Chris lingers in the empty hallways; he knows she’s expecting him back at her side. He said he’ll only be a minute or two but he’s reluctant to return to the rooftop. His feet can’t stay still. Neither can his brain. No news from the front. Eclipse and the kid are still gone. And Nicole is a bundle of nerves. And him? He’s trying everything in his power not to think.

Not to think of his friends fighting in the heat of battle. The men they killed. The families those men leave behind. What will happen if the Gate is breeched. How will Sara grow up without any of them here to support her. What will happen to him at the end of this adventure. What will he leave behind?

It’s all too much. He takes a left turn and heads to the kitchen. Nicole’s voice whispering in his head: I would love a cup of tea right now. Tea, at a time like this. What is it with these women and tea. Will it kill them to try anything stronger?

He has half a mind to pick the lock of the royal reserves and take a few bottles of Allan’s top shelf brandy. After all it’s all going to waste; and the end of the world waits for no one. But he opens the door to the kitchen instead; resolving himself to sobriety until there’s news from the front.

The silence inside the darken room causes him to pause. Despite the mood of the palace the kitchens are always lively. The servants didn’t laugh when Allan was killed, but the noise of stirring, cutting, cooking flooded the room. It’s the heartbeat of palace life; after no matter what is happening outside, people need to eat. In days following Allan’s death the kitchen was busier than ever.

Which is why seeing the huge cooking fires almost extinguished sends panic creeping over him. Where is everyone? He grabs a candle holder from the counter; searching between the prep tables for an answer. On the floor near the back of the room are two bodies sprawled over the stone floor. One girl in a bonnet lies lifeless on her stomach. There’s no blood but there’s not enough light to get a good look. A frail breath tickles the back of his hand. Thank the Gods. And he turns to the next girl. Both seem alive, for now.

There are more questions than answer. He searches the room for weapons. For anything out of place. And comes up empty. It isn’t until he looks at the cabinets by the door. It stretches the length of the wall, with glass doors and holds decorative dishware. On the middle shelf is the row of teapots with matching saucers and cups. And right in the middle is an empty space where one teapot used to call home.

Nicole.

There isn’t a soul in the hallways, which wasn’t a problem before, but now fills him with dread. He didn’t think about the absence of guards. They usually blend into the background most days. But as he pushes through the corridors, he can’t recall the last time he saw one. Is the palace truly undefended?

A few feet from the hatch Nicole’s scream rings through the stairwell. Tossing his body to the ladder, he scales it just in time to hear another scream. He’s through the hatch and on the rooftop in a blink. Shielding his eyes from the harsh light, he tries to find her. Another scream from behind. A few feet past one chimney is the princess, stool in hand, and swiping at two unknown assailants.

A young man and a woman surround her, but she ducks between chimneys, managing to stay out of reach. Drawing the dagger from his waist he lunges for the lanky male, dressed in unfitting servant clothes. The tiles smash under him as they fall to the roof. A scuffle breaks out, the stranger desperate to restrain his knife hand, while he’s dead set to use it.

More tiles crack while they roll; in the distance both women scream at each other. He’s never seen this guy before, but his scars across his face and the fierceness in his eyes reminds him of allies who grew up on the streets. Someone accustomed to fighting for their mediocre survival day in and day out.

He gains the upper hand, climbing on top and smashing his wrist against the roof until he abandons the grip on his dagger. He feels the brunt of the punch across his chin before seeing the other hand move. Reeling back, he staggers to his feet adjusting his jaw with a satisfying pop. Clenching his bloody fist he lunges at Chris, but he swerves punching him in his lower back sending him toppling to his stomach.

She screams again, this time directing her anger to her enemy. He glances over, spying Nicole swinging the stool in the woman’s shoulder. Not bad, but she needs to work on her follow through. He falls face first as something hard punts his leg and his knees give out.

“Who the fu—”

He’s on top of him, jamming his knees into his back. His wiry hands go for his throat but he’s already over this game. Fingers clutch his throat with an iron grip. Chris coughs trying to force a breath but his vision blurs. Gripping the dagger, he flings his hand backwards; digging the blade into soft flesh. He cries out and rolls off his back. Air floods his lungs. He takes another breath before jumping onto his attacker.

He’s not wasting any more time. This is what happens when people get attached to other people. It switches from wanting a satisfying drink to murder in a blink of an eye. Loyalty, its like poison on his tongue. But here he was with a knife at a stranger’s heart. A calculating move he makes the final stab into his chest. As he gasps his last gurgled breath, the blood stains his shirt, Chris moves to Nicole.

She continues her chimney hopping strategy and manages to hold her own until he limps to her side. But the woman dressed in a servant’s uniform holds a small knife and isn’t afraid to get close and personal. Chris avoids her, limping and twisting out of the way of her blade. She’s faster than her partner, he barely dodges her lunge, but his heel catches on a broken tile; sending him backwards. She’s on top of him like a feral beast stabbing in every direction. He blocks them the best he can but the sharp edge slices his palms and coat.

“I said NO!” Nicole shouts from behind her. A heavy piece of tile flies from no where and smashes against the woman’s skull. She falls limp on his chest. Standing over them is Nicole, red faced and panting. In her hand is the broken tile.

“Did you just do that?” he spits out, looking at the bloody gash in the woman’s head.

“Did I do that!” she gasps, dropping the tile to cover her mouth. “Is she…”

“You’re effective, I’ll tell ya that.” He rolls her off him and allows Nicole to help him to his feet.

“I do not know what came over me…” she mumbles. He helps her avoid the shattered teapot and cups, guiding her trembling form to a second stool by the hatch. “Please forgive me…”

“Don’t worry about it, its either them or you. You chose you, nothing wrong with that.” A bright yellow light flickers from the battlefield. Her sobs pause and both watch as it glows than fades away. “Zack…”

“Are you sure?”

“His sword emitted the same light when he attacked Moira in Lollardum.”

“My word! He would never.” But her protest is cut short as a blinding white light illuminates the field, crosses the battle lines, and reaches the Gate. Her expression falls and she doesn’t move.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Allan’s worse fear is finally realized.” She mumbles, “Alona keep her safe.”

~~**~~

Her nails claw at the grass, catching clumps of the soft earth with each handful. Behind her the battle rages. Somewhere Zack fights alongside her soldiers. As she pauses at the top, she wonders if she’ll see him again. Above her the dirt shifts, and when she looks up; waiting for her is Kipling with his hand resting on his sword’s hilt. Moira's limbs protest, but she pulls herself to her feet. She’s taken aback by the man before her. When he challenged her father, he carried himself like the soldier she knew as a child. But now he’s almost unrecognizable. Glistening sweat sticks to his gaunt face. His hair stands straight from times he’s pulled at it. There’s a feverish fury behind his calculating green eyes. And her body trembles.

“You remind me of her,” he strokes her chin. His touch makes her skin crawl. She can’t hide the instinctual reaction to turn away. “You’re just like her!” he hisses, slamming his sword’s hilt against her collarbone. The shooting pain sends her backwards. She dodges another strike, but she can’t run; he has her cornered on the hilltop.

“I was afraid my men killed you before I had the pleasure.”

“I’m full of surprises.” She moves her staff to the attack position.

“What do you believe in Your Majesty?” He steps to his right. She to the left. “Love? Peace?”

“I believe in my army.”

“Your army will fall, if not today, certainly tomorrow.”

“All that matters is today, tomorrow is still far away.”

“Your grandfather was like that too, always waited…until tomorrow never came.” They circle each other, both waiting for the moment to strike.

Disarm him. Eclipse’s instructions float to her ears. But how? His eyes peer into her soul, clear your mind. His sword whirrs as it cuts across the air. The hilltop erupts with his bombardment of deadly attacks. Grunting he heaves the heavy sword across the grass. His swing vibrates the air inches from her ear. The edge barely kissing her cheek. His attacks come faster and stronger. Her body is sluggish and out of practice, but he’s in command of himself and her, forcing her where he wants.

Stop reacting and do something! Her knees give way as another slash threatens contact. She rolls across the grass as the sword stabs the earth. If only I could vanish…. A tantalizing thought flutters. Her fingertips tingle as the wood responds to her command. Raising her staff, she makes tiny circles over her head and focuses on the formless mist unfolding in her mind; the opal dims under the overcast sky. Come.

A grey drizzle floats from the lake behind her. Swirling clouds climbing atop each other; fighting to reach their destination. A thick wall encroaches on the land, clawing to the shore until it engulfs the plains and hills in the fog. Despite the low visibility, Kipling’s attacks resume with intense frustration as his urge to kill her reaches new heights. The vapor conceals them, but any sound sends him into a violent flurry.

“Is this the best you can do? Your mother’s skills are legendary; and you, her only child, can only summon a fog?”

“Only a fog?” she dodges his sword before disappearing behind the mist. “My dear General, I’m just warming up.” Another swing; another frustrated scream as he misses. “Now, hold on tight, the fun’s about to begin.”

Through the concealing mist, she spies his silhouette; a volatile substance slashing at the fog until he’s exhausted his fervor. He hunches, leaning on the sword for support. With both hands, she extends the staff and steadies her breathing. As the temperature drops the opal sucks in the rolling vapor.

“What trickery is this?”

“Mine!” she pulls a hand from the staff; the fog vanishes revealing her location directly in front of him. The mist pours from the gem, spins into a water cyclone, and smashes against him with the force of a tidal wave. He rolls to the hill crest. With the fog dissipated she observes the extent of the battle below. The abandoned dead lay splay in the mud as their comrades slaughtered the living.

He rushes from her blind spot, throwing his full weight against her. She tumbles, slamming her head against the ground. The scene before her blurs, the sounds become mute, and every move aches. Moira stumbles to her feet, wiping her busted lip on her sleeve’s white embroidery. Her trembling fingers clutch her throbbing head where she discovers wet hair sticking to her scalp.

Muted screams swim inside her ears. But it's the flames that register loud and clear. He unleashed Lord Rose’s dragons on the poor souls on the field. The heat distorts her senses and bends Kipling’s laughing form. But her heart sinks. Clear as day, she spies her staff in his hand.

“Once again, Alexanderia will fall at my hand.”

“Why do you hate Her so much?” She searches for Zack among the bloodshed. Hoping he’s no where near the dragons’ rage.

“My Queen, Alexanderia is superior to any other. How can I hate such a remarkable force?”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Because my hate for your family surpasses everything you can ever imagine.” He grips her staff, a look of child like amusement twists across his face. Her heart races, picturing her end as he pommels her with her own weapon. “These things are quite troublesome.”

It falls in slow motion at his feet. Her trembling hand reaches but pauses as she catches a glimpse of his sword. Her breath catches, as the blade collides with her opal. The sound of shattering glass rips through her as the two halves in pieces in the mud.

“Now, Your Majesty, this battle is over.”

A sharp jabbing pain from her collarbone shoots across her shoulders and chest. Her body aches as she straightens her posture. Disarm him, Eclipse’s words echo. But her staff is gone. Her mother’s legacy destroyed. That only leaves me with....

…Eclipse, please forgive me.

He revels in her misery, taking time to wipe the mud from the blade's tip, while waiting for her protests. His feet shift; anxious for the charge. Wincing she extends her right hand placing her palm to block the sword’s impact. Her left arm trembles in agony as she pushes her palm to the sky. It’s only a state of mind. She repeats the mantra until the pain is replaced with memories of Eclipse’s Ruby Light. Its unwavering strength kept her safe since childhood. But in his absence, she isn’t alone.

A tingling sensation, like lightning bolts, fizzles in her palms. There’s no room left for failure; it stops now. Tiny sparks of magic flutter then glow. A light forms a dome from her hands to create a sphere around her body. His battle cry rings out as he charges. His sword collides against the barrier and he pushes his body against the hilt. The blade meets initial resistance, but cuts through the magic like wet clay. Her body trembles as the sleek steel moves in increments as it fulfills its dark purpose.

He cheers as it pierces her side. The pain, beginning as a sting, grows into agony as the tip pushes closer to her ribs. The barrier, her only safeguard, flickers as the pain possesses her mortal body, then shatters. Crimson blood trickles from the sword staining her robes. He laughs, twisting the blade for her to scream again.

“You won’t deny me the pleasure of your death!” he kicks her abdomen, “I’ve won Mistress Mage!" But her trembling hands press against the flat sides of the blade. She pushes back. Against his calculated strength, his fury, to oppose his morality. Centimeter by grueling centimeter the blade exits its fleshy sheath. Her triumph goes unnoticed as his fever laugh crawls across her skin. But her prize, a slight victory, is the grisly sword hovering beside the seeping gash. "Say goodbye, Your Majesty.”

“Unlike you, I plan to stay.”

Her hands slip across the steel but steadies her grip. She summons her childhood nightmares; the fire kisses her skin as the curtains set ablaze. Fear materializes as magic and a familiar warmth licks her palms. His anguished face twists into a snarling demon. He pushes against the pommel but this time the blade glows crimson as red hot heat travels to the hilt. The sizzling of flesh and smoke inflame his bloodlust. The paralyzing agony cascading through her body summons her hands to her stomach. The blood trickles from between her fingers as the sword tumbles to the grass.

“My hands!” he stares in disbelief at his melting flesh, “my hands.” His narrow pupils and twisted sneer turn his pale face into a monstrous nightmare.

“This ends now… Zander give me strength.”

Even in his distraught state, he’s still capable of overpowering her. He snarls like an animal before running towards her, ready to fight her to the end with his blackened bare hands. She forces the war from her mind, his crazed laughter and even the pounding of her failing heart and stands; feeling the blood run down her leg. Between her palms a small ball of light flickers into existence.

It is in the name of Alexanderia for which she will die. Where her mother failed; she will prevail. A wave of warmth washes over her body, the pain subsides and fades into the darkness. It slithers through her limbs to her palms; something long forgotten from that fateful night. This time she isn't afraid. She exists beyond fear. Beyond pain. The glowing white sphere spins on an imaginary axis, as his hands reach for her, she shoves the magic into his chest.

“General, you are dismissed.”

It melts his armour as it passes through it reaching his flesh. A luminous glow explodes over the hilltop, bathing her body in its warm tranquility. From the tips of her toes to the tips of her wild hair, the magic swirls throughout her body. Coursing through her like never before. The power. The strength of the Mages who walked before her. The freedom from the bounds of the mortal world. It's beyond anything she imagined. But it lives in her; subject to her command. Kipling's tormented screams pierce her serenity.

It echoes around her and reverberates into her ears until its force whittles away the light. The screams dim. The magic recedes, taking the soothing warmth with it. Left alone on the hill, her muscles stiffen like stone and she collapses as the pain overwhelms her frigid body. Beside her is his charred unidentifiable remains. With no strength left to mourn or celebrate, she closes her eyes and allows exhaustion to overtake her.