"Get down!" someone shouted.

Violet heeded the warning without a moment's hesitation, throwing herself to the hard packed earth and raising the strongest shield she could.

It was not a moment too soon. The world seemed to be engulfed by cherry-red flames as an almighty roar filled her ears, drowning out the intermittent cracks of gunfire and the screams of the dying. Behind her, a well dressed Winter fae was not so quick, and his howls of agony drifted over the roaring. Ignoring him, Violet began to crawl to the side, seeking to escape the terrible heat above her. She grasped the iron of her sword, and the heat seemed to lessen.

All at once, the firestorm vanished, and Violet's eyes fell upon the scene. Their force had been devastated; easily half of the fae and more of the lesser Sidhe lay dead on the ground, scorched and blackened by Summer flame. Those who still stood tried to regroup, warily eyeing the newcomer responsible for the firestorm. Then Violet saw him, and she swore.

Nearly seven feet tall and as fair as the sunrise, the Summer Lord stood. His long blond hair danced like flame, and his cold black eyes flicked over the scene of devastation. The remnants of the Summer force they had ambushed cheered at the sight of their Lord, their relief palpable. Equally apparent was the dread among the Winter fae; even at their best, a Summer Lord would be their equal. Now, taken by surprise and with half their number burnt, the situation was grim.

"It would appear," came the Lord's cultured voice, "that rabid dogs have encroached upon our lands. Such beasts must be intermittently reminded of their place."

Your lands? Violet thought incredulously. They were in neutral land, a thin strip of territory ranging between two and three kilometers thick, which stretched across the border between Winter and Summer. It was a near-constant battleground, as Summer and Winter clashed unceasingly. Lately, Summer had pressed more and more aggressively, forcing Satria to go into battle herself more frequently to halt their advance.

"But where is your profane Lady?" continued the Lord. "She deigns to scrap with common soldiers, yet now you stand abandoned. Such disloyalty would never be found in our Court."

Violet winced. It seemed that Satria's practice of directly taking the field had drawn out the Summer Lord. That had been the plan, actually. By forcing their Lord to show himself, they had created an opportunity to deal a concrete blow against their enemy. The problem was, the whole plan hinged on them actually being able to kill the Lord. And with Satria absent, off politicking with the other Lords and Ladies of Mab's Court, that was looking like a highly dubious proposition.

Violet quickly assessed the situation. The Lord watched impassively as the remaining Winter fae formed up for a final defense, seemingly in no hurry to end things. The lesser Sidhe who had survived the firestorm had broken ranks and fled, and Summer fae were flitting amongst them in bursts of flame, cutting down the stragglers. The Lord might appear vulnerable as he stood alone against ten times his number, but she was all too aware that the remnants of their force stood about as much chance against him as a snowball in the Summer Court. She would not be participating in any suicidal last stands, thank you very much. Her blade was already well blooded, and more than one Summer fae would never see rebirth, thanks to her.

Then, without warning, battle was joined once more. Streams of flame crashed with walls of ice and blasts of water as the combined strength of the Winter fae clashed against Summer and was found wanting. There was a crack as some poor fool fired a rifle at the Lord, who immolated the fae with a contemptuous twist of his hand. Then, he began to stride forward, carelessly deflecting any attacks directed toward him.

Time to go.

Violet rose to her feet, drawing Winter power around her. Her form distorted and blurred as a glamour wrapped around her. Soon, in her place stood a meter tall blue skinned sprite, with beady red eyes. She sprinted away from the battle; hopefully the fae harrying the retreat of the lesser Sidhe would overlook her; otherwise, well, they wouldn't expect a common sprite to offer any meaningful resistance and, perhaps, she would get the chance to claim a little more Summer blood this day.

She heard the screams of dying fae behind her and forced herself to run faster. She didn't want to be anywhere the vicinity when the Lord finished playing with his food.

She stumbled slightly as the ground to her left erupted in flames. From the fire strode a Summer fae, blood dripping from her ornately decorated axe. Like most powerful fae, she eschewed armor, instead wearing a translucent robe that clung to her figure. Grinning, she stepped forward, hefting her axe.

Violet cowered backward as convincingly as she could. That the powerful fae hadn't seen through her glamour yet was frankly embarrassing. But the first rule of glamours was to show something your enemy expected to see. The Summer fae expected a cowering lesser Sidhe, so she had no reason to see through Violet's deception. It would be her final mistake.

The fae was just about to strike when Violet preempted her. She threw up her left hand as the glamour collapsed around her. Eyes wide with shock, the fae failed to avoid the blast of bitter cold that struck her face.

She hissed as the moisture in her eyes froze, blinding her. Winter magic seeped through her flesh, a black corrosion spreading over her delicate features. She brought up one hand, wreathed in fire, to her face, but before she could banish Winter's curse, Violet moved. In a blur of motion, she thrust her sword into the fae's stomach, then ripped it out the side in a fountain of blood and gore. The fae collapsed, her expression a mix of disbelief and horror.

"Iron," she gasped. "How?"

The curse Violet had landed earlier was spreading across her face. Her nose and one of her cheeks had been reduced to frozen, necrotic flesh, but it would not be the curse that killed her. She lay in a rapidly growing pool of her blood, and the touch of iron would prevent any use of Summer magic to save herself.

Violet laughed. "You really have no idea what I am, do you?" The fae's suffering provided some consolation after the disastrous events of the day, though she wished it were the Lord lying before her.

"Not… fae? Impossible; you are… of Winter." The fae's voice was weak, but her expression was impassive even as black corruption destroyed her beauty and her lifeblood stained the soil. But Violet saw her eyes, and knew the truth, her talent for mental magic leaving the fae's emotions bare. She was terrified and confused, faced with something new after thousands of years of near stagnancy.

Violet placed her boot on the Summer fae's wounded stomach and pressed. She stifled a groan.

Violet held the tip of her sword to the fae's face. "Right now, you and I are the same. Mortal."

Blinded eyes widened in realization, then fear. Violet thrust.

~#~

"You know, it would make for a pleasant change if for once I could leave the court for more than a day without disaster striking," said Satria, visibly exasperated.

Satria, Violet, and Armen sat around a table. A fourth chair was conspicuously empty, as these meetings were typically also attended by the second in command of the Knights. Unfortunately, the man had been the leader of Violet's unfortunate expedition and was killed that day, cremated by the Summer Lord. Two more days had passed since then before Satria's return, and the Lord had repeatedly attacked Winter holdings in both the neutral lands and in Winter proper; it seemed he was as eager to provoke a confrontation with Satria as she was with him.

Violet snorted indelicately. "It would help if you didn't abandon us after pissing off a Summer Lord."

"Oh?" Satria said. "Are you volunteering to show the flag in the Queen's Court the next time some puny Lord decides to intimidate our ambassador? Because I assure you, it is a task I would delegate gleefully."

Armen chuckled, a deep and rolling sound. "She has you there, lass. I can't imagine you in politics."

"As if you'd do any better," she muttered.

Satria rolled her eyes. "Children, please. We have a more pressing matter, no? Namely the puerile boy who believes he can challenge us so openly. We shall have to demonstrate the error in his judgment."

"Sounds good," Armen said. "How?"

"Why, by giving him exactly what he seeks. I will engage him directly and strike him down. Then Violet shall spit him upon iron and then we will march on his lands." Satria's voice had a cruel edge at the prospect of permanently killing the Lord of Summer.

"Begging your pardon, milady," Armen said, ignoring Satria's withering look. "But are you certain you would prevail in such a duel? Were you to fall, our position would become untenable. The court would be overrun or, worse, Mab would appoint a replacement."

Satria looked like she wanted to say something cutting, then reconsidered it. "Fine. I suppose that if I were to die, all would be lost. I am, after all, irreplaceable, and it would not do for Mab to have the opportunity to think otherwise." She paused. "But it occurs to me that neither of us know well this Lord's true capabilities. Violet, however, does." She gave her a meaningful look.

Violet frowned. "He's strong. Undeniably strong." She drummed her fingers on the table. "He demonstrated no impressive versatility, though it is probable that the circumstances did not stress his abilities. It is likely that he is holding something in reserve."

"Do you believe I could defeat him?"

"I don't know," Violet admitted. "But certainly not without risk."

Satria nodded slowly, unsurprised. "And if I were accompanied by you and Armen?"

"That would be… another matter. But it hinges on being able to isolate him against the three of us. If he has fae by his side, it would be no better than you fighting him alone."

"Our greatest advantage is Violet," Armen said. "As long as her presence is not known, the Lord will be unprepared for her. In fact, she would likely be most useful from a distance. With a good rifle and iron bullets, she would pose a great problem for him."

"You propose an ambush," Satria said. "To lure the impudent child in with my presence, then surprise him with a storm of iron." She smiled. "I like it; he deserves nothing less for seeking an honorable duel."

"It is something that will only work once. Most of the plan's effectiveness depends on him being unprepared for iron. No fae expects to fight a mortal in the Wyld, so it should work, but we mustn't allow him to escape," Armen said.

"A good point. If we extend an invitation of formal combat, I will be able to include a geas against retreat," Satria said. "It will work."

"But," interrupted Violet, "wouldn't such an invitation prevent interference? We're trying to avoid an even fight, are we not?"

Satria smiled in the way she she did when feeling particularly sly. "Indeed, no fae may break such an accord. But we are not all fae, are we? And so long as I am not aware of any planned interference at the time the duel begins, I will be in violation of no geas." Her smile turned wry. "I'm certain none of you would consider such a thing and fail to inform me, yes?" She turned to Armen and said, "Send a rider across the neutral lands, if you will? I wish to challenge the most honorable Summer Lord to single combat; on a completely unrelated note, see about acquiring some iron bullets."

Now Violet was smiling too.

~#~

One week later, Violet found herself sitting on a grassy hill overlooking a large valley of neutral land in which tiny figures were visible. Her weapon rested in her hands. The craftsmanship was beautiful, each component designed and created by the finest weaponsmiths in the Wyld. It consisted primarily of polished wood, stained dark, but the barrel was of burnished bronze. It was Armen's personal rifle, the finest in Satria's court. After today, it would be hers, for the taint of the iron bullets would linger in the wood and metal, making it unsuitable for fae hands.

She had practiced intensely with it over the past week and was confident in her accuracy. She peered down the scope, and the small figures resolved themselves into recognizable forms. Satria and Armen stood on on side, while the Summer Lord and one of his fae stood on the other. Armen and the other fae would be officiating the duel.

Violet kept her breathing as steady as she could. The plan depended on her; in fact, she was the plan. Neither Satria or Armen could be certain of her interference before the duel began, or the geas would take them. Violet had only been able to hint at her plan to try to give them some forewarning of what might theoretically happen. She shook herself. Her interference may not even be necessary, if Satria got the better of the Summer Lord.

Her breathing hitched as Armen and the Summer fae stepped backward from the Lord and Lady. The duel was about to begin. Armen and the other fae nodded to each other, then each held out a colored ribbon, one blue and the other red. Each allowed theirs to drop, and the duel began. Both officiators hastened to increase their distance between the two combatants.

Satria acted first, vanishing in a blue flash that left the ground frozen behind her, and reappeared behind the Lord, swinging one of her bone sickles in each hand at his back. He dodged gracefully and unleashed a stream of fire that washed harmlessly over Satria, not even disturbing the skirt of her dress. He nodded, then drew a curved saber, which had the characteristic off-white coloration of alchemical silver, and joined her in a blindingly quick dance of silver and bone.

Satria drew first blood, the blade of a sickle drawing a red line across the Lord's muscular forearm. But he counterattacked immediately, stepping forward and taking advantage of his great height to smash the butt of his saber into Satria's head. Violet winced, and her finger tightened over the trigger, but Satria recovered and teleported away once more.

The Lord of Summer slowly turned to her, then tapped one finer against his head mockingly. Violet noticed that the cut along his arm was visibly healing. She inhaled sharply. A healing factor of that magnitude was practically unheard of, even among the most powerful fae.

Then he was moving, and Violet gasped again. He was leaving afterimages behind him, each of which acted on their own accord for nearly a minute before fading. Satria was visible shaken but held her ground against his advance. Then he was upon her, half a dozen afterimages joining him as they slashed and stabbed at Satria.

She danced and wove around the blades, and Violet could see that she was laughing. Flashes of blue and streaks of sharpened ice punctuated the melee, and one afterimage after another was cut down. The temperature dropped precipitously, and Violet was astonished to realize that snow was beginning to fall over the neutral land of the battlefield. Was Satria's grasp of magic truly so far superior to the Lord's to wrest control over the weather, or had he overcommitted with his own, admittedly impressive, tactic?

Either way, the Summer Lord seemed to realize that this exchange was unfavorable for him, and he vanished in a burst of flame. Satria followed him immediately, appearing by his side. They exchanged a few blows before repeating the maneuver, disappearing and reappearing all across the valley.

Violet struggled to keep her sights on her target. She hoped Satria wouldn't run into trouble during all this teleportation because she wasn't at all certain she could reliably hit the Lord like this.

The weather had developed into a true blizzard, freezing winds and pounding sleet buffeting the combatants. Satria reveled in it, but the Lord's movements slowed, his appearance quickly growing bedraggled. Satria must have noticed as well because she went on the offensive, a blur of pale skin, blue cloth, and sharp bone.

The Lord retreated and defended himself as best he could, but Satria's nimble blades cut him repeatedly, faster than he could heal. She reversed her grip on one of the sickles and sank the point into his side, yanking it toward her and opening a grievous wound. Violet grinned.

That was when it happened. The Lord of Summer stood straight, suddenly showing none of his previous weariness, and his saber flicked back and forth to intercept Satria's attacks. He raised his left hand and clicked his fingers. For a moment nothing seemed to happen. Then there was a great ringing, like the tolling of a colossal bell. Even from this distance, it made Violet's ears hurt. Satria staggered, dizzy, but recovered quickly and began to circle the Summer Lord.

There was something wrong, Violet realized. The grass beneath the Lord's feat withered away under his feet, and the air around him shimmered strangely. The bitter winds seemed to no longer reach him, and his blond hair lay still. Satria must not have noticed because she dashed forward, and they once again exchanged blows for a few seconds, before the Lord teleported away. Satria made to follow, then hesitated at his look of cold amusement.

The reason for his amusement was obvious; in those few seconds, Satria's weapons had deteriorated, as if aged a thousand years in a moment. One of her sickles was half gone, and the other was pockmarked with holes. Her clothes too had been affected, leaving gaping holes in once fine silk. Violet could see her frown, baffled by this magic. It hadn't hurt her—her only injuries were those inflicted by his blade or flame. She hurled an experimental javelin of ice, and he didn't even step aside as it reduced itself to powder inches away from his skin.

This was bad. Violet was just about to take her shot when the Lord charged, closing the distance between the two in a fraction of a second.

Satria took great pains to keep her remaining sickle away from the Lord, but that meant she was stuck solely on the defensive. He kept up a blistering attack, constantly seeking to close the distance. Satria did the best she could, but Violet could see cloth and bone flake away. Violet looked for a shot, but the two danced around each other so quickly she couldn't be sure she wouldn't hit Satria by accident.

The Lord feinted a lunge, prompting Satria to leap back to spare her weapon from his corrosive field, but it was a feint, and instead his saber arced over her back. That was the last straw for the dress, which fell to the ground. Violet bit her tongue. Without the dress, it was clear just how many wounds Satria had sustained over the course of the duel. Worst of all was the slash across her back, stretching from shoulder to hip. She shaking visibly, but ice was creeping along the cut, stemming the bleeding. The Lord, too, had been injured, but his rapid healing kept him in good condition.

It was now or never. Violet exhaled, finger tightening over the trigger. There was a loud crack, audible over the roaring winds, and the rifle kicked against her shoulder.

Where ice and bone had dissolved to nothing, cold iron sailed though unhindered. The Summer Lord jerked suddenly as the bullet ripped through his shoulder, blood spraying upon the rapidly accumulating snow. Violet worked the bolt as quickly as she could, then fired again, though he had now raised a shield, which cracked but held. He was pressing a hand to his ruined shoulder, and Violet smiled sharply, for wounds of iron would not be so easily healed.

As soon as she had fired her first shot, Armen, always quick on the uptake, drew a pistol of his own and fired six shots into the Summer adjudicator's back, then drew a sword and beheaded the wounded fae.

Violet fired for a third time as Satria clenched a fist. The Lord's shield shattered like glass under her magic, and the bullet passed through his neck. He fell to one knee, and swirling flames erupted around him, but the blizzard intensified, and they were extinguished. Violet fired one last time. His head erupted into a spray of blood, and the Lord of Summer was dead.

Satria gave the corpse one last imperious look, then swayed and collapsed. A strangled sound tore its way from Violet's throat at the sight, and she began to sprint down the hill, rifle laying forgotten in the snow.

Once she'd made it down, Armen had helped the Lady to her feet. Violet heard her voice drifting over over the winds: "Yes, of course I'm all right, but my dress isn't! Get it off the ground."

Armen gave the scraps of cloth a dubious look. "I, ah, don't think it will be salvageable, milady."

"Damn it. That's the fourth one ruined this month."

Armen laughed throatily. "Perhaps if you went into battle in the nude?"

Satria sniffed. "I think not. The enemy would be so awestruck by my beauty they would be unable to offer a satisfying fight." Her eyes took on a glint of amusement. "Since you find my predicament so amusing, perhaps you wish to spend the best part of a week in the forest hunting for Acromantula silk for a replacement?"

"As the Lady commands," Armen said slyly. "Violet! How would you feel about a trip into the woods?"

"Nice try, but you got yourself into this," Violet said as she came to a stop before the two. "Sorry it took me so long. He wouldn't stand still."

Satria waved her hand dismissively. "Ah well, it was an enjoyable spot of exercise." She looked over the snow covered landscape of what used to be neutral territory. "An improvement in the scenery, no?"

"And this is just for starters," Armen said with a bloodthirsty grin. "Soon snow will cover the fool's lands, while his court burns."

"A tantalizing prospect," Satria murmured. She ran a finger through the blood trickling from a cut on her thigh and licked it thoughtfully. Then she sighed and said, "Well, we had best make haste before I pass out. Unless you're hoping for the opportunity to carry me to the horses?"

Armen shook his head dramatically. "Certainly not, milady. Even in unconsciousness, you wriggle enough to make you terribly unwieldy to lift."

"Is that so?" Satria said, arching an eyebrow. "Well, in that case, you may carry the Summer Lord's corpse instead. I assure you, he will not be 'wriggling.'"

Muttering something under his breath, Armen did as he was bade, with a look of utmost disgust as blood and gore spilled on his doublet. Violet snickered at his misfortune; ever since her near-disastrous hunting expedition several months ago, Armen had found himself assigned with an unending series of tedious and grotesque tasks. She bid them goodbye and retrieved her rifle, then joined them at the horses where they rode back to the court. Satria's unclothed and bloodied state attracted a great deal of attention, but it paled before the focus on the bloody corpse of the Summer Lord, and cheers followed them as they rode along the white stone streets to the manor house.

~#~

"Albus!" exclaimed Minerva McGonagall as she burst through the door into his office.

Albus Dumbledore looked up in slight alarm. He hadn't seen Minerva move that quickly since the time her office was charmed to grow catnip from every surface. They'd never caught the unruly students responsible, though Dumbledore had a strong suspicion who it was. He had simply never seen the need to 'snitch,' as some of the younger students would say. It was a rather amusing bit of mischief.

"Is something the matter, Minerva?" he said gently.

"Not at all, no. In fact—well, you should see this." She all but shoved a parchment envelope into Dumbledore's hands, who took it gingerly. He adjusted his half moon spectacles and peered at the envelope. It appeared to be a standard acceptance letter, but to whom was it addressed?

Miss V. Potter

First Bedroom of the East Wing

The First House

The Eleventh Court

The Other Side

Well, now this is interesting, Dumbledore thought. He had never quite accepted Alastor's ominous proclamations of Violet Potter's likely fate—grisly things, born of a mind that had seen far too much hardship—but this, whatever 'this' was was unexpected. For a start, it suggested that whoever had taken Violet was a person of significant means, and that Violet was held in a position of some importance, judging by her presence in the 'First Bedroom.' Unfortunately, that was where his conclusions ended. 'The First House' and 'The Eleventh Court' told him nothing useful, and the less said about 'The Other Side,' the better. He didn't think he'd ever seen an acceptance letter addressed so vaguely.

"Well?" blurted out Minerva. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"Very little, I am afraid, excepting the rather wonderful news that Miss Violet lives." He sighed, wiped at his glasses with a handkerchief. "I assume this was recently written by the Quill?"

"Of course. I was signing the letters and when I saw this, I hurried as quick as I could." She sank into a chair opposite the headmaster and rubbed her brow. "What do we do now? Poor Violet, lost who knows where, taken by who knows whom. Oh, I told you those were the worst sorts of muggles."

Dumbledore winced. That particular point had been rehashed in innumerable conversations since Violet's disappearance. Minerva had been… less than pleased with the apparently lacking extent of Dumbledore's protections and, frankly, he agreed. He should have impressed on Arabella more firmly the need for attentiveness.

"I believe that it is less a matter of what we should do than what we can do; and, if nothing else, we can mail that letter. Perhaps, if we are most fortunate, Miss Violet will join us in a few months' time." Even as he said it, Dumbledore was struck by a quiet certainty that they would not be so lucky. Leaving Violet with her relatives had proven to be one of his mercifully infrequent, yet monumental in their consequences, missteps.

"Just send it?" said Minerva, sounding slightly upset. Dumbledore sincerely hoped that she would not start shouting. Minerva had a tendency to raise her voice unpleasantly frequently when the subject of Violet Potter came up. "Can't we—I don't know—track the owl, perhaps?"

"Mail owls are notoriously difficult to trace," said Dumbledore. "A chap I once knew was working on a method but, ah, he had a small issue with the charm. It made the owls quite aggressive, and I believe he put the project on hold after almost having an eye pecked out. Perhaps I should write old Bartholomew one of these days, it has been a rather long time."

"What? Not the time, Albus," Minerva said. Dumbledore smiled beatifically. His little tangent had defused her rising anger quite effectively. He would have to remember that trick for the future.

"In all seriousness, Minerva, I don't think there is anything more we can or should do. The Quill was never intended to penetrate obscuring enchantments. That a letter was successfully addressed at all is a pleasant surprise. The last thing we would want is to pry too intently and drive Miss Violet's new guardians deeper into hiding."

"New guardians?" Minerva said with a dry laugh. "Is that what we're calling the kidnappers now? Well," she corrected, "I wish I had taken her from those muggles the very day we left her there, so perhaps we should be thanking them."

"Quite right Minerva, that's the spirit." Dumbledore studiously avoided showing any amusement at her irritation at his deliberate misunderstanding. He really should stop needling his staff one of these days, but the levity provided a welcome break from from his seemingly endless paperwork. He would be much happier once the students returned. Life always seemed rather dull without the constant mayhem. He was particularly looking forward to the return of the Weasley twins. They had managed a number of truly inspired works of mischief the last term and he was eager to see what they had prepared for him this time around. He chuckled, then winced at Minerva's glare. Oh yes, he had been trying to avoid amusement. Alas, he had failed.

"Shall I accompany you to the Owlery? I believe we have a most important letter to dispatch." Fawkes fluttered to his shoulder as he stood, and he ran his fingers though the phoenix's lush feathers, warbling softly.

"Oh, I suppose so, Albus. I just hoped…"

"I understand entirely, Minerva," Dumbledore said, resting a wrinkled hand on her arm. "We all would like nothing more than to see Miss Violet safe and happy in the halls of Hogwarts. And I am certain that on one of these days, we will see our wish come true, even if it is not for some time yet."

Minerva nodded, the two setting off to the Owlery, and if she snuffled occasionally on the way, Dumbledore was tactful enough not to mention it.

AN:

Thanks to everyone who has read so far, and especially for the review. This was another of the chapters I had mostly completed before posting the story. I hope you enjoyed.