Cillian squatted, swiftly straightened up, repeated the process. He twisted left and right, rotated both arms, jumped a couple of times – it felt uncomfortable, but he’d get used to it. The worst thing was the heat. Aether, it was hot in there. Unsurprising, considering the mask currently enveloping his entire head, not to mention the rest of his attire. To the right Eamon stood, still maskless and barefoot, but otherwise dressed the same.

  For their first and only competition so far, they’d been outfitted with padded gambesons, long enough to cover the tops of his thighs, and quilted pants – nothing else. This time, Cillian wore both of them too, but, rather than being the outermost layer, they served the purpose originally intended for them – an intermediary between his soft body and the unyielding armor.

  On top of the gambeson, several protective pieces added to the overall load: a cuirass for the torso – in form similar to a sleeveless shirt but made from thick, hardened leather – strapped tight; a pair of vambraces, also leather, reinforced with longitudinal strips of metal; and thigh guards – cuisses, Cillian had heard someone call them – molded entirely from steel. No pauldrons or greaves though – his upper arms and lower legs were relatively undefended. Real chevaliers often had both, and some preferred, justifiably, to put even more separation between their juicy flesh and sharp claws. But such drastic measures were unnecessary for this occasion.

  He took off the mask, sighing in relief, tugged on the suffocating gorget, and glanced left – at Nuala. The girls were equipped in the same general fashion: form-fitting gambesons and pants – check; vambraces and cuisses – check; wide collars produced from some poor serpent’s skin – you better frackin’ believe it. But in place of a cuirass she wore an article that strongly resembled a strapless, leather dress: up top – it covered her breasts; and down below the piece terminated in a battle skirt, open in front and assembled from many overlapping bands, bonded by the power of friendship. Friendship looking suspiciously like rows of brass rivets.

  “You stare any more intensely and someone might get jealous,” Nuala teased him.

  “Eamon’s distracted.”

  “I meant Sorcha.”

  This again, Cillian rolled his eyes. There was nothing between them, nor did he want there to be anything. Like he’d told Eamon from the start – it wasn’t the time. Frankly, he was amazed at how his friends, and Moira and Teagan for that matter, managed to squeeze their relationships into the schedule. But he’d stopped trying to convince anyone of anything and was just glad that Sorcha, who knew of the teasing, didn’t make a big deal of it either.

  He watched Nuala put on her own, almost identical, mask and, try as he might, couldn’t contain a small laugh. The whole ensemble looked good on her, but the mask spoiled the fierce picture. The soft garment coated her head and the top of the gorget like a second skin. Very thick skin, too – formed from several layers of wool. Only her brown eyes were exposed through a single oblong hole. It also featured a kind of half-mask, of a glistering material “donated” by another snake, sewn on top of the wool, covering the girl’s lower face, starting with the wide part of her nose and going down and around all the way to the back.

  A muzzled animal blinked at him.

  “You look ridiculous,” Cillian chuckled.

  She sighed and, voice slightly muffled, replied, “Not what a girl wishes to hear. Do you say things like this to Sorcha as well?”

  It was the boy’s turn to sigh. “She says ‘things like this’,” he parodied her, “all the time herself.”

  “She is allowed,” Nuala chided and looked in a mirror, her brows wrinkling in displeasure. “I do look ridiculous. Feel ridiculous too.” She proceeded to mess with her ponytail, which jutted out from the hole at the back. “How should I even wear it? And with a hat on top? Urgh!”

  “I think you look great, esty,” Eamon interjected, fully dressed now. ‘Esty’ was his most recent attempt at a loving sobriquet, and it seemed to be working. At least, Nuala hadn’t punched him yet like she had when he’d tried ‘honey’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘acushla’, and many more. ‘Esty’ meant ‘star’, Eamon had enlightened Cillian yesterday. What ‘star’ meant in turn no one quite knew, but, according to the old texts, stars existed at one point, and they were shining and striking.

  Fitting, I suppose.

  The time of the scheduled assembly was nearing, so Cillian pulled the mask back on, soon joined by an aviator-style hat and a pair of goggles (not his own, alas), grabbed the gear, and, together with Eamon and Nuala, headed outside. Cathal was already waiting there.

  His gear included: a recurve bow with a draw weight of 11,5 kilograms; two hip quivers, each filled with a dozen special arrows featuring the heads made from a combination of foam and rubber; a small canteen, again; a double-target compass; a stormchaser; and a belt bag. No flashlights – in fact, nothing burning or drawing aether – and no binoculars either. He had six more arrows in the quiver attached to the bow – only 20 arrows had been issued for free, the other 10 and the mounted holder he’d rented with the tokens. His right hand also sported a finger tab – a leather patch covering his three shooting digits – to make drawing the bowstring more comfortable. He likely didn’t need it with such a lightweight bow, but over the last several weeks of training with heavier ones he’d grown accustomed to it.

  Cillian was tokenless again, but the approach had paid off before, so he wasn’t too worried. And he still had plenty of stones left, only a couple had been spent on personal training with Mairead Gehler.

  They’d been progressing steadily in the archery classes. Light bows and short distances. Light bows and longer distances. Heavier bows and shorter distances again. All very sensible, he thought. More recently, a group of thriving cadets had transitioned to shooting non-stationary targets. No matter how slow and predictable the moving dummies were, they presented a real challenge to Cillian and Nuala. Everyone struggled with them. Ergo, using the stones to obtain additional instruction.

  Eamon and Cathal had enjoyed less success. The former could land good shots, but inconsistently, and was often unduly impatient, while the latter suffered from overthinking. They both had forked over their stones for personal training as well.

  To Cillian’s mind, the competition had come way too early – the skywalker being lit for the duration would undoubtedly help – but still, with less than a quarter of the cohort having received any practice with the marks that didn’t just stand there and took abuse, he expected a pitiful showing. A ruthless part of him rejoiced at the fact – incompetent opponents improved his chances – but two of his friends would be at a disadvantage.

  I should probably feel more distraught on their behalf. But he wasn’t.

  Like last time, the instructors awaited them in front of the academy’s main building. Outside, it was misty – as if they needed an extra challenge. A haze rose high above the ground, and, courtesy of the skywalker, it had a slight beige tint to it. Cillian could smell dampness in the air, but no rain was expected.

  Unlike last time, informing them of the rules didn’t take long. There would be no strings, no beacons, and no “collars”. Treasures remained – stones again, the chests already unlocked and vastly more numerous – and traps too, unmarked, so they’d have to be careful. Team-ups were permitted, but everyone would begin on their own, and the game would end when either all but one participant were eliminated or the allotted time elapsed.

  “Finally, there’s this.” A crumpled mess in instructor Loritz’s hands unfolded into a… harness. The thing glowed.

  Eamon made a face. “Oh grand, more weight. That’s what we need.”

  A duo of bright circular targets gave life to the otherwise dull set of intersecting straps and brass buckles. Two stones peeked from within a pair of small pockets.

  “It’s a very basic implement, made right here in the academy,” the man tapped one of the circles. “The rim’s copper; the cover on both sides is tapered pig skin. As you should know by now, both materials are insulators, and in between them we injected copious amounts of agitated aether. It’s highly compressed, hence the glow, just like in lamps. Very inefficient, leaks a lot, but it should last long enough to serve our purposes. Come,” the man beckoned Oscar, who was hovering closest to him.

  They stood and watched as the harness snaked around the boy’s already burdened torso. One target made a home for itself right above his solar plexus; the other – on the opposite side.

  Owen Loritz gave both a good tug and, satisfied, pushed Oscar away. “Here are your targets. One piercing hit – and the skin would burst. If either of the targets stops glowing – you’re out. You’d feel the warmth leaving. Obviously, only arrows are allowed, no body-to-body contact, no shielding them with your arms. And be careful with snapping branches.”

  The instructors swarmed the students and began turning everyone into walking flashlights while the main man carried on his explanation, “You get two stones for every opponent you eliminate. If you get eliminated yourself, you only surrender to your ‘killer’ your starting stones and those collected from the treasure chests; all other earnings stay with you. In other words, putting an enemy down is a guarantee that you won’t walk away empty-handed. Must have stung last time, eh?”

  Once precisely 96 yellow lights had been added to the overall illumination, instructor Loritz brought his brief speech to a close, “I know you haven’t had much training yet; you don’t really know what you’re doing. Well, everyone starts from zero, and it will be a good lesson to you lot. Remember, you might barely know how to draw a bow without falling over, but so do your opponents. You just have to be slightly better than them.”

  With that, he glanced at his wristwatch, favored them with a genuine smile, and concluded, “The game starts and ends with a horn. Good luck, and don’t forget to have fun!”

  Cillian felt a jolt of excitement at the words. Have fun? He fully intended to. It was all down to him today – no teammates, no awkward, fragile glass orbs, no stupid paintballs – just the bow and his skills, however lackluster.

  30 arrows, should make them count.

  Spurred by the instructors, the armed and armored crowd began trudging towards the forest, excited murmurs aplenty.

  It was almost time.

  Cillian stood, his back to the fence. On the left was the fence’s corner, about 70 paces away, and on the right – a boy, at half again that distance. He’d been wondering how they’d be positioned, given the fact there were 48 of them and only about two dozen members of the accompanying staff. The answer turned out to be simple – place everyone along the perimeter of the area and keep an eye on several students at once so that no one got a bright idea of giving themselves a head start.

  Would there be more overseers in the woods? If not, it could open up some interesting avenues.

  Earlier, both Nuala and Cathal, among numerous others, had been led somewhere along the tree line, so he assumed not everyone would start at the fence – some would be waiting near the edges of the forest. As for Eamon – Cillian had lost track of him on their journey. It was difficult to recognize anyone since they were all dressed the same and had their heads fully covered.

  He thought the fella on his right – was it Declan? – didn’t have to be placed quite so close; there was plenty of space. It had to be a deliberate move to try to stir up an immediate confrontation. Should I oblige? Cillian contemplated how to act.

  Almost half a hundred participants seemed like a lot, but the area was large, and they couldn’t track one another. He knew the instructors had to have ways to keep tabs on them, but his issued compass was only attuned to the treasure chests. So it might be a while before he stumbled upon someone else if he let the guy go. Not to mention the mist – thin at the moment, but who knew how it might change.

  Go on the offensive then, Cillian decided. This time, he wasn’t in pain, and his physical shape was better than ever, thanks to the weeks of conditioning. Granted, the others were also enjoying the benefits, but he was among the better archers, and moving fast instead of creeping around would surely help with not getting shot.

  He glanced down at the light source affixed to his front – it stuck out by half a centimeter, if that, but, in combination with the relatively fragile pig skin, would make climbing difficult. Below it, on the gambeson’s belt, was where he’d secured the compass – a trick they’d been shown on the way. Since the model was a “tug” type, one didn’t have to touch it to feel the pull and be able to tell the direction. Convenient, when both hands were needed for something else.

  The starting horn blared, and the game began.

  Let’s do it!

  No time to second-guess himself – Cillian turned right before the “echoes” of the repeating blasts even ceased and sprinted at maybe-Declan at top speed.

  The boy, already halfway behind the closest tree, stalled mid-step. Looked sideways, looked back at the forest. 70 paces! Keep hesitating! Alas, the would-be victim did not oblige – he jolted, stepped on the pedal, and fled deeper into the woods. Cillian dove in as well, cutting diagonally, hoping to intercept.

  So close to the fence there were fewer trees, and the skywalker made all the difference – following was a child’s play.

  Submit to your fate, mucker!

  He was gaining.

  The guy stumbled, cried out, caught himself on a tree, hopped on one foot for a second, glanced back, and, cursing loudly, resumed running. Foolish. He had targets both front and back; might as well turn around and start shooting.

  Closer, just a smidge closer. Now!

  At 40 paces, Cillian skidded to a halt, nocked an arrow, drew the bow, and let loose, not even aiming, just launching high. Then immediately duplicated the process, pointing even further up. The first arrow sailed in an arc and thumped a trunk to the right of the scampering boy, the second – flew over his head and struck the ground, ten or so paces ahead. Both arrows fell down; their soft heads unable to penetrate.

  Likely-not-Declan ducked, but Cillian was shooting no more; he’d only hoped to spook and delay and was again on his way.

  30 paces!

  The fella saw him coming and leaped behind one of the rare junipers, fumbling for an arrow. Whoever the boy was, he’d chosen not to splash cash on a bow quiver. It was almost too easy.

  Cillian gained another dozen steps before stopping, fetching an arrow, drawing the bow, and waiting, in the clear, no thoughts of hiding. To his judgment, there was no point. They’d trained with these bows and arrows the day before to get a feel for them, wearing the gambesons but no armor. Then everyone had taken turns posing as a straw man to be shot at by the vengeful instructors in the stomach and arm from 35 paces away. While by no means pleasant, it hadn’t been too bad – padded cloth combined with soft arrowheads made it tolerable. And, in any case, odds were, the guy had chosen to run instead of fight for a reason. Robin Hood, he was not. The risk and possible pain were worth a better position.

  “Come out and play!”

  No movement. No sounds.

  “Oh come on, man, I’m as shit as you are at this!”

  Still nothing.

  “Sissy, are you? Face me like a man!”

  He cringed at the words. Perhaps his goading needed some polish.

  Cillian was breathing loudly, the arrow tip quivering. Maybe-Declan seemed intent on just sitting there. So he let the bow down, made three quick steps circling the overgrown hiding place, and raised it again. Null it, he thought and shot at the trunk. A dull thud, a muttered curse, then the guy finally stepped out into the open, already aiming.

  Resisting an urge to cower down, Cillian fetched and nocked another arrow, raised the bow, and almost lost it when an enemy projectile smashed into his left side. For all his bravado, he’d fully expected the guy to miss, and the sudden pain wasn’t a joke. He had to strain to not drop the bow.

  Barely holding a scream and sucking air through his teeth, he retaliated – lined up a shot, twitched the toe, and released. The boy ducked, and the arrow soared overhead. Not allowing a moment’s reprieve, Cillian made two steps forward and to the side – trying to get a clearer shot – fished out another arrow from the mounted quiver and aimed. Declan saw that and went stock-still, half-crouched.

  And here lay the problem. How were you supposed to shoot someone at their front or back when all you could see was their profile?

  A step to the left – Declan-or-not pivoted, following the motion.

  Another step – another adjustment.

  Yea, this wouldn’t work.

  On a hunch, Cillian paused. The pair stared at each other. Five seconds ticked by – he kept doing nothing. Outwardly confused – although with the goggles and the mask who could tell for certain – his quarry, painfully slowly at first, began rising and reaching for an arrow with his right hand. Cillian still didn’t move, calculating, This is closer than my ‘point on’ distance; should aim a wee lower. Finally straight, Declan, now moving faster, lowered the bow and, grasping the newly fetched arrow, got to the business of nocking it, bringing his right shoulder forward to do so.

  My thanks to you, mucker.

  Realizing what he’d just done, the fella froze as if petrified by a basilisk’s stare, and Cillian didn’t let the opportunity slide – his fingers relaxed and the arrow shot forward. At that distance it took less than a heartbeat – a loud pop announced his success.

  Declan yelped.

  The agitated aether, no longer constrained, began quickly evaporating, and the light faded, leaving nothing but the despairing boy in its wake.

  “NOOOO!” he pawed at the now lifeless circle. “This can’t be happening! No!” Was he trying to contain the leak with his hand?

  Cillian waited.

  “Bleedin’ shite!”

  More useless scraping.

  “Damn you!”

  He waited.

  The fella’s bow got flung to the side.

  Ouch. This wouldn’t fly well.

  “Who even are you?! What is your problem with me?!”

  “Sorry, man. And, please, stop shouting!”

  At least, the futile ministrations finally ceased.

  I’m not really sorry.

  Cillian approached. Cautiously. As not to spook a skittish hare.

  “Nothing personal. And I’m Cillian. Give me your stones and five arrows, please.” The rules allowed them to replenish the stock at their fallen opponents’ expense.

  “What?! Niss take your bleedin’ stones, Cillian! Niss take you!” He kept fuming and cursing while tearing off the hat and the goggles. They both flopped to the ground. Cillian warily eyed the surroundings.

  Next, the boy’s two stones joined the discarded gear. Forcefully.

  Frackin’ toddler.

  Thankfully, he’d run out of steam and things to throw before anyone could find and attack them. Stopping the cussing, he gulped a mouthful of air, and, at last, got a hold of himself.

  Phew.

  Head down, his next words were no longer angry, “Just give me a moment, okay?” Instead, he sounded hoarse and resigned.

  “Sure… You alright? What’s your name?” The eyes were familiar, but it wasn’t Declan.

  This was the wrong thing to say – Definitely-not-Declan fired up again, took a few more labored breaths, and seethed, “Riordan. And how ‘alright’ do you think I am?! I’ve just been eliminated from the contest! I leave with nothing!”

  “Sorry.” Cillian wiped his goggles. “Thought you were someone else. We have metalworking together.”

  “Someone you hate or something? Couldn’t give me five bleedin’ minutes before attacking,” Riordan muttered.

  “No, just thought I should take the opportunity. You know, if I were you, I would keep the head gear in place while in the forest. You still have a target on your back, literally.” Getting shot in the head without protection could be lethal. No wonder they‘d been ordered to masquerade as airship pilots.

  “You are not my bleedin’ mother! Just leave me alone.”

  “Will do. The arrows?”

  “I’m getting to it! Heavens…”

  Soon, fully loaded again, Cillian left, unable to bring himself to feel any compassion for the guy. It was a competition.

  What now? He looked around, heading back toward the corner of the fence, pondering. Well, it worked out alright. Should I keep it up? Rushing into things wasn’t his preferred method of operation, but he suspected Riordan wouldn’t be the only one who could be easily chased down if one was willing to pursue recklessly, not taking cover even when shot. Given the fact the majority weren’t any good with a bow, exchanging safety for speed seemed like a reasonable gamble.

  His mind made up, Cillian picked up the pace.

  Fast and furious it is. Let’s see how far I can push it.

  Cillian slowed, crouched down, and listened. The mask and the hat muffled sounds significantly, but he could still hear a battle ahead; they weren’t subtle. He spent 15 seconds watching intently, then, seeing nothing, resumed advancing forward, carefully now. Not even ten steps later, a light briefly shone through the mist before disappearing again behind the foliage. He ducked and fetched an arrow, straining his ears – a thump, treetops shaking, another thump, vigorous footfalls.

  A defiant shout.

  Good enough to mask his approach. He crept closer.

  After defeating his first opponent, Cillian had returned to the fence, hoping to spot some of the others who’d started out there, but no luck – everyone had long left. Not surprised, he’d reasoned there could be more confrontations like his and Riordan’s taking place nearby and ventured parallel to the Heaven fence, close to it but not in the open, his stride purposeful.

  On the way, he’d heard birds chirping, twittering, while sitting high on the branches and not caring one bit for his passage below – in stark contrast to the previous times, when the only bird sounds had been those of their hasty departures. The place on the whole felt completely transformed: bright instead of dark; the glow from the trees barely noticeable under the skywalker’s radiance; and with every feature of the forest bathed in a thin haze, making Cillian think his goggles were foggy.

  The amber shine popped up again, getting closer. He could see the figure now – a girl was scurrying in his general direction, darting from one grove to another. An arrow sailed over her head, and she dove behind a sturdy larch, spun around, and quickly readied a response – raised the bow without drawing, made two steps to the right, then pulled the string straight back and waited. Cillian waited as well. A girl with a bow quiver, using the set arm draw, not the swing draw. Who is she? While he mused, the blonde cailin let the arrow fly and sprang back behind the tree. A projectile whisked through the spot she’d just occupied.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Maybe you should give up on archery; it’s not your thing!” she taunted her attacker, who he still couldn’t see, while preparing another arrow.

  This was his chance; the girl’s back was exposed to him. Cillian slunk forward, ever so gently, to get to the distance from where he could sight the tip directly at the target light, without having to aim higher or lower. He raised the bow, mentally congratulating himself for being so stealthy. Too frackin’ soon – she wheeled around, one of her hip quivers whacking the trunk in the process, saw him, and dropped. He let loose at her sudden movements – the arrow hit the larch, bounced off, and tumbled down on her head, a few flakes of bark as its honor guard.

  “Why me?! What do you all want from me?!” Even while hollering she was already in motion, but Cillian was raising his bow as well. It was a race.

  The race that got promptly interrupted by a shaft whistling right past his face. He yelped in surprise and clumsily fell backward, at the last moment releasing everything and landing on his outstretched limbs. The girl took the opportunity to shoot him. He pushed with his right arm and rolled left; the arrow came short. Grabbing the bow, he scrambled to get up and find cover.

  Stupid! Shouldn’t just assume there’s no one else. He heard another muted thwack.

  After taking two deep breaths and ensuring his lights were still whole, Cillian peeked from behind the hefty pine he’d hastily employed as a shield. Who’d shot him? The arrow had come from his right, so it couldn’t have been whoever was harassing the girl. A four-way fight then, maybe more. Great. He could see no one in the mist; even his original target was missing now. With dread, Cillian made a one-eighty, fully expecting to be shot any moment, but no, she wasn’t sneaking up on him from behind. Recalling the plan from before – to move fast – he got going, sprinted to where he’d last seen her.

  An arrow punched the ground behind him. Shit!

  Fifteen paces.

  Where is she?!

  Five.

  Cillian barrelled through the tall fern surrounding a copse of naked larches, glanced once to the right trying to spot his other assailant, turned forward again, and almost crashed into a skirt-wearing shape. “Double niss-shit!” was his eloquent reaction.

  She sidestepped and didn’t hesitate – raised the bow intent on shooting him at point-blank range. Cillian danced out of the way, presenting his flank to her. An arrow hit her in the left leg, and she cried out in pain and crumbled. Oh, frack this! He instinctively ducked, his eyes angrily sweeping the greenery for the prickwaver who’d dared to intrude upon their intimate moment. We were just getting to know each other! He saw a gleam, which vanished at once.

  “Oh I’ll kill that bitch,” the girl growled, crawling behind a cover.

  Cillian should’ve shot her. What was he waiting for? Then, before the idea had even had a chance to fully develop, he blurted out, “An alliance?”

  She snapped her head at him, “What?! You’ve just tried to shoot me too!”

  Talk about a quare role reversal.

  “Temporary alliance. Until we deal with the bastards. Then we part ways.” Cillian pointed first to where he’d come from, then to where she’d been shot from. ”No matter who gets the kills we split the stones in half.”

  She took her sweet time to consider it.

  “Well?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Cillian Shea.”

  “Mm, I’m Eithne.”

  “Oh. Sorry about the hair.”

  “Sorry?! It was weeks ago!”

  Cillian raised the bow and shot an arrow, then another – in two directions where he thought the aggressors might be, aiming to hit trees – and began quickly refilling the quiver.

  “What are you doing?” Eithne pointed her bow at him awkwardly, still sitting on the ground.

  “Just making noise. You in or what?”

  “Why? Why not just shoot me right now?”

  “Aye or nay, Eithne, we don’t have time!”

  After another long hesitation, she replied, rising to her feet gingerly, “Fine. But the bitch first.”

  “Alright. Here’s my genius plan: I rush and engage her while you quietly stalk closer, then we both bombard her together. Sounds good?”

  “Sounds flawless. I like the idea of you getting peppered with arrows.”

  He gave her a dirty look, which, sadly, she couldn’t see on account of his goggles, and said loudly, “Great, let’s get to it!” Then, in a whisper, “Scream when I shoot.”

  “What?”

  Cillian quickly drew the bow and shot into the ground right in front of her.

  “Fuck!”

  “Bwaha!” he gave his best attempt at an evil laugh. Null, that was pitiful. “Can’t believe you bought it, stupid whore!” And, with no more words, he was off, another arrow in hand.

  “You motherfucker! We’ve made a deal!” She caught on. What a bright spark.

  His target was closer than Cillian had anticipated, and she heard him coming – her head made a brief appearance from behind a tree. He slowed to a walk, his bow arm relaxed, baiting her. She didn’t vacillate – it took her only a heartbeat to fully relieve herself of the cover, take aim, and release. He expected it – turned sideways and let himself be hit. Oh hell! Should’ve turned the other way, tool! Cillian raged at himself for hurting the same side twice and allowed the pain to fuel his deranged scream.

  “Aaaarrggghh!!!” He rushed at the girl like a madman.

  That, she clearly didn’t expect but still managed to scramble out of the way. They were strictly forbidden from making deliberate head shots, especially from up close, so he aimed at her leg. She jumped to the side – and he missed. Then she shot him in retaliation, also down low. He hopped backward, avoiding it, all the while not presenting his lights. The girl was doing the same.

  They repeated the sequence one more time: his shot – grazing her lower back; her shot – right at his left thigh guard. Where are you aiming, woman?!

  “Be careful, will you?!”

  “Drink acid, pigshit!”

  Cillian didn’t know how long he could keep it up; the cailin was faster than him. He could already see that her next shot would precede his. Any moment now, princess, where are you?! He was doing his best – “the bitch” was firmly onto him, her back turned toward Eithne. If the damn girl was coming at all.

  His opponent hissed in frustration, then faked a shot and rushed to her right, trying to get at his rear. Null! And just like that, they’d missed their best chance.

  Another exchange of violence followed – this time they released and hit each other’s flanks simultaneously. Ouch. His poor left side suffered again! Cillian mentally thanked the cuirass and the gambeson.

  Their pained groans and cusses announced a brief lull in the struggle. Credit where it’s due, the girl recovered remarkably quickly, but by the time she straightened up, her doom had already arrived. She nocked an arrow, oblivious, while he just stood there, not turning his head or doing anything else that might spook her. With the arrow now pointing at his stomach, the cailin gloated, “What? Outdone by a little pain? That’s what you get for stealing my ki–” Her whole body jerked forward.

  “Fuck!”

  In the background, Eithne shouted in triumph, laughing heartily, “Yes! Take it, you nasty hag!”

  ‘The hag’ in question stumbled but caught herself, then whirled around. “What?!” She spotted her killer and screeched, “You can’t do it! You’re dead!”

  “I’m not! It was the stupidest ruse ever and it still worked on you! Will teach you a lesson!”

  “You whore, I’ll tear your hair out! You–!”

  “Eithne, come on, there’s another one, we shouldn’t dally,” Cillian urged his short-term partner to move.

  “I think he left, and I need her arrows, almost ran out. She’s been hunting me from the beginning, can you believe it?” You don’t say. What a savage. “Gimme.” Eithne approached the fuming girl, who reached forward, seemingly contemplating strangulation.

  “You better not do anything stupid; I can see a guard,” he warned her, nodding left. And he could; it wasn’t a bluff. The ‘specters’ weren’t nearly as subtle now as they’d been in the dimness.

  She stopped and glared in the indicated direction. Eithne pushed her goggles up and insisted, “The arrows, bitch.”

  The ‘deceased’ girl hissed, “I know you. You’re one of Oscar’s whores, aren’t you?”

  “Shut your mouth, I’m nobody’s anything! Now arrows, please.” Eithne stuck her hand out, palm up, then addressed him, “Cillian, go stand on a lookout. She’ll drag it out, I can feel it.”

  “Be a pal and grab me half a dozen as well.” He walked a few paces away, refilling the bow quiver.

  A careful examination of the misty locale yielded serene trees and the somewhat trampled undergrowth. He spied nothing untoward.

  Where was the other one? There were no lights and no sounds, apart from those made by the girls, who kept up their barrage of snide comments about one another. Cillian leaned on a tree and relaxed. Fast and furious also meant tiresome.

  That went well. The boy smiled.

  Of course, aether chose to immediately punish him for the stupidity.

  “Behind you!”

  He startled, made to turn around, and cried out in sudden pain – yet another arrow hit his left side! Frackin’ why?!

  Growling, Cillian crouched low and saw Eithne line up a shot at him. She shrugged, unapologetic, “The agreement was to ‘team up until we deal with them’. Shauna’s down, the guy ran away – they’re dealt with, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Oh, you rotten cunt…

  Blood surged into Cillian’s head like a discharging geyser.

  I’ll crush your–!

  She let the arrow fly, and he threw himself to the side on one arm and two knees, awkwardly, not letting go of the bow. The arrow smashed into his left shoulder, and a beastly gnarl broke free of his throat yet again.

  The geyser turned into a tide of molten lava. He looked up, his eyes narrowing of their own accord and all sensations diminishing–

  “I’d say it’s nothing personal, but it kind of is.”

  –to be replaced by an intensifying throbbing of his heart, each beat gradually adding more and more pressure to the inside of his skull.

  Pressure and heat.

  His vision clouded with anger.

  It was a familiar feeling. So very familiar.

  Hello, my old friend.

  And so very comforting.

  Someone else’s quiet voice – father’s? – was saying something. Urging him to breathe. Urging him to let go.

  Cillian didn’t want to listen. He began trembling.

  “Snake.”

  The girl only shrugged again, tracking his every move, her mocking expression fueling the fire even further.

  Control yourself, mucker!

  Still kneeling, he tried to hold on to his crumbling composure. He could feel himself simmering. “And what are you going to do now?” came out in a snarl. Self-talk was doing jack shit.

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about I shoot you again?” The wrinkles around her blue eyes disappeared. She was no longer smiling.

  Using such a casual tone was her final mistake.

  “Go ahead, cunt. You miss this one and I’ll be on top of you.” He noted her now empty bow-mounted quiver.

  “Then I’ll make sure not to m–”

  Cillian rushed her (if the action could even be called that) – he sprang up and leaped sideways, howling his lungs out. She made a surprised squawk, halfway between a yelp and a laugh, scurried backwards, then fell – Shauna tripped her, cackling maniacally. Eithne’s arrow shot skyward.

  He loomed over the swearing girl, swung his leg, and booted the bow out of her hands.

  She yowled and tried to crawl away.

  Cillian’s simmering turned into boiling, her pitiful cries only adding to his rage.

  He aimed his bow at the light on her front. At full draw, from this distance, it would really fuck her over.

  Good.

  Pointlessly baring his teeth under the mask, Cillian roared with an ugly glee and released the string. YES!

  NO!

  At the last instant, he jerked the weapon away – the arrow pummeled the ground far to the left.

  The girl whimpered.

  Cillian squeezed his eyes shut, tore off his head gear, and folded in half. WHAT THE HELL?!

  Someone was whooping and clapping.

  He roared again and kicked a nearby trunk.

  What the fuck?!

  He gasped.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?!!

  Knuckles of both hands pushing into his head until it hurt, Cillian swayed in place as if drunk, heaving.

  Calm the hell down!

  With a groan, he craned his neck to face the sky, both eyes still closed, and inhaled. One long draw. And when it felt like nothing else could possibly fit, he paused and forcefully sucked in just a tad more.

  Only then did he let the air go.

  Now repeat!

  A simple technique. Taught to him yonks ago by his uncle. A double inhale followed by a long exhale cleared out any residual waste from the air sacs in his lungs and, more importantly, helped to calm down.

  Aye, great technique. The one Cillian had been so sure he would no longer need.

  Frackin’ joke.

  The pressure in his skull eased off a little.

  Good. Now repeat!

  So he stood there and breathed, uncaring of how it looked to the girls or their chaperones. Some things took priority.

  Only when his head no longer threatened to burst, did he feel brave enough to peek.

  The first thing he saw was Eithne sitting on her arse and staring at him, wide-eyed and stiff. He supposed it was fair; his reaction had been hardly proportionate.

  Shauna kept clapping.

  “Nice show, tarhead!”

  Cillian winced.

  Ignore her.

  He rubbed his forehead, gaze dropping to the ground, still not entirely calm but no longer incensed.

  The diminished sensations flooded back.

  In control. I’m in control.

  He was in the forest; it was just a competition; and he was no longer a resentful boy of 14.

  I’m in control.

  “Why?” Cillian croaked. One word, but it’d come out husky regardless.

  Who am I even asking? Eithne?

  Myself?

  “Why did you do i–?”

  “Why?!” the girl shrilled and leaped to her feet.

  Whoa. He took a step back.

  “You rat dare to ask me why?!”

  Clearly, whatever her feelings about his, uhh, unusual response, she wasn’t one to remain subdued and cowered for long.

  Cillian raised a calming hand, dimly aware of the hypocrisy of the action. “Haven’t we done well? We could’ve kept working toge–!”

  “Screw you!“ It was her turn to lay into him. “Should phrase your deals better! And you dumped paint all over my hair!”

  “It was weeks ago, you said it yourself!”

  “I didn’t mean it’d happened so long ago I no longer cared!” She swatted at him and he dodged. “I meant you should’ve apologized weeks ago! I spent ages washing it all out! So yes, screw you, you rat bastard!”

  Oh.

  “That’s, uhh… aye.” He put distance between them, finding himself standing over his bow which he couldn’t even remember discarding. “Aye. That was my bad.”

  That didn’t mollify her one bit. They exchanged heated glares.

  Calm down. She does have a point. Of a sort.

  Another inhale.

  The revelation that someone might have a legitimate reason to be pissed at him felt like a bathtub full of icy water being overturned on top of his head.

  Aye, you ain’t the only one with grievances, mucker.

  Cillian swallowed. “I apologize, Eithne. Really, I do. For the hair and,” he gestured around with a grimace, “for this.”

  The girl just huffed and said nothing. Shauna looked on with undisguised fascination. Eithne noticed and rewarded her with a glower, before turning her back to them both, searching for her own flown-away weapon.

  Her rear looked very enticing.

  Ah, whatever.

  Cillian picked up his bow and shot her.

  “THE FUCK?!”

  From a half-draw.

  The girl kept her footing.

  “You still back-stabbed me, you know.”

  She spun around and made two furious steps toward him.

  Shit.

  Before getting anywhere near, however, Eithne stopped and snapped her head sideways. “Why are you–?! ARE YOU NOT GOING TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT THIS?!” Her banshee impression was on the money.

  Their keepers, a man and a woman loitering between a pair of firs, shook their heads. Cillian recognized neither. Judging by their pleased smiles though, the dicks were clearly enjoying the show.

  The girl practically frothed at the mouth.

  “Oh, this is beautiful,” Shauna, without her goggles but still sitting, cracked up. “Poor little plaything.”

  Eithne fumed, gave her a contemptuous glare, and spat the words, “Look who is talking, slut. And you broke the rules, no body contact is allowed! Also, guess what, I have a kill under my belt – you! While you leave with nothing. Again.”

  Shauna dismissed the insults, rolling her eyes, “It’s a game, I don’t give a null. Did you see me cry about the result last time? How did Oscar punish you for your failure, anyway? And what will he do now, after you lost again? And to the very same tarhead!”

  “I’ll show you punishment–”

  Alright, it was time to flee– ahem, make a strategic withdrawal.

  Cillian snatched his fallen mask, hat, and goggles, strode to Eithne, and tore the stones off her harness. A little too enthusiastically, perhaps–

  “Hey!”

  –then repeated the deed with Shauna, who simply scowled and gave him a wiggling “V”.

  “Deal’s a deal.”

  He pettily threw one of the stones behind the traitor and immediately began jogging away.

  Only after making two dozen steps, Cillian remembered he hadn’t grabbed any arrows.

  Whatever.

  Shauna shouted something encouraging at his back and laughed.

  Eithne cursed him, and something crashed into a trunk to his right.

  Aether!

  Cillian kept running.

  Honestly, at this point he wasn’t sure who was the crazier one here. Mad. All of them.

  Frackin’ cailini.

  Cillian’s sophisticated strategy of the kind “when in doubt – rush” had to be put on an indefinite hold.

  At first, it was because there was no one and not a thing to rush at – a very dull hour followed the overly exciting beginning, during which he neither encountered anyone else nor found any treasure chests. Well, technically, there was one, but, to his thinking, it could hardly be called “treasure” when it contained none of the said treasures – some bastard had beaten him to the punch.

  They’d been promised more points of interest to compensate for their inability to track one another, so where were they?

  Granted, he really needed that period of doing nothing exciting to collect himself. To get his head back in the game.

  Then, just when Cillian opted to head toward the pre-agreed spot to meet with the others, the fog began thickening. As he pushed his way through the shrubbery, the change grew from imperceptible, to easily dismissible as existing only in his head, and, finally, to undeniable, in a matter of minutes. 30 paces became his new limit of vision.

  It’d happened entirely too fast.

  Cillian felt vindicated in his choice to act aggressively from the get-go, but the satisfaction proved short-lived, soon to be replaced with unease. Not fear – not exactly – but a part of his mind rebelled at the idea of being squeezed by the walls pressing in on him. He, of course, knew those weren’t real walls and that the forest beyond them remained as vast as ever, but his heart rate elevated and his breathing grew shallower all the same.

  He was getting thoroughly sick of these rapid oscillations in his levels of stress. What the boy wanted was a nice, uneventful second part of the competition. Rack up a few more stones and get out.

  Stopping abruptly, he inhaled and exhaled slowly, deliberately, seeking to cleanse his body of the quare agitation. That’s a new one. Cillian had never known himself to be claustrophobic. Wracking his brain for more memories, he couldn’t come up with anything similar. Perhaps, it was something else then, not just being confined.

  How about brisk and less furious? Just for a spell.

  And that’s how he found himself treading through the semi-opaque, white ocean in the direction of the spot where his and Aoife’s teams had held the truce meeting last time. Or, at least, Cillian hoped it was the right direction – he’d spent almost 10 minutes painstakingly climbing a tree, being very careful with the target lights, and, thankfully, the guiding sky lanterns burned bright enough to shine through the fog.

  Damn useless stormchaser.

  On the way, he wondered if anyone would actually be there. Unsurprisingly, Aoife had been the one to offer a team-up, and they’d all agreed but with an understanding that it would be optional, since the circumstances could preclude some from joining. The meeting was scheduled for three hours after the starting horn. Although, as none of them had been allowed watches, Cillian didn’t know if it was time or not. He assumed he was coming early, but it wasn’t like he had any better ideas.

  Over the next half an hour of marching, the feeling of being alone in the woods kept amplifying. Not only could he no longer hear the birds, but even his own footsteps, which Cillian knew from experience were not silent, barely reached his ears. The spooked boy increased his pace to a jog one more time, maintained it for 200 steps, slowed down, and finally stomped on a fallen branch – nothing but a muffled crack.

  Alright, this ain’t natural. Cillian stopped and carefully scanned the surroundings. The sphere of his visual awareness had also shrunk once again.

  20 paces. The looming barriers were bright and impenetrable, and the skywalker, too, was only discernible as an amber smear on the ceiling. White, featureless room.

  His prison cell.

  Shit.

  While fogs weren’t uncommon in Lua, he’d never been in one that infused him with so much disquiet.

  A thought, a fleeting suspicion entered his mind but swiftly departed. He got an inkling there was something obvious he was missing.

  It’s all in my head. I now know a bunch of creatures who use fog for concealment, so I’m imagining things.

  Cillian realized he was sweating and gripping the bow overly forcefully. A sudden urge, a need, to pull everything off his head, to free it from any obstruction overwhelmed him, but he resisted and, instead, hoisted the bottom of the mask above his mouth, gulped the cool air, and tried to ease up his painfully rigid spine.

  The plane is full of real monsters as is, without me conjuring up more in my foolish noggin. The area’s fenced off, and there are at least two dozen armed men and women in here with me. He himself wasn’t defenseless either. Cillian palmed the small bag on his belt, containing the emergency devices, then sized up the nearby pines for another climb – he had to make sure he wasn’t going in circles.

  The stormchaser kept spinning endlessly.

  The effort proved worth it. Even though his course required little correction, just leaving the worst of the canopy below filled him with relief beyond measure. What’s with that frackin’ fog?

  The line of flaming torches mounted on top of the settlement’s wall appeared as if distant boats with their pale lamps gliding along one of Lua’s many channels on a misty morning.

  Cillian laughed at his idiocy. Why had he become so worked up all of a sudden? Aye, even the air seemed sweeter and somehow more filling up here, but that wasn’t a good reason for this… undignified floundering. He was just spooked by his recent outburst of anger. That was all.

  He still stayed there, gazing around, one arm hugging the trunk, for entirely too long.

  And when the bracken-covered ground finally greeted him again, despite the exertion, Cillian felt livelier than at any point since the fog had first pervaded his senses. He was at peace and ready to press on.

  Back to the grind.

  One foot in front of another, eyes forward, bow at the ready.

  Ignore the walls. They don’t matter.

  And so he merrily went.

  For five minutes.

  Aether gave him five whole minutes of calm, during which he made good progress, getting closer and closer to the intended target. But then…

  The horn bellowed.

  What? Cillian froze.

  It’s too early!

  He cast about – alas, neither the forest nor the fog volunteered any explanations.

  A mistake?

  Cillian lifted his left boot to get moving, but the horn erupted again. A longer blare. The boot came back down.

  Eh?

  Another blast. Shorter again.

  A realization hit him stronger than any arrow before. Not the endgame signal. The alarm one.

  His heart jumped from “everything’s fine” to “run!” mode at once. But no time was allotted to him to even properly panic, because, at that same moment, Cillian became aware of the shouts rapidly coming his way. The bubble of nervous confusion popped in an instant, leaving him wishing he was cocooned in it still.

  Human shouts were followed by deep, inhuman growls.

  He saw the flickering lights first, then their bearers – a girl and a guy – fleeing as if niss were upon them.

  It finally clicked. It should’ve clicked earlier, but that was their whole damn thing, wasn’t it? Making everything fuzzy, including your mind. The pair were being chased by–

  “ALPHYNS! FUCKING RUN!” The fella was wildly waving his arms.

  Oh shit shit shit!

  Cillian didn’t need any further encouragement – he turned around and bravely hightailed out of there. Deeper into the woods.

  The fog receded right before his advance, impossibly fast. Because it wasn’t fog at all, damn it!

  The grenade! I need the aether grenade!

  Five seconds of unsuccessful fumbling ensued, and he let out a slightly crazed laugh. I’m going to die because I couldn’t open my stupid bag on the run. Bleedin’ press studs!

  He got a faceful of branches and leaves for his inattention.

  Wait, what am I even doing?!

  “What are we doing?! The protocol is to run from the forest, not into it!” Cillian shouted, trying to grab the galloping boy.

  “Be my guest! I only need to outrun you! They’ve cut us off!”

  “And what, you want to run away from the big guns?!”

  “Stop yapping and run, idiots!” the girl yelled at them both.

  Cillian risked a peek over his shoulder, spied no monsters, and decided to save the grenade.

  What else do I know of the alphyns? He tried to think, but his mind was a mess. I’ve even passed a test on them with flying colors; I should be an expert!

  They muscled their way up a mound, and he yanked on the copper circle on his torso and ripped it away.

  They’re a big trouble – that Cillian knew with no doubt. Very helpful.

  He threw the glowing target behind him.

  Just great. Like the day wasn’t already going to hell.

  not perfect. His temper issues had only been discussed up until this chapter, so this is me giving a glimpse at his old self.