9 years later

Jovial music of string and horn and drum bantered amid the chatter of the market plaza, full and loud with twice its usual occupancy. Seared meat scented the writhing streets, adding to the acrid odor of spilt wine and mead left baking over the afternoon. The Spring Festival marked the coming of longer days and growing things, and Altaira spared no expense with its stalls and banners and voracious entertainment. People from every city and town had come to sell and buy and compete. Above them, dragonlances stood proud atop watchtowers, their black metal gleaming from a fresh cleaning.

A mass of contestants swarmed the circular plaza already, nerves on edge for the start of the main event. A head taller than most, Aidan tapped an impatient toe, his long fingers drumming against the hilt strapped at his side.

"Where is she?" he said, scanning the crowd and brushing back the long strands of hair that clung to his misted forehead and collar. The boy had hit his growth spurt, and hit it well. Time and long practices had filled out once scrawny limbs enough for a longsword to be wielded with quick precision.

"You sure she said she was coming?" said a shorter, middle-aged man in simple clothes, "All the other two-bars are here. I'm going to have to start without her." Senec, the judge, had worked alongside Aidan to organize the swordplay competition, but the sinking sun pressed him for time.

"She'll be here. Said she was going to check out Revinia's new cake, so she's probably just stuffing her face."

Senec laughed and padded Aidan firm on the shoulder, "You two really are something else. If I talked to my wife that way, I'd be in the oven instead of the bread."

"Well, we're not there yet," Aidan said, fiddling with a small lump in his pocket, "but that's what today is for."

Senec's face scrunched and wrinkled with scheming glee and Aidan paced in his tiny bubble of space within the throng, "But seriously, where is that girl?"

***

Beneath the crowds and streets and dirt and stone, the roars and music faded to mere muffles. The arched catacombs beneath the city wound on and on in cold, damp shadow, with the flicker of a tiny light dashing through its many corridors like a wisp. Attached to the light was a hand, a small hand that produced a glowing orb, and to that hand a small body of female frame and leather armor that grew ever more frustrated.

"Where the hell is it?" Curses echoed off the vaulted tunnels as Syra lumbered through the dark with a worn and crumpled map clasped in her free hand. "I swear I've passed here a million times!" The map, now covered in nonsense scribbles and angry doodles, showed the subterranean layout of the catacombs and Syra's fruitless exploration of them. "What am I even looking for?" Syra barked down at the broken stone in her hand that glowed misty in the damp.

With her innate magical and fighting skills, Syra had managed to nuzzle and work her way into Inner City life; indeed, despite her young age, she was top pick for council mage and dubbed Soldier a year early. And all nine of those years were spent scouring the city with this blasted stone that insisted on bringing her to the same blank wall every single time.

She stood rigid, seething in the still silence as the fine, clear beam of light pointed, unwavering, at that blank wall.

"Ah! that's it!" Syra roared, ramming a fist into the wall's mocking face and leaving it with red smears from broken skin, "I don't know what Papa was thinking, but this is not working." She massaged her aching knuckles and flared some mana to heal them. "Damn thing is actually broken." Spinning on a heel, she left the wall and shoved the stone into a pocket. She would just have to find another way to get her answers.

But the wall had other plans. There was spark, then a pale glimmer, then a sparkle that spiraled and grew, trailing its way from the blood smears to its rounded edges.

"You've got to be kidding me," Syra said through pressed lips, hearing the scrape and rumble of moving stone. She felt her pocket warm and light again poured from the stone, this time pointing into the small alcove within the wall.

Inside the nook, a small, broken stone sat glimmering in the beam of light. Syra pulled her half from her pocket and felt it tug towards the alcove, glowing brighter.

"Finally," she whined a soft cry. Her legs nearly buckled from relief and she steadied herself against the wall.

I found it, Papa, she thought, staring at the cracked stone in the wall. Took me a while, but I finally found it.

She took the half from the hole and held it to hers, feeling the magnetic pull from both halves. And the closer they got, the brighter they shone, until they snapped together. Light flashed and a shockwave shook through the catacombs that knocked Syra off her feet.

By the time her hearing returned, Syra sat staring at the glowing sphere at her feet. She plucked it from the cold floor and stood, gaining her balance. The glow faded, revealing a pearl that fit snug in her palm. And that was it. No more light show, no fancy spell or invisible voice proclaiming lost knowledge. Just a simple pearl that was warm to the touch.

"All this trouble for a bead?" Syra groaned, shoving the pearl in her pocket.

Above her, Syra heard the rising cheer of the crowd and tensed as she remembered the competition, "Shit, I'm late!" She fumbled to read her map while dashing through the corridors, "Aidan's never going to let this go."

***

Syra's eyes adjusted to the afternoon light as she raced through the streets, dodging merchants and little boys with toy swords. She sprinted round a corner and could hear the roar from the crowd grow as she neared the plaza. A circle had already formed and the clash of metal echoed down the cobbled street.

"What are you looking at, you pasty-faced ape!"

The sound of competition faded as Syra's eyes fell on a cleanly-dressed man with ironed cape and white banners tugging at the wrist of a young nordess. By her clenched jaw and flushed cheeks anyone could tell she was pressed to restrain herself from clubbing the fellow.

"Excuse me, sir!" Syra trotted up to the man, eyes narrowed. The barred, silver banners that hung from her cape--a mark of knighthood--wafted a warning to the sneering man and he dropped the maiden's hand in a quick withdraw.

"I really hope that display was not your representation of our city, Councilman." Syra leered up at him and he bit back a tinge of guilt.

"N-not at all, Lady Syra!" He clenched his jaw and lowered his gaze to the young, but sturdy nordess, "I apologize for my lapse of character. Forgive me."

With a curt bow, Syra nodded him away.

"Not sure if he regrets his actions, or just getting caught." Syra mused out of earshot. She looked to the snow-complected nordess, who wasn't much taller than herself. "You alright?"

"Hm," A deep breath faded her anger and reddened cheeks, "My pride will heal, I suppose. Though my knuckles still crave his jawline." She shoved a balled fist into the fur-rimmed pocket of her suede vest.

"Ha!" A bold laugh escaped Syra's lips, startling nearby shoppers, "I know the feeling."

The two exchanged sympathetic grins and Syra extended a firm hand, "Syra."

The nordess returned the gesture with a toothy smile, "Leti."

It wasn't rare for Nords to visit the human city, especially for trade or festivities. Syra had met a handful of the arctic-borne race during western patrols and trips to Renguard, the center of trade. They were a stocky breed, and strikingly pale; built for the arctic climate of the White Ridge Mountains. They were also a bit hairy, with their elbows and temples draped in long, but soft fur; though the more temperate climate here appeared to have lessened this trait over the generations.

It was the lavender hue of Leti's eyes that caught Syra's attention. A rare trait that was praised amongst the typically blue-gray eyed Nords.

No wonder her pride was hurt.

"Tell you what, Leti," Syra posited, retracting her hand, "If you get any more trouble, you have my permission to sock them in the gut."

Leti laughed and nodded, "Will do!" She tapped a gloved fist against Syra's shoulder, "Thanks."

"Syra!" Aidan's voice returned Syra's attention to the competition, "Come on!" Aidan yelled, waving an arm.

"Feel free to join!" Syra said to Leti before dashing off into the swarm of antsy fighters.

"Did you raid her entire stall?" Aidan teased, plowing the way towards the judge's table.

I knew he wouldn't let it go.

"Does it matter?"

Aidan rolled his eyes, "Don't blame me if you're slow."

Aidan pulled Syra into the sanctum of the judge's booth and handed her a quill.

"Look who finally made it!" Senec glanced away from the fight as Syra scribbled her name on the registry, "Enjoy your lunch?"

"Do you tell that to everyone?" Syra asked, annoyed at Aidan's ploy to make her out as a glutton. Granted, by human standards she was.

"Yep," Aidan said with a smirk.

"You're going to pay for it later."

"I look forward to it," he said, mischief dancing on his smug face.

"Oh, and he's down!" Senec boomed, as a Renguardian soldier stood triumphant in the ring, ending the round. "Who could possibly challenge The Goliath of Renguard?" Senec winked down at Syra, who looked to Aidan.

"After you," Aidan said, bowing.

"I'll challenge him!" Syra called out, raising a hand that was barely visible from the sea of heads.

The crowd hushed for a moment and the sea parted for Syra to enter the ring. Her opponent, Damian, swung his sword all fancy-like, smirking at her small size.

"Look who it is, folks!" called Senec, standing on his chair, "Lady Syra, the Bronze Valkyrie herself! What a challenger indeed! But I must remind you, this is a swordplay tournament. So, no magic allowed. Understood?"

Syra flashed him a grin and sauntered into the plaza, drawing her shortsword into a wide stance, "I won't need it."

The crowd was a mass of cheers and boos, split between Altaira and Renguard. The two competitors circled each other in slow strides, analyzing the other's gait and swordhold, trying to determine which leg to trip and what style to expect. Judging from his arrogance and broadsword, Syra simplified him to a brute soldier, but the two bars adorning his cape's banners announced his skill in combat—she herself had two—so he must be quite nimble to move around with that bulk.

"Is this the best Altaira can offer? This tiny woman?" Damian hooted, his friends cackling on the sidelines.

He's also a giant ass, Syra thought, snarling.

"And yet you merely talk. Impressive." She twirled her sword, inviting him to move.

Damian quieted and narrowed his gaze. Both stopped moving and the crowd waited in silence. Then he shifted his foot and the fight was on.

They charged. Damian's sword reared to strike. The blade came down swift, as expected, and Syra twisted, dodging the blow and ducking under Damian. She brought the hilt up under his chin, knocking him back a step and thoroughly surprising him.

"This is a sword fight!" Damian yelled.

"Is this not a sword?" Syra waved the hilt in the air and pointed it at him, "Again?"

Damian growled and lunged. A quick block sent the blade colliding with the ground, chipping the stone. She pivoted and spun around him, kicking his rump and shoving him off balance. Damian reared back around, face pulsing with annoyance which only grew redder as Syra bounced on her toes, waiting.

He took a deep breath and readjusted his grip, then bolted. Syra went to dodge but his quickened pace caught her off guard. She blocked the blow with her hilt, but strained under his weight. Seeing this, Damian bared down harder, forcing her into a crouch.

"Not so quick now, little girl." Damian spat with a sneer.

Syra glared but noticed his back foot brushing the ground. Twisting, she shoved his blade to the side and rolled, letting his momentum send him tumbling over her.

He sprung to his feet and Syra rushed at him, her small feet light and quick. He brought up his sword and she ducked under and around him, slashing at his waist.

The crowd hushed and Damian checked himself in a panic for injuries. Seeing none, he breathed in relief, causing the slit in his belt to break and his britches to fall. It was then that the two cities learned of Damian's love of embroidered underwear. This pair had paw prints.

She let out a genuine giggle, "Those are actually cute."

The crowd roared in hysterics and Damian fled, tripping over his sagging pants. Syra bowed and held up her sword, inviting the next opponent.

"Next!" called Senec.

Round after round they fell. Until three soldiers entered the ring at once, against Senec's whining.

"Three against one, really?" Aidan cried from the sidelines.

The first lunged and Syra spun around him, kicking him into a water barrel. The remaining two charged and she ducked as they rammed into each other.

"Sure you don't want to join?" Syra called to Aidan.

Aidan shrugged and unsheathed his sword, "Well, if you insist."

Back-to-back they swung and parried and dodged, knocking all three soldiers onto their butts in a pile huffing for breath. The crowd cheered Syra's name and Aidan lifted her arm in the air.

"Looks like we have our winner!" Senec called from his chair.

Syra laughed through heavy breaths and went to take back her arm, but Aidan held it fast. She looked up confused but he just stood there, smiling his mischievous smile, with Senec grinning in the background.

"What?" Syra asked.

"You might be the queen of swords, Syra," Aidan said, loud enough for the crowd to hear, "But you still have one question to answer!"

The crowd hushed their cheers and cries which perplexed her more.

"What? There's a test now?"

She looked over at Senec by his tent, "What bullshit are you pulling, Senec?" But Senec just giggled to himself.

From his pocket, Aidan brought out a ring. A simple, silver ring with a solitary clear stone, hung from a simple, silver chain.

Syra froze.

Oh shit.

"Do you remember the first time you played me at chess?" he asked, staring down at the ring.

"I remember beating you." Syra chuckled, her cheeks flushing from the stares surrounding her.

"Heh, that you did. Took you all afternoon, but you did. Do you also remember what you said afterwards?"

"Besides, 'I told you so'?"

"You said," he continued, taking the initiative to make his point, "of all the pieces, the queen was your favorite. That she would move any distance, in any direction, to protect her king. 'She's his sword and shield', I believe you said."

Syra nodded and Aidan took her cheek in a gentle hand, "I've seen you sleepless from nights of studying a spell, and ecstatic after mastering it. I've seen you stubborn and refuse to leave a duel, even when you could barely stand. I've even seen you sulk when you didn't get the last slice of pie—"

"I hadn't had any!"

"You had two." Aidan corrected her, continuing, "And I've seen you tired, cold, and covered in mud, and yet you still marched on during our battles out west. You inspire me when I'm low, and guide me when I get ahead of myself. I..." he paused to take her hand, and the lines on his forehead deepened, "I feel safe with you. You are my sword and shield, and I want you by my side as my queen piece. So, will you take my hand and become my real queen?"

A smile consumed half her face, but no words came out.

Become queen?

Memories of the lair and the chanting of her clan uprooted themselves.

But that's so...

"That's so much responsibility," her words tumbled out. "I want to stay with you, but—"

"I know," he cooed and steadied her shaking hands, "it is a lot to take on. But I will be right there with you. You can come to me with anything. Just like now, I promise."

His words offered some comfort, but the thought of herself in the throne room—in the war room—lives hanging with all eyes on her...it made her whole body stiff.

"Does your father know about this?" she managed to ask.

"Of course! He's actually the one who recommended it."

"B-but I'm not a noble—"

"Neither was Mother." A bittersweet pang softened his gaze and he placed a gentle hand atop her head, "Apparently, you remind him of her."

"Why? Because I'm Gifted?"

"No...well, maybe. But mostly because you both have a good habit of calling out my bullshit."

Syra laughed at the memory of them both reprimanding his all-nighters.

"She liked you, you know," he said. "Wasn't too keen on you sneaking treats, yet she always asked to bake extra 'just in case'. Even at the end, she always asked about you—about us. So, I think she'd agree, too."

Syra squeezed his hand and took a long, deep breath. His hand fully enveloped hers and was roughened by his sword. But it was warm and secure. His scent mingled with the sweat of the crowd, the warm stone street, the fresh blooms in the courtyard, and the spiced meats on the racks. She smiled as her nerves settled.

This is...nice.

But, can I really stay here? Her thoughts flew back to her clan, to her father, and to the stone nestled in her pocket. I do have the stone now, she thought with a spark of glee, that's what Papa wanted, right? I could just take it back to the clan. Petra is probably Vayguard now, which is what she wanted anyway. Is there really any need of me now?

She looked around at the swarm of anticipating eyes that clung to her and Aidan.

They look happy, too.

"What do you think?" she called to the crowd. "I would love to take this man's hand, but he is your future king. Do I also have your support?"

Cheers erupted and Syra warmed at the smiles that beemed back at her.

Maybe, she thought, maybe as queen I could convince them—show them—that we're not the monsters they imagine. If I can reinstate the treaty—even just a truce—then maybe we can fix things. She grinned, No flame necessary.

"Yes!" Syra burst out and flung her hands to her mouth as Aidan jumped in surprise. "My answer is, yes."

"Well, good! I'm glad you're excited," Aidan teased and the crowd snickered with them.

"Sorry." Syra covered her face.

Aidan simply removed her hands and kissed her forehead, "I'm not."

She flushed and absently shoved her forehead against his, biting her lip to mute the squeal inside her throat.

"Easy there, little one," Aidan cooed and slid the ring onto her shaking finger. "Here," he handed the chain to her, "your turn."

With quivering fingers, she fastened the braided chain around his neck. The crowd cheered and Aidan waited anxiously, but all she could do was stare from his eyes, to the dangling chain on his chest, to the ring on her finger.

"You make me do everything, don't you?" Aidan teased, cupping her face in his hand.

"What—" She was cut off by the warm lips pressed against hers and the rich, cool scent that filled her nose. Her hearing faded briefly and even her neck was flushed by now.

And then there was a rumble. Syra thought it her legs at first, weakened by Aidan's display. But when Aidan pulled away with a look of concern, she knew it wasn't her nerves. The crowd felt it, too, and whispering swam among the sea of worried faces.

A flash of light called everyone's attention to the horizon, far to the southwest. Streaking and arching across the sky, an aurora flashed towards them. Then the shockwave came.

Bang!

A boom crashed into the city, shaking the buildings. People ran and screamed, taking shelter where they could. Aidan clung to Syra and huddled on the ground to keep balance as the quake ran under them. And then it stopped, and all was quiet, and everyone looked around as if the cause were right around the corner.

But they should have looked down. For that was where the crack started. Beneath the streets and dirt and stone, weakened by Syra's shockwave, a crack in the archways of the catacombs grew and split and widened. And then down it came. The streets cracked and fell into the tunnels below, bringing buildings and people along with them.

Aidan and Syra watched in horror as the collapsing street slithered towards them. They ran; everyone ran, towards the city gates away from the approaching fissure. They ran and clambered over each other, but then it stopped. The fissure halted its charge and sat there, apparently satiated, and the people relaxed.

But Syra did not relax. She could feel, and hear, the slow crack and movement of stone.

"Aidan," Syra whispered, her eyes watching the sound of weight shifting underground, "We need to move."

"What's wron—" And then Aidan saw it, too.

One of the watchtowers leaned, unnoticed at first, and then the guards atop it screamed. The stones at its base cracked and splintered under the shift in weight. The faster guards managed to scramble down the ladder before it leaned farther, then farther still.

"Everybody move!" Aidan cried, leaping to his feet and running to grab people from under its growing shadow.

"Aidan, wait!" Syra bolted after him.

He's not going to make it.

But his legs were long and hers were not. It came crashing. In a scream of metal and rock, it whined and fell and her legs burned as she pumped them hard against the ground. She watched Aidan grab a crying child and fling it to its mother, but there were countless others huddled beneath the falling tower.

There're so many.

Syra's eyes flashed over the surrounding crowd.

So many watching.

But the tower only grew larger overhead and Aidan smaller in its shadow.

But I have to.

With that, Syra flung herself over Aidan and the tower crashed down.