Warning: Minor swearing. Really very minor. That, and the fact that nothing really happens.

Chapter Sixteen

"I really don't think this is a good idea," Milen said anxiously. His hand clutched the cross-shaped hairpin so tightly the edges left dark imprints and a small smear of blood on his palm.

"This is not a good idea," Ludwig declared. "As much as we appreciate the help Mathias Køhler offered us a year ago, I do not feel like facing him in his current state of mind is… safe," he ended rather lamely.

"Well, technically speaking, Milen is the one who has to face him, not you," Feliciano pointed out cheerfully. "In fact, if we follow Lukas's plan, the two of us would be hiding with Kiku in the car while Milen possibly gets killed trying to give Mathias a message and Lukas possibly gets killed when anybody other than Mathias discovers him waiting basically right outside the Prison entrance."

"Honestly, I don't mind," said Milen, albeit a little sarcastically. "It's not like there is anything else I can do, is there?"

"You can always not do it," Ludwig suggested. "That's also an option."

Lukas spoke up immediately. "No, we have to do this." He turned to Milen. "I'm sorry for putting you in this spot; if I could go in myself, I would, but right now, even if you guys drag me in, I doubt we'd get very far. It's not like all the guards inside are dead yet."

"We can wait until they are," said Feliciano.

"I don't think so. Magyar is in there." Milen looked thoughtful, and was clearly unhappy with the way his own thoughts were going. "Most of the other guards know me, Magyar included."

"If Magyar recognized us, we'd probably be killed on the spot," muttered Ludwig.

"And she will recognize you," the Prison guard said. "Magyar does not forget. Basically, I have immunity against the guards, and I've also got this." He held up Lukas's hairpin. "Hopefully I get to show this to the madman and he recognizes it before he kills me." Now, he sighed. "I'll go in."

Lukas nodded, but grimaced. He had been set down on the ground, partly obscured by a large truck parked outside the Prison, and his clumsily bandaged back erupted with pain with each miniscule movement. "Good luck."

Milen shook his head and gave a bitter chuckle. With the cross in one hand and his pistol in the other, he turned to leave. "There's no such thing as luck in Hell."

Lukas closed his eyes. He didn't want to see Milen's weary expression and retreating silhouette. "Then farewell."

The metal door slid shut with barely a click.

It was times like these when his body felt out of his mind's control—in the good way—that he truly felt alive. He knew that he could not remember much: probably ninety-three percent of everything he had experienced would slip out of his grasp soon after it had happened, but his body never forgot. Muscle memory was a wondrous thing, such a different creature he was when the thoughts left him.

There was no real thought in killing. One cannot think in the killing, because the mind interprets the world differently from the body, and sometimes, it's better to let the latter take over instead of the former. Probably if he stopped for even one second to think about what he was doing, he would throw up on the spot—and promptly get killed.

However, it remained crucial that one never forgets the presence of the mind, because Mathias knew that if he forgot the reason why he was killing his way through the Prison, it would be the end. And of course, there would only ever be one reason for the killing.

The sounds of desperate shouts and blazing guns, the scent of fear and blood hanging heavily in the halls seemed separate from him; he reveled in the sensation of blade slicing cleanly through cloth and flesh, of watching the life drain away and the spark of terror in their eyes die out.

Lukas.

He wondered what Lukas would think if he knew how joyfully Mathias committed murder. He felt like he knew Lukas so intimately, but could never really predict the other boy's reactions and feelings. Would he be flattered that Mathias had come so far to save him? Proud, even? Would he be disgusted and become afraid of what Mathias would do for him? If he could not find Lukas, he would never know.

A sudden silence had fallen in the corridor. The walls were splattered with blood and pockmarked with bullets. He was abruptly aware of the stillness that seemed to have encompassed his surroundings. Around him, corpses layered the floor: for one short moment, in his general vicinity, he was the only breathing animal.

"Mathias Køhler?"

A dark-haired young man in a guard uniform hovered near the door, his body tense and his round face pale, but there was a glint of determination in his shadowed eyes.

Mathias raised his hand, taking aim. A single blade through the throat should be enough to get rid of him.

"Wait!" the guard called, his voice cracking in fear. "I—Lukas!"

Mathias paused, confused.

The guard elaborated, "I have a message from Lukas." And then he held out his hand, something glinting in his palm. He tossed the object to Mathias, who deftly caught it.

It was Lukas's hairpin.

"Lukas is safe," he explained. "We got him out, and he's waiting for you outside."

"Why didn't he come himself?" Mathias felt vaguely disappointed underneath the relief and doubt.

"He is… unwell. But he is waiting for you. We've already got a way out of this place, just come with me; I'll bring you to him."

"How do I know you're not lying?" As much as Mathias wanted to follow the young man, he was still somewhat suspicious.

"You—," The guard broke off in the middle of his sentence, and Mathias saw his gaze flicker through him—no, past him.

At the sound of a single crisp gunshot, Mathias ducked instinctively, but the bullet shot harmlessly past: it was never meant for him.

The young guard crumpled silently to the ground, joining the mass of uniformed corpses already piled up in the hall.

Mathias spun around, straightening, Lukas's hairpin clutched tightly in his hand.

She was a glorious silhouette against the metal and blood, terrifying in her beauty, death a lovely promise on her gentle smile. The gun, still smoking slightly from the single, perfectly-aimed shot, was a peculiar weapon that Mathias zoned onto immediately: a seemingly normal pistol, perhaps with a slightly longer head, with a wicked blade attached to it.

Something in Mathias's mind clicked, and a wave of agony swept abruptly through his head.

"Hello, little Viking," said Magyar, her voice a loving caress that echoed familiarly in Mathias's aching skull. "So much trouble just to see me?"

He had always been curious about blades.

One of the first things they learned in combat classes was hand-to-hand combat: weaponless, only nail, tooth, and bone against flesh, but she watched with an amused smile as he admired the wall of blades after every lesson.

He didn't know what exactly it was that fascinated him. A blade was deadly, but so was a bullet. They were beautiful, but beauty was too subjective in his mind for it to be a plausible reason.

She watched his fascination with amusement in her eyes, noting his eagerness and the way he pushed himself so that they could move on quickly onto the next unit of study: onto knives.

The feeling of blades in his hands—after months of empty-handed combat—was exhilarating. There was power hidden in the thin knives, and he remembered her firm and steady hand as she showed him how to harness this power, how to use it to its full potential.

She herself was rather like a blade, he knew even at a young age. She had the kind of beauty that made you want to keep her close, but the way her name was whispered in the halls was a sufficient warning that drove everyone away. She was lonely in that way, and it gave her beauty a cold, sharp edge.

She showed none of this loneliness in her demeanor, however. No matter how they whispered that she was a murdering, deceptive whore who was too violent and wild to belong in Paradise, she was—in her own way—always kind.

She was kind in the way she directed his blade, showed him how to cut through skin and flesh and keep a grip on your weapon even when your hands were covered in blood. She was kind in the way she taught him secretly, and her approval when he stabbed the training dummy correctly was better than chocolate, better than victory.

She was kind the way she was merciless, the way she never hesitated and had no pity. He left their secret training sessions with ugly bruises from merciless beatings—Nothing, she said, compared to the pain of a blade, and if you want to learn to use blades, you must first understand pain—but these bruises were what he built his name upon when he rose quickly to become the best.

That's all it takes, she told him. Understand suffering, understand pain, and you can be king.

He fell in love with the axe, a wicked thing that stood taller than him at the age of twelve, double-edged and ending in a sharp point on its head. He could barely hold it up. She was, of course, rather amused.

"Just like a foolish little Viking," she mocked not unkindly. "Taking too much you can carry back to your treasure cove."

But nevertheless, she taught him to use the thing. She was kind that way. She, unlike him, was not so attracted to fancy and powerful-looking weapons. All she needed was a few pistols and knives and the reputation of her name to bring her enemies to their knees.

Why people were so afraid of her though, he could not really comprehend.

Then again, she had never turned her gun towards him until the Fall.

"Today, there are other things for you to learn," she had said. "But one day, even you will learn to fear my name."

And truly, it took standing against her to finally understand the terror that trailed the name of Magyar.

"Just like the old times, isn't it?" Mathias could hear Magyar's voice seemingly through a layer of foam. He could see her clearly though: there was a long yet shallow scratch on her cheek that barely split the skin, and dried and new bloodstains on her clothes and knuckles. Her two pistol-knives were tucked into her belt, and the blades gleamed tauntingly in the flickering crimson Prison lighting, as if telling him that she did not need knives to make him bleed while his blades could never cut her.

As if he didn't know that already.

"It's amazing," Magyar mused, "how after so many things have happened, no matter how much our lives have changed, we still come back to the same exact point. With you—," she emphasized the word with a casual stamp of her foot: she was wearing heels, and the sharp point dug into his hand. He heard a small bone crack. "—under my mercy."

Mercy. Mathias wanted to laugh. Merciful as Magyar may be, she had never been truly merciful to him. Although Mathias could not exactly begrudge her for that, since her definition of mercy was a swift bullet through the brain, like the fate of that poor soldier who had tried to lead Mathias back to Lukas.

Lukas.

Mathias was roughly propped up against a blood-splattered wall. He had a severely sprained ankle that throbbed with the most miniscule movements, and he had several badly bruised ribs that made breathing a painful business. His hand with the broken fingers and bones were thrown casually to the side, disregarded as Magyar shattered his hand with careful precision. He clutched Lukas's silver cross in his good hand, held it close to his chest as if it could speak to him if it was close enough to his heart.

Despite his broken hand though, Mathias was not in a very terrible shape, considering that he was facing Magyar, whose definition of mercilessness did not allow anyone to leave her presence in one piece.

"What is that?" Magyar noticed the hairpin in Mathias's hand. She crouched down, prying apart his fingers to observe the delicate cross in his palm. She did not take it, and Mathias quickly closed his hand around it once more before she could realize that all she needed to do was break that hairpin and she would shatter him.

"It's beautiful," said Magyar. It was a strange thing to say considering the circumstances, but Mathias decided not to point that out. "Did you know that it once belonged to the Magician of the North?"

"It's Lukas's," argued Mathias. His voice sounded brittle and distant in his own ears. "He's not a magician."

"No, he certainly is not." At least that was one thing they could agree on. "Is he important to you?"

Anybody with half of brain would know not to answer that question. This was the question whose answer gave your enemy everything they needed. Nobody would answer that question, especially when Magyar went to such little lengths to sneak it onto him or pry it from him in a more discreet manner. It was a stupid question, and Mathias opened his mouth to tell Magyar what exactly she should do with that question.

"He is everything to me."

Magyar smiled. "I know."

She straightened and patted Mathias's head rather endearingly. "Thank you, my little Viking. That was all I needed to hear."

"Oh God," Mathias groaned quietly, nearly whimpering when he realized what he had just said. It was moments like these when killing himself seemed very, very appealing. "Fuck me."

Magyar laughed. "I'd really rather not. I'm engaged, after all."

"Fuck you," Mathias muttered, but Magyar gave no indication of whether she had heard him. She was already strolling away, past the mine of corpses, her heels clicking crisply on the tiled floor, leaving Mathias drenched in bloody light and a silvery cross in his hand.

"We meet again."

Lukas could hear the smile in her voice. He felt paralyzed—with fear, terror, anger even. She had just strolled out of the Prison doors as if a massacre was not happening inside, blood—old and fresh—staining her formal white shirt and black skirt. She wore white heels, one of the ends stained dark as if she had stabbed someone with that heel. Maybe she did: you never knew with Magyar.

Somehow, he managed to say, "Unfortunately."

Magyar made a small, nonchalant sound. "Are you waiting for Mathias?"

Lukas gave a little jolt at the sound of that name. She spoke it with a strange tender twist of her lips, the way you would speak the name of a close friend whom you had not seen in many years.

"I saw him back in there," she gestured at the imposing structure of the Prison rising behind Lukas. "He got your message, but I don't think he's in good enough shape to come find you."

It felt like another bucket of ice water was dumped over his head, following the initial shock of seeing Magyar and being greeted so cordially by his tormentor.

"What," he spoke through gritted teeth, "did you do to him?"

"He's not dead, if that's what you were wondering." Magyar sounded almost offended. "Although he might not be in a very good state of mind, since he probably thinks that I'm coming to kill you."

"You mean you're not here to kill me?" Lukas said, sarcastically incredulous.

"All in due time," she answered loftily. "It might not be today, but one day, Mathias Køhler will lose everything—again. In the end, he would know that he had not been able to protect anything: not then, not now, not ever. He came to save you, you know." Magyar's lips quirked into a rueful smile, "But you might need to go find him instead."

Lukas pursed his lips. The vicious cuts on his back had barely scabbed over under their flimsy bandages. It was as if Magyar was mocking him, telling him to go look for his 'savior'.

Even so, Lukas clenched his teeth and braced his hands on the ground, his legs folding beneath him to stand—

"Not so fast." Magyar stepped forward and leaned in close. Her smile was the sharp edge of a cold blade, and there was something solemn and condemning about the way she spoke. "Recently, it's all about messages, isn't it? Everyone sending fragments of information so that in the end, no one really knows what is going on. You sent your message to your beloved Viking—," contrary to the way she had spoken 'Mathias', her lips twisted disgustingly at the word 'Viking', as if it was a hard and bitter thing between her teeth, "—here is my message for you."

"Make it quick." Lukas forced himself onto his feet, but black spots exploded momentarily in his vision, making him sway. He leaned on one shoulder against the cold concrete wall of the Prison as he tried to shake off the dizziness that followed blood loss and exhaustion. He looked up to see Magyar watching him struggle with a peculiar expression, as if she was tempted to help but was held back by some invisible force—probably her reputation of being a murderous bitch. "Well?"

Her face was quickly wiped blank, but a shadow coiled itself in her deep green eyes. "Emil Steilsson will die."

Silence. Lukas could not find the proper words or reaction. It was difficult to breathe, because he could not tell if Magyar was lying, and if she wasn't, he would actually be ruined—and Magyar knew it.

"How?" The word forced its way past his numb lips, barely a whisper yet laden with terror.

Elizabeta Héderváry, as if smelling his fear, smiled.

Is the plot going too slowly? Why do I feel like literally nothing is happening every chapter? Should I start merging chapters from now on so that there will be longer chapters but less frequent updates (not that I'm updating very frequently in the first place, but you know, even less frequently)? Are things getting boring? Each time I write a chapter I look at the planning and tell myself that the fun starts the next chapter, but when I start writing the next chapter, I realize that the fun is actually in the chapter after that, so honestly, I'm really confused by my own story.

Thus, for the sake of the sanity of your author, please Review!