"Furthermore, the English crown's harassment becomes more insurmountable by the day. I fear we may fall, as others have, should these arduous conditions continue."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
Shielding his eyes with one arm while holding his breath as best he could, Francis pushed forward through the thick smoke. The aforementioned thinned for a moment, just enough for him to spot a jagged line in the rock face ahead.
He stumbled closer, squinting through the sea of black. The shape, the depth, it didn't appear to be erosion. It was an entrance.
The entrance.
I suppose waiting for the fire to thin was worth it after all.
A surge of glee shot through him so fast he almost uncovered his face and exhaled in relief like a complete fool. But the moment he remembered where he was standing—in a choking cloud of smoke with a wildfire crawling toward him—he forced the breath back down and kept his eyes narrowed.
It would've been perfect.
If only the widening wall of fire hadn't planted itself directly between him and the entrance.
Moments dragged into minutes, but the fire refused to die. It only grew to the point of making Francis' eyes water behind his arm.
He stared at the cave entrance, and felt something in his mind snap. Desperation and stupidity joined hands. A brilliant combination.
Fine.
If the fire wouldn't move, he would.
The thought alone made him wince. It was the kind of idea that would make even drunk bar regulars pause and ask if he'd been dropped as a child. But the longer he stood there inhaling poison, the less unhinged it felt.
"It's fine," he muttered hoarsely. "I read that you'll be unharmed if you're fast enough."
Then he immediately bent over, coughing so violently he thought he might retch.
No talking, moron!
But the plan?
The plan was happening anyway.
He didn't give himself time to think. Not when asphyxiation drew nearer.
Francis broke into a sprint, boots hammering the earth as the fireline hissed and snapped in front of him. Heat slapped him in the face, a wall of it, bright enough to sting his eyes. For a split second, he saw nothing but orange.
Then he jumped.
The world went silent in that brief arc through the air. Only the pull of gravity catching him by the ribs.
He crashed down on the other side, sliding on cold stone. Harder than he expected. His knees buckled, palms scraping the ground as he caught himself. Behind him, the fire snarled against the cave's rim, cut off the moment he tumbled fully inside.
Heat stuck to him. The ends of his coat were still smoking, thin fabric glowing until he slapped the flames out with quick, clumsy hits.
He inhaled, shaky. savoring the crisp air he was deprived of for so long.
You idiot. The thought came with a sting of embarrassment, but also a strange relief. "Oh well," he muttered, brushing at another ember before it burned through. "Could've been my face."
His voice echoed through the cave, but he ignored it. He kept his attention on what could be waiting in the dark.
A tremor ran through him—delayed fear catching up now that the inferno was behind him. He swallowed it and looked deeper into the cave. For the first time in hours, he felt the faint pull of possibility instead of doom.
The human body, however, had limits—and his had been screaming for hours. A night of rowing. Three fights. A pointless, endless search through the woods. Then the panic. The constant sprinting. The jump. All of it stacked on him at once, leaving him drained.
Francis let his back hit the nearest wall and slid down until he was sitting on the cold stone. Limbs protesting everything he'd done today.
He let his eyes fall shut. He could only hope nothing with teeth wandered by before he woke. Then even that thought faded, slipping away as his body got its well deserved respite.
***
By the time Valeria stepped onto the shore of the unknown island, the ripples of power were gone.
It didn't matter. The fire was still ripping through the treeline, bright and loud—thus the trail was as hot as they come.
Literally.
Rushing here at full speed had been the right call. Unfortunately, that didn't change the fact that she was soaked to the bone and would stay that way for the next hour. She wrung a handful of her hair, annoyed at how it clung to her neck.
"Eh. The fire will help," she muttered.
She took another step inland—and froze.
Someone stood at the edge of her vision. A man. Early thirties. Nothing remarkable except for the black glove on his right hand.
In the middle of summer.
Bad sign.
Their eyes met.
Valeria moved first—sharp sidestep, as sand kicking under her boots. A crack split the air an instant later. A lightning bolt slammed into the spot she'd been standing, vaporizing sand into a sheet of white glass.
She didn't check to admire the result, opting for closing the distance instead.
The man fired again, and this time it clipped her—just a brush, but enough to drop her to her knees. The shock tore through her spine. Had she been a regular person, the bolt would've killed her instantly. But the Depths offered their Blessed far more resilience.
Valeria spat sand and pushed herself upright, her predicament left her with two choices: either play dead and hope the obviously inferior opponent wandered close enough for her to take his head off, or keep sprinting straight at him.
Naturally, she chose the latter.
The man grew frustrated as her agility let her slip past most of his strikes. Fifty feet. Thirty. Fifteen. Each miss pulled another curse out of him.
She raised her hand and let frost surge through her fingers. A blizzard burst outward, just enough to blind the fool playing Submerged. He stumbled back, firing blindly into the white haze.
That was all she needed.
She closed the distance in three steps, planted her palm against his chest, felt the thump of his heart—
And froze it solid.
The chill shot through him like a spike. His body seized once, then gave out. He collapsed at her feet without a sound, already gone.
She knelt over the fallen man for only a moment.
"He who lives by the sword dies by the sword," she muttered, brushing a lock of wet hair from her face. Her fingers closed around the black-gloved hand and tugged it off with a sharp pull. "I'll be taking this one. Hope you don't mind."
She stood then surveyed her surroundings. Was he the source of the disturbance? And if so… why hadn't she ever seen him in town? Additionally, the mystery of Francis' disappearance still pressed on her mind, making it rather hard to focus.
It is him, it must be.
Questions overwhelmed her, each one leaving room for doubt. She considered the island, its oppressive heat, the way danger seemed to hide behind every tree, and she scowled. People—or whatever passed for them here—had clearly lost all sense of caution.
Proof arrived almost immediately. A duo appeared from behind the treeline in a pathetic attempt at an ambush. Valeria barely blinked.
A spear arched toward her. She dodged smoothly then fixed her gaze on her "attackers".
"Murderer!" the girl shouted, hurling a second spear before Valeria even had a chance to react. She guessed the girl was either his sister or lover. Either way, she didn't care.
"In case you haven't noticed," Valeria said coolly, "he's the one who attacked me first."
"You could've talked!" the girl shrieked.
"Calm down. She's right," the boy said, stepping between them and holding the girl back.
Finally, someone reasonable.
"Shut up, Pedro!" the girl spat.
Valeria's tone remained even. "Tell you what. Take me to your village, and I'll pretend you didn't try to kill me just now."
The girl hissed angrily in response—but before she could make another move, Valeria closed the distance. Her gift flared, and the girl crumpled, unconscious before she hit the ground.
The boy's eyes widened, alarmed.
"Relax. I didn't kill her. Just put her to sleep. Figured that's best for our conversation, don't you think?"
Pedro's shoulders relaxed, and he simply nodded.
"Now. Who's the guy who tried to kill me?" Valeria asked, her tone flat.
"Afonso. The village elder's son," Pedro replied simply, as if the man's death meant nothing to him.
"Do you know why he did that?"
"Our village doesn't take kindly to strangers," Pedro said. "That's why we guard our shores—and kill anyone who isn't from the archipelago."
"Aren't you a poetic one?" Valeria said, a smirk tugging at her lips. "But why?"
Pedro's expression stayed calm. "A few decades ago, a pirate ship landed on our shores. They took half the young women in the village, never to be seen again. The elder's former wife was one of them. Since then, he entrusted his family with keeping anyone who comes near in check."
I landed right where he was patrolling. Talk about bad luck.
"You do realize there's a bigger town not far from here, right?" she asked.
Pedro shrugged. "We do. And we don't care. We just want to keep to ourselves. Only twenty people in total." He glanced at Afonso's body. "Well… nineteen."
Valeria studied Pedro for a moment. The boy didn't look older than seventeen. She handed him back the glove and turned away, setting her sights on the forest fire.
This town exposing her presence had been a serious threat. She was more than willing to slaughter every last one of them to protect her secret. Now, having learned the truth, they seemed almost pitiful.
"Let's hope they consider me returning the glove a gesture of goodwill," she muttered, walking toward the smoke.