The world has been tipped on its side.
Or maybe it's because he lays sprawled on the wrecked street, debris and shrapnel and body parts around him.
But Michael keeps down, stays arched over Kristoff, who might have been screaming –
That shrill ringing won't stop. It drowns out every other sound. Coppery slickness fills his mouth – blood. Pale dust coats his skin.
Every trained instinct in him screams to "Get up."
Or maybe he's actually screaming it, but his body refuses to listen.
He can feel his stomach drop, or maybe it's his magic jostling from the from the explosion, but he can feel the warmth of a healer's golden glow spread from his heart to the rest of his body. Assisted by adrenaline, apart from the shrieking in his ears, he doesn't think he's hurt.
Shit, he doesn't know what to think.
Something breaks past his shock, breaks through the ringing, the screaming, the shrieking and his hands wrap around Kristoff's shoulders. "Get up."
He feels his throat scrape from his own voice, but Kristoff thrashes against him, reaching for –
For Sven.
Michael looks ahead and finds the reindeer laying on his side. "Kristoff, get up." Michael orders.
The iceman obeys, running and half-tripping over his own feet to get the reindeer. He let the man look over the bull, tears of relief flooding Kristoff's eyes as he mumbles, "He's alive. He's alive."
"We need to get to the castle gates." Michael orders, palming two fighting knives he kept hidden in his new boots. The only weapons he brought into town. Everything else was up in his rooms.
Shit, shit, shit.
He looks over his shoulder to Kristoff as Sven starts to swim back to consciousness. Michael looks back towards the avenue, looking past the chipped street, past the splattered blood, past the smoke and screaming and agony.
Nothing else goes off, but the chaos ensues as people run and scream for their loved ones, or for shelter, anything.
He doesn't know if they should herd them into the castle courtyard, they'd be nothing more than fish in a barrel if the perpetrator is still out there.
But he can't just leave the people out in the open.
Michael looks over his shoulder to Kristoff who's lugging a wobbling Sven to his feet. They're two blocks from the castle, from the gates. Guards are already flooding the streets, two of them immediately helping Kristoff and Sven. Michael hurries over to one of the guards and says with grit teeth, "I'm going after them. Keep the sisters and him in the castle, gather as many of the villagers as you can."
Without argument, to his surprise, the guard nods and hollers the orders to rest of the guards. Across the way, Kristoff's eyes find his.
"No—" he mouths.
Michael only shakes his head and turns, sprinting in the direction of the bomb's source.
Back into the fray.
He's managed to pick up a couple of lances from the dead guards, a sword from another.
As he sprints through the chaos, the smoke thickens, and the screams don't stop. His feet splash in puddles of blood, the coppery tang filling his mouth until he can taste it. He spits out a mouthful of tainted saliva.
He can't help anyone trapped under debris, he can't stop, can't try to help.
No, he can only shout with endless focus, "Get to the gates! Get to the gates!"
As he heads closer to the source of the explosion, he can see the smoke funneling towards the base of the clock tower. He finds a small vendor with the carved wooden sign reading "Oaken's Cloakens" where he snatches one of many hideously patterned and does his best to wrap it like a cowl around his head.
It's better to have it as the smoke starts to surround him, the screams growing distant. Least he'll be able to have some kind of shield against the flames. The heat is horrible, but worse than the heat is the smoke, which threatens to suffocate him at any moment
He could put these out if he really wanted to; if he really tried.
But he can't try.
He can't risk it.
He doesn't even really know what kind of magic he has, apart from the healing. He could feel that golden magic stitching his wounds together, but it's a slow process. Especially if it's still exhausted from the magical tantrum yesterday. He's even more grateful for the adrenaline keeping the pain at bay. Otherwise he might be too incapacitated to do anything.
He reaches the base of the clock tower, finding bigger dents and larger chunks of cobblestone scattered throughout. A patch of black, with a size he doesn't want to measure, claws its way up some of the houses. It looks like the explosion went off in the middle of the street, thirty feet away from the Arendelle flag monument. Somehow the black and purple piece of fabric still sways in the breeze.
He slows his feet as he approaches, doing his best to swallow some of his coughs, the smoke having broke past his knitted veil.
Looking all around, ignoring that he's stepping in someone else's blood, ignoring what he thinks might be intestine floating about the gutter, Michael prowls through the smoke.
It's a bad idea. He could get surrounded.
The screams of the terrified citizens feel far away now, and he can only hope they're all gathering in the courtyard. Some guards will be out here soon. He needs to find who did this.
He's made it to the flag monument without anything other than traces of fabric, stone, brick. Trying to find what could've caused the explosion is like a needle in a smoky haystack.
In a matter of minutes, his throat and nose are burning. The coughing begins soon after and his lungs begin to feel as if they are actually being cooked. Discomfort turns to distress until each breath sends a searing pain through his chest.
Just as he's about to quit and go help the citizens –
He pauses. He looks down at his feet, at the cobblestone. He blinks, thinking the smoke has messed with his vision, but –
Beneath the black-stained stones, he can see smears of purple. Swiping with his foot, the black dust wisps away too reveal the curved purple stain. His blood runs cold as he follows the trail, his feet sweeping left and right.
When he's made a full circle – a perfect, full circle – he follows more lines that work their way inwards, bisected and branching into more and more lines.
More runes, matching the ones from the last murder. Only this time, Michael's insides turn to water as he finally realizes –
These runes are made for summoning.
He recognizes the similar concept, having seen enough rebel mages summon creatures he doesn't even want to remember. Everything from a simple elemental golem, to creatures that seemed like they were pulled from the deepest pits of hell.
It would make sense if someone – that woman – is summoning these things to seed fear into the citizens. As it would appear she's now dropping the whole Inferno Assassins bullshit.
As he tries to memorize the organization of the runes, he catches movement in his left periphery.
Michael whirls, drawing the lance, and blocking just as the assassin's sword swipes for his head.
He pushes him off, jabbing the man in the stomach to further their distance.
But it isn't an assassin that greeted him.
It isn't even human . . .
Breathing heavy, Michael could feel a warmth pooling on the seat of his pants as the creature's thin lips stretch wide from ear-to-ear in a horrid expression of mirth. Its fangs are bent, looking more like insect pincers, the bottom jaw lined with smaller teeth that look needle sharp. Its pale skin is pulled taut, emphasizing the pointed, bony knobs of its spine; its hands ending with long curved, flesh-shredding claws.
Its eight depthless eyes are filled with hunger – endless hunger. Its slitted nostrils sniff twice. Its scream is so shrill makes his blood run cold.
His composure is lost. Terror rips a white-hot trail through his body, and his focus narrows into a tunnel, his heartbeat as fast as a jackrabbit.
He doesn't even have time to run.
The creature lunges, as swift and deadly as an adder.
Michael darts back, dodging each swipe of those lethal nails. For his throat, for his face, for his guts. Back, and back, circling around the pillar.
Michael jabs with the lance, and the creature sidesteps him, only to slash with its nails, right at Michael's neck.
He spins aside, but the nails graze his skin. Blood warmed his neck and shoulders.
The creature is so damn fast. This isn't just some mindless demon. No, this is a creature who is used to being at the top of the food chain. Who isn't used to something biting back.
Could its summon have caused the explosion . . .? The things he faced before, they all shared a sort of primal instinct. No thought but the need to satisfy their taste for blood and living flesh.
But this one seems to have a fighting style –
It feints left and slashes right.
Michael ducks and rolls aside.
The brick wall shudders as those claws gouge four lines deep into the stone.
The creature hisses. Michael makes to drive the head of the lance into its spine; the creature lashes out with a hand and wraps it clean around the blade.
Purple blood wells, but the creature's jaw unhinges and bores down on the blade until it snaps into three pieces.
Gods above.
Michael has the sense to go in low, drawing a dagger, but the creature is already there — and ringing in his ears begins anew as the creature's other hand drives up into his gut.
The air knocks from him in a whoosh, but Michael keeps his grip on the dagger, even as the creature pounces on him, pinning him to the street.
The stone shudders against the blow, and Michael's head cracks, agony arcing through him, but —
Its jaw unhinges and Michael can see those fangs dripping with venom. Michael manages to bring the wooden piece of the lance up to block the oncoming jaws. The creature repeatedly attempts to chomp, Michael careful as the venom drips onto his shirt.
He rams his knee up into the creature's sternum, earning a blood curdling scream; amplified as he takes advantage of the stun and drives his blade between the fifth and third rib.
The creature rears back, Michael slamming the wood into the creature's head so hard that bone and wood crack.
Rushing to his feet, Michael swings downward as the creature whirls, its back legs twisting beneath while its front arms gouge lines into the cobblestones.
Michael squeezes air into his body. Move—he has to keep moving.
He pulls the second lance from his back, intending to swipe with the dagger if he can get past the creature's guard. House to house, he retreats, rolling and ducking and dodging. The lance is an extension of his arms, spinning and twirling across his back, between his hands, his dagger swiping and whistling as he continues to aim for skin.
The creature swipes and slashes, slamming into every brick wall, a force of nature in its own right.
And then back around, again and again, house after house absorbing the blows that should have shredded his face, his neck. Michael slows his steps, let the creature think he is tiring, growing clumsy—
It works, as the creature hisses, making to tackle Michael to the ground. He narrows his focus, holds his breath in the seconds it takes the chuck the dagger forward.
It shoots like a steam of silver, landing home in the creature's eye, burying to the hilt.
Michael rushes the creature, dropping low at the last second, he slides along the broken street, swiping the creature's feet out with the base of the lance. Spinning the weapon, he hooks one of the legs, twisting it with all his strength.
He grunts with satisfaction at the creature's wail as he dislocates its knee.
Sweeping to his feet, he spins the lance once more before driving point deep into the creature's back, straight over the heart. It wails some more, its cries ringing his ears and sending goosebumps across his skin.
Anger briefly seizes him, his eyes going red and before he knew it, he lifts his foot, and drives all his strength into his foot as he stomps the creature's head into the street. He bites back the bile in his throat as he hears the cracking of the skull, the creature choking and gargling on its own blood.
Two more vicious stomps and he feels the creature grow still. He still waits a minute before removing his foot and the spear from the creature's back.
As he catches his breath and swallows the tightening in his throat, Michael turns and watches as the creature's body suddenly darkens to a thundercloud grey.
He walks around to its front, cringing at the indent in its skull, the milky gaze of the dead.
As if exhaled from the breath of hell's guardian, the creature's body darkens and darkens until it is silhouetted, then slowly crumples in on itself into ash.
A phantom wind churns the ash like silk in water. The dark smoke between the stained bricks grows, swirling. It is colder, too. Cold and dry.
A strange, dead air pushes against his ears again, a high-pitched ringing wending itself into his head.
And then he sees her. The woman standing at the base of the monument.
He glimpses only a flash of pale skin, night dark hair, unfathomable beauty, and those deep, glowing amethyst eyes, and the whistling of the lance as he launches it at her —
Blackness. A wave of it, slamming down on him.
Not oblivion but actual dark, as if she threw a blanket over the two of them.
The ground felt grassy, but he – can't see it. Can't see anything. Not beyond, not to the side, not behind. There was only him and the swirling black.
Michael draws his second dagger, biting down on a curse as he scans the dark. Whatever she is, despite her shape, she isn't mortal.
In her perfection, in those glowing eyes, there is nothing human.
Blood tickles his upper lip — a nosebleed. The pounding in his ears begins to drown out his thoughts, any plan, as if his body is repulsed by the very essence of whatever this thing is. The darkness remains, impenetrable, unending.
Stop. Breathe.
But someone is breathing behind him. Is it the woman, or something else?
The breathing is louder, closer, and a chill air brushes his nose, his lips, licking along his skin. Running — running is smarter than just waiting. He takes several bounding steps that should have taken him past the flag monument and towards the edge of the square, but—
Nothing. Only endless black and the breathing thing that is closer now, reeking of dust and carrion and another scent, something he hasn't smelled for a lifetime but could never forget, not when it had been coating that room like paint.
Oh, gods. Breath on his neck, snaking up the shell of his ear.
He whirls, drawing in what might very well be his last breath, and the world flashes bright. Not with clouds and chipped streets. Not with a set of guards waiting nearby. The yard . . .
This yard . . .
His mother was screaming. Screaming like a teakettle. There was blood running through the grass like a red stream, blood that Michael refused to believe was his father's. Even as his head dropped and rolled along the ground, landing just an inch away from his toes.
The world had hardened and ebbed; the fire and smoke of their burning home barely reaching him. he thought it was merely his mother burning extra logs for their dinner that night.
He could still feel the wetness of the rain and blood on him, permeating his knees, his clothes. He couldn't tell which was which anymore.
And that smell—not just blood, but something else . . . "This is not real," Michael says aloud, backing away from the tree stump on which he is standing like a ghost. "This is not real."
But there were his parents, sprawled on the ground, their throats sliced ear to ear.
There was her father, broad-shouldered and handsome, his skin already gray. His golden-brown hair matted with blood, his eyes glassy, blood dribbling from his agape mouth.
His face . . . his face . . .
Slaughtered like animals. The wounds were so vulgar, so gaping and deep, and his parents looked so—so—
Michael whips the cloak off his face as he vomits. He falls to his knees, his bladder loosening just before he vomits a second time.
"This is not real, this is not real," he gasps as a wet warmth soaked his pants. He can't breathe, can't breathe, can't—
And then she was pushing to her feet, bolting away from that room, toward the wood- paneled walls, through them like a wraith herself, until—
A study, and another body.
The king. Carved up, mutilated, gutted and broken.
By his hands.
The woman lurking behind him slides a hand over his chest, along his abdomen, pulling his back against its chest with a lover's gentleness. Panic surges, so strong that he slams his elbow back and up — hitting what feels like flesh and bone. She hisses, releasing him. That is all he needs. He runs, treading through the illusion of his old enemy's blood and organs, and then—
Watery sunlight and clean stone, and a stone bridge which he sprints towards, not caring about the vomit on his clothes, his soiled pants, the gasping, shrieking noise coming out of his throat.
He runs until he reaches the head of the bridge and falls to the cold stone, gripping it, breaking his nails, retching even though he has nothing left in him but a trickle of bile. He is screaming or sobbing or some sound in between.
The well beneath his stomach is filling with burning, relentless, golden fire. Surging to rise up and protect him. Shield him. Cast out whatever darkness is invading his thoughts, his blood . . .
No. No.
With each breath, the well deepens, that wildfire rising and falling and reaching up, up . . .
He really does scream then, because his throat burned, or maybe that was the magic coming out, at last unleashed.
He tries to clamp down on it, clenching his teeth so hard he thinks they might crack. He convulses, like there's food stuck in his throat.
The wildfire mixes and churns with that golden healing light, his throat burning and cooling. The fire looking for a way out as the healing tries to quell it.
He convulses uncontrollably, a shell at the mercy of the magic as they fight for dominance. But that fire is now absorbing the golden light – taking it and molding it into something –
Michael suddenly coughs, feeling like he's going to vomit again.
I will not let this happen again.
Anger replaces fear, and Michael grips onto that golden fire with mental hands. He dares to open his eyes, a waft of salty air brushes his nose, the ends of his hair.
He looks to his left and finds the metal posts, the thin chain the only barrier between stone, and a deep, cold plunge into the water.
The fire rumbles, pressing against his blood, squeezing his bones. Out, it howls. Out.
His hands tremble, curling, as if he can keep it in.
Not sparing a second thought, he turns and runs, aiming towards the ocean that stretches through Arendelle's port and beyond.
He drops the spear and dagger onto the cobblestones and dives into the water.
Steam hisses, wafting around him in billowing clouds for a short second before water floods his ears. He embraces the water's bite as he plunges, even if it fails to pierce the heat of him.
The water is clear, though the gloom veiled the bottom that slopes away as he pushes further into.
The water is silent. Cool, and welcome, and calm.
So Michael loosened the leash—only a fraction.
Flame leaps out, devoured by the frigid water. Consumed by it.
It pulls away that pressure, that endless fog of heat. Soothed and chilled until thoughts take form.
With each stroke beneath the surface, out into the darkness, he can feel it again. Himself.
More magic ripples out, and Michael lets the leash loosen inch by inch.
He lets himself sink and sink and sink, toes grasping only open, cool water, straining for a bottom that will not arrive.
Down into the dark, the cold.
The ancient, icy water pulls away the flame and heat and strain. Pulls and sucks and waves it off.
Cooling that burning core of his until he takes form, a blade red-hot from the fire plunged into water.
He swims deeper and deeper despite his racing heart at the sight of the darkness looming beyond. But this darkness was different, he told himself.
He felt his chest pulse with the need for air, or maybe it was his magic trying to choke him out. Either way, Michael only swims deeper until he feels his ears pop.
When he can't tell which way is up or down, or left or right, he relaxes, letting the cold water cradle him in its muted hands.
The light burst from him, rippling across the ocean.
A silent eruption absorbed into a thick silence.