asked, adding to his worries.
"Hell to that bloody demi-human! Bah… It's terrorism that keeps me up at night! Burn Zenan Bridge, burn New Dorino, burn the whole god-rotting forest down. How long 'till Truce asks for more concessions? 'Till that horse's ass Joseph II spins it into a reduction of our sphere and carves a nice little beachfront for Choras?!" he spit on the ground.
"You think they'd dare?" she smiled.
"'Till that Masamune Cult splits us down the middle?!" he angrily continued.
"Apologies for interrupting," Magil entered.
"Nah, nothin' of it. My damn break's over anyway. Arisse, don't be too long." The man rose and stormed back into the kitchen.
The three sat opposite their contact, who tossed her raven hair behind her and tipped her cigar. The moon cast a glowing allure upon her pupils, surrounded by a rich, coffee irises. She offered a pitcher of water.
"The cat seems to have escaped," Magil gently spoke.
"'Taken by the stars, I imagine.' Right, right. I could tell it was you," she replied. "Some bravado, I have to say. It's not exactly a costume ball in there."
Kid exhaled in frustration.
"All right, where's this book, mate?"
"Fortunately for you, the party's so large that the study's being used as a second floor. I've spent some time in there myself, brushing up on my craft. The book's kept on the fourth shelf up, right of the center window. It's red, but rather faded. Walk up and lift it right out. Simple."
"No problem," Kid smiled, clutching her bag of tricks.
"Excellent," Magil remarked. "As a matter of payment…"
"You have it?" Arisse's eyes opened wide.
Magil procured a small bottle of Celestial Seafoam, the "cream vanilla dream" from which an entire manufacturing industry had been born in Marbule. Said to impart any beverage with the lightness of a cloud and the ecstasy of heaven, one bottle ran 2000 gold pieces on the open market and had made the previous governor of El Nido a very, very rich man—though the Radical Dreamers had relieved him of some of his wealth a few months prior, a favor for an old demi-human friend.
"Pleasure!" she elatedly laughed.
"May it increase your success in this house," Magil thanked her.
"As if I'd waste it on these people!" she laughed again.
Arisse opened the bottle and enjoyed the scent before storing it securely in her breast pocket. Serge cringed with envy. Twenty bottles was nowhere near enough to silence that particular demon.
Magil saluted her with two fingers. "Shall we?"
Serge grabbed a dish of hors d'oeuvres and led his guests through the main hall. Flooded with incandescent light, the majestic room hosted an admiral's list of intelligentsia. Magil recognized Elliott Sardun, chief naval engineer for the empire and a pioneer of the engines the masked man had rigged for the Radical Dreamers' former craft. He was one of the few men to take blue imperial fashion to its zenith. Serge's heart went faint at the sight of the ladies, yearning to spar with the attractive harp player near the art gallery. Even a loss would be a win, after all. Kid's own heart leapt to the top of her slender frame, stoked equal parts by a desire to rob these people blind, and a secret wish to maim the imperial brain trust with a little havoc.
"I say, they've invited all kinds tonight, haven't they?" A man wearing a monocle approached.
"These are—" Serge began.
"Hush!" The man greedily took a cheese cracker from Serge's platter and moved closer.
"Who might you two be?"
"I manage talent for the Theater of the Blue Beret," Magil quipped. "We're always looking for esteemed guests to add further luster to our shows," he added, winking.
"Oh, splendid!" the man withdrew a card and pressed it in Magil's hand. "Extraordinary young bride you have there, too! Ah, the beauty of a youthful bloom."
Magil bit his cheek in disgusted embarrassment.
"Yeh, too bad you couldn't get a date, eh?!" Kid volleyed.
"We really must be moving along; we can't keep Ronchetti waiting," Magil motioned.
The three sauntered past what Magil read to be "Mr. Farnese", colonial liaison. Kid deposited a live centipede down his collar in passing. No doubt adding to his exotic charm, Serge smirked. Eased by the relaxed atmosphere and minimal threat, Magil sipped on a glass of blush and spied the study, its passage marked with festive ribbons. He led Serge and Kid past a hired magician, resisting the urge to enhance her show. Before reaching the study, Serge found himself bidden to join the musicians; he feigned disappointment and returned to the hall. Kid strolled into the study, surrounded by guests and monolith shelves on all sides. A beautiful table made by the master craftsman Fritz served as centerpiece; Kid chewed an orange slice and spied her target.
"This one."
Kid and Magil stealthily reached the window-proximate bookshelf; Magil provided a footlift at Kid's insistence. A tall woman with blonde hair spied them from afar, watching with one eye, as the other lay obscured by a golden bang tapering near her mouth. Flush with anticipation, Kid ran her fingers across the titles of tomes as Magil watched her left sleeve fall to her shoulder, revealing five bracelets.
"Those bracelets look…new," he spoke.
Kid turned and bared her canines with a vicious grin. Her piercing gaze returned to row before her, and her grin fell to an angry frown as suddenly, her finger entered the space where the chosen book should lay. She jumped down from Magil's hand with a thud, eyeing every guest with an accusative look.
"Ah, a fellow bibliophile?" the blonde woman startled Kid from behind.
She motioned forward and retrieved a similarly rare volume—The Kingdome Census, 563 A.D. Opening it casually, she glanced at Magil, yearning to see behind his mask. Her necklace was strikingly obsidian, glossy enough to cast a tiny glare upon his clothes.
"Indeed," Magil smiled, his emerald weapons focused with precision on her beryl look.
"Ah, here we are," she pointed to the page. "The burning of trade ships east of Zenan. It certainly set the tone for the next century. There's so much to be found in these…"
Intrigued, Magil allowed her to continue.
"Ronchetti's collection is unbelievable… I hear he even has a private study in his office." She ignored the smoldering hole burned in her forehead by Kid's stare.
"Yes. Would we all be so fortunate as to possess secrets of antiquity..." Magil posed.
She turned and her closed her eyes, smiling.
"You're quite mysterious yourself. My name's Narcissa—"
She turned, and found them missing. She smiled once more.
Serge caught Kid's impatient waving from across the hall, struck a mighty finishing chord, and departed to excuses of gastronomic duties. My sweet, he swooned, thinking of the girl with the peach-colored eyes who meticulously followed his lead during the rendition of Summer's Day. You'll be reading about me in tomorrow's papers, he thought.
"Damn, we need to throw a party of our own sometime! I could really get used to this," Serge giggled.
"Get real," Kid yelled. "Some jerk took the book to Ronchetti's room."
"Hm," Serge stroked his chin. "I haven't seen Ronchetti yet…he'll probably be in there. Damn."
"Never been a problem before," Kid grinned, looking up at Magil, who exhaled nonchalantly.
Serge counted the time through the party's barely audible songs as they infiltrated the family quarters. Kid and Magil both marked an exquisite relief above a set of double doors; confident they'd found their prize, they burst in to the sound of squeaking dolls beneath their heels. A young girl who seemed to be wearing a brunette animal on her head dashed out from underneath gilded sheets and threatened to pierce Magil's heart with the edge of her index finger.
"YOU!! What are you guys doin'?!"
"Heeey, hey, we're from the party! We just got lost!" Serge joked.
"Now that's a LOAD right there!! I know who you guys are!"
Kid leaned in, beaming her face at the brat's with a malicious grin: "Who?"
"You're those Revolutionary Dreamers!" a sneer split her face.
Magil pressed two fingers and a thumb to his forehead, fighting an oncoming headache.
"Radical. Radical Dreamers," Serge corrected.
"Yeh!! Radical is right! What with all those crazy political ideas you's got!"
Serge exchanged an incredulous glance with Magil. Kid, her eyes lit like the blue coals of a demon tiger, leaned in further, whispering devilishly.
"And you know what we're gonna do to you if you don't go back to sleep?"
"My daddy's gonna hang you! All I gots to do is scream!!"
Kid balled a fist, but Magil walked forward before her temper exploded, his face an expressionless statue. With the movements of a dignified, enlightened sage, he reached within his belt pouch and, to the exasperated suspense of Serge and Kid, produced a 5 gold banknote. Serge furrowed his eyebrows and Kid's arched like a cat's.
"Now, now. Take this little gift and buy some candy tomorrow," Magil smiled.
"Pfffffffft!" she pursed her lips. "My allowance is 25 gold pieces, numbskull! You guys are the CHEAPEST!!"
She stormed for the door, but Magil once again dug into his pouch and offered a prize—this time, a 50 gold banknote, bearing the likeness of General Zephaerus, the prized son of Porre Grand Admiral Tondal.
"Ten times the gold, ten times the fu-un," Serge enticed.
"Weeeeell," the girl smiled.
She snatched the note with avarice and placed it in her playhouse, a veritable idol for her dolls to worship. As soon as the Radical Dreamers exited the quarters, Kid frantically tied the doorknobs together and cursed.
"Why don'tcha give all our money away?" Her eyes formed daggers at Magil.
"…We had opened a line of negotiation. It would have been improper to—"
"Aww, stuff it. Ya can't make contracts about illegal stuff, mate."
Serge amusedly chuckled. "And you know this how?"
"I've been on trial a few times," Kid smiled.
No sooner than they had rounded the next corner, two guards clad in blue-green steel accosted them with swords and guns ready. The first hurled himself at Magil, who had no option but to absorb the spearing body and sail to the ground. The second raised his firearm and shot at Kid; the ball exploded on the stony wall near her face, blasting a cloud of dust and shrapnel that sent her reeling to the floor. His mouth dry with adrenaline and fear, Serge grabbed his dagger and held onto it as if it were his soul. The guard violently threw his pistol, now useless; Serge poorly deflected it, feeling a bruise smart on his upper right arm. The sensation registered as the guard instantaneously tore towards him with naked blade. It sparked against the walls twice as he stumbled backwards to dodge. A misplaced heel, and he tumbled to the floor, losing his dagger; the guard swung too hard and fell on top of him. The sword fell behind with a clang.
Serge felt a pang of pain as the guard jammed his fist into his stomach. His guitar screeched and splintered against the floor as he rolled with the guard, locked in visceral combat. A clawing hand grabbed his scalp and tore his hair; he bit the guard's arm as hard as he could, feeling his mouth fill with blood. The man screamed and lurched back, and ready to parry, Serge lunged forward, only to find a boot against his sternum. The impact shattered his senses and left him heaving on the floor, praying his heart wouldn't shudder to a stop. His dimming sight caught the guard's form above him, with sword raised.
A shadow behind smashed him in the back; he fell onto Serge, who instinctively hammered his side with the butt of his dagger as much as the cramped position would allow. The man screamed, spitting blood on Serge's face; Kid kicked him savagely with her foot until he moved no more. Serge pushed the still-breathing mass to his side and rose to his knees, noticing Magil running towards them from a corridor filled with the frigid exhaust of an ice spell.
Kid grabbed her dagger and prepared to plunge it into the back of the guard's neck. Her chest heaved, and a cut on her forehead from a stone splinter oozed crimson essence down her cheek. She raised the dagger.
"No, Kid. Not now." Magil's hand on her arm paralyzed her. She stuttered.
"…But…"
"Kid… Remember yourself."
Her eyes lost their fire, and she sheathed her dagger once more. The lowest length of her hair fluttered from a draft, its left corner red with blood.
I almost died.
"See!" Serge started with anger. "This is what happens when we don't stick to the plan!" He stamped the floor.
Magil turned away as Kid slowly raised her face to his.
"Shush…wouldn'a happened if you weren't such a damned lousy fighter…"
She turned away, concentrating on her wounds. Serge fought himself bitterly, tears forming in his eyes; for in that moment, their prides broken along with the guards, he just wanted to hug her—to relieve her suffering and loneliness, so badly. But he knew that he was not the one—not yet, and that perhaps no person could ever heal the rifts in her soul, carved by the death of her cherished Lucca and whatever other horrors she endured. He guessed in vain what might finally bring her peace, and felt his heart swell for the chance to suffer for that cause.
And then, ripe with desire and empathy, he smiled—for more often than not, Kid was saving him. He gathered his composure with a cracked, bloody grin and followed her bright, sandy hair into the next dark hallway.
"There's no mistaking it; this is our destination." Magil paused outside an august door.
"What's he packing?" Serge inquired.
"Just seems to be him," Kid answered, peering through the keyhole. "Readin' some kinda book…"
"Go on," Magil admonished, ere disappearing into the shadows.
"Here goes nothin'," Kid uttered as she opened the door.
Ronchetti sat behind his desk. He cowered over a financial ledger, his head propped up by a hand in obvious boredom. A quill pen stood near his other hand, apparently unused. A bust of Karatha, famed Porre folk hero of the 800s, stood on his desk, watching any who entered the room with silent dignity. Ronchetti's stately Councilor headgear added to Karatha's frozen power. A corner of the room hosted a bookshelf, split between antiquated volumes and trinkets from the far reaches of the empire; Serge noticed a Crandish wind-harmonica and coveted it immediately. Kid's gaze remained fixed at the Councilor, the slice in her forehead still moist with blood.
"I said I'll be out in a min—oh, hello there," Ronchetti raised his head. "Some kind of scuffle at the party?"
"Y—" Kid began.
"Ah, actually, I'm not that great with relationships. You might want to consult my wife for that," he smiled, pointing to two paintings on the wall. Kid fought the wish to embed her dagger in the eye of his daughter's painting.
"Councilor Ronchetti, may we borrow a book?" Serge tested benevolent fate.
"Chef, eh? Now what would you need with one of these? You should have applied to maintain the library, young man!" Ronchetti laughed.
"Well," Serge started, before Kid pushed him aside.
"Naile's Antiquities. That's the one we're lookin' for. You got it or not, mate? 'Cause we're takin' it."
"You mean…this?" Ronchetti withdrew a book from his top drawer.
The volume had been worn by centuries of perusal. Its color still showed through faded fibers. Ronchetti dragged his fingers possessively on the edge of the cover.
"I know why you're here. The Mystic Key… Yes, there's quite an enlightening passage in here on the subject. An old script; it's tough on my eyes, I admit. I hadn't even paid attention to the part about the key 'till I heard your group was after it…"
Serge shifted his stance.
"The story goes that around 2,000 B.C., a tribe of magic-using beasts forged a key to a priceless object—or some say power—that they had sealed away, lest it consume the world forever… It was an ancient power, perhaps a divine element left over from the creation of the world. Unlike the others, it was never returned to heaven, but hidden by the greedy and ambitious of this planet, who would one day dare to turn against old gods. And this key…yes, this key."
He shut the book.
"Well, I wouldn't want to spoil that part. It's a fascinating story," he concluded.
"Too bad none of it's true," came a voice from the adjunct room.
Kid recognized the tall, blonde woman from before. She now wore a fitting blue military uniform and black flak jacket, capped by steel pauldrons. Three belts tightly hugged her form, providing her a selection of tactical implements—and a menacing pistol of a model Kid didn't recognize. She peered at Serge and Kid with her uncovered eye, memorizing their exact dimensions. She walked near the desk and leaned against its edge, arms crossed; her face lay unreadably focused. Magil watched her from his vantage. Somehow, he recognized that face…
"Who the hell are you?!" Kid demanded.
"Narcissa Ishito. The woman who caught the Radical Dreamers."
Magil recalled the name immediately. Ishito could only mean one thing: William Ishito, the gallant Porre captain who had paraded the common cause through Zenan with wit and charm over the last twenty-five years. Where other Porre regiments had massacred locals and salted the earth, he had saved the day and even tracked down lost pets. He was a folk hero of the empire, and a dangerously competent soldier. His legend had been an improbable gushing fountain of propaganda and public relations for High Command, and only age had slowed his jovial step. Age, and family. So this was the daughter of William and his mysterious refugee bride…
"If I knew it'd been this easy, I would have made up some stupid legend months ago. Throw your weapons to the floor. And the guitar."
"Ya understand why things were a lil' chop-chop now, Serge?" Kid turned to Narcissa. Mate…I don't think you know who yer messin' with," she growled.
"The runts of the group? We've already apprehended your chaperone. Weapons. Floor. Now." Her gaze hardened, lips drawn to a motionless threat.
"Heh heh, I'm gonna use that, Serge…" Kid warned.
"Wha—"
"The…FIREBRINGER!!"
Kid jammed her hand into her bag and pulled out a jagged black rock. Retrieving an arrowhead from Guldove, she held the rock towards Ronchetti and Narcissa and prepared to give it a furious scrape. The Councilor dove under his desk, while Narcissa scarcely had time to reach for her pistol before Kid let loose a shower of sparks. They quickly and harmlessly burned out; twice more did Kid try.
"…I think that's a tinder rock," Serge whispered.
"God-damn shaman ripped me off!" She hurtled the rock at Narcissa's feet.
Serge kept his eyes on her, and noticed her extend her index finger on her left hand. A blurry figure pushed him to the floor and swiped at Kid's bag; the struggle ended as Kid dragged her nails across his masked face. He rolled to Narcissa and withdrew a short sword, resting at the ready. Serge recovered and grabbed his guitar, wondering why Magil had not yet intervened. Unnaturally calm, she rose to her feet and withdrew her pistol, pointing the uncompromising object at Serge.
"Let's go."
Serge and Kid didn't move, still waiting for Magil's drop, confident that Narcissa had been bluffing. She adjusted her aim in response. Growing tired, she pulled the trigger. The guitar's frame erupted with a sickening crack, the ball cleanly passing through the body. Shock washed over Serge's face.
"R, REALLY?!"
She picked up another pistol and aimed again, this time for Kid. As she settled her eyes upon the target, Magil finished the final syllable of his incantation and pounded his fist on the floor outside. The tinder rock exploded, raising a wall of fire between the imperials and the Radical Dreamers. Kid watched Narcissa fall to the floor coughing, leapt through the flames, and grabbed the prized book. She smashed the rear window with a chair and tumbled down the tiled roof towards the gardens below. Serge, still in shock, felt Magil's authoritative hand grab and chuck him through the window; the bruising tiles added insult to the injury of his lost instrument.
He landed face up, feeling the crescent moon mocked him with a sideways smile. He stumbled to his feet and fled with Kid and Magil, disappearing into the brush near the acropolis's steepest edge. Magil pulled an artificial hedge back, revealing three gliders emplaced the previous night. Serge hung on for dear life, howling all the way down to the flatlands. The Dreamers soon disappeared into the darkness.
~
"It doesn't make sense!" Kid smashed the book on the table, drawing looks from the other pub-goers.
"Let me read it." Serge pulled it towards him and flipped open the offending page.
The key was…let's see here… The King of Trenton passed it to… lost at sea, recovered miraculously the next morn… kept in the cellar at… hm… here… in the time of Cedric, lost at sea… The Pherellion taken back to heaven… bah.
"She's right. 'Lost at sea.' Ugh," Serge exhaled and closed his eyes.
Magil threw some coins on the table and rose.
"Anything worth keeping secret is worth writing in code, reversed with invisible script," Magil cryptically offered. He walked to the breezy entrance. Serge and Kid scampered after, blinded temporarily by a beachfront sun that boiled the sands. Magil eyed a seaworthy vessel, sweat dripping from the edges of his mask.
"We're going to find an old friend. Ready to disembark?"
Miles away, Narcissa Ishito boarded a Porre frigate, the PNF Sealion. The relentless coastal sun threatened to evaporate its aquamarine paint to the sky's superior hue. The top of its class, the ship's metal frame conducted heat far too well for these waters. Narcissa wiped sweat from her forehead, walked past the seamen at attention on deck, and approached the blue-cloaked man staring at the horizon.
"Black Wind Leader, reporting."
"I expected three prisoners."
"It was Magil of the Shadows; he—"
"You are not the first to underestimate him," the man warned.
"Our agent was able to swipe something of value—one of Kid's maps."
She knelt and offered it to the old spymaster, who hastily unfurled it. Before him lay a crayon-drawn map of the world, with several Xs and question marks with speculative, sometimes angry captions and doodles of cats and dogs. He passed it back to Narcissa, who, cheeks red, crumpled it and stuck it back in her jacket.
"I know you're better than this, Narcissa."
She stared at the ground.
"The question is, do you know you're better than this? The 'Black Wind' unit is named such to conjure visions of the past; of the great Magus, who burned a frightening legacy into the hearts of Guardians forever. You'll be getting some help on the next mission with that…"
He snapped his fingers. A figure emerged from the darkness of the hold, her boots eerily clanking like steel on the deck. Covered in red and blue wraps, she only allowed her eyes to be visible—cold; piercingly cold, with hollow pupils.
"Grobyčka, you are now under the command of this woman."
The woman stood in frozen salute to the visibly unsettled Narcissa, who returned it.
"Set sail for the Isle of Sorey."
"Our mission?" Narcissa asked.
"Burn it." He turned seaward once more.
Narcissa and her new acolyte returned to her ship, the Starshot. She watched the shore fade from sight, relieved to be among her trusted crew. Grobyčka felt like an invader, however—as did the rare mission to burn a scholarly isle, showcasing a level of brutality not seen since the Fall of Guardia. As Narcissa reviewed the day's logs, a worry crept into her stomach that perhaps the Mystic Key was real. It was a fear Magil felt as well, leagues away, reclining on a chartered boat. But it was a fear he counted on. Eyeing Kid, he pressed his tight fist to the floor of the vessel, charged his elemental magic, and gave it further speed.
