Part 2: Hail to the King

 A teaser for the next crossover fight will be at the end of this post.

-------------

Loki spun his scepter idly between the fingers of his right hand. From the depths of his viewing pool, he had been watching his older brother kill the mightiest of Midgaard's defenders. The thought made him smile. Had Loki himself not done the same to Asgaard's finest? Heimdall, Sif. Odin himself. 

Odin, the Great Pretender, had given way to Loki, The All-Father.

Loki and his army of Ice Giants had taken the Asgaardians unawares. Tensions between the two realms had been high for generations, but a peace treaty had been in place to keep all-out war at bay. Loki spat on the treaty and spat on the peace talks. Now he was King. 

Thor hadn't been pleased, of course. There was little that could have been done about that. Loki had allowed him to keep his beloved hammer and, more importantly, his life and his freedom. He'd owed his brother that, at least. Of course, he'd also owed him the banishment that followed.

Thor had traveled to each of the other realms, looking to enlist help for an army to reclaim his  former home. He'd been shut down at every turn. No one wanted to help the fallen son of Asgaard. The thought made Loki smile like nothing else. Thor had even thought that the Earthlings would help him. 

When Midgaard turned him down, something in his brain broke. He turned into the same kind of conqueror that he had condemned Loki for being. 

Earth's heroes hadn't taken well to Thor's demands for subjugation. But they had underestimated his wrath. Loki had watched with morbid fascination has his brother tore through some of  the greatest powers in the universe like a scythe through corn. 

And now, this enigma...this young boy who was obviously much more than he seemed. He was giving Thor more problems than even their Superman had. 

Loki steepled his fingers in front of his chin and smirked into the viewing pool. 

"Let the games begin."

            Shazam pummeled Thor with everything that he had. Charges of electricity vibrated along his arm into his fist and he struck the invader, the murderer, in the face and chest and ribs and stomach. This monster had killed Billy Batson's friends. He had killed nearly every member of the Justice League. He had threatened the lives and freedom of billions. Shazam was all that was left between Thor and his eventual domination of Earth. He would stop at nothing to make sure that his reign would never have the chance to start. His eyes clouded over as waves of rage flowed through him, strengthening every punch.

            Then a hammer cracked along his jawline. His head punding, Shazam fell from the sky. He spun like a top, freewheeling and tumbling from their arena in the sky. He smashed into the concrete streets of Metropolis, sending dust and debris high into the air. Billy lifted his arms to the outside of the small crater that he had created and went to pull himself up. He wasn't fast enough. Thor shot from the sky, hammer first, and plowed into his midsection.

            The crater erupted, deepening even further. Pain blossomed in Shazam's chest and expanded to his entire body. Thor hit him again and again and again with his hammer. Blood streamed from his nose, his head, and his broken lips. Ribs were surely broken. Shazam lifted his right leg and kicked out at the Asgaardian, catching him in the stomach and sending him out of the crater and back onto the street.
           
            He felt gingerly at his ribs while he had at least a few seconds of respite. He could heal them, of course, by shouting the Wizard's name and becoming Billy again. His powers would be gone for precious seconds, though, if he did that. Thor would tear him apart. Maybe literally. No, The Big Red Cheese would have tough this one out. The others had done the same, it was the least he could do.

            A voice called from above, "Mortal! Do you surrender yet, mortal? You've fought well! Kneel before me now and I will let you serve me in my great cause!"

            Shazam sat up. He was too far down to see Thor and he was sure that he couldn't be seen either. He wanted to speak up, to say something witty. He didn't get the chance. The tyrant was too busy talking himself up.

            "Do you see, humans?" Shazam clenched his fists and began charging whatever electricity he could into them. "Your last hero put up an entertaining defense, but it was not enough. I have beaten them all. Your armies and your navies all belong to me now. We mill march on Asgaard and take back what is rightfully mine!"

            Shazam could hear boos and screams coming from above him. Thor wouldn't let that go on for long before he started making examples of the dissenters. Pushing the pain in his chest aside, Shazam flew into the air and did a quick turn to find Thor. The two of them were staring each other in the eyes, both floating just above the heads of the assembled crowds.

            Thor cracked a smile and spread his arms in what was obviously meant to be a welcoming gesture. "Ah, human," he said. "You've accepted my offer, then!" It wasn't a question. "Good. Now, tell these peasants that their only salvation will come from their own bent knees."

            Shazam released the pent up power in one of his fists and threw a bolt of lightning at the invader, striking him across the face. He was knocked backward, turning with the blow to avoid the full force of the attack. When his head snapped back to Shazam, his eyes were hard and cold. The cocky offers of peace were gone.

            "You will regret that, mortal."

            Thor charged at him then, raising his hammer over his head with both hands. Shazam met him halfway, with a diving kick to the midsection. The two collided with the force of a train wreck, sending shockwaves of sound and air in all directions. Thor doubled over, holding his gut, his face trying to mask the pain that his body felt. Shazam lashed out with his other hand, releasing his second lightning bolt. This one caught the Asgaardian in the chest and for a moment, he was completely illuminated. He fell to the ground this time, landing amongst the masses of people below. Some turned and ran from him. Others began kicking and punching at Thor's fallen form.

            Thor shot to his feet, knocking back everyone within arm's reach. They fell hard and didn't stand. "ENOUGH!"

            He buckled his hammer to his belt and catapulted himself at Shazam. He moved more quickly that anyone Shazam had ever seen before. Even faster than Superman. Before he could react, Thor had grabbed him by the face with one massive hand. He squeezed hard and flew, dragging Shazam through the air behind him. They hit a skyscraper quickly, with Shazam's head leading the charge. Glass, concrete, and steel shattered beneath his skull. Still gripping his head, Thor flew to the side, shattering every window pane and wall in reach with Shazam's cut and bleeding face.

            Their charge stopped inside of an office building. Shazam couldn't tell if it was occupied or not. There were too many lights flashing before his eyes and he was trying too hard to stay conscious. If he passed out now, he knew, he would die. And Thor would take over. Thor let go of him. Billy dropped to all fours, feeling less like a hero now than he ever had before. He had to get up. He had to defend the people of Earth. Superman would have wanted him to take up the mantle of Earth's defender.

            Thor kicked him in the ribs, sending him sprawling across the floor and through cubicle walls. There was no screaming. The office must have been abandoned. Shazam coughed, staining the pale carpet with blood. He moved to collect himself, to stand up.

            He was stopped by a boot to the face.

            To be continued...
______________________________________________________________

Well, there's part 2. I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to leave comments or to read anything else that I've posted here.

As far as the teaser goes, the next crossover showdown will be....

Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there.

So I wrote this for a friend. And I don't have anything new to put up here, since I've been in the middle of packing and moving back to school over  the last few days. So I'm going to post this. Read and enjoy. Or hate it. Whatever. Just read it. :D

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

            "Is she dead?"

            He nodded, water dripping from the tip of his long nose and the ends of his grey-streaked mane of hair. He didn't look sad or angry. There was no remorse. Just the hints of pooled red at his feet that marked where he'd bled her.

            "What was her name?"

            His mouth hardly moved. "Averly."

            Trent folded his arms and looked at the small body laying in the rain. She looked peaceful. Xander had done a good job. He hadn't left a mark on her. She had dark hair. The rain had made it black. Trent knelt at her side and brushed the sopping strands away from her face. Trent was jealous of the big man. He'd learned her name. Something that he hadn't been able to do.

            She was smiling.

            "You didn't know her? You two seemed so close."

            Trent frowned. Her family wouldn't see her again, neither would her friends. Selfishly, Trent realized that he would never get to speak with her again. Only once for that brief few minutes in the morning.

            Kneeling there, he looked at her more closely. Up close, she was much less perfect than she'd seemed that morning. There was no sunrise reflecting off of her hair. The rain had washed away the little makeup that she had worn. Eyeliner and mascara ran down her face and down the side of her head, leaving tear tracks on her dimpled cheeks.

            "Not really," he responded. "I saw her on the train earlier. Ran into her again here. Didn't think you'd just...you know."

            Xander nodded again. "Seemed like you knew her better than that. Thought you were working with her."

            Trent answered angrily, "Does she look like someone who I work with? Damnit, she's what? Twenty?"

            "So are you."

            "You knew what I meant. I only work with older Lookers. I don't want to her into our world. I didn't want to sacrifice someone like her."

            Xander tilted his head, confused. "Someone like her?"

            "Innocent."

            Xander nodded. He didn't look at all concerned. Then again, he'd always been too dumb to think about his actions after he'd gone through with them. Xander was a Hunter. One of the best. The best. He'd screwed up now, though.

            "You know what has to happen now, right, Xander?"

            He shook his head. Of course he didn't.

            "You killed someone without a contract on them. Someone who wasn't associated with anyone with a contract on them...someone not associated with me." The big man was nodding slowly. "You took an innocent life, Xander. You owe a guilty one."

            Comprehension dawned on his broad features. "I only know two guilty ones, though, Trent. Brad's so far away, though...can we get to him before they find me?"

            Trent shook his head and moved his long, wet hair out of his eyes. The Windy City name didn't do Chicago justice. Rainy was better. Cold. Dead. Averly was almost smiling. One corner of her lips was lifted. It looked like she was in the middle of a nice dream.

            "You killed her quickly, at least? There wasn't any pain?"

            Xander shook his head. "No, no, no pain. Stopped her heart from across the park. It was fast." He paused. "What about Brad?"

            "We can't get to Brad. He's in Europe. The other Lookers will find out about Averly in the morning. They'll have found you by noon."

            He looked distraught. "They can't find me. They'll hurt me. They'll take you back."

            Trent smiled. "They won't hurt you, buddy. But you're going to have to trade me for the girl."

            "Trade you?"

            Trent tried to keep the shake out of his voice. It was hard. "You're gonna have to kill me, big guy. I'll bring her back."

            The big man shook his head vehemently. "No, no, no I can't do that. I'm supposed to take care of you. Your dad said--"

            "I know what Dad said. This is more important."

            "But..."

            "Hey!" Trent hated raising his voice to Xander. Sometimes it was the only way to get through to him, though. "Dad left. He's gone. And if we don't do this, they're going to get you. You don't want that, do you?"

            Xander shook his head again. He would go through with it. Now Trent just had to convince himself.

            To be fair, you shouldn't even be here. Mom traded herself to bring you back from the other side. You've done some good with the extra time. The least you can do is let this innocent girl come back and be with her friends and family again.

            Besides, maybe they'll let you look in on her now and again. And on Xander. He was good at his job, sure, but somebody had to take care of the big lummox.

            He tossed his jacket off and stood up, planting his feet by the girl, Averly's, head. Trent's hands were shaking so hard that he could feel the tremble in his legs. He'd committed to this, though. Next off was his shirt. The wet fabric stuck to his pale skin, but he eventually got it pried off. His tattoos, down the back of his arms and his back, swirls and arches and symbols of black and gray, glowed faintly in the light of the crescent moon.

            Xander was ready before Trent was. His hand was outstretched, the crosshair-shaped rune on his hand staring Trent in the face. He smiled.

            "Go ahead, big guy. Make it quick."

            The crosshair touched his forehead and everything went black.

            When Trent opened his eyes, he was standing on a grassy hill, surrounded by flowers. There was a lot of green and yellow. Some whites and blues. He smiled. He'd nearly made it.

            "Where did you come from?"

            He spun behind him and saw her. Smiling, just like she had been on the train that morning. Trent shrugged. "The same place you did."

            She nodded, recollection coming over her petite features. He smiled at her.

            "You're from the train?" Trent nodded.

            "Do you know where we are?" He nodded again.

            Averly smiled again. "Good! It's nice here, but it isn't home. I can't quite...I don't know how I got here. Part of me wants to just lie here forever, but I think I would miss home, you know?"

            "Yeah," Trent said. "I know exactly what you mean. It isn't so bad here. But home is better, believe me."

            "You've been here before? Do you know how to get back home, then?"

            Trent pointed behind Averly, over her shoulder. "Just turn around and go back."

            "It's that easy?" She giggled and swiped a lock of hair behind her ear. Her black hair was reflecting the light of the sun again.

            "It's that easy."

            She smiled and waved, then turned on her heel and started walking. Trent watched her for a second, not sure what he would see when she made it. Maybe nothing. She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

            "Aren't you coming?"

            "No," he said. "I think I'm going to stay for a little while."

            "Oh, ok. I guess I'll see you around then. Will you be able to make it home alone?"

            "Yeah," he said.

            "I know where I'm going."

Part 1: Stormfront

Stay here.

Thor stepped over the corpse of Earth's last hero. The last one to fall in a days-long war for control of humanity. Where Loki had failed through guile, Thor had succeeded through strength. The tattered remains of the fallen one's cape was symbolic of everything that the human race had left. Broken. Torn. They would rebuild under Thor. They had no more need for red and white. No need for the blue that their hero had worn so proudly. All that the Earthlings needed was the hammer. A symbol for most. A reality for those that would refuse him.

The Asgardian floated from where he had slain the Kryptonian and suspended himself above the humans, arms outstretched. "You have met my kind before, humans. This visit should come as no surprise to you. Your leaders, your governments. They are weak. Insufficient."

He gestured to the sobbing masses with his free hand and then back to the Kryptonian. "Your protector, your Superman, refused me. He died for it. The rest of his 'League' died for it. I would not have all of you killed needlessly."

Thor floated to the ground and spread his arms wide, to embrace his newfound people. They were still sobbing. Crying for their hero. They would come around. Or they would be dragged.

"Your people, your world, will unite under the God of Thunder! We will take back Asgard and-"

A voice spoke quietly from the crowd. "Is that what this is about? You can't go home on your own? Little brother kicked you out, so now you've come to enlist an army?"

Thor spun on his heel and strode into the multitudes of people. Some were shouting, some still cried. Most were silent as the grave. One stood differently than the rest, though. His back was not bent in fear, his head was not thrown back in anger. He stared at Thor with flat, dead eyes.

He was not yet a man, but not an Earth-boy either. He was short and skinny, with a red and black sports shirt hanging off of his thin shoulders. One of the many games that Earthlings played to pass time. 

"We won't be your puppets."

Protect them when I'm gone.

Thor laughed from deep in his chest. "You would speak out against me? Tell me your name, human, so that my bards can sing of your foolishness."

"Billy," he said quietly.

The Asgardian prince laughed again. "Billy? Not the most heroic of names. I suppose it will have to do..."

The young man shrugged. "You could try the other one."

Thor furrowed his brow. "Interrupt me again and you will speak with Mjolnir. Tell me this 'other' of yours so that we can end this, child."

"Shazam."

A bolt of lightning gouged the cloudless sky and struck the young man. Concrete and other rubble exploded outwards, sending bystanders flying backwards and ruffling Thor's cape. He smiled. It seemed that even Earth's skies had accepted him as their rightful ruler. The lightning had come unbidden by him and smote an enemy of Thor. The Fates were indeed on his side. The coming war would be glorious.

A red streak shot from the smoke and rubble and struck Thor in the chest. The wind was knocked from his body and his head snapped back from the impact. Both the red bolt and the demi-god careened across the streets of Metropolis. They smashed through walls, knocked cars from their places and scattered crowds. Their momentum was only stopped when they crashed through the wall of a parking deck, sending steel beams, asphalt, and concrete in all directions.

Thor bounced across the ground, rolling and spinning, until a red van stopped him. He stood and gripped Mjolnir. Somehow, he hadn't dropped the hammer in the flight across town.

"Who dares? Who dares lay hands on me?"

A man in red and black, caped and cowled in gold, walked towards Thor from the other side of the parking deck. His fists were clenched and his shoulders squared at the Asgardian. His eyes prophesied murder.

"I dare," he said. "Will Batson. You killed my friends, Thor. Bruce, Diana, Hal...you even got Superman."

He stopped, nose-to-nose, with Thor. "I'm going to make you pay for hurting each of them."

Thor smiled. "Oh, human..."

A lightning-charged fist struck him across the jaw, skipping him back and over the red van and into the ceiling. He fell to the ground in a heap of man and cape. Thor shoved himself back to his feet and walked at the human.

"I tire of you interrupting me, boy."

He lunged forward and swung Mjolnir in a sideways arc, catching Shazam in the ribcage. There was a deafening crack and grunt of pain from the human. He flew back, through a pair of concrete walls and into a warehouse that adjoined the parking deck. Thor flew after him, landing lighting on his feet in the darkness of the storage unit.

The human, Shazam, wore a lightning bolt on his chest. He should have worshiped Thor. Then again, he had thought the same of the other man in red.

"You know, human. You dress quite a lot like the fast hero. The other who wore red and yellow. He was fast." Thor chuckled. "Not so fast after I removed his legs, though. Hopefully you fare better. I desire a worthy opponent, at least."

"Yeah. Barry, too. Add him to the list of the ones I'll be hurting you for."

Thor's eyes widened. The voice had come from behind him. The human could not possibly be that fast.

A hand gripped the hair on the back of his head and twisted, causing Thor to cry out in surprise. The hand, with immense strength behind it, heaved upwards and with wrenching force, threw the god of thunder through the roof of the warehouse, into the blue sky above.

Shazam flew after Thor and caught him in midair by the throat. He drew back and punched once, twice, three times to the Asgardians face. Once in the stomach. One more in the face, for good measure.

Billy wasn't sure if gods could bleed.

He meant to find out.

To be continued...

---

Let me know what you think! If you think Shazam would win in a fight, let me know. If you think Thor would win, let me know that too. If you have any critiques, feel free to throw those my way. I love constructive feedback. Most of all, enjoy the story. There's more coming in the next few days.

Chapter 7...in case anyone wants a snippet

Chapter 7

            Pyra slipped from the great hall, doing her best to leave politely but without saying more than a word or two to any one person. Had her father not been out on a hunting trip, he would have forced her to stay, citing her duty to the province and to her people. As it was, when her older brother opened his mouth to protest, she waved him off and continued toward the enormous double doors that separated the hall from the rest of the castle. She stole a glance over her shoulder and smirked at Theamere, letting him know that he was on his own to deal with the various nobles and rich old men that had come to eat at their table.

            Their father, Ravitch had been gone for nearly two weeks. Had he been around, the bureaucrats would have known better than to come begging for handouts. Instead, like the vultures they were, they came to grovel at Theamere’s feet and pick his table clean. For once, Pyra was glad to be the younger of the two and a young woman. She would never have been expected to take over her father’s duties in his absence. As it was, those responsibilities fell to Theamere, the one and only son of the Lord of Graveholm. Theamere seemed to enjoy the attention that the rich old men were giving him. All of them wanted handouts: land, money, and favors, and offered very little but praise for Theamere in return. He was more than happy to sit and listen to them beg, as long as they helped out his ego while they were there.

            Pyra had even heard of a few marriage proposals passed his way, a majority of the men trying to marry their young daughters off to Heir of Ice, as Theamere had been often called. There wasn’t much else for him to inherit, besides the keep and a whole lot of responsibility. Occasionally, some of the more forward nobles had offered up a son to take Pyra off of her brother’s and father’s hands. Theamere declined them all politely. How he did it was a mystery to Pyra. Had some ancient buzzard of a man offered one of his middle-aged sons to her, she might have hit one of her wispy-haired elders.

            Pyra was bored with the dinner. So, she excused herself.  The hall was full of food, talk, and drink. None but Theamere would even notice that she had left. The feast was not holding her attention well anyway. She could practically hear the books in her father’s large library calling her name.

            Pyra opened the doors and slipped outside. Before she had taken a handful of steps down the stone hallways outside of the hall, one of the knights of the keep had fallen into step behind her.  

            “Gramm, I don’t need a guard. I’m only going to the library,” she said.

            “Of course you don’t, m’lady.”

            The metal of the knight’s boots clicked in time with his even pace and the netting of chainmail that ran down the back of his thighs jingled like a thousand tiny bells. Pyra hadn’t taken a good look at Gramm today, but she was sure that his armor and uniform were immaculate as always.  She sighed.

            “Gramm, I told you to stop calling me that. My name is Pyra.”

            She heard Gramm chuckle behind her. “You did. I’m afraid that I would make a poor excuse for a knight if I couldn’t even manage to use the correct title for my betters, though. M’lady.”

           

            Pyra glared back at the young man, offering a killing gaze to the dark-haired, roughly stubbled knight. She had to crane her neck to see his face, but that was nothing new. Since she had been young, Pyra had been staring up at all of those around her. This was in stark contrast with Gramm. Her friend had always stood a head above the rest of the men his age.

           

            “You won’t make much of a knight if you can’t follow orders, either,” she said with a wink.

            Gramm chuckled again,. He rested his left arm on the hilt of the sword that swung at his hip and scratched the back of his neck with his right. In the absence of a real retort, Pyra smiled haughtily and increased her pace.

            “That’s a very good point m’lady. Fortunately for me, your father is my liege lord. Not you. So, really, I am not required to follow any of your orders.”

            Pyra’s face fell and she let her breath out in a huff. She increased her pace even further, the stomping of her feet sending echoes through the halls of the keep. She heard Gramm’s footsteps fade into the distance, but she knew that he would catch her eventually. He liked to give Pyra a hard time, but the knight was intelligent enough to realize that she had not been lying when she had said that she was going to the library. After all, nearly everyone in the castle realized that she spent most of her time there, pouring over historical scrolls and mystical tomes. Many of her father’s retainers and friends said that she was obsessed. Pyra preferred to say that she was studious.

            The door that led to her father’s library was innocuous enough. It was made of the same dark wood as every other door in the keep, and more than likely, every door in all of Graveholm. The timber that the doors were made of covered the mountainous region. Logging was a powerful industry in the area, and the local craftsmen were incredibly talented.

            Behind that door, though, was Pyra’s favorite room in the kingdom. Shelves and shelves of books lined the front and right walls of the library, with various colors of covers and bindings. Some of the books were incredibly thin, no more than a sheaf of paper between two bindings. Others were massive tomes, hundreds and hundreds of pages, written in cramped and miniscule script and bound with thick leather covers. Their content covered innumerable topics, from histories of the kingdom and its prominent families, to lineages and trees of Pyra’s own family, to poems and stories by some of the most prominent scribes of recent centuries.

            The room itself was small. There was an enormous window on the far wall, to let in some light and provide a view of the frozen landscape below. The ceiling was low enough that the bookshelves reached all of the way to it. The library was not the largest room in Graveholm, nor was it the most opulent. It had a simple kind of beauty. It was calm and quiet. Almost no noise filtered in from the hallways of the keep, or through the window to the outside world. To Pyra, it was a sanctuary, more so than any church or cathedral in the world.

           

            The left wall was covered with books in lieu of scrolls. Most were academic texts. Those were coated in a film of dust, as no one in the castle had the time nor, for many, the ability to read such ponderous works. Literacy was not a common commodity this far north. Pyra left them alone because they were boring and written by the very same stuffy old men that were currently boring her brother with their intellectual babble.

            Instead, her attentions were focused on a small pile of scrolls that had been removed from the shelves and piled meticulously on the lone desk in the center of the library. These were scrolls of magic, brought from the great schools of Immeo by Elder Moss. Years ago, upon the Elder’s retirement, he had brought scrolls written by some of the greatest minds of the age to Graveholm. His own spellcraft and that of his mentors was inked on dozens of scrolls, and Pyra had a mind to read them all.

            She grabbed the scroll from the top of the pile, unrolled it, and picked up where she had left off the day before, reading aloud so that she could better understand the spells that were scribbled on the parchment.

            “Fire, for warmth and for destruction,” she began. “Magical fire, as natural fire, must begin with a spark. That spark, brought to life in a nurturing environment and given proper fuel, will give rise to flame. Friction is the simplest path by which a spark is formed, more often than not through the snapping of the thumb and middle finger.”

            Pyra stopped and sighed, rubbing her temples. She always had to prepare herself for trying something magical. Elder Moss could call upon the power on command. Pyra had to do a lot to clear her mind beforehand.  

            She closed her eyes and began deep breathing, clearing her mind of everything but the current that floated beneath the air, running through everything and everyone. The faintest buzzing reverberated through the library and under Pyra’s skin, making her skin crawl and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Her mind, acting as a kind of extra sense, cast out, grabbing at the ethereal river. She gathered the “water” using her mind like she would a bucket, holding as much power as she could.

            Elder Moss had taught her the steps. Pyra was confident in her abilities. She gripped it, holding the magic tight, forcing it into a spherical shape and snapped her fingers.

            Nothing.

            She snapped again, this time harder, as if that would make some kind of difference. Again, nothing happened. The young woman focused harder, denying herself any knowledge but that of the condensed magic that she held only in her mind. She was strong enough to do this and she knew it.

 Pyra imagined the magical fire held in a tight sphere, rotating swirls of red and yellow, not unlike the sun in the sky, held beneath the translucent surface of the ball.

            She snapped again. This time, she felt the temperature in the room increase marginally and her thumb and middle finger began to tingle uncomfortably. She furrowed her brows and squinted, this time sucking in her breath and holding it. She snapped once more, this time bringing an almost imperceptible light to her hand. Another snap and she heard a faint crackle. One more, the most forceful yet, produced a small ember, like one of those thousands that snapped and danced from the fireplace in the great hall.

            Pyra smiled, becoming more excited and all the more focused for it. She snapped more and more frequently, producing a spark with each rubbing together of her fingertips. The heat in the room increased drastically, causing her to breathe more heavily and sweat to drip from her forehead into her eyes. Her fingers had become wet, reducing the friction between them and lessening the sparks that jumped from her fingertips. So, Pyra wiped them on the hem of her dress and snapped once more.

            An isolated fire, the size of the flame on a small candle sparked to life and hovered above her thumb. The appearance of the fully realized flame startled Pyra so badly that she fell over, knocking down the chair that she was sitting in at the same time. The fire sputtered out of existence just as she yelped loudly and crashed to the ground.

           

            The library door burst open and Gramm entered, looking disheveled and wholly unlike himself.

            Pyra looked up at him from the ground, smiling at his worry. “I’m fine, Gramm. I just startled myse…”

            The knight shook his head and cut her off, the frantic look in his eyes revealing that something else was wrong.

            When he spoke, his voice was low and his breathing labored. “Your father. He’s hurt. Run and get Elder Moss. Bring him to the infirmary. Hurry.”

            With that, he was gone, off and running down the hallway. Only after he’d gone did Pyra notice the trail of blood that he had left on the floor behind him. Before she realized it, Pyra was sprinting down the hall, her bare feet smacking on the cold stone. The last she had seen the Elder, he had been at the feast, engaged in an argument with some gray-bearded noble.

            She slowed her advance when she neared the hall. It wouldn’t do to come sprinting in. When she entered, Pyra immediately noticed that the noise in the hall had lessened significantly. The food and drink had obviously set in, created a general malaise in the room. Theamere locked eyes with her upon her arrival, and she cast a frightened glance in his direction. He looked confused, but she did not have the time to explain anything to him yet. She had to find the Elder.

            When she spotted the old man, he was slumped in his chair with his chin on his chest, snoring softly. It appeared that the festivities had been too much for him to handle. Pyra could only hope that he had not taken part in too much drinking. She needed him awake and sober to help her father. She walked to him, quickly but carefully. She did not want to draw any unwanted attention to herself. The last thing that her father needed was to have the vultures plucking at him while he was hurt.

            Pyra moved to shake the Elder’s shoulder, but he sat up straight as a rod before she could even touch him. He shook his head to wake himself, while he scratched at the few wispy white hairs on top of his head.

            Before Pyra had a chance to explain herself, his gray eyes met with hers. “What happened, child? What’s wrong?”

            “Father is hurt. Gramm told me to come and get you, but there was blood, and I don’t know what happened to him, and they’re in the infirmary waiting for you, and I don’t know how badly he’s hurt, and I’m supposed to bring you to him.” She panted, out of breath, and stared at him, amazed at how he could stay so calm while she was so upset.

            He rose slowly and calmly, nodding his wrinkled and age-spotted head once. “You’ve done well. Walk with me to see to him, please.”

            Pyra nodded quickly and offered her arm to the Elder. As they walked, he asked her what she knew about her father’s injuries. She told him nothing. She knew nothing. All she knew was that there was blood. Her father’s blood. Or Gramm’s. Or someone else’s entirely.

           

            So, the pair walked in a hurried silence, moving as fast as Elder Moss’s aged joints and Pyra’s shaking legs would allow. As they neared the infirmary, a group of hushed voices could be heard. A group of her father’s knights approached them, blood soaking the front of their armor and their capes.

            One spoke up, his tone soft, saying, “This isn’t a sight for the lady, Elder. I’d send her on her way.”

            Pyra shouldered past him without a word. The other knights wanted to stop her from going in, she could see it on their faces. None of them were brave enough to physically stop her, though. Gramm might have tried it, but he was in the infirmary still. Pyra could hear him talking to someone.

            With the Elder just a step behind her, Pyra pushed through the door into the infirmary. She stopped dead in her tracks, her breath catching hard in her chest and forming a twisted knot in the back of her throat. Lord Ravitch of Graveholm, her father, lay on an infirmary bed, covered in dark blood. His face bore the brunt of the damage, with fresh, red, liquid pouring down the left side. His clothes and sheets were all stained dark.

            Pyra stood in shock. She had never seen her father so fragile. So vulnerable. She wanted to weep for him. She could only stand silently, barely feeling Gramm’s hand on her shoulder and the reassuring pressure that he put there.