To Your New Era

The little demon's curiosity had subsided, and thankfully, the hole in her shoulder didn't carry over from her previous dream. Still, she felt the intact skin, pressed it for any pain, and rolled her shoulder back and forth.

Nothing, thankfully. Fully operational.

Her younger self's attention was now towards the opening of the cave, where cloudless blue skies enticed her. But she didn't follow it, even as minutes passed.

Iris stood slowly, cautious not to draw the demon's ire again. She circled wide, keeping a moderate distance until the little girl's face was visible.

No particular emotion coloured it. The stare was blank, hard to tell if she was examining the sky or admiring it, even fearing it. That emotionless stare extended to Iris too, although only because she had wandered into its range.

No curiosity, much to Iris's relief.

Without turning her back, Iris stepped out of the cave, into open air for the first time in years. There, the wind moved around her, spelling out greetings with every direction it took. It then flowed down the cliff-side, into the valley, and tickled dancing, knee-high grass as it went.

Rolling mountains that tapered off in the hazy distance. With prior context, the scenery felt Sidosian, particularly the planes of grass.

Moments of serenity passed before the pitter-patter of steps followed. Her younger self had stopped several paces behind her, on the edge of the rock's familiar grasp. Squinting, her eyes were still on the sky, now at least annoyed at its brightness.

As they adjusted, the next novel sensation was apparently grass. The little girl swayed her bare feet through the blades of green back and forth. Iris wondered for a second if the memories of that green field the city of spires rose from had faded. Even if they hadn't, three years of torture would thoroughly cleanse any mind.

Finally, after surveying the area thoroughly, the little girl planted her first footstep into the new world.

Then, her attention turned back to Iris. Not to her eyes, as though invoking an instinctual, animalistic challenge, but to her leg. Iris followed the line of vision.

Blood. Lots of it.

Pouring from a wound above her knee.

The nausea and dizziness hit before the pain did. Iris collapsed to the floor, head posing frantic questions one after another, adrenaline keeping the pain at bay.

Body frozen in shock, she watched as the pooling blood stained the grass red and sunk into the hidden soil. The fluid drained with it her consciousness. Darkness encroached on her vision.

The little girl hobbled over to her, with barely developed legs of her own, and kneeled beside her. She extended a hand and caressed the leg, once more recognising the flesh as her own as blood smeared her little palm.

At the demon's command, Iris's leg glowed purple. She tried to scream in protest, but her voice was long since silenced. All she could do was brace for the pain as her leg disassembled before her very eyes. The million purple fragments swirled in the air and drew her blood back from the soil.

The little girl released Iris from her torment, and the many particles relaxed back into the shape of a leg—healed, nary a scar blemishing its surface. But by then, Iris's vision was too blurry to discern much. Not long after, it completely failed her.

Rayak slinked back into her hotel room, pawing the door shut behind her before dropping the briefcase from her jaw. It clattered, and swayed, but ultimately stayed put, and Rayak let go of the tension in her body. For her people, being perceived at all was noticeable; being followed was remarkable. She knew she'd gotten away cleanly.

Carefully, struggling with the apparatus built for smaller hands, she unlocked the briefcase, and lifted its lid. Steel casing, winding wires, and a dormant, brooding sensation of void. It was as much the genuine article as she could discern it to be.

Rayak closed the briefcase and resealed it, barely able to stand the inner machine's aura much longer. The Neflemi could only hold their arrogance in the face of modernity because of their ignorance of such things. The world had left them so far back in time that, if it ever looked back, a single sneeze could wipe them off the map.

That was her belief before the war broke out. Now, she was convinced it wouldn't even take a blink; a side-project to a grander set of schemes.

As she worked towards what her brothers and sisters had long since given up on, what was still barely a daydream to her, she sensed machinations beyond her own goal and only hoped that there was a place for her insignificant victory in them.

Her fantasies of even the humblest of triumphs were still grandeurs she couldn't let distract her, not so close to the final stages. She had to mind her footing, because footprints were still something she could leave behind.

Rayak gathered all traces left on paper—bills and charges, notes and records—and compiled them into a heap in the hearth.

The reception desk was often empty during the workday. She took the opportunity to find the hotel logbooks and rip out any page mentioning her. That amounted to another six pages.

What now sat in her fireplace amounted to the kindling of a small flame. Routine for her was to set it alight and move on, but something kept her feet planted when she set the papers alight.

A sudden sense that she was burning the last remnants of her name from the face of the world, and that once they shrivelled into black clumps of ash, the sacrifices she had made for the cause already amounted to that of death.

Yet she was still breathing. That was good enough for her.

"The handover's complete," Antea croaked through the telephone. "But not without issues."

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Special Operations got you, did they?" Provenance replied. Antea's breathing was raspy, slowing and starting at seemingly random intervals. "Are you injured?"

"I can handle it," Antea insisted. "But yes. I assume it was them. I can't say with certainty."

"What happened?" Provenance asked, swivelling a nearby chair to his side and sitting down.

"Two…Witches, I'm guessing. One was a Beak. Shadow magic, surprising for somebody so young. I don't know if it was her or the other, but…they choked Aether from the air."

"Did they have—"

"No. They weren't carrying anything."

"Interesting…the other?"

Antea thought. Provenance heard him collate his thoughts and choose his words.

"Purple. Purple matter. First it was a gas, then…solid. She wore solid purple armour and rode a…Spirit? Made of the same stuff, not too far from a Warper but it moved on puppet strings."

"Did you see what she looked like?"

"Barely. She looked too young to be an adult, but she was firing wildly at me."

"Hardly sounds like Spec Ops agents to me," Provenance muttered. "Although it isn't beneath them, especially with Witches."

"The street itself was crawling with them. Nobody else has enough intelligence to get this far. I need them off my tail."

"Then you change course. You've feigned your own investigation, but now you need to delay theirs."

"No," Antea said. "It's too suspicious. Even my people would start asking questions."

"You've only days left. They must know it too."

Antea grew quiet. Provenance gave him the space. Recklessness was needed, but Antea's position was such that he could not as easily run from the consequences. Being entrenched in the bureaucracy made him powerful, but vulnerable.

"How forward-thinking do you need to be? If you have grander plans, then—"

"I will keep you updated," he said. "That's all I can promise you."

Provenance couldn't find the footing to argue. He had played his part, after all. Provided Antea saw things through to the end, Provenance would get his side of the bargain.

"You don't seem the type to make a grab for power, but you're being too cagey for somebody about to do what you're going to do."

Provenance knew he couldn't press further; the straw of Antea's patience was at breaking point. But, like a slip of the tongue, he asked.

"What is it you want to do?"

He sat by himself, wondering when the silence might end.

"I don't want to see this country fall in my lifetime," Antea muttered. The line cut, and Provenance returned the receiver to its place, but he didn't move for some time. The answer disappointed him against his better judgement—it wasn't surprising to know his business-partner clung to the love of one's country, but it drew a line in the sand between the two.

He was a pawn, powerful and intelligent as he might be.

Those thoughts, however, were but a brief interlude.

The purple matter enraptured Provenance. Gas to solid. Spirit forms hanging from puppet strings. A suit of armour like the Wishbearer's.

The last whispered words from the tycoon Mallorine echoed through his head. He tempted the thought and let it wet his lips.

"Witch."

Iris woke up gasping, grasping at her leg before the rest of her senses could catch up with her. Evalyn's panicked voice faded into her ears first, calling her name over and over. Her eyes focused through a sheen of sleep on her eyes and found a pale white leg exactly where it should be.

Perfectly intact, not a scratch marred its surface.

But the mere memory of the pain flickering through her mind sent bile racing up her throat.

"Iris!" Evalyn cried as Iris caught the fluid in her mouth. Her vision grew shaky again, and she heaved herself out of the open window to spit out her stomach's contents.

She heaved, resting against the windowsill as Evalyn clung onto her shoulders. Her hands clasped the wood for no reason other than to stop them from quaking. Wiping her mouth, Iris collapsed back into her bed, where Evalyn's arms were there to meet her.

The warmth made her forget the phantom pain, if for a moment. No words needed saying. Not after an experience like that.

"My leg," Iris muttered after a few moments.

"You healed it yourself," Evalyn said, pulling away and sitting on a chair pulled close to the bedframe. "Crestana said so. You…don't remember?"

Iris sighed, exhausted. "I wish I didn't."

Evalyn pursed her lips and cast her eyes astray. "I think Crestana feels the same way."

"Where is she?"

"I sent her home. She didn't leave until the folks at the Great Library cleared you."

Iris still felt worse for wear, but an expert opinion gave her the confidence to discard her concerns. She was in a specialised field; unfortunately, experiences like hers would need getting used to. She had no other choice.

"Where's Dad?"

The mention of Elliot seemed to wipe all traces of Evalyn's relief from her face. Her warmth froze over, and Iris, knowing there was a chance from the beginning, prepared for the worst.

"We got into a fight at the library. After Crestana left, of course."

"Is he still there?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe he's back at base."

"You don't know?"

"Hell if I care. Can't stand the thought of him right now."

Iris wished the words were directed at her. Somehow, they'd probably feel less painful.

"Mum, it was—"

"I don't care," Evalyn said. Iris could see her biting her lips, desperately trying to keep the façade intact. "I don't care what the reason was, but clearly it was a mistake to think I could retire. I understand that now."

The words felt like the thrashing limbs of a captured animal trying to escape. They stuck out thorns in every direction, and Iris had no idea how to proceed or even where to start.

"I'm sorry I failed—"

"I couldn't care less that you failed! You got shot!"

The rise in volume made Iris flinch, but her own memories of seeing a bleeding Evalyn stopped her from arguing back. In that moment, nothing else really mattered.

"And he put you in that mess. Crestana too."

Tears formed at the edge of her eyes, small droplets she desperately wiped away. "He didn't even tell me. He let you two go in by yourselves."

Iris's ability to argue for her father was hindered twofold. She was still dizzy, with every sentence muttered a gruelling task in itself, and not to mention that her entire body was still shaking, remembering the fear, pain, confusion. As desperately as she was to conquer the sensation, slot the experience as just another workday under her belt, she couldn't.

Iris struggled, but lifted herself out of bed, where Evalyn caught her and helped her stand.

"Where are you going?"

"To the phone. I want to talk to him."

"At least wait until you're feeling better."

Iris disassembled her hair, spewing forth a tangle of drunken tendrils that reached for the telephone in the hallway beyond her room. Through memory alone, she grabbed the device and yanked it back towards her.

"I can call him later, okay? You need to go back to sleep."

Evalyn tried to guide her back onto the bed, but Iris pushed her arms away as she dialled the number one shaky finger at a time.

"I need to tell him I'm okay."

"Iris, please."

"No."

"Iris—"

"Stop!"

Evalyn's hands trembled mere centimetres from Iris's shoulders. Iris watched them shake like her own did, distracting her from the look of quiet horror on her mother's face.

"He almost got you killed."

"He gave me orders."

That seemed to be the final nail in the coffin. Evalyn's hands slowly dropped, but her horrified eyes never quite looked away. But the moment she made to leave, Iris grasped her wrist, enough to make Evalyn's skin turn red.

She pulled Evalyn down beside her as the line connected. With shaky breath she directed the operator to Elliot's line, and within a few seconds, his voice crawled through the speaker. Small—smaller than Iris had ever heard it be.

"Hello?"

"Dad."

"…Iris?"

"Where are you? Where'd you go—"

"I'm sorry."

"…Dad, I'm okay…dad?"

"I'm sorry…," was all Elliot could say before his voice gave out. "I don't know what I was thinking just…"

"Dad, please…can you come home?"

Elliot seemed almost incapable of replying until he sucked in the overflow of emotion, demanding of himself a brief return to normalcy.

"Not right now. Mum's probably told you why, but…I'll make sure I see you soon, okay?"

"I'll see you tomorrow then. I want to talk to you."

"Okay…okay. I'll make sure it happens."

"I love you, Dad."

"Thank you…I love you too."

The line went static, and the receiver slid down the side of Iris's face. Slowly, she placed it back on the hook and sat in silence, maintaining an iron grip on her mother's wrist. Eventually, she rested her head against Evalyn's arm. Only then did she begin crying.