Jim the Groundskeeper [Original Fantasy]

[Metel_Pen]

Jim peered through the towering doors of the academy. Nothing moved. No bodies. No sounds. Just the yawning, echoing silence of a place recently vacated or perhaps never touched at all. Dust motes swirled lazily in the air, glinting in the pale light that slanted through high windows. The emptiness pressed down on him like a weight, settling heavy on the shoulders of his coat, seeping into the cracks of his bones.
No Umbar. No Night Dancers. No traps that he could see.
He stepped inside.
Jess and Emile followed close behind, their boots whispering against polished stone that seemed too clean, too immaculate for a school that had just hosted carnage. The faint echo of their steps bounced down the vast corridors, making them sound like intruders trespassing in a tomb. Emile's eyes darted constantly, shoulders tight. The lad didn't have the faintest idea where they were headed or what they were looking for. Was there even a plan? Or was this just panic dressed up as purpose, movement for the sake of not standing still?
He was about to ask when the silence shattered.
A scream ripped through the halls — not a cry, but something deeper. A soul-deep howl of agony that clawed its way up through the stone, higher and higher, before cutting off sharp, like a throat torn clean through.
They froze.
"The nursery," they all said at once, the words overlapping — and then they were running.
Boots hammered the floor, breaths ragged as they charged through twisting halls. Doors blurred past. Jim slammed through the final one shoulder-first.
The greenhouse air struck them instantly — hot, wet, earthy. It clung to the skin, thick with the stink of rot, blood, and fungus.
Bodies were everywhere. Torn limbs, shredded torsos, viscera half-wrapped in writhing vines. Judging by the tatters of robes and scorched sigils, the victims were Umbar. But that wasn't the worst of it.
All around the corpses, things moved. Mushroom-like creatures, no taller than a man's head, stalked the floor on squat limbs. Their glassy black eyes glimmered, and jagged claws flexed with unsettling eagerness. They moved with a dog-like energy — stabbing, rending, tearing. Wet, gleeful sounds filled the room, half feast, half laughter.
Jess froze mid-step. Emile gagged, one hand clapped over his mouth.
The moment the door slammed open, every one of the creatures stopped. Heads turned in eerie unison. Dozens of tiny eyes blinked, fixing on the intruders with hungry malice.
Then they charged.
Claws clicked. Wet feet slapped across tiles. Their shrill screeches bounced off the glass walls, sharp enough to make teeth ache—
"Not them, my babies. Not them!"
The voice cut across the chaos like a whip.
A plume of thick, blue smoke drifted from the far end of the greenhouse. From it stepped a familiar figure — hair wild and frizzed with static, long coat streaked in soot, and a huge carved pipe clamped lazily between her lips.
Professor Aidra.
She wobbled with each step, pupils blown wide, red veins spiderwebbing her eyes. She looked one slip away from collapse — and yet her voice was sharp as ever.
"Oh, hello, my darlings," she drawled, waving one hand vaguely. The mushroom creatures skidded to a halt inches from Emile's boots. Their claws tapped the tiles impatiently, but they obeyed.
"You all look terribly stressed."
She puffed, exhaled a rolling cloud of smoke that smelled of roasted cinnamon bark and pine sap, then beamed at them with glassy warmth.
"Here — have a toke. Clears the soul."
She held the pipe out, exaggeratedly careful.
Emile, dazed, almost reached for it.
Jess slapped his hand. "No."
"Aye, not tonight, Aidra," Jim added, though a ghost of a grin twitched at his lips. "We kinda need all our faculties intact."
Jess's side-eye burned Emile, who stared at the floor.
Aidra shrugged, crouched beside one of the squat creatures, and patted its spongy cap like a beloved pet. It chirped, rubbed against her leg, and purred.
Jim glanced from the carnage to her "babies." Despite the madness, despite the horror, Aidra had survived. And, somehow, her brood had picked the right side.
Jim stepped forward, brow furrowed. "What happened here?"
Aidra blinked, then looked around as though surprised someone was speaking to her. For a moment she seemed to be debating whether Jim was real or a puff of smoke come to life. "Oh! You're talking to me?" she said airily, smoke leaking from her nostrils like an old chimney pipe. Her pupils were blown wide, bloodshot veins spiderwebbing her glassy eyes.
"Er—yes," Jim replied, already regretting it, his eyebrow climbing like it was trying to escape his forehead.
"Oh, well," Aidra began, waving a hand lazily as though swatting away a memory she couldn't quite catch. "They were after Plandorph. Said they needed him for… something." She paused, lips parting as though the thought might form, then forgot she was thinking at all and took another deep drag. "I told them I didn't know where he was. They said I was lying. I said I wasn't. Then they said they were going to cut off my ears to 'aid in my speaking,' which frankly doesn't make any anatomical sense."
She shrugged, utterly unbothered, and the smoke curled around her head like a crown of fog. "Then my babies came for them. Tore them up like wet tissue. Sweet little darlings." She exhaled a long stream of blue-grey haze and lovingly scratched the mushroom creature under its gilled chin. The thing purred like a teakettle left too long on the hob, eyes glowing faintly in pleasure. Dozens more shifted restlessly across the blood-slick floor, claws clicking against broken tiles, the smell of copper and damp spores heavy in the air.
Jess stepped in, arms crossed, voice sharp. "They're looking for Plandorph?"
Aidra gave her a dreamy nod, eyes half-lidded. "Mmm, yes. Quite urgently, it seemed. Not sure why. Probably something sinister and overwrought. You know how it is with dark conspiracies." Her words began to trail off like smoke losing shape. "Maybe they want his robes. Or his moustache. Or perhaps the secret to his soup. He does make a lovely soup—"
Jim stepped back, blinking rapidly, the acrid haze beginning to sting his eyes and settle on his tongue. "Right. We're done here. I'm not getting a full story out of her, and I think I'm getting high just standing in the same room."
"Contact high confirmed," Jess muttered, covering her nose and turning toward the door.
As Jim turned to go, one of the little mushroom men chittered at him with what might have been a wink — or a death threat. Hard to tell with mushrooms. Another shuffled over the body of an Umbar corpse and began tearing strips of meat free like it was eating fruit. Jim looked away.
Once they were out of the nursery and back in the corridor, he finally had room to breathe. The air still carried soot and blood, but at least it wasn't thick with Aidra's drugged haze. The weight of her ramblings — scattered and smoke-laced as they were — began to settle into something sharper.
They were after Plandorph.
Jess broke the silence first, her voice taut with purpose. "We need to find him. First."
There was no hesitation, no room for debate. Just resolution.
"Aye, we do, lass," Jim replied, jaw tight. His mind was already churning, pieces falling into place — most of them unsettling.
He glanced at Emile, who was trailing slightly behind, blinking hard and rubbing at his face like he was trying to rub reality back in. The lad looked like he'd been hit by a warm fog and was trying to act like he wasn't.
"You good, lad?" Jim asked, slowing just enough to walk beside him.
Emile gave a vague nod, his voice a bit loose around the edges. "Erm... yeah, just... just a little woozy. Whatever Aidra's puffin', it's not academy standard."
Jim gave a low chuckle and clapped him on the back. "Aye, that'd be the Aidra Special. Take deep breaths, lad. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It'll clear... eventually."
Jess looked between them, then back down the corridor, her eyes sharp. "So where would he go? If they're hunting him, he'll be hiding. And if he's hiding, he's not going to make it easy."
Jim's eyes narrowed as he rubbed a hand over his stubble, the rasp of calloused fingers loud in the quiet. "His rooms," he said slowly. "That's where I'd go if I were a snivelling little rat — back to where the walls feel familiar. Rats always run to where they think they're safe."
Jess gave a curt nod, already adjusting course. "Then let's corner this rat before the Night Dancers do."
Jim followed her lead, knife still red and gleaming in his hand. The blade caught what little light flickered from the ruined sconces, a dark promise in steel. "Let's just hope he's more use alive than dead."
And with that, they moved. Swift. Quiet. Purposeful. The storm wasn't done yet — but they were getting close to its eye.
She headed for the stairs, her boots echoing softly against the stone floor as the trio pressed forward. Jim and Jess took point, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow, every doorway and corner scanned with the trained reflexes of people who'd seen too much to ever trust the quiet. The building groaned faintly, beams shifting as if the academy itself knew it was under siege.
Emile held the rear, and Jim clocked that every few steps, the lad would pivot fully, doing a quick sweep of their six. Good lad, Jim thought. Didn't even have to teach him that. Some people had the sense baked into their bones.
They reached the base of the staircase, and that's when Jim spotted it — dark spatters across the floor, not pooled but flung, the kind of trail left by someone bleeding and moving fast. It gleamed wet in the torchlight, already beginning to crust at the edges. As they ascended, the trail continued, but the smears stretched thinner, longer, pulling upward like a brush dragged across canvas. Whoever it was had been wounded and was legging it, hard.
Jess noticed too. "Plandorph?" she asked, turning to Jim, brows drawn.
"Maybe," Jim said, his tone low and steady. "Only one way to find out."
He adjusted his grip on the knife and took the lead, boots landing with measured precision on each step as they climbed into the unknown.
With every floor, the air thickened further — metallic tang of blood coating the back of the throat, acrid sting of scorched stone biting the nose. The corridor bore the scars of recent violence — jagged blast marks scorched across the walls, chunks of marble blown out, black soot smeared like smudged charcoal fingerprints. Broken glass crunched underfoot. The higher they went, the worse it looked, as though the building itself had been in a fistfight with the night.
Then came the bodies.
Two Night Dancers lay sprawled at unnatural angles, their ebony armour cracked, scorched, and still hissing with residual magical heat. The smell of burnt metal and flesh clung to the stairwell, sharp enough to sting the back of the throat. Their limbs twitched faintly — post-mortem nerves, or perhaps some foul magic still leaking through their veins. Jim didn't care to guess.
But it was the boy beside them that made him pause.
He was barely more than sixteen — red-haired, rail-thin, and no taller than Emile. His uniform was torn, scorched black along the sleeves, the fabric melted into his skin. Two ember blades jutted from his chest, their hilts still glowing faintly, sending thin trails of smoke spiralling into the air. The heat warped the stone beneath him, sizzling faintly, filling the air with the acrid tang of charred marrow. His mouth was frozen in a half-snarl, half-smile, teeth bloodied, lips cracked and curled like he'd been mid-curse when he fell. His eyes remained wide open, burning with the ghost of furious defiance.
Jim crouched beside him, slow and deliberate, boots crunching against shards of broken stone. He reached down and gripped the blades. They gave a sharp hiss as he wrenched them free, the heat searing against his calloused palms even through the hilts. The tips dragged free of ruined flesh with a wet, sticky sound that clung to the silence. Jim glanced once more at the boy's face before gently closing the lad's eyes with two rough fingers. The lids fell shut, but the fury lingered in the air like smoke.
"Didn't go easy," Jim muttered, voice rough. "Died like a bastard."
Emile stepped quietly up beside him, his own eyes fixed on the scene, lips pressed into a thin line. His knuckles were white where they clenched at his side.
"You know him?" Jim asked, barely glancing at him.
Emile shook his head. "No… I wish I did."
That earned a small, bitter smile from Jim — pride and sorrow tangled in his chest like old rope. His shoulders rose and fell once, a breath that carried more weight than air.
"Get used to that feeling, lad," Jim said, voice low. "Good ones always go quiet."
They stood a moment longer in the silence, the faint crackle of dying ember-blades the only sound in the stairwell. The heat bled slowly from the stone, leaving behind the chill of loss. Then Jim rose, spinning one of the blades in his hand before jamming it into his belt. The glow still pulsed faintly, like a coal refusing to die.
"Come on," he said, his voice carrying no softness now. "Let's make sure his wasn't for nothing."
Jim gave the lad one last glance. For a long, quiet moment, he stood still, the stairwell hushed save for the distant creak of the academy's bones and the faint buzz of unstable magic still clinging to the walls. He let the image of the boy burn itself into his mind — the scorched uniform, the ember-blades still hissing in the stone, and that defiant snarl frozen on his bloodied face.
No name. No glory. Just a final stand made by a boy who had no business being brave and every reason to run.
Jim didn't know him. But he'd remember him.
With a low exhale through his nose, Jim turned. No words passed his lips. None needed to. He simply started up the stairs, one heavy bootstep at a time, the ember blade now strapped to his belt like a vow carved in steel.
Jess followed next, her eyes scanning the shadows, face tight with grief held at bay, her jaw hard enough to crack stone. Emile brought up the rear, his hand brushing the wall for balance — not because he was tired, but because the silence weighed more than his legs could carry.
None of them spoke. There was nothing left to say.
Just a body behind them… and hell waiting above.

 

[Simonbob]

...... Given that Jim sabotaged the athletic games, the ones that kill, and now there's a Umbar invasion....

Which one's going to kill more people?



(Yes, I am a bit hung up on a athletic game with an expected body count, why do you ask?)

 

[Metel_Pen]

...... Given that Jim sabotaged the athletic games, the ones that kill, and now there's a Umbar invasion....

Which one's going to kill more people?



(Yes, I am a bit hung up on a athletic game with an expected body count, why do you ask?)

Click to shrink...

Lol yeah, at least the Umbar are honest about trying to kill them. Riordan calls it character building.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim delicately peered over the top of the final step, his back low, shoulders hunched like a predator ready to pounce. The staircase leading up to the faculty quarters was quiet—too quiet. His eyes scanned left and right, expecting to find Umbar waiting in ambush, or at the very least the aftermath of a fight. But the corridor was untouched. No scorch marks. No blood. No bodies. Nothing.
Jim frowned. That wasn't right.
He turned and gestured silently to Jess and Emile, then crept the rest of the way up, his boots making no more sound than a breath of wind. The others followed, their weapons drawn, nerves taut, every step pulled tighter by the hush of the place. Even the air felt wrong here, heavy, as if it knew what they were walking toward and wanted to press them back down the stairs.
They reached Plandorph's ornate wooden door—only it wasn't intact anymore.
Jim stopped dead. The door had been kicked in. Splinters clung to the hinges, the frame cracked like dry bone, and the faint smell of burnt resin hung in the air. The corridor beyond seemed to breathe faintly, the draft curling through the jagged break in the door like the exhale of some sleeping beast.
Jess noticed too. Her hands began to glow, faint purple tendrils of smoke curling upward from her fingertips as magic coiled instinctively around her fists. Her face had gone cold, set in the kind of still mask she wore when she was balancing on the edge of restraint. Emile, eyes wide, tightened his grip on his sword, knuckles pale beneath the strain, his other hand flexing uselessly at his side.
Jim edged forward, lowering his centre of gravity, and crept to the doorframe. He pressed himself to the side and peered through the jagged opening—knife raised and body braced. He waited. Listened. Sniffed. The corridor carried only the faint tang of smoke and the sour stench of fear-sweat.
Then, with a growl, he slammed his boot into the broken door and barged through, blade at the ready.
Jess was right behind him, Emile bringing up the rear like a loyal shadow. All three braced for violence.
But there was no ambush. No bloodbath. Just whimpering.
There, sprawled on the polished marble floor like a child left out in the storm, was Plandorph. His robes were rumpled and stained, one arm clutched tight to his chest, his face a wreck of tears, snot, and desperation. The grandeur of his chamber—silken drapes, shelves of books knocked askew, an ornate desk half-smashed in the struggle—only made his pitiful state look smaller, like a rat dragged into a king's hall.
Jim stepped over the debris and yanked him up by the collar. Plandorph cried out as his injured arm was jostled—there was a gash down his forearm and one finger twisted at an unnatural angle. His breath came in rapid, wheezing gulps, each one thick with panic.
"Ah! Th-thank all that is holy," Plandorph blubbered, spitting the words between sobs. "You're here—finally—you have to get me out! We—we must flee this place!"
Jim narrowed his eyes, searching the man's face. There was fear there, yes, but also something else. Panic like a man who knew exactly what was coming. Panic born of guilt, not just terror.
"Why?" Jim asked, his voice low, a blade all its own.
"They're going for it," Plandorph whispered hoarsely. His eyes darted to the corners of the room, as though expecting shadows to peel away into assassins. "They're going to try… to awaken it. They're going for the Chrysalis."
Jess's eyes widened as the weight of Plandorph's words settled in the air like ash after a fire. The glow around her fists pulsed once, sharp, then steadied into a cold light.
Emile froze in place, a look of confusion creeping across his face. "Wait... what do you mean it's here?" he asked, though a part of him already feared the answer.
Jim, however, didn't look shocked—just tired. A bitter chuckle slipped from his throat, dry as gravel.
"Of course it's the worst fuckin' one," Jim muttered to himself, shaking his head slowly. "Why wouldn't it be? Wouldn't be a proper shitshow otherwise."
Jess stepped forward, her tone sharp, each syllable like a dagger. "So… it's true. It's here? The Chrysalis?"
Plandorph gave a small, pathetic nod — like a guilty dog caught pissing on the carpet. "Yes. Beneath the eastern wing… sealed. Hidden. Forgotten, mostly." His lips quivered, his eyes glassy with tears he didn't have the strength to blink away.
Jim gave a long, slow exhale through his nose and turned toward the others, voice dripping with disdain. "I'm sure I've said this before, but why in all the gods-damned world did anyone think storing a bloody weapon of mass destruction under a school full of hormonal teenagers and half-arsed faculty was a good idea? Eh? Was the prison full that day? No old volcano lairs available?"
Jess didn't even smirk. Her eyes had gone cold, hard, fixed on Plandorph like a hawk about to strike. "And you just… gave them the location?" she asked, each word sharp and slow, as if trying to confirm the stupidity of it all.
Plandorph nodded again, more desperate this time. "They had ways — spells, enchantments — I didn't want to, but—"
"Spare me," Jim growled, cutting him off.
Jess's hands began to glow brighter, faint tendrils of violet smoke curling like snakes around her fingers. She was breathing slow, deliberate — the kind of breathing someone did right before doing something violent and permanent.
Jim noticed the tension in her stance and shifted slightly, placing one booted foot subtly between her and Plandorph. His knife stayed down, but his whole body said otherwise: one wrong move, and someone was going to bleed.
"Oi," he said quietly, not looking at her.
"You just gave it up," Jim said, shaking his head slowly, as though the words themselves tasted foul in his mouth.
He stared at Plandorph, but his mind wasn't in the room anymore — it was downstairs, back on that staircase. The boy. That red-haired lad who didn't even have a name Jim could recall. A lad who died with both ember-blades buried in his chest, defiance frozen on his face. He'd died buying them time… trying to stop what this snivelling excuse for a man had just handed over without so much as a struggle.
Jim breathed hard through his nose, chest rising with the weight of the moment. His jaw flexed as he fought back the growing urge to snap the bastard's neck. One swift motion. That's all it would take. He could almost hear the pop of bone, the wet crunch, the stillness that would follow.
But Jess's hands were already glowing, her eyes locked on Plandorph like a hawk that had just spotted a wounded rabbit. Her magic flared with barely contained wrath, purple smoke curling around her fingertips like eager serpents, hungry for blood.
"Save it," Jim said gruffly, stepping between them. His voice didn't rise, but the steel in it was unmistakable. "He'll get his."
Jess hesitated. Her breath came sharp through her nose, and for a moment, her hands pulsed brighter. But then she exhaled, slow and hard, letting the glow dim. She turned away, muttering something under her breath that sounded a lot like, "cowardly fucking weasel."
Jim turned back to Plandorph, who was still crumpled on the floor like a sack of spoiled meat. His robes were torn, his lip was bleeding, and his eyes darted like a cornered rat. He looked up at Jim with tear-streaked cheeks and a mouth that trembled with excuses that hadn't yet formed.
"You told them," Jim growled. "Now tell us how to get to it."
There was no rage in his voice now — just the cold, hard edge of duty. The sort of tone that promised consequences far worse than death if Plandorph even thought about lying again.
"Yes, yes!" Plandorph stammered, words tripping over each other in his panic. "You can get into the vault room through the Eastern Library — the mural on the wall! The door is the burning purple sun in the centre. If they've closed it, the password is... it's Istamel!"
He blurted it all out in a rush, each word practically thrown at them, driven by fear more than any sense of loyalty.
Jim gave a small nod. "That'll do."
Plandorph let out a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging, the fight draining from him like air from a punctured lung.
Then Jim stopped.
He turned back.
Without a word, he stepped forward and drove his fist straight into Plandorph's jaw. The crack of impact echoed in the silence, sharp and final. The old magister crumpled like a sack of wet grain, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Jess blinked once, then gave a sharp nod. "Fair."
Emile adjusted the grip on his sword. "He did have it coming," he said, deadpan.
Jim didn't say a word. He just stepped over the unconscious body and strode out of the room, boots thudding with purpose. His shadow stretched long across the marble, dark as the mood he carried with him.
Jess and Emile followed behind, one a storm cloaked in focus, the other a young fire still finding its shape.
The hunt was back on.
They worked their way through the school as swiftly and quietly as they could, boots padding over polished stone and worn rugs, weapons held tight and eyes scanning every shadow. The torches along the walls burned low, throwing jittering shapes that looked too much like waiting enemies.
The further they moved, the more the sounds of chaos surrounded them — distant screams, clashing steel, and magical detonations echoing through the ancient hallways like thunder rolling across a battlefield. Every boom rattled the windowpanes, every scream cut too close to the bone.
Every time they passed an open window, fresh fragments of the wider war played out before them: Emile caught flashes of wild fire arcing across the sky, brilliant and unnatural; the roar of dragons — deep, guttural, and primal — echoed off the far hills.
Jim paused beside one of the windows and looked out, squinting into the distance.
"The drakes have joined the fight," he murmured.
Jess peered past him. "That's Elmsley, then?"
"Aye," Jim said with a grim nod. "He must've set 'em loose."
They moved on, the floor rumbling ever so slightly beneath their boots as something massive bellowed outside — something with wings, claws, and a grudge.
Every step forward tightened the air around them. The school — once a place of learning and debate — now groaned under the weight of fire, blood, and war. Every hallway was a tomb waiting to close in, every stairwell a throat daring them to step inside.
It took another twenty minutes of careful movement through the war-torn corridors before they finally reached the entrance to the eastern library. The once-grand oak doors were little more than splinters now — jagged shards and charred fragments littered the marble floor like broken bones.
Jess knelt down, brushing her fingers over one of the fragments.
"Magic," she muttered, holding up a piece. Faint scorch marks ran along its edge, blackened and cracked. "Precision work. Focused blast."
"Looks recent," Emile said, drawing closer. His expression was tense, jaw set. He raised a finger to his lips, then pointed toward the shadowed gap where the door had once stood.
Jim nodded. He and Jess stilled, tuning their ears to the silence. At first, it seemed like nothing — just the faint hiss of distant wind and the occasional muffled thump of battle in some far-off part of the academy.
Then they heard it.
Soft. Rhythmic. Speech — just below a whisper — slipping through the air like a snake through grass.
Jim crept forward, slow and low, until he was beside the jagged edge of the doorframe. He pressed his shoulder against the wall and leaned in, tilting his head to listen harder.
The voices became clearer.
It was Umara — the native tongue of the Umbar — slow and slurred in that strange, song-like cadence the Night Dancers often used when they thought they had time to kill.
Jim closed his eyes for a second, focusing. He caught fragments — mentions of "the chrysalis," of "the threshold nearly open" — and the unmistakable tone of mocking confidence.
Two of them, he thought. Maybe more. Holding position. Guarding something they believe matters.
He shifted slightly, easing one eye around the splintered frame.
There. Ten yards inside the library, partially obscured by toppled shelves and fractured pillars, stood two Night Dancers. They were relaxed — not slouching, never that — but poised like cats curled just before a pounce. One had his back to the doorway, gesturing idly with an outstretched hand. The other sat atop a broken lectern, legs lazily dangling as he toyed with a blade that shimmered like oil under moonlight.
The library around them looked like a ruin — parchment shredded and scattered like dead leaves, the air thick with the smell of old vellum singed by fire. Shadows stretched long across the cracked marble floor, and every overturned chair or broken tome seemed to hold its breath.
Vault guards. No doubt about it.
Jim eased back, knife already drawn in his fist, and looked to Jess and Emile.
He didn't speak. He just nodded once, slow and deliberate.
Showtime.
Jim launched himself forward, boots hammering against the stone as he wheeled left. At the same instant, Emile darted right — the boy's movements sharp with desperation but just controlled enough to open a clean lane. The doorway stood clear, and Jess stepped into it with the poise of a blade unsheathed.
Her hands burned with violet light, arcs of raw power crawling up her forearms like living veins. With a sharp, cutting gesture, she loosed a bolt of sizzling energy. The air cracked, the smell of ozone biting at Jim's nose.
The streak of light tore across the chamber and struck the nearer of the two Night Dancers. One had the sense — or luck — to roll aside, shadows blurring around his frame. The other was too slow. The bolt hit square, punching a hole the size of a man's head through his chest. The dancer's body jerked once, a spray of scorched flesh filling the air, and then he dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
The survivor came up low, directly in Jim's path.
Perfect.
Jim didn't hesitate. He snapped his little knife free, the battered steel glinting dull under Jess's fading glow. With a guttural growl he closed the distance, his left hand seizing the Night Dancer by the jaw, wrenching the head back. Their eyes flashed wide for an instant before Jim rammed the blade home.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
Each strike was fast, savage, and without ceremony — just meat and steel colliding in a rhythm Jim had carved into countless enemies before. The knife sank into the soft neck, hot blood spurting across his knuckles. The dancer clawed weakly at Jim's wrist, nails scraping but without strength.
On the third plunge, the body gave a shudder and let out a thin, pitiful whine — like a wounded dog begging for mercy that wasn't coming. Jim bared his teeth and drove the blade in a final inch deeper, until the resistance broke.
Then he shoved the corpse away, letting it thud unceremoniously onto the cold floor.
"Next step," Jim muttered, wiping his knife on the dead man's cloak. The blood smeared dark across the threadbare fabric, already drying to rust. His chest rose and fell like a forge bellows, the smell of copper and burnt cloth clinging to his skin.
Emile sucked in a breath, chest still heaving from the fight. He pointed at the open passage yawning in the centre of the chamber. "Down that tunnel, I guess. Just like Plandorph said."
Jim sniffed, then lifted a hand to hold them back. He rummaged through the folds of his wax coat and fished out a battered hip flask, the brass dented and blackened from too many years and too many wars. He unscrewed the lid, the smell of cheap Highland whiskey bleeding into the damp air, and took a slow swig. The burn chased the taste of blood from his tongue, cutting through the copper tang still heavy in his mouth.
"There's no tellin' how many of those genocidal bastards are down there," he said, voice flat as a shovel blade. He passed the flask to Emile.
The lad raised it with shaky hands, tried a swig, and instantly regretted it. His face contorted, throat working like he'd swallowed hot coals, and he bent over with a half-wretch before managing to choke it down. Eyes streaming, he croaked, "Smooth."
Jim snorted, one corner of his mouth twitching despite the blood drying on his cheek. "Aye. First sip always is."
Jim almost smiled. Almost. The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth vanished as quickly as it had come, buried under the weight of smoke, blood, and stone pressing down on them from every side.
Emile shoved the flask at Jess. She took it without a word, tilted her head back, and drained a mouthful like she'd been doing it all her life. Her throat worked once, twice, then she lowered it with a sharp hiss through her teeth. For a heartbeat, the violet glow of her magic flickered faintly across her knuckles, like even the whiskey was fuel. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "I know," she said, voice flat but steady. "But we can't wait. We need to go in. We need to try."
Jim raised the flask again, took another gulp that bit like an old enemy, and screwed the cap shut with a slow, deliberate twist. "Aye, lass. We do. That's all we can do." His eyes lingered on the passage ahead — a mouth of stone yawning wide, dark as a grave.
Emile shrugged when they both looked at him. His shoulders lifted like he was trying to act casual, but the grip on his sword gave him away. "I think we've done pretty good just by trying." His voice wobbled, but there was a kind of stubborn pride under it.
For a beat, the silence held. Only the whisper of air through the broken masonry moved, cool and damp against their faces. Then Jim snorted, shaking his head. "Aye, lad. We did. So shall we see how far we can push our luck, eh?"
Jess gave the barest nod. Emile followed with a nervous bob of the head, the movement too fast, too eager, like a boy trying to convince himself he wasn't afraid.
Jim smirked. "Fuck it."
He turned and stepped into the passageway. His boots echoed against the stone, each step heavy as a drumbeat, the sound rolling forward into the dark. The tunnel seemed to swallow them one by one, torchlight fading, the air colder with every pace until the school above felt like a memory already slipping away.

 

[Simonbob]

I think Emile's going to be more interesting after this one than most will see.

Unless he gets recruted by Jess, of course.

 

[Metel_Pen]

They worked their way down the moist, musky stairs, boots scuffing against slick stone that glistened faintly in the half-light. Water dripped from somewhere unseen above, each drop echoing down the shaft in a hollow tick, tick, tick that chewed at the silence. The air pressed close, thick and stale, and tasted faintly of mould and old iron. Every breath seemed to carry grit with it, lodging on the tongue.
Jim led the way, slow and deliberate. Every step was measured, his weight spread evenly, hand brushing the wall as if feeling for the pulse of the place itself. He breathed slow and steady, the way he'd trained himself long ago — keep the lungs even, keep the heart from racing, keep the mind from chewing itself to bits. His boots rolled heel to toe without a sound. He kept his shoulders loose, back low, head tilted just enough to hear past the drip of water and the soft scrape of their boots.
The unknown was the real enemy. He'd learnt that two decades ago, and it hadn't stopped being true. Didn't matter what you were facing — golems with fists like anvils, hordes of mud-crawlers boiling up from the ground, or a pack of basilisks snapping the air into stone. If you knew what you were walking into, you could plan. You could prepare. You could steady yourself, sharpen your edge, and get the job done, no matter how ugly it was.
But when no one knew? That was the real horror. Not the fight, not the blood — the waiting. The uncertainty. The way the mind filled in the blanks with teeth and shadows. That's what broke soldiers. That's what chewed you hollow from the inside until you were already half-dead before the first blade was drawn.
So Jim didn't let himself dwell on it. Didn't let the unknown gnaw. He kept his breathing level, his eyes on the stair, his ears tuned to the steady footfalls behind him. He focused on Emile, lanky and nervous but holding the line, knuckles pale around his sword hilt but never loosening. On Jess, silent and sharp, her hands twitching faint sparks in the dark like she was rehearsing every possible spell she might need, every countermove for the enemies she pictured waiting below. And on Aualine, who wasn't here, but was. Always was.
Gods, I hope she's alright, Jim thought, jaw tightening. That dragon had a better head on her shoulders than half the faculty combined. If anyone could keep them tethered when the world went sideways, it was her.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, tasting the damp and letting it settle on his tongue. "One step at a time," he muttered under his breath, to himself more than anyone. And then he kept going.
It was only fifty steps, give or take, but it might as well have been five thousand. Each one dragged like lead, and the stairwell itself felt endless — a tunnel into the earth that narrowed with every breath. By the time Jim's boots hit level ground again, his knees ached and his breath came out in a long, steady hiss through his nose. His shoulders rolled, loosening the tension before it could take hold.
That's when he caught it — faint, but there. A dull thud from above. Not a crash, not stone falling, but a steady, deliberate rhythm. One beat every minute or so. Like a heart. Like something waiting.
He froze for half a breath, head cocked, counting the space between one thud and the next. His jaw clenched as he mapped the rhythm in his head, listening for a pattern. Then he shoved it down. Note it. Park it. Deal with what's in front of you. He muttered under his breath, "Focus now, old man. You've got a job to do."
Emile and Jess stepped off the stair behind him, boots crunching softly on grit. Their shadows stretched long against the cavern floor, twisting into strange shapes that looked bigger than they were.
Jim let his eyes adjust. The place was massive — a cavern hollowed out like the belly of some buried beast. The ceiling stretched up into shadow, where the occasional pinprick of moonlight slipped through cracks and scattered across slick stone. The air was cool and carried the faint tang of moss and old water, sharp and metallic on the nose. Their breath plumed faintly, barely visible in the shifting dark.
Straight ahead, maybe two hundred yards off, torchlight shimmered. Not just torchlight — the pale shimmer of arcane wards too, bands of faint colour bending the dark like heat above coals. Dozens of dark-shrouded figures moved in and out of the glow, their shapes restless, like a colony of ants around spilled sugar. Their movements were wrong, stretched by the ward-light, limbs bending at angles that looked more shadow than flesh.
Jim's jaw set. He kept his breath even and shifted his gaze left. A scatter of rocky outcrops jutted from the cavern wall — cover. Good enough to get closer without being seen, if they kept low and quiet.
Jess's voice was low, sharp as a whispering blade. "You see what I see?"
"Aye, lass," Jim said, eyes narrowing. He nodded toward the rocks. "Let's get a better look."
He crouched, every movement deliberate, and slipped toward the outcrop with Jess and Emile close behind, the weight of the cavern pressing down on all three of them.
Jim eased himself up against one of the jagged rocks, chest rising slow as he steadied his breath. He peered out over the cavern, eyes narrowing against the torch and ward-light that shimmered across the stone.
There she was. Alexa.
She stood on a raised slab of rock like it was her pulpit, arms stretched high over something that glowed faintly in front of her — a lump of amber the size of a man's head. The light inside it pulsed, dull and steady, like a heart that hadn't quite decided if it wanted to beat.
Her eyes were wild, shining with zeal, sweat streaking down her forehead to drip off her chin. Each syllable she chanted cracked against the cavern walls, punched out with manic fervour. The air thrummed with her voice, the words sharp enough that Jim's teeth ached with each one.
Boom.
A crunching thud rolled through the cavern roof, a deep, deliberate echo that made dust sift down from the stone above. Jim's gaze flicked up in spite of himself — and he noticed he wasn't the only one. A handful of the night dancers glanced skyward too, their shadowed faces uncertain.
Huh, Jim thought. Even they don't know what's causing it.
He grit his teeth and pulled his attention back to where it mattered. Stow it, Jim. Focus.
Jess crouched at his shoulder, eyes narrowed. "What's going on?" she whispered.
"They've got some kind of amber thing," Jim muttered back, his voice low and rasped like gravel dragged across steel, "and they're chanting over it like gods know what." His eyes stayed locked on the pulsing light in the centre, jaw clenching as though the sight alone had teeth.
Jess rubbed her temples, jaw tight enough that the muscle jumped. "Fuck," she whispered, breath hot in the cold air. "They've already got it."
"Fuck," Emile echoed, barely louder than breath, as if saying it louder might make it truer. His knuckles whitened on the hilt of his blade.
Another thundering boom rolled through the cavern, shaking grit loose in soft showers. The sound grew heavier this time, more insistent, like the cavern itself was being tapped by something immense and patient. Dust cascaded from cracks overhead, fine as flour, ghosting down onto their shoulders.
"So what do we do now?" Emile asked, voice cracking on the last word despite his effort to hold it steady. He looked from Jess to Jim, searching for an answer in faces that had already seen too much.
Jim scanned the cavern again, eyes sweeping from torchlight to shadow. They were tucked into the farthest edge of the rocky outcropping, hidden for the moment. But if they wanted a closer look, they'd have to cross a wide patch of open stone — and that, Jim knew, would be suicide if the dancers were paying attention.
His jaw clenched. Options were running short.
He dropped back against the rock, sitting with a grunt that rattled up his ribs. From inside his coat he pulled the battered flask again, unscrewing the cap with hands steadier than they had any right to be. He took a deep swallow, the whiskey biting down his throat like liquid fire, then let out a low breath through his nose, slow and even.
Boom.
This time, the cavern roof itself answered. A chunk of stone the size of a wagon wheel split free and crashed down into the dark, shattering into a spray of dust and echoes. Night dancers hissed and shifted uneasily, their cloaks twitching like disturbed wings, but Alexa's chanting didn't falter for a heartbeat.
Jim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still fixed on that pulsing amber. His voice dropped to a growl. "I don't know, lad."
Boom.
Another thud rolled down from the cavern roof — but this time it wasn't just stone splitting and crashing to the floor. There was something else in the echo, a deeper resonance buried under the noise. A sound that didn't belong, something that prickled skin and crawled cold down the spine.
Emile froze mid-breath. His whole body went rigid, head tilting slightly as though he could catch the thread of it better if he stayed perfectly still. His eyes widened, and then, slowly, a smile broke across his face — an odd, fevered thing.
"We… we need to stall them," he stammered, words spilling out uneven and urgent. "We need to buy time."
Jess and Jim both turned to stare at him, squinting like he'd just grown another head. Jess's brows knotted into a scowl; Jim's eyes narrowed, weighing the lad in silence.
Emile's gaze darted between them, urgency sharpening his tone. "Trust me. We need to do it now." His hands twitched as though gripping a bowstring no one else could see.
For a long moment, only the hiss of Alexa's chanting and the faint drip of water filled the air.
Then Jim exhaled through his nose, unscrewed the battered flask again, and drained the last burning mouthful. The whiskey hit like a hammer, and he welcomed the fire in his chest, the warmth that steadied the shake in his hands. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and lowered the flask.
"Aye, lad," he said, voice flat but steady. "I do trust you."
He pushed himself upright, joints clicking like old hinges, and turned to Jess. "Cover me, lass."
Before she could answer, Jim stepped out from behind the rocky outcrop. His boots crunched against the stone, echoing louder than they should have in the cavern's vast silence. He didn't creep, didn't crouch. He walked — no, he swaggered — straight toward the circle of night dancers, shoulders squared and chin set like he owned the ground. His wax coat swung with each stride, heavy and defiant.
Jess and Emile could only watch, half in horror and half in awe, as the old groundskeeper strode alone into the heart of the enemy.
Another boom rattled the cavern — closer now, the rhythm tightening. Dust sifted down in pale streams and chunks of stone clattered off the cavern floor. Jim didn't so much as flinch. He just swaggered past the falling rocks, coat brushing against jagged stone, boots crunching with each deliberate step, eyes fixed on Alexa as though she were the only thing in the world.
"Oi!" Jim barked, voice carrying like a whip-crack across the stone. None of the night dancers moved. Their hoods swayed, but no one turned.
"OI!" he roared again, a parade-ground bellow sharpened by twenty years of soldiering. The cavern carried it, bouncing it back off the stone like thunder.
That did it. Alexa's chanting faltered, the manic cadence breaking apart mid-syllable. Slowly, her head turned, and with her the rest of the hooded cabal shifted, dozens of shadowed faces swivelling toward him.
"What are you mental pricks doing?" Jim said, still swaggering forward like he was on his way to the mess hall. His knife glinted faintly in one hand, lazy but ready.
The first answer came in the form of several darts of searing energy, shrieking out of the circle and smashing into the ground around him. Stone spat up in glowing shards, the air hot and acrid with the stink of burnt minerals.
Jim stopped, dead still. He spat to his side, a thick, wet sound that echoed louder than it should have in the hush. Then he looked up, eyes narrowing into a cold burn.
"Oi," he said again, calmer this time, but heavier, like a weight dropped onto the cavern floor. "I said—what the fuck are you doing?"
Alexa stared at him, her face pale in the torchlight, surprise etched across it. But slowly, inevitably, the surprise curled into amusement. A sly smile tugged at her lips as she tilted her head, her voice unbroken but low.
"Oh," she drawled, her words dragging with that warped Umbar cadence, stretched thin like oil across water. Her voice seemed to vibrate through the cavern, low and mocking, every syllable heavy with venom. "It's the dear groundskeeper. Jim, was it? How in all the forgotten worlds did you find yourself here?" Her eyes shone pale in the torchlight, sharp as knives, amused as if this were all some grand joke only she understood.
Jim smirked, tilting his chin up just a fraction. The look wasn't big, wasn't showy — just a twitch of the mouth, the kind of smile that came before trouble. "Truth told, lass, it wasn't that hard. You left a trail even a half-sober woodsman could follow." His voice carried like gravel rolling across tin. He let the words hang for a beat, heavy as an axe poised to drop, before adding, almost casually, "And those guards you left outside? I brained 'em with my shovel."
The smirk sharpened into something feral, and he gave a little shrug, as if killing trained killers was no more remarkable than digging a ditch. "Guess you'll have to hire better help."
Jess's eyes flicked to Emile's, her whisper sharp and panicked, breath steaming in the cold air. "What the fuck is he doing?"
Emile didn't blink. His lips moved like he'd only just found the words. "He's buying time," he said simply — though there was awe in his voice, as if he couldn't quite believe the old man had walked out there just to spit in the devil's eye. His fingers tightened unconsciously on his sword hilt, knuckles whitening.
Alexa's smirk widened as she spat back across the cavern. Her hands drifted over the pulsing amber like a priestess over an altar. "And what do you think you're doing, Jim? Reliving your lost glory days by acting the fool? Trying to hold back the inevitable with your little knife and your drunken swagger?" She spread her arms wide, the amber pulsing at her feet in rhythm with her words. "This land rots under pompous pretence and hollow glamour. It needs a change of management… someone who can bring out its full potential."
Jim raised one bushy eyebrow. His voice stayed calm, steady, almost bored, though his eyes burned under the weight of memory. "Huh. I've seen what your lot calls 'management.' It doesn't bring out potential. It mechanises slaughter. Turns fields into charnel pits. Turns children into fodder. That's not potential. That's just Umbar."
Alexa's lips parted to retort, but Jim's hand came up, cutting her off sharp as a blade. His shoulders didn't shift, his boots stayed planted, but his voice gained a growl that sank deep into the stone. "Tell me something. Did you kill the lad out by the paddock?"
She hesitated — just a heartbeat — then gave the barest nod, a cruel tilt of the chin that landed heavier than any boast.
Boom.
Another smash rolled through the cavern roof, shaking dust and splinters of stone loose. Fine grit rained down, settling in Jim's hair and beard like ash.
"Why?" Jim asked, voice like gravel dragged across iron.
Alexa tilted her head, eyes bright with sick amusement, her grin widening as though the memory tasted sweet. "He noticed the way I cooked bread rolls. The Umbar way. A smidge of spice. He was sharper than he looked."
Boom.
"You could've lied," Jim said flatly. His hand twitched near the hilt of the ember blades at his belt. "He was just a boy. You could've lied."
He let the silence sit like a knife edge before he spoke again, words dropping like stones into water. "And the cook?"
Alexa's smile didn't waver. "I needed someone to draw the eyes away from me." Her voice was cold, empty of remorse, not even pretending to justify it.
Boom.
Jim's jaw worked, the muscle twitching like a hammer under the skin. His thumb brushed the worn grip of the ember blades tucked in his belt. His eyes narrowed to a slit. "And the lad above us?" he asked quietly, almost gently, though the air around the words was sharp enough to cut.
Alexa's grin sharpened, eyes glinting with cruel humour. "That?" She gave a small shrug. "I did that for fun. Never did like gingers."
BOOM.
This time the cavern roof didn't just tremble — it cracked. A jagged fissure split through the stone overhead, groaning like ancient bones about to snap. Dust and shards rained down, stinging against Jim's coat, pattering against his boots.
And buried in the noise of the breaking stone, Jim heard it — a roar. Not just any roar. A sound he knew down to his marrow. Aualine.
A slow smile tugged across his weathered face, grim and fierce. "Your pies were shit," he said, almost conversational, as his arm snapped forward.
The knife spun end over end, glinting once in the torchlight before it buried itself in Alexa's shoulder. She reeled back with a shriek, the amber pulsing wildly at her feet, her blood dark against the stone.
Then the roof gave way.
Stone exploded downward as Aualine smashed her way through, wings snapping wide, her roar filling the cavern like thunder wrapped in fire. Night dancers stumbled, cloaks whipping in the gale of her descent. The amber's glow faltered under the sheer force of her presence, shadows trembling against the walls.
Jess rose from the outcrop in one smooth motion, hands blazing with violet fire. She unleashed bolt after bolt, each strike tearing through the dark, slamming into the cabal. Shadows shrieked as figures toppled under the storm of energy, their death cries swallowed by dragonfire.
And Emile — wide-eyed, heart hammering — didn't hesitate. He charged headlong down the slope, sword flashing in the broken light. His boots skidded on loose grit, his breath raw in his throat, but he bellowed wordlessly as he crashed into the night dancers, steel meeting flesh, his strike carrying all the fury of fear turned to courage.
Jim just kept walking forward, calm as a man on his way to market, the chaos of dragonfire, sorcery, and steel exploding around him like a storm he'd already weathered a hundred times before. His eyes never left Alexa.

 

[Fragment of Serenity]

Oh. Oh she real dead. No mercy for such a woman, to hate the gingers so.

 

[Simonbob]

Ok.

Now, that, is Aura Farming.


There's Gods out there, writhing in envy of his sheer, impossible Balls.


Even Alexa's looking for hate-sex right now.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Emile charged in. Truth be told, he didn't really know what else to do. It would've helped if Jim had explained what he meant by "cover me." It would've helped even more if the old bastard had mentioned he was just going to stroll straight up to the Umbar like it was a morning errand. But those were thoughts for another time. Right now was a time to act — so here he was, sword raised high, legs pumping, charging headlong into the dark.
His vision tunnelled. All he saw was the press of shadowed figures ahead, a wall of masks and shifting armour that seemed to swallow the light. But his ears caught everything — the crackle and hiss of spells, the thunder of Aualine above as her wings slammed air into gale-force winds, and, from his left, the searing whump of purple fire. Jess.
He risked a glance. She was there, her stance wide and steady, hurling arcs of violet energy with both hands. Her face was set in a mask of sheer focus, but Emile thought he saw something underneath — desperation, tight and raw, just barely held down. She moved with the kind of rhythm you only got when your body knew the fight might be your last.
Then the air itself seemed to light up. Red flares lanced through the cavern, streaking from Umbar hands like molten spears. Jess twisted and swayed, parrying one blast with a snap of her palm, ducking another that scorched the air above her head. She wasn't just fighting — she was moving, almost like she was dancing. There was a rhythm to it, a terrible grace, as if each dodge and counter was part of a silent song only she could hear. Sparks showered around her as spells clashed and broke, the cavern lit in strobing flashes of violet and crimson.
A sizzling blade of energy cut past Emile's ear close enough to make it ring. The heat seared his cheek, and the air behind him vaporised with a hiss. His heart hammered — it was aimed straight for Jess.
And then Jess did something he couldn't have described if his life depended on it. The best way Emile could put it: she caught it mid-air. Not with her hand exactly, but with her will. She let the blade's force drive into her, then pivoted it, carrying its momentum around in a sweeping arc. The sizzling blade spun off course and smashed into the cavern wall, shattering stone into a spray of rock and dust.
Shards rained down around her, stinging her skin and shoulders, but she didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Jess kept moving, hands snapping back up, loosing bolt after bolt of her own right into the Umbar ranks. Each strike carried a little more fury than the last, each one cracking the cavern like a whip.
Emile swallowed hard, forcing the taste of dust and copper down his throat. He dragged his eyes forward again and let out a raw scream, all fear and fury tangled together, as he swung his sword down at the nearest dancer.
The Umbar snapped its head up just in time, ember blade flashing into a half-formed guard. But it was sloppy — distracted by Jess's barrage, by Aualine's roar overhead, by the chaos pressing in on every side. The block came panicked, weak, and far too late.
Emile's blade crashed through. Steel bit into flesh and bone at the shoulder, grinding through muscle with a sickening crack. The dancer shrieked, stumbled — and Emile, running on terror and instinct, ripped the sword free and swung again. This time the edge tore across its neck in a brutal arc. Blood sprayed hot across his face, splattering his tunic, and the dancer dropped in a gurgling heap.
Emile froze. His eyes went wide, the reality of it slamming into him like a hammer. The sound of the gurgle echoed in his ears even as the chaos roared on. He'd just—he'd really—killed someone. Not in practice, not in drills. For real. And the body twitched once more at his feet before going still.
Movement snapped him back. The cabal was scattering, panic spreading like fire through their ranks.
And then he saw Jim.
The old bastard had the ember blades in his hands now — the ones taken earlier from the boy's body. In Jim's grip, they weren't relics. They were butchery tools. He waded into the dancers like a man possessed, each swing cutting bodies down, each step leaving another corpse underfoot.
Blood streaked his face, ran down his jaw and neck, slicked his coat until it clung heavy to his frame. His hands were dark and wet, and one leg dragged with a heavy limp — he'd taken a hit somewhere, no doubt. But he didn't falter. If anything, the limp made him look more monstrous, like some broken idol come to life.
Above, Aualine's flames seared the cavern, casting Jim in a hellish glow as she tore through the Umbar with claw and fire. In the flickering light, his silhouette didn't look like a man at all. To Emile's stunned eyes, Jim looked like a demon straight out of the Severed Plain — pure, unstoppable rage given flesh, his every movement a sermon in violence.
And the dancers knew it. Some broke ranks entirely, shrieking as they fled into the dark, desperate to be anywhere but in the path of the old groundskeeper.
Jim had lost count of how many Umbar he'd dropped. Might've been a dozen, might've been twice that. Numbers didn't matter anymore. Only one thing did: Alexa.
He could see her on the raised outcrop, framed in the firelight. She'd yanked his knife free from her shoulder and was clawing frantically at the Chrysalis, trying to drag it closer, trying to wrest its glow into her hands. Her face was pale, slick with sweat, lips moving in half-choked chants that cracked on her breath.
Jim's eyes narrowed. Every muscle in his body screamed, every joint burned, but his focus never wavered.
He was hurting now — hurting bad. Not just from age, though that was a bastard of its own. He was pushing like he hadn't pushed in over twenty years, fighting like the wars he swore he'd left behind. His body wasn't built for this pace anymore. And the Umbar had made sure to remind him.
One of them had driven a blade deep into his leg; the wound burned like fire every time he stepped, hot and wet down to the boot. A few more had carved slashes across his chest, shallow but stinging, blood soaking into his coat until it clung heavy. His arms felt leaden, his breath ragged, lungs scraping like they were filled with ash.
And then there was the flask.
Jim touched his side, feeling the warped dent where the blade had punched through. The flask was ruined, pierced clean through, whiskey leaking out in a dark stain across his coat. The damned thing had saved his life, taken the hit instead of his ribs. But that didn't make him feel any kinder about it.
The flask had been with him longer than most men he'd fought beside. Longer than most wives kept husbands. It had survived a dozen campaigns, a hundred nights in the cold. It had been with him through mud, fire, and silence, clanking softly against his hip like a reminder that some things endured. And now it was bleeding out in his pocket, just like him.
Jim bared his teeth in something between a grimace and a smile. That really pissed me off.
Aualine lit the cavern once more, unleashing a torrent of fire that washed across the Umbar still stubborn enough to stand and fight. The blaze rolled over stone and shadow, painting everything in hellfire. For a heartbeat, the world was nothing but red and gold.
In that light, Jim's eyes gleamed. Not just anger — tempered rage, forged and beaten hard like steel. The kind of rage that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with retribution.
He dragged his wounded leg as he climbed the rocks, each step heavy, deliberate, leaving dark smears where his blood marked the stone. His breath rasped, his chest burned, but he didn't falter. Every inch was a promise. Every step said: not yet.
Alexa was clawing at the Chrysalis, chanting faster and faster, desperation clawing through every syllable. Sweat streamed down her pale face, her hands scrabbling against the amber glow as if she could force it to yield by sheer will. Her voice cracked, her eyes wild, and still she tried.
Jim closed the distance. One more step. Then another.
Without a word, he drove the ember blade forward. The steel plunged into her thigh with a hiss of searing flesh, cutting her scream through the cavern. Her chant broke, shattered mid-syllable, the rhythm undone. She collapsed sideways onto the stone, clutching at her leg as blood welled around the glowing blade still buried in her.
Jim leaned down just enough for her to hear his breath, ragged and reeking of smoke and whiskey. His voice was flat, iron-hard.
"Talk all you like, lass. Doesn't mean you're walking away."
She threw her hand up, fingers working fast — the old, desperate braid of syllables you mutter when the world is about to split open. Jim saw the little bends in her knuckles, the way her thumb hooked, the moment before a spell clenches.
He didn't give her the time. He swiped out with the ember blade like he'd been doing it all his life, but harder, angrier. The steel met flesh and bone with a wet, sick crunch. Fingers flew, severed and spinning, scattering a fine, glittering rain of blood and rune-ink across the stone. Alexa's hand flew back, clutching at the raw stumps as she howled — a sound split between shock and animal fury. Sweat ran down her tattooed face, tracks of grime and blood making black rivers. Her teeth were bared, the chant dying in her throat.
"You think you've won?" she spat, voice ragged. "We will come again and again. We—"
Jim didn't wait to hear the rest. He stepped in close, iron-cold and final. The second ember blade rose and fell, sharp and terrible, driving into her chest until the light in her eyes guttered and died. The thing went still beneath his hand. He felt nothing noble in the motion — only the blunt, efficient satisfaction that the job was done. He let go of the haft and left the blade there, a hot, red thing planted in her as she had planted hands in the lives of kids.
He breathed in. The cavern smelled of smoke, copper, and broken stone. Around him the Umbar were a scattering thing; some ran, some limped, some tried to drag the fallen and failed. Jess and Emile were still standing in the wash of sheared light, faces streaked with ash, hands shaking but holding. Aualine wheeled high, wings beating thunder, flames licking away the last of the cabal's shadows. The Chrysalis sat where it had been, its ugly heart hissing faintly but inert enough for the moment.
Jim let out a long, ragged exhale. "Good," he muttered, voice little more than gravel. "I can pass out now."
With the honesty of a man who'd given everything he had and found it both not enough and absolutely sufficient, he sank to his knees and then folded down onto the cold stone. His limbs loosened, the pain roaring in the places that mattered, and the world narrowed to the pulse in his temple and the fading heat of dragonlight on his face. He didn't fight to stay awake. He let the darkness come.
Emile's breath caught as he saw Jim crumple to the stone. For a heartbeat, his mind refused to accept it. Then his legs moved before thought could catch up, dragging him forward. Jess was right behind, boots scraping and echoing as they tore up the slope toward where the old man had fallen.
Emile skidded to his knees, gravel biting through his trousers. He reached Jim first, eyes wide, chest heaving, hands hovering uselessly over the older man's chest as though afraid to touch, afraid to find the truth.
Overhead, Aualine unleashed another roar, the sound raw and full of rage. The cavern trembled with it. She wheeled once, wings beating like thunder, then folded them hard and dropped. The ground shook as she landed, dirt and shards of stone spraying in every direction. She bounded across the rocks in long, frantic strides, and then she was there — lowering her head, pressing her muzzle against Jim's limp form, nudging him with desperate gentleness.
Emile's throat tightened. Seeing Jim like this — the man who had just cut through Umbar like a storm, who had seemed an unstoppable force of nature — it shook him. It felt wrong. World-altering. As if gravity itself had faltered.
"Jim!" he croaked, voice cracking. He didn't even realise he'd shouted until it echoed back off the cavern walls.
Jess slid in beside them, dirt streaking her knees as she dropped down. Her hands shook only once before she steadied them, two fingers pressing firm against Jim's neck. She leaned close, listening.
Seconds stretched into years.
Then she looked up, relief breaking across her face, even as silent tears cut through the grime on her cheeks. "He's not dead," she whispered, voice hoarse, the words shaking like glass. "But he's lost too much blood. Help me — we need to move him. If he doesn't get aid soon, he won't make it."
Aualine loosed a whine that shook the air, high and ear-splitting, grief and fear tangled together. Sparks of fire leaked between her teeth as she lowered her head again, curling protectively around Jim's body like a living wall of scale and fury. Her tail coiled tight, claws gouging into the stone floor as if she could anchor him to the world by sheer force.
Emile swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in his own eyes. He reached out, stroking her muzzle with a trembling hand. Her scales were hot, alive, trembling faintly with restrained fire, and he could feel her pulse racing like a war drum under his palm. "It's okay, girl," he murmured, though the words were more for himself than her. His voice cracked halfway through, and he swallowed again, forcing it steady. "He won't die. It's Jim. Jim doesn't die."
And in that moment, Emile wasn't just reassuring her — he was clinging to the only truth that could keep his world from shattering. Because if Jim could fall, if Jim could bleed out on this stone like any other man, then everything else would break too. The thought sat heavy in his chest, but he held her gaze and repeated it again, softer this time, as much prayer as promise: "Jim doesn't die."

 

[Simonbob]

I'm now waiting for Jess's report, for her much older boss to boggle at the shear, over-the-top Bullshit she tripped over when she went undercover at this school.

That'll be a face to remember!

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim drifted in and out of something like dreams. He remembered fragments — the rough press of scales beneath him, Aualine's muzzle nudging at his side. The dizzying rush of wind on his face as she lifted him, carried him. Voices shouting, some familiar, some not. Elmsley's sharp bark among them — that prick. Then nothing. Just the heavy, comforting dark that swallowed everything whole.
When he woke again, it was to blinding light stabbing his eyes. He hissed through his teeth, lids fluttering, blinking until the white blur settled into something bearable. A ceiling, high and vaulted, ribs of carved oak arching overhead like the inside of a great beast's chest. Lanterns swung on chains, casting golden light that glimmered off polished stone.
He turned his head — a mistake. Pain lanced hot across his neck, dragging a grunt out of him. His shoulders followed the motion reluctantly, bones creaking, ribs stabbing as if they'd been hammered on an anvil.
Hospital. Rows of beds stretched out in either direction, every one of them full. Men and women lay pale under sheets, bandaged and groaning, some crying out in fevered dreams. Healers moved like shadows between them, arms full of bowls and salves, their faces worn hollow with too many patients and too little time. The air smelled of herbs and iron, the tang of poultices fighting but never winning against the copper stench of blood.
Jim let his gaze wander, his throat dry as old parchment. He looked down toward his boots — or where his boots should've been. There, slumped in a chair like a discarded rag, was Emile.
The lad was asleep, head lolling to one side, arms folded tight across his chest as though he could keep himself upright by sheer stubbornness. His hair was a wild mess, his cheeks smudged with soot, and exhaustion clung to him in every line of his face. But he was still there, still standing watch even in sleep.
Jim tried to speak, but what came out first was a ragged cough that tore at his chest. He swallowed, throat rasping, tried again, and managed a hoarse croak. "Oi… lad."
No movement.
He tried once more, voice little more than a rasp dragged across gravel. "Oi, lad."
This time Emile stirred, blinking blearily. His head snapped up, and when he saw Jim's eyes open, his whole face lit like someone had handed him the sun.
"Jim!" he said, half-laugh, half-sob, voice cracking with relief.
Jim gave the barest shrug, lips curling in a wry twist. "Aye. I ain't dead. Feels like I might've been, mind." Another cough rattled out of him, sharp and wet.
Emile leaned forward, grin wide and shaky. "You stubborn old bastard."
Jim let out something between a chuckle and a groan. "Takes one to know one, lad."
He shifted against the pillows, every muscle aching, and forced himself upright with a grunt. "I need a drink," he rasped.
Emile half-rose from his chair, already reaching for the jug of water on the bedside table. Jim's eyes narrowed at it. "Not wa—"
Before he could finish, Emile slipped a hand into his coat and produced something shiny. A new flask, gleaming faintly in the lamplight, the brass polished as though the lad had spent half the night rubbing it clean.
Jim blinked, then let out a low chuckle that turned into a cough. "Ah. Good lad."
Emile unscrewed the cap and passed it over. Jim took it carefully, fingers trembling more than he'd like to admit, and lifted it to his lips. The burn hit his tongue and spread warmly down his chest. He coughed again, but it came with a crooked smile.
"Ooh," Jim wheezed, smacking his lips. "That's not cheap shit, is it, lad?"
"No," Emile said, a grin creeping across his tired face.
Jim squinted at him over the flask. "How did you get your hands on this?"
Emile hesitated just long enough to make the answer obvious. "Well… after the battle, it was carnage. Place was a wreck. And I remembered seeing some bottles in Plandorph's quarters. So I… liberated them."
Jim arched a bushy eyebrow. "Liberated?"
Emile shrugged, trying and failing to hide his grin. "A dozen bottles. All stashed in your cabin."
Jim leaned back, flask in hand, and let out a genuine, rumbling laugh that made the nearest patient stir in his sleep. "Good lad," he said, voice thick with approval. "Good lad."
The heavy oak doors at the far end of the ward creaked open. Jim turned his head just enough to see who came through, wincing as his neck protested.
Elmsley stepped in first, his arm bound up in a sling but his posture still stiff as ever, chin tilted like a man who refused to acknowledge pain. Behind him came Jess. She was now in full Atakin attire — leathers buckled tight, her cloak falling just right, her chin lifted. For a moment, Jim thought she almost looked regal, like some commander stepping out of a victory painting.
He raised a weathered eyebrow, flask still in hand.
"Good morning, Jim," Elmsley said, his tone polite, though measured. "How are you doing?"
Jim flicked his eyes toward Emile, then back to Elmsley. "Well," he rasped, "I feel like hammered shit. But other than that, I'm not half bad."
Elmsley's brow rose. There it was — the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smile he clearly tried to smother. "Indeed."
Jim narrowed his eyes. Huh. Man does have teeth after all.
"How many did we lose?" Jim asked, his voice dropping low.
Elsmley's lips drew flat, all trace of humour gone. "Too many. Fifty all in." He adjusted the sling with his free hand, then let out a long breath. His gaze flicked briefly to the far beds, where healers moved like silent shadows. "But it could have been worse. Thanks to you. You saved most of them." His voice was steady, but the weight behind it said enough — fifty names already etched in memory, fifty losses he'd be carrying long after the wounds had closed.
Jim gave a small, weary nod. His shoulders sagged with the effort, and the bed creaked under his weight. "And Plandorph?" he asked, his voice gravelled, half-expecting a disappointing answer.
"Prison," Jess answered before Elsmley could. Her voice was all business now, sharp as a drawn blade. "As of this morning, the academy is under Atakin control." She glanced briefly at Elsmley before continuing, "However, its day-to-day administration is now under Professor Elsmley."
Her tone carried the weight of finality, and Jim didn't miss the way Elsmley squared his shoulders at that, as though the title sat heavier on him than the sling. The man looked exhausted — lines deeper, eyes hollow — but his chin stayed high.
Jim let out a low, gravelly grunt. "Well," he muttered, the words dragging like an old boot, "better you than me." A smirk tried to crawl out of the corner of his mouth but died under the ache in his ribs.
Before he could follow it up, Jess cut in, all clipped courtesy. "That will be all, Professor — thank you for your hospitality." Her hand gave a single, precise nod. Elsmley inclined his head in return, the faint, brittle smile back in place, then turned on his heel and strode from the ward with the slow, measured gait of a man already filing the whole night into neat boxes in his head.
Jess watched him go until the door shut, and for a breath she looked almost relaxed — the tension easing out of her shoulders like air hissing from a valve. Then she pivoted, cape whispering, and fixed Jim with a look that was equal parts tease and tenderness. "How are you doing, you grumpy sod?" she asked, the smile softening the barb.
Jim tipped the flask and took another careful swallow, letting the burn settle into his chest. The taste steadied him, though his hand trembled faintly on the metal. "I'm good, lass. Sore is all," he rasped, voice loose around the words. He blinked, throat working. "How's Aualine?"
The face that answered brightened like sun through rain. "She's alright. Out on the roof, asleep like a big lump of smoke. She'll be over the moon when she finds out you're awake." Jess couldn't hide the fondness that creased her features.
Jim's eyes went wide. "Don't tell her till I can actually go outside," he snapped, half-joking and half-serious. "She'll smash the walls in to get to me."
Jess laughed, a quick, warm sound that eased the tension in the room. "I know. We won't." She crouched a fraction closer so their shoulders almost touched, the movement loose with quiet affection. "She'll give you a proper telling-off, that's all. Nothing that won't hurt worse than whatever you've got left."
Emile hovered at the end of the bed like a watchful shadow, trying to look useful and mostly succeeding. He ducked his head and offered a small, shuffling grin. "She kept watch while you were out," he said, voice shy and proud at once. "Nobody touched the ward while Aualine was awake. She's—" He broke off, searching for the right word. "Protective."
"Aye, she is that," Jim muttered, half-smile tugging at his split lip. "She's like my mother and teenage daughter rolled into one."
Jess huffed a quiet laugh, but Jim's eyes were already shifting around the ward, scanning as if the walls themselves might be hiding something. His tone hardened, dragging the humour out of the air. "What of that fucking stone?"
Jess's lips pressed into a flat, unreadable line. "It's been taken care of by the Order."
Jim's brows knit. "Have they moved it from the school?" he asked, hope flickering under the gravel of his voice.
Jess's shoulders lifted slightly, and that was answer enough. "I honestly don't know," she admitted. "I hope they have."
Jim let out a grunt. "Aye. Hope." He spat the word like it tasted sour. "And the Umbar?"
The corner of Jess's mouth twitched upward, a fleeting shadow of grim satisfaction. "Well, you and Aualine wiped most of them out. Some slipped away, but we've agents scouring the countryside for the ones who ran. We'll find them."
Jim tipped the flask back, swallowed, then nodded. "Aye. I'm sure you will." He leaned his head against the pillow, eyes narrowing. "They'll do this again."
Jess's voice was calm, steady. "We know. The Umbar are making moves, but they're weak. If they try a conventional war again, they'll lose. So instead they're doing things like this."
Jim snorted, took another swig. "Huh. Tell me, lass — is there any more world-ending shite buried under this school I need to know about?" His smirk deepened as he said it.
Jess didn't smirk back. Her face stayed sharp, serious. "Well… there's quite a few, actually."
Jim groaned, head tipping back against the headboard. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
Jess softened then, leaning a little closer. "Look — we'll talk about it when you're stronger. For now, rest." She turned as if to go, then paused at the foot of his bed. Her voice dipped, just enough to betray something more than duty. "I'm glad you lived, Jim."
He let out a breath that was half sigh, half chuckle. "Aye. Me too, lass. And good luck with your cloak-and-dagger stuff."
Jess gave a small nod, cloak whispering as she left through the ward doors.
For a long moment Jim stared at the ceiling, the grin slipping away. "Looks like there'll be problems in the future," he muttered under his breath. Then he reached for the flask again, tilting it back and draining the last of the burn in one go.
He licked his teeth, smacked his lips, and barked toward the end of the bed. "Oi, lad. Go fetch another bottle of that good whisky." He rattled the empty flask like a bell. "Doctor's orders."

 

[Metel_Pen]

Well, that's Jim Book One finished. What did you all reckon? Favourite character, favourite moment, theories, criticisms, anything you want to throw at me, have at it.

I'll be continuing with Jim and the Steam Legion in this same thread soon. Thanks again for giving this rough little story a chance.

 

[NooneImportant]

Plandorph got fired in year 1?
5 cendrillion points to whatever house Emile's in. (I know it was mentioned somewhere, I forgot)
I went in expecting a HP parody, and walked out with a properly original work. Fun ride.
I was half expecting Aualine to turn into a Dragon Girl and court Emile. I think their dynamic was my favourite.

3 gorillion and 45 points to Metal_Pen

 

[Metel_Pen]

Plandorph got fired in year 1?
5 cendrillion points to whatever house Emile's in. (I know it was mentioned somewhere, I forgot)
I went in expecting a HP parody, and walked out with a properly original work. Fun ride.
I was half expecting Aualine to turn into a Dragon Girl and court Emile. I think their dynamic was my favourite.

3 gorillion and 45 points to Metal_Pen

Click to shrink...

Ah, thank you. I'm genuinely glad you got invested in my little Jim story. There are plenty more to come.

And, to be completely honest, I've forgotten the house names myself.

This little world came about while I was trying to become traditionally published. After plenty of attempts, I was told my writing didn't fit the current market trends.

So, very drunk and more than a smidge angry, I was watching Harry Potter and thinking, "This school is ridiculously dangerous. Why isn't there anyone saying, hold the fuck up, let's actually look at what's going on here?"

Then I thought about a mate of mine from the Army and the way he deals with kids.

And boom. Jim was born.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Fun little fact: this story and its world came about because I was trying to get traditionally published. After several rejections, including being told that my work did not follow current market trends, I got very drunk and watched Harry Potter while loudly picking the shit out of it.

That eventually led me to one very angry, very drunken question:

What would an alcoholic, PTSD-riddled old war veteran do if you dropped him into these same situations?

And voilà. Jim was born.

 

[Simonbob]

It's amazing how many stories do insanely well, that the "experts" refuse to publish.

Self publish on Amazon, with the right support, if you want to go that way. The "Traditional" way doesn't work nearly so well anymore.

 

[Metel_Pen]

It's amazing how many stories do insanely well, that the "experts" refuse to publish.

Self publish on Amazon, with the right support, if you want to go that way. The "Traditional" way doesn't work nearly so well anymore.

Click to shrink...

I may well do. For now, I'm just happy people are reading the story and enjoying it. Everything else is a bonus.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Emperor Astonix ran.
Sweat streamed down his face in thick rivulets, stinging his eyes as he staggered through the endless marble corridors of the palace. His golden crown bounced crookedly upon his head with every desperate step, threatening to fall free entirely. One jewelled point dug painfully into his temple, but he barely noticed it.
The palace around him blurred into streaks of white stone and gold. Moonlight spilled through towering arched windows, casting pale bands across the polished floor. Massive statues of forgotten kings watched silently from alcoves, their cold marble eyes seeming almost accusatory as he fled past them.
Why did I do this?
The thought hammered through his skull louder than the pounding of his feet.
He had been promised glory.
Promised an unstoppable army.
Promised power enough to crush every rival kingdom beneath his heel and carve his name into eternity.
An army under my command.
His breath hitched in a ragged gasp as he nearly slipped on the polished floor.
Though, even now, part of him remembered the exact wording had never truly been specified. Not clearly. Not properly.
The scholars in the black robes had smiled too much.
The engineers of the Steam Legion had bowed too deeply.
And the thing in the vault beneath the mountain had listened too carefully.
Behind him came screams.
High.
Wet.
Animal.
The sound echoed through the palace corridors, bouncing from wall to wall until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.
His Shadow Dancers.
Elite killers trained from childhood. Men and women who could slip through a locked room without disturbing a candle flame. Assassins who could cut a throat before a victim realised danger existed. Astonix had once believed there was nothing in the world they feared.
Now they screamed like butchered pigs.
One scream rose higher than the others before abruptly cutting off with a sickening crunch.
Astonix nearly stumbled.
"Run you old fool," he muttered between gasping breaths, though whether he spoke to himself or heard the words whispered by his own panicked mind, he could not tell.
His legs pumped harder.
The corridor stretched endlessly ahead of him, warped by terror until it felt like a nightmare where distance itself refused to move. Every stride burned. Every breath felt useless.
His robes tangled around his legs. Gold embroidery snagged against protruding corners of stonework. The heavy ceremonial cloak hanging from his shoulders felt less like royal attire and more like a sack of iron dragging him towards the floor.
Just need to get to the control room.
That was all.
The control room.
He could end this there.
He could shut them down.
I can end this.
I can—
Another scream split the air.
Closer this time.
Then another.
Then suddenly—
Silence.
The abrupt absence of noise struck him harder than the screams themselves.
Now all he could hear was the frantic slap of his soft shoes against marble and the thunder of his own pulse roaring in his ears.
THUD.
He crashed shoulder-first into a set of towering double doors.
The impact exploded through his body.
Pain shot down his arm.
The doors burst inward with a violent bang, rebounding off the walls as he stumbled through them.
"Keep going," he wheezed.
"Keep going…"
His lungs burned as though filled with molten lead. The air itself felt thick as custard, impossible to drag down into his chest no matter how desperately he tried.
Behind him, somewhere far down the corridor, came the groan of twisting metal.
Not machinery.
Something larger.
Something alive.
The sound rolled through the palace like distant thunder.
Astonix didn't dare look back.
Another corridor.
Long.
Straight.
Lined with banners bearing his imperial crest.
The crimson fabric hung motionless in the still air, untouched by any breeze. As he ran beneath them, he caught glimpses of his own likeness embroidered into the cloth—a younger man, proud and victorious, staring down at him with arrogant certainty.
The sight made him want to laugh.
Or cry.
Perhaps both.
The empire's greatest ruler.
Master of the Steam Legion.
Conqueror of nations.
Reduced to a frightened old man running for his life through his own palace.
Another set of doors.
Closer now.
He could hear them.
Not screams.
Not voices.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Measured.
Unhurried.
The sound echoed through the palace like the steady ticking of some vast clock counting down to his death. Each impact sent faint tremors through the marble beneath his feet. Dust drifted from the ceiling with every step they took.
As if whatever hunted him already knew he could not escape.
Astonix slammed into the next pair of double doors hard enough to rattle the hinges loose. Ancient brass fittings screamed in protest. One door tore completely from its frame and crashed onto the marble behind him, shattering decorative stonework as it struck.
The deafening crash rolled down the corridor.
The footsteps never changed pace.
As he stumbled through, he dared one terrified glance backward.
And saw the eyes.
Hundreds of them.
Glowing white in the darkness.
Filling the corridor from wall to wall.
The sight stole the breath from his lungs.
Their furnace-light reflected from polished marble and gilded walls, turning the corridor into a river of pale fire. Shadows twisted and stretched around them, dancing across statues and banners in grotesque shapes.
They're here.
The thought exploded through his mind in blind panic.
The Steam Legion marched silently toward him.
Towering brass soldiers wrapped in steam and shadow. Their once-polished armour was blackened with soot and streaked with blood. White furnace-light burned where eyes should have been, and thick clouds of hissing vapour poured from the seams in their bodies.
Each step released bursts of steam.
Each movement came with the groan of straining metal.
Their ranks stretched far beyond what Astonix could see. The corridor seemed completely full of them, an endless tide of brass and iron advancing through the palace he had once ruled.
At their front strode something larger.
Something wrong.
Its shape scraped the ceiling as it moved. Decorative chandeliers shattered against its armour. Fragments of crystal rained onto the marble floor and vanished beneath its advancing feet.
Too many arms.
Too many joints bending in impossible directions beneath layers of bronze plating and cables that twitched like veins.
Steam hissed from vents embedded throughout its body. White light pulsed beneath gaps in the armour as though a furnace heart beat somewhere inside its chest.
The thing did not walk.
It unfolded itself forward.
Every movement looked unnatural.
Every movement looked painful.
Yet it never slowed.
The crown slipped from Astonix's head and clattered across the marble floor behind him.
Gold rang against stone.
The sound seemed impossibly loud.
None of them even looked at it.
The symbol of imperial authority spun once.
Twice.
Then came to rest.
Abandoned.
Forgotten.
Their footsteps filled the corridor.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
The walls seemed to shake with every impact.
Portraits rattled.
Cracks spread through ancient plaster.
Astonix could feel the vibrations travelling up through his legs.
He could see the control room doors now.
There.
At the very end of the corridor.
Tall iron doors wrapped in brass piping and hissing steam valves, the symbol of the Imperial Crown stamped across their centre in tarnished gold.
Steam leaked from vents around the frame, drifting across the floor like low fog. Massive pressure gauges lined the surrounding walls, their needles twitching and vibrating as machinery deep within the palace strained under impossible loads.
So close.
Just a little further.
Astonix forced his burning legs onward, each step sending fresh agony through his chest. His vision blurred at the edges, dark spots swimming before his eyes as exhaustion clawed at him.
The corridor tilted.
Or perhaps that was simply dizziness.
His robes tangled around his legs, heavy with sweat. The rich fabric that had once proclaimed his status now felt like chains dragging him toward the floor.
Still he ran.
Behind him, the footsteps changed.
No longer the slow, dreadful march of executioners.
Faster now.
Sharper.
Closer.
The sudden change sent terror lancing through him.
They were no longer advancing.
They were charging.
The palace erupted with the thunder of pounding metal feet. Steam roared through the corridor. Brass armour crashed against walls and shattered statues as the Steam Legion surged forward.
Running for him.
Panic surged through Astonix like ice water.
He risked a glance over his shoulder mid-stride—
—and nearly stumbled.
They were within arm's reach.
Dozens of glowing white eyes filled the corridor behind him, burning through the darkness like furnace lights. Steam poured from their hulking forms in violent hisses, shrouding the passage in drifting clouds of white vapour. Metal boots thundered against the marble floor hard enough to shake the walls.
Ancient paintings rattled in their frames.
Dust drifted from cracks in the ceiling.
The very palace seemed to tremble beneath their advance.
One of them reached forward.
Long brass fingers spread wide.
Astonix saw reflections of himself in the polished metal.
A terrified old man.
Sweat-soaked.
Breathless.
Broken.
A scream tore from his throat.
He hurled himself at the control room doors just as the machines lunged for him.
The heavy doors burst inward with a deafening crash, and Astonix tumbled through them headfirst. He struck the stone floor hard enough to drive the air from his lungs in a shrill, pathetic squeal.
Pain exploded through his shoulder.
Stars burst across his vision.
For a moment he could do nothing but lie there, stunned and gasping.
No no no move—
The thought screamed through his mind.
Move!
Gasping desperately, he rolled onto his back and kicked wildly at the doors with both feet.
BOOM.
The iron doors slammed shut just as metal hands clawed through the narrowing gap.
A flash of brass.
A glimpse of white eyes.
Then—
CRUNCH.
One hand was caught.
There came a wet grinding shriek of twisting metal as the doors crushed the construct's fingers clean off. White steam erupted from the ruined limb in a violent blast.
Severed metal digits clattered across the floor.
They bounced once.
Twice.
Spinning slowly before coming to rest.
Astonix scrambled upright.
His hands shook violently.
Not from exertion.
From terror.
His fingers slipped twice before finding purchase on the thick iron locking bar mounted beside the frame.
The metal felt cold beneath his palms.
Solid.
Real.
Something he could still control.
With a desperate grunt he threw his full weight into it.
The bar slammed into place with a heavy CLANG.
The sound echoed through the chamber.
For one glorious second—
Silence.
Astonix stood frozen.
Chest heaving.
Listening.
Perhaps...
Perhaps that would hold.
Perhaps—
SLAM.
The entire door buckled inward.
Astonix flinched as though struck.
SLAM.
The frame rattled violently.
Bolts shrieked against stone.
Dust spilled from the surrounding masonry.
SLAM.
A crack split through the brass plating.
Astonix staggered backward.
His legs felt weak.
Rubbery.
The confidence he'd felt only moments ago evaporated instantly.
"No," he whispered.
"No no no..."
Dents began appearing in the metal one after another.
Each impact drove them deeper.
Each strike left the doors more twisted than before.
The Steam Legion did not tire.
Did not hesitate.
And did not stop.
SLAM.
The locking bar bent in the middle.
The thick iron groaned under impossible pressure.
SLAM.
One hinge tore loose from the wall.
Chunks of stone exploded outward.
SLAM.
A second hinge snapped.
The entire chamber shook.
Steam hissed through widening cracks around the frame.
Thin white fingers of vapour curled into the room like grasping hands.
Astonix backed away another step.
Then another.
His eyes never left the doors.
His breathing had become ragged.
Panic threatened to overwhelm him completely.
SLAM.
The doors burst inward in an explosion of splintering metal and steam.
Fragments of brass flew through the chamber like shrapnel.
The locking bar tore free and spun across the room.
Astonix threw an arm over his face as debris tore through the air.
Heat washed over him.
The smell of oil.
The smell of smoke.
The smell of burning metal.
And when he looked up—
—all he could see were white eyes.

 

[ThisisAbsurd]

Is this the second arc's prologue, or the entire works' prologue.. and if the latter, is it just out of place, or INTENTIONALLY shown after the events of the first story arc?

 

[NooneImportant]

Is this the second arc's prologue, or the entire works' prologue.. and if the latter, is it just out of place, or INTENTIONALLY shown after the events of the first story arc?

Click to shrink...

Prologue for Second Arc: Steam Legion