Discordant Note: Crescendo | TBATE

Chapter 213: For the Cause

Thank you to my beta reader and editor, GlassThreads

Seris Vritra

Toren's body felt warm in my arms. Always, always warm. Yet as comforting as the heat radiating from his breast usually was, tonight it wasn't enough to banish the chill grasping my bones.

I allowed myself to contemplate the dimension ring wrapped around my finger like the coil of a constricting serpent. The kind that slowly choked off the breath from the lungs of a prey animal. I couldn't allow myself to think too deeply on why. After all, not even my thoughts were safe from the touch of those so far above.

The air around this section of Burim stunk of fear and paranoia as the remnants of spellfire cloyed in the atmosphere. The workers and common dwarves of the city shied back as I slowly rose into the air.

"Lady Seris," a man called, bullying his way to the front of the contingent of mages who had armed themselves and surrounded Lord Daen. I recognized him quickly–the dark-skinned son of Named Blood Hercross whom I'd assigned to be under Toren's command. As my eyes focused on him from within the crater, he fell to a quick knee amidst the uncertain guards. "Pardon my presumptuous words, my Scythe," he said, "but might I know what is to become of Lord Daen?"

I thought I caught a hint of a protective gleam in the Hercross boy's gaze as he stared at Toren's limp form.

Such loyalty, I thought, sparing Toren's body a glance. You have inspired more in your time on this continent, haven't you, Spellsong?

"I will make a statement of an official capacity in the near future," I said, still internally cursing myself for Wolfrum's flight. The dimension ring on my finger was certainly his, and from the body of Jordan Redwater–one of Wolfrum's distant cousins–it painted a very dark picture of what had nearly happened. "Expect news of your commander to reach you by the next morning, Lieutenant Hercross."

The pink-eyed man swallowed, bowing deeply as the men around him shuffled nervously.

"You are to disperse immediately," I commanded, flexing my killing intent for the barest instant as my fingers clutched Toren's shoulders. "And I will have an official report of the incidents that led to this outbreak delivered to me within the next hour. Are we clear?" I said to the crowd of mages, a mix of both Alacryan and dwarven.

Hercross was the first to acquiesce. "Of course, Scythe Seris," he said sharply. "It will be done."

At his words, I allowed myself to drift away from the scene of the battle. I'd rushed here after sensing the disturbance in the mana–the familiar disturbance–but what I'd arrived upon had been far different than my expectations.

For Wolfrum to try and act against my interests... Part of me had recognized the buildup of anger and resentment in the young man, but I had attributed it to the stressors of war and the shifting circumstances. I had planned to address his increasingly aberrant behavior as soon as my position within Burim had been cemented more thoroughly, but once again, it appeared I was too late.

It appears you have spared me from another disaster, White Flame of Fiachra, I thought, remembering my miscalculations before the Plaguefire Incursion. I'd expected Mardeth to act at a later date as well: to act on reason and logic rather than emotion.

It appeared I was a poor predictor of that part of people, I realized with an internally somber note. I floated toward my private quarters in the Divot, the highest point in Burim that protected the many nobles from the encroaching lavatides.

The eyes of many followed me as I cradled Toren close, but for once, I did not feel the tingling itch to distance myself.

Let them see, I thought, allowing that spike of rebellious emotion to drive me upward. They can draw their conclusions.