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Rhalgr's Reach was on fire. Veronyka could see the smoke rising even before she got there, heard the cries, the sounds of cannonfire. She had never been the fastest one in Solar, ever used to staying motionless as a black mage. But now, for the first time, she ran in front of the group, sprinting, her strides eating up the ground. Her heart ached for those fallen that she passed, but she could not stop. Not when her mind fixated on the one who meant everything to her.
"Lyse!" Veronyka cried as she came to the bottom of the slope, looking for her through the haze of smoke, the stink of blood. There- a flash of blonde, a glimpse of tall red boots across Starfall as the smoke parted for a brief moment. But there was somebody with her, a ginger-haired girl fighting Lyse, the blonde narrowly managing to avoid having her head sliced off. Heedless of the danger, Veronyka charged across where the water was shallower, though the water was now muddied and red with blood. She even saw a few bodies in it, but she couldn't stop.
Instead, when she reached the pair, Veronyka drew her black mage staff, channeling a powerful fire spell. But then, seeing Lyse there, she reconsidered, switching to a lightning spell that would hit her target only. Fordola's hair puffed as the woman turned around, glaring at the miqo'te.
"And look at that, the one who ran, who hid, who stayed safe, cowering behind the warrior of light," Fordola taunted. "Pathetic."
Something in her words stopped Lyse, who looked between Fordola and Veronyka, torn.
"That's not true!" said Veronyka, casting three fire spells in rapid succession that Fordola knocked aside with her blade. "Lyse saved me when my grief would have driven me to madness, she was there for me when I needed her most, we protect each other!" She cast an ice spell, one that would render Fordola unable to move as swiftly. Fordola's boots became encased in ice, the woman growling at her.
"How romantic," Fordola taunted. "So you can turn your back on your homeland but you can protect her?"
"I sought help," said Lyse, though her voice sounded uncertain. She dropped into a fighting stance though. "Which is a great deal more than you did, turning your back on your country and killing your countrymen on the orders of that brute."
"You dare!" Fordola cried, raising her curved sword. She brought it down, Veronyka watching it fall. Helpless.
And then, she was between them, casting a shield that deflected Fordola's sword, though it sparked. Fordola's body flickered with electricity, Veronyka's own fur and hair puffed up. The shield remained, though.
"Step aside, Butcher." The voice was cold, but Fordola did as she was told, stepping aside so that someone taller could enter the scene. The horns on his armour made up most of his height, in Veronyka's opinion, though he was still plenty tall regardless. "So this is the warrior of light? Smaller than I expected, I must confess."
"Don't hurt her," said Veronyka. "I won't let you."
"A shame," said the tall figure, drawing a sword from a large sheath at his side which held multiple swords. "It seems that love would be your undoing."
Despite their position in being cornered, they tried. Lyse tried to sweep Zenos' legs out from under him, while Veronyka cast spell after spell that was supposed to lay him low. Yet not even a flare spell worked, leaving her simply drained. He just brushed it all off, like it was nothing.
"Is that all you've got?" Zenos asked. "Rather pathetic, really. I had hoped for a greater fight." And he swung his sword, Veronyka just barely forming her shield in time, giving a grunt of pain as the sword clashed with it. The shield bubbled, seethed, crackled... broke.
"Nyka!" Lyse cried, catching Veronyka as she fell. She laid her down gently, on her back, gaze casting about for someone, anyone, who could help. In the distance, she could see Zenos approaching Solar, who would defend their fallen companion. At least he was out of the way. But where were... "Krile! Shtola! Anyone." There were tears in her eyes, tears which she blinked down her cheeks. She could barely bring herself to look at Veronyka, but she must, must see if she was... oh, Nyka. Blood bubbled from her lips, though far less than what ran from her chest. Lyse placed her hand over the wound, though she feared that it did little. Black mages had no healing spells of their own. She knew that, knew also that Veronyka hadn't the patience to stick with the teaching of arcanima or conjury. She herself hadn't either, much to Papalymo's insistence that she try to learn. A healer would be needed, she'd always been warned. And now he was gone too, and there was nobody, and... and...
"Move, twelve damn you!" she heard a familiar voice shout, and suddenly, the white furred miqo'te who had disappeared in the fray earlier appeared, rushing to Veronyka's side. "I promised your sister I would look after you, Nyka, Thal can't have you yet." Healing magic flowed from Y'shtola, the miqo'te's brow furrowed as she worked on knitting closed the wound in Veronyka's chest. "Almost a mortal wound..."
"Her shield broke," said Lyse, her voice scratchy, shaky. "But you can help her, right?"
"She was lucky that her shield took the brunt of the blow," said Y'shtola.
"It should've been me," said Lyse, a sob in her throat. She let it out, sagging over Nyka's form. "She was protecting me, Fordola said-"
"Don't listen to anything that traitor has to say," said Y'shtola, her voice harsh, glancing at Lyse before looking back at her patient. "She was trying to goad you, and she succeeded."
"And I fell for it like a bloody..." Lyse trailed off as Y'shtola glared at her.
"In the coming days, Veronyka will need you, Lyse," said Y'shtola. "You can ill afford to fall into despair now, not at this juncture. You once told me, a long time ago, that you would do anything for her. Now is the time to do that."
"I will," said Lyse. "I'll look after her. I promise."
"See that you do," said Y'shtola. As she worked, the cat's eye pendant at Veronyka's neck glowed faintly. Maybe it was just catching the firelight. Or maybe... maybe it was also fulfilling its duty, a promise given long ago by a woman who was no longer there. To keep its wearer alive, always.