My 16 year old cat, Norman, passed away last night and was found curled up having died in his sleep this morning. Luckily, I wrote this yesterday in a moment of intense productivity, otherwise there would be no chapter. He was a rescue cat adopted by me because no one wanted him due to his throat condition that made him breathe and sound like Darth Vader. "Kssh-Kurrr. Kssh-Kurrr." Lovely cat hand-raised by people after his mother abandoned him, and ridiculously human friendly because of it. Would crawl up people's arms to drape himself over your shoulders and behind your neck and just try and sleep there. Will miss him dearly, but am going to spend today burying him. My other cat is 15 as well, and started to struggle jumping up to high places (which doesn't stop her doing it anyway because she's a cat and fuck gravity and/or limits). Now having lost Norman, I'm snuggling her worriedly.

Cover Art: GWBrex

Chapter 39

"Hold the line!" roared Ragvin, jostling his way to the front of the armoured figures. They moved nervously, threatening to break at any moment. His place was in command, with a view over the battle, but he knew these men would shatter if he wasn't alongside them. "They shall break upon us like water. Hold. I am here. I am with you."

Ahead, the thunder of hooves echoed, and clouds of dirt were kicked up violently. The scent or urine filled the air as men and women lost control of their bowels. The stench of blood would soon drown it out, but only fate would know if it was theirs or their foe's. Ragvin clasped his gloved hands about the haft of his pike, the shaft resting against his shoulder and the butt to the ground. They were still too distant to lower it, and the weight would drag at their muscles if they did.

"Hold," he instructed, as the ranks wavered. "The ground is ours. The enemy must break us, or they shall fail. Hold. Victory is in our grasp."

The dark sky lit up suddenly, a horrible orange glow expanding beyond the riders as great balls of fire – magic – arched up and over. Ragvin licked his lips and ignored the angry voice in his head. With practiced ease, he stamped it down, lowered his pike and planted his foot against the butt to steady it.

"Pikes down!"

Ranks and rows echoed him to form a bristling wall of death. A pike came over each of his shoulders, using his pauldrons as anchors, and two more came through from the rank behind, between his body and that of the men to his left and right. Behind, the fourth and fifth ranks angled theirs higher to fend off arrows and create a bristling wall of wooden shafts.

"It's coming!" cried a young man, hardly more than a boy. "Magic! She's here! She is here!"

"Of course she's here!" shouted Ragvin, before the panic could spread. "Where else would that witch be? I am here, too. I am your lord. I am the lord. Hold fast and we shall prevail. Run and they shall cut you down."

They might die either way but standing offered a chance of survival through victory. He trusted that would be enough to keep them. He was wrong. As fire rained down and exploded among their ranks, those at the back began to panic. It took only one breaking rank to spook the two beside him, and the two beside them, and so on and so on until it gripped everyone at once.

Slowly at first, then quicker, his forces began to rout. Ragvin screamed and called out to them, warned them of the folly, but fear had taken hold. His cavalry on the flanks did their best to corral the deserters back by running about to block their path, but they simply ran between them, and even attacked them in some cases. Others threw themselves to the ground and begged the air for mercy.

The thundering of hooves was louder now. Ragvin looked back, bile and blood in his mouth as the horde rode down on them. He roared a challenge, stepped forward and lanced the first from her mount, spearing her through with ease. He dropped his pike, drew his two-handed sword, and cut the legs from the next horse, spilling the rider to the ground. Turning, he cut her down before she could stand, only to feel agony pierce through his back. The lance shattered in him and drove him to one knee.

Two more found his back before he could stand.

/-/

Jaune stood on the prow of the Seaspear and looked out over the gentle waves. The wind was soft and warm, tugging them along lazily. He drew in the salty air through his nose and indulged in the cool spray against his face. Another dream, another vision, this time of another battle in the distant past, and yet another Dark Lord failing in their so-called destiny. It was enough to make him wonder why any of them tried, and why he was here trying at all. An Ren should have let him go and avoided all of this, and yet here he was, unwillingly being pushed into the same war that had claimed every single one of his predecessors.

News of the Dark Lord was beginning to spread. It had been ten days now since they began, and Jaune had made displays at three more lodges since the first two, bringing the total to five. It might have been possible to keep the news hidden were it less, but even without the ability to travel freely and legally, the news spread. It might have been aided by rebel groups or those breaking the rules to deliver messages between villages and towns, or even by the Corps themselves as they drunkenly told their fellows in bars and taverns. Whatever the case, An's plan was working out.

Or at least he hoped so. The only way to really know if he was dragging the Chosen all over the place would be to stay and find out, and no one wanted to chance an encounter with them. His control of magic still wasn't at the stage he felt confident he could take on an actual huntress, which was something Ozma agreed with.

What Ozma had been silent on was why the dreams had begun to come more vividly. It had always been mad dreams before, in his youth, but now they were clearer. He remembered details, could picture the battlefield even hours after waking up, and even taste the blood in his mouth as he was killed. Worse still, he could remember the man's name – Ragvin – and even felt like he knew some of who he was.

Ragvin had not been a believer in the Dark Lord or his cause; he had been an ambitious, self-important man who fancied himself a warlord, and saw his inheritance as a way to pave his path to glory. To Ragvin, the possibility of death had been no deterrence, for he would rather die on the battlefield than live as a pauper. He'd died for that greed, and he'd died cursing the world, his men, Salem, and everyone else. Ragvin had not been what anyone would call a good man. He had despoiled, pillaged, whored, and taken full advantage of his reputation to cow men and take women, and he had less learned to use Ozma's magic as usurped it, wielding it raw and untamed like a battering ram, and usually only to intimidate people into action.

"He refused to listen to me," said Ozma, reading his thoughts, or perhaps having experienced the vision as well. "Not once. From the moment he learned of my presence to his last breath, he refused to acknowledge my existence. Only in the end did he, when he cursed my name as if his death were my fault."

Jaune hummed. Ragvin was probably one of the few deaths that had nothing to do with Ozma, because the man would have killed himself trying to conquer the land with or without him. The only thing it went to show was that the mantle of the Dark Lord was of little use on its own. Ragvin might have had more success without it, and without Salem and her army of Chosen coming down on his head.

"In a sense, I am but an advisor, and magic is but a tool. If it were as simple as granting me control and pointing me at the enemy, then Salem would have been dealt with a millennia ago."

"Then what is the answer?"

"Would that I knew it. Leadership, I would say. When our roles were reversed and I led humanity through peaceful eons-" A claim Ozma could never substantiate, and which Jaune could only take him at his word on. "-I did so by gently steering humanity, never by controlling it directly as she has. It worked for many thousands of years. Good years. The Kingdoms were ever under threat from the Grimm, but they were happy. Now, she rules with an iron fist, and yet it is rarely she who defeats me. It is her people, her armies, her Chosen. I cannot face them all on my own."

Quantity over quality. Everyone liked to hear it the other way around, but there was always a tipping point where no amount of ability could defeat sheer numbers. Whatever magic Ozma possessed, he could not withstand armies or cadre of Chosen attacking in concert. Maybe that was it. Maybe what was missing was the human element; leadership, inspiration, motivation, and people banding together. What they needed wasn't a powerful man with magic, but someone who could unite the world, usurp power from under Salem and lead his forces to victory.

He was none of those things. A hunter, a youth, and now a runaway. He couldn't even handle the arguments between Ren, Nora, and Neptune, let alone unite entire kingdoms. An Ren had done a better job of that than he had.

"Hey." Neptune approached with a swagger; his lips were curled up. "Lost in thought?"

It always made them uncomfortable when he admitted to talking with Ozma, so Jaune smiled and said, "Just wondering when An Ren and the rebellion will make their move. There are only so many targets we can hit up and down the coast, isn't there?"

"They'll strike at the opportune moment, or so she'd say if she were here." He rolled his eyes. "And it's our job to keep this up until then. I'm sure they're not sitting around on their arses. For all we know, they're already taking out patrols. Hard to get news all the way out here."

That might well be the case. The rebellion was using him as a distraction, which meant they should theoretically be hitting targets on the opposite end of Mistral, far away from where they were. There really was no way to know what was happening that far away, and they couldn't move that way without drawing the Chosen toward An's forces. "I guess so," said Jaune. "What's our next target?"

"Another lodge."

"Again?"

"No need to fix what isn't broken. Your little displays are causing a fuss, and you're managing it without putting yourself or my boys in harm's way. I'd love to say we could make a move on a town, but it just ain't worth the effort. They'll dispatch ships after us and they'll have fortified weapons. Mangonels, ballistae, and the like. One hit from them and we're swimming to shore."

There really wasn't much more they could do. It was worrying to do the same thing over and over and not expect the enemy to adapt, but at the same time he wasn't sure what else they could. Impressing villagers would only risk them being slaughtered and going after Corps patrols themselves would mean a pitched battle. I don't want to have to fight and kill them if I can help it. I guess this really is the safest thing we can do. It hadn't gone wrong yet, so there was no real point in changing tactics.

/-/

Another mooring, another rowing boat ashore and another lodge. It was amazing how, having seen six now, they were all so similar. The uniformity might have been a part of their design; some way of intimidating the locals by repeating the process as if they were stamping fortifications down on a map. Wooden walls, wooden keep, square design. Maybe it was just the simplest thing they could make because these were apparently constructed by the Corps themselves, and not local builders. A square design must have been relatively simple.

It was yet again himself, Ren, Nora, Sun, and a gaggle of sailors, not faunus this time as it was day, and the sun was high in the sky. They had crept through the edge of the wood lines where the soldiers from the fort had cut the trees down to, keeping several metres past the edge to stay hidden. It was hot out, the sky clear, which would make summoning a storm harder, but also more noticeable. Ren wanted that. He had pushed them to attack now rather than wait for nightfall like Neptune wanted.

"This is risky," said Sun.

"It's always been risky," countered Ren. The young man had paused by a tree to look out past it, his pink eyes narrowed on the fortress. "But you said yourself it was better to be unpredictable. They'll start to expect us at night if we only attack then."

"Let's not pretend that's your reason for this."

Ren sighed, clicked his tongue, and said, "I'm not pretending it is. There haven't been any Chosen yet."

"That's a good thing."

"It's not. Our job is to drag them out and away from mother's forces, and the fact they're not responding means we're failing. For all we know, the rebellion is happening right now, and they're being massacred by huntresses. We need to draw them out." He clenched his hand into a fist. "We need to do more."

They were doing enough, Jaune felt, but then it wasn't his family at risk of dying if this didn't work. At least he could rest assured his family were safe in Ansel, or at least he hoped they were. There was no way to know for sure.

"Salem rarely cares for humans," said Ozma, in a rare show of comfort. "They are too small for her to be interested in if they are not immediately in her way. The Chosen may have questioned them, but their claims of you having fallen to madness would not make sense if they chose to punish your family and use them as hostages. They have every advantage here; they do not need to stoop to such methods."

"It's time to get this show on the road," said Sun. "Jaune, you ready?"

He nodded, gently drawing on power. Ozma had taken control the first four times, but after having the magic used through him, while he was a spectator, he'd started to learn a little of how it worked. Enough that Ozma encouraged him to try the last on his own with just a little advice, and for him to attempt this one in person. The eddies flowed in and out of him as he channelled the wind, drawing it close, heating it, releasing it, then drawing more, cooling and releasing that as well.

Hot and cold air mixed together. Up and up. Ozma had taught him that storms formed when water-laden air of different temperatures rose and clashed. A simple explanation, he had said, and not the full story, but enough for a simple young man like him to understand. The point to be learned was that they were not freak events or tied to seasons and dates, as the people of Ansel had once thought.

Nor were they decided and sent by the Goddess to test, though, like him, she could control the weather with her own magic when she wished. In those rare circumstances where Salem chose to take to the field, and not just leave the repetitive Dark Lords to her huntresses to handle.

The clouds above swirled and crackled, and the sun was blocked out. Thunder and lightning came, as it should, and Ozma's solution to drawing it to his hand was deceptively simple. As lightning would strike the tallest object, he simply extended his magic upward, physical but unseeable, to draw the strike. Sure enough, it hit and Jaune felt the energy tingle through his fingertips. Then it was just a case of drawing that magic down into his, containing the natural energies…

His fist crackled and snapped with power.

And then unleashing it.

"Rargh!"

Lightning burst forth. It arched across the ground, bolts snapping off to touch and dissipate the energy, but most heading in the right direction – straight toward the wooden walls, to blast them asunder and raise the alarm. Jaune watched grimly as it thundered forward, while Ren and Nora cheered along with the sailors.

It never made it.

The lightning struck and crackled across something that shone and flickered to life, illuminated by the light crackling across it. It was whitish but clear, with patterns and circles spread across it like frost on a glass window. The magic spread across it like water seeking a way around, but the barrier held firm and soon the lightning flickered and ran out with an ominous crackle.

"What?" whispered Nora. "How-?"

"Chosen," hissed Sun, afraid.

"Chosen!" said Ren, elated. "They've come."

"We need to get out of here." said Jaune. His heart was beginning to beat faster, and he looked around in fear. The forest was empty – they had scouted it – but he was suddenly wary of every tree and bush. "We don't want to fight-"

"The gate is opening!" yelled a sailor.

Sure enough, the wooden gate swung open to reveal three figures on horseback. It was too far to make out specific detail, but two of them wore black and rode horses of black and brown respectively, while the third, taking centre place, wore full white and rode a horse of a similar colour, with flowing white robes coming down its sides and barding. They trotted out quickly, and circled toward their position, accurately gauging where the lightning had come from.

"Time for us to go!" shouted Sun.

"No!" snapped Ren. "The one in white – it's a Schnee!" He was tearing his knives out his belt and already running forward. "We can end this now! We can end the whole war!"

"Ren, no!" cried Nora. She lunged for him, but he slid by, and she stumbled, only to throw caution to the wind and give chase after him. Before anyone could stop them, the two had broken cover and were running toward what was almost certainly a trio of huntresses. Ren to attack them, and Nora to try and stop him.

"Shit, shit, shit!" hissed Sun. "An Ren will have our heads if we abandon them!"

Jaune was already moving. Not, in fact, to attack the huntresses, but to try and get close enough to catch Ren and Nora. If he could cut them off from the Chosen with magic, then he could drag them away. Nora would help. The problem was catching Ren before he got himself killed. Jaune bit his lip and charged out the forest, focusing the power on his hands as Ozma whispered advice into his head.

"Fire. Fire burns and sears the eyes. Block their vision. Create a wall."

Heat and flame, fire and burning, he thought of it intensely, but shaped it this time, unlike before at the first lodge. It would need to be wide and thin, a barrier but nothing more, and not close enough to harm Ren. He flung it out once he was ready, hurling a single ball that flew over Ren and Nora and suddenly dipped down, slamming into the ground between them and the three mounted huntresses and exploding with immense force.

The wall he had aimed for spread, but not far. It was the concussive blast that did most of the work, sending the Chosen's horses into panic. One reared and its mount struggled to stay on, while another allowed herself to be thrown off and the horse to flee. The white steed simply stamped nervously and refused to move toward the flames, forcing the huntress in white to dismount and continue on foot.

Of Ren and Nora, it stopped the former's charge and let the latter catch up. Nora hooked an arm around Ren's neck and hauled him back angrily, all but ripping his feet off the ground as he kicked and snarled at her. Jaune caught up, skidding along the grass with his eyes on the fire and the white-haired figure he could see past the flames.

"Get him out of here," he told Nora. There was a choice few words he wanted to give Ren, but now wasn't the time.

"We can end this!" howled Ren. "She's right there!"

"Yes, and so is an army of Deterrence Corps and two other huntresses," growled Nora, pulling him away. "When did your brain turn to mush, Renny? You're supposed to be the smart one."

He felt the winds change ahead of him and looked away as a cold, biting frost whipped across the fire. It didn't snuff it out, but rather it cut a narrow trench through the middle and froze the grass to prevent it closing.

The girl walked through, not that much older than them, if at all. Her hair was white, her eyes an icy blue, and she held up a thin, silver rapier. Her white robes over leather were pristine, and the armour over her legs, chest and arms shone silver. Frozen grass crunched underfoot as she stalked toward them, but her eyes were on Jaune. Piercing into him.

"As the traitor says," she said, in an icy but young voice. "I am here. Weiss Schnee stands against you, foul one. You have had your fill attacking those who cannot fight back. Test yourself now against one of her chosen."

That was not an offer. She lunged for him the moment she finished speaking, leaving Jaune no choice but to draw his sword and deflect the thrust up over his shoulder. Even then, it tore through his tunic and drew just a little blood. The girl didn't let up, and pushed into him with her body which, sleight as it was, had more momentum behind it. He tried to step back, but she placed a foot between his and drove her body against him, forcing the stumble and drawing her rapier back for another thrust in the same moment.

If it wasn't for Nora attacking with a yell, then he might have died there. Jaune landed on his rear and scrambled aside, and the Schnee was forced to let him go, turning to the new threat. Nora came in swinging her heavy hammer, which the girl in white swayed under. Her free hand lashed out and blasted ice-cold air into Nora's chest, throwing her away and leaving her struggling to breathe.

"SCHNEE!" roared Ren, flying in with reckless abandon. His face was stretched with rage but also glee, and his knives glinted as he went for her throat. "For Mistral!"

"Ren! No!"

There was no use talking him out of it. Fed from anger and grief over his father and home, Ren charged the huntress with no thought for safety – only the blow it would deal the Schnee if one of their number died. He attacked wildly, lunging, and swinging with both knives as Weiss danced back and under, ducking and weaving with graceful movements, and drawing Ren away from Nora and Jaune lest they attack her flank. Jaune scrambled up and chased after them, Ozma shouting in his head.

The Schnee saw him coming. With a quick flourish, she deflected one of Ren's knives, then ignored the second. It struck down across her shoulder, bouncing off her aura without doing any damage. In return, her rapier flicked sharply across Ren's face, drawing a spurt of blood and cutting across, and through, both his eyes. The boy fell, his mouth open, his eyes blinded, and blood running down his face.

Nora screamed.

As did Ozma. "Give me control! Now!"

Jaune surrendered it without a second thought.

/-/

Things were going well, or so Weiss Schnee felt. Her prediction as to the location of the next attack had been accurate, the rebellion predictable in their methods, and it had taken only one day and night of wait within the encampment. Her fellow Chosen had been frustrated at the lack of action, and made their scathing insults of her leadership clear, but they would have to swallow those sentiments now.

As the traitor fell clutching his ruined eyes, Weiss stepped up and prepared her rapier to thrust through his heart and kill him. Mother would have had him tortured, paraded like an animal, and then cooked alive, but she was not her mother and would never take pleasure in the death of another human. A quick death would put him out his misery and end his suffering. The blade's tip speared down toward his heart.

Only to stop as a hand caught her wrist.

"I'm afraid I must object to that course of action."

Weiss froze. No one should have been close enough to halt her, and she surely would have heard the approach. Her eyes, wide open, slanted to the side and widened further still on seeing who was touching her. The young face, blue eyes, and blonde hair of the Dark Lord himself. Weiss yanked her hand free, and, to her surprise, he let her. Having expected a struggle, she pulled back with all her might, and stumbled upon the lack of resistance. She caught herself quickly, however, and leapt back to put distance between them, bringing her rapier up defensively.

"Jaune Arc," she said. "You are charged with treason and heresy, and for an attack on her majesty, the Eternity Queen, the Goddess Salem. You will be given one chance to yield and be kept prisoner, and to spare Remnant the pain of your existence."

"Generous," said the man. "Quite generous, or so it must seem."

He stood between her and the downed man, as another girl with orange hair rushed up and began to drag him away. Weiss cared not to follow, the true prize being right here. Her allies came up on either side of her, weapons ready. About time they joined in.

"Then do you accept? Or shall I cut you down?"

The man, the Dark Lord, raised his free hand, and Weiss sucked in a breath as all the cold in the warmth in the air was sucked away, spiralling over his hand. It burned hot white, like fire, but not, burning in a way that was almost blinding. It hurt to look at, and Weiss fixed her eyes as best she could on his chest instead. What is that? It's not fire. It burns hotter and feels like I might die if I touch it. Even the air around it is warping and shaking.

It didn't make sense. From all accounts, the Dark Lord had not yet learned to master his magic. He was an amateur masquerading as a swordsman, who had taken to attacking unprotected locations and fleeing on the first sight of danger. This level of mastery was beyond what he should have been capable of.

"Oh, but I did not realise you were talking to me," said the man. "You see. I am not Jaune Arc."

"Nonsense," snapped Miltia, on her left. "We know your face!"

"Ah, yes, this face." He smiled, and it was an oddly strange look on him. Like the smile didn't fit the contours of his face. "This body is that of the one known as Jaune Arc, I do not disagree, but my name is Ozma." He let the white orb go, which split into three and floated above his head, framing him in white. He placed both hands atop the pommel of his sword, the tip resting on the ground. "I trust you have heard of me."

It was a punch to Weiss' gut, and all the air had been driven out of her. Ozma. The Dark Lord himself. The bringer of the end. The demon, a god in his own right, standing adjacent to the blessed lord Salem.

"Impossible!" snapped Melanie. "He's lying. The hosts go mad, but they're never him. It's a bluff. It must be!"

"I present to you a counter-offer," said the man who claimed to be the Dark Lord himself. "You have injured one of my own, and my host has apparently wronged you. Let us consider the scales balanced and depart in peace."

With the Goddess watching in spirit, and Malachite sisters and the Deterrence Corps in person, and as more immediate threats should the news reach her mother or the church, Weiss knew she could not accept. To do so would be to be branded a traitor herself, and her mother would purge her to be rid of the shame. And perhaps even Whitley on principle alone. Her hand shook as she brought her rapier up.

"In the name of the Goddess, Salem, I declare your life forfeit. I shall be the one to take it."

The man only smiled. "You shall try, Miss Schnee. You shall certainly try."

Time for Ozma vs Weiss and two huntresses.

Next Chapter: 6th November

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