From the corner of his eye, Silas watched Ren flee. Good. That meant that there was a chance they got out of this alive. Eyes flicking back to the gathering barricade, Silas' lips twitched further upward as his silver dagger flowed with silver mist, reforming itself into a sword far lighter than its length would've permit, its edge no more than a rounded wedge. 'Can't be killing House soldiers if we're going to house the Arbiter's son.'
"Come then!" He shouted, getting into stance, "Show this Reaper what you can do!"
And the battle began. Silas knew they were expecting the rigid, hyper-efficient style that had served House Winter well. Too bad, then. Because Silas' wasn't taught with the Arbiters. No, Silas was taught to dance.
Moving with the ethereal grace of a sparrow in the wind, Silas teased back, sword swinging, letting out a joyous laugh, unsure if it was genuine or fake. That much didn't matter to Silas, not really. It only mattered that he got in their heads. That he let them know he wasn't afraid. That he was better than them.
Reality was, as he ducked beneath a sword and bashed a bullet from the air, that he didn't need to be better than them, either. Only more resourceful. Such was the nature of his Mark.
The Mark of the Reaper of the Pillar of Death.
Blinking, the silver glow of it crept up the back of his and to the back of his wrist, where his Second Mark began to activate. He should've stocked up on Ren's new Mark before he left, but his ability to 'Harvest' the talents of those around him required Silas to be able to touch them, at least. Internally, he cursed himself for not having activated it when he was guiding Ren through the city– But such oversight would have to wait. One of those poor fools would have to be enough…
Effortlessly, he evaded back again, grin on his face. 'Halfway through…'
This time, though, Silas may have backed himself into a wall. Quite literally, even, as his back slammed against the city wall that Ren, the lucky fool, had been able to simply walk through.
'What would father do…?'
Silas hummed a note at the thought, the grin on his face never fading despite how dire his situation was becoming. 'What do I have available?'
Eyes flicking to the hands of his opponents, he raised his hand as his silver sword extended again into a towering shield, where bullet and spear alike couldn't break through. His Spirit, after all, was indomitable.
Now, unable to see the Marks of his opponents, and unsure if they even had marks at some barricade they'd never expect the Son of the Arbiter to actually dare break through, Silas would have to gamble. His arm rattled as another musket bullet ricocheted against his shield. Closing his eyes, Silas allowed himself to feel the odd rhythm of each blow. The recoil of each sword. The strike of each bullet. The impending nature of death on all sides. 'Father would gamble.'
As another strike hit his shield, Silas dismissed it, diving forward. Just his luck, he rolled beneath the strike tumbling into a sturdy pair of legs and knocking a man over. A flood of power rushed through him. 'Mark of the Scales…'
Silas immediately summoned his dagger again, his blade forming in his hand as he allowed his Second Mark of the Harvest to use the power of the Scales. 'Weight distribution…' Usually, the Scales allowed a person to transfer weight between objects he was touching, allowing a weight to become lighter as he transferred its weight to himself or another object.
'This will do.' Summoning his silver dagger again in a single fluid motion he threw it as hard as he could, wishing for just a moment that the ability granted by his First Mark was capable of crafting firearms and bullets – But those were too fine. Too many pieces, and his First Mark only allowed him to craft single, solid objects from his Spirit, and only one at a time. But, it would do. Because the dagger was made of his Spirit, however, he didn't need to be touching it to redistribute weight to it.
So, as the dagger crashed into plate armor, Silas transferred all of his weight into his dagger and jumped backward, flipping backward over the wall; lazily hanging in the air outside of the gate for just a moment before he dismissed his dagger and he fell to the ground outside. "Thank you, friends, for the dance!"
He hit the ground, knees buckling under the intensity, but remained upright, breathing hard. This was the last time he'd be bailing any noble out of their politics. House border disputes were already a pain, thank the Arbiters for stepping in when they did, but… Ink and Roses, this wasn't worth it. Groaning softly, he checked over his arms, pat down his chest, his legs. Making sure he wasn't injured other than the shallow cuts and bruises that often accompanied his stints. 'Would've been nice to have gotten access to the Mark of the Traveler.' He sighed, the Mark on the back of his wrist fading as he dismissed his hold on the Mark of the Scales, then turned. 'Evie better have gotten Storm Wallwhen they left this morning. I miss that horse.'
Eyes scanning the open fields, Silas sighed, summoned his dagger, and threw it, extending his senses into the silver construct. When nothing came up strange, he sighed and moved forward. "Now I just need to find the Arbiter's heir, get back to the Garden, and then have mother scold me for being reckless again…" With an exasperated sigh, Silas glanced back at the wall again, where the now distant militia of the wall had scrambled into position. "Not out of the woods yet, I suppose…"
Without sparing a second moment, Silas sprinted away from the wall, summoning his Spirit into existence as a sword.
~~~
Ren's escape had gone far less ideally; quickly finding that while his Mark may have allowed him to pass through solid objects, it wouldn't allow him to pass through living things. Which meant that while weapons and walls had no effect, enough bodies in his way presented a challenge.
Shoving past another nervous guard, Ren took mental stock. A standard barricade never had someone past the Second Mark, and Ren assumed they still thought him Unmarked– When he'd escaped the prison, he'd done so as an Unmarked, and only manifested his First Mark shortly after donning his mask. Even still, there was the chance, the slim chance that they'd anticipated his Mark manifesting during this time, but they'd probably assumed that he'd manifest the Scales, too.
Still, the fifteen people ahead of him weren't exactly something he could scoff at. Somewhere in the distance, Silas was laughing. Somehow even now, the fool managed to keep his mind clear almost as well as any arbiter, better, maybe, than even himself.
No. There would be no way forward without some struggle. And that would be assuming that he didn't run into any other Marked…
'I don't have time to plan!'
Unsteady, he pushed himself forward, running faster than he ever had before, his Mark pulsing gentle violet light, pushing him forward. It seemed to whisper to him, echoing in his mind just how close he was to escape. Twenty-five horse lengths, twenty-two…
When a pair of guards moved shoulder to shoulder to block him, Ren pushed forward anyway. It broke him, slightly, to be attacking House soldiers. In the back of his mind, he could hear the scolding of his father, telling him in no uncertain terms that the role of the Arbiter was to be the will of the people: removed from House schemes so that the laymen had champions. "Hold no love for the uniform, son."
Exhaling, Ren jumped, allowing bullet and blade to pass through him as he vaulted over the shoulders of the first set of guards, tearing off the outer robes of Houses Burnham and Vale, Reds and blues flittering in his hands as he threw them up in front of him, passing through the descending robes to bash his shoulder into the next guard, his arms moving with practiced ease as years of training etched into his very being forced him to move. Having prepared for the worst since he was a mere child, there was no need to think about his movements