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First, cries of alarm, and then running boot-steps echoed down the stone-flagged avenue into the plaza where the Imperial Divine and an accompaniment of Circle of Magi representatives were walking. The noise cut through Magister Benevola’s monologue (a minor blessing) and drew the attention of their Templar guards. It was already too late for that; Ashur sprinted toward the noise, instantly forgetting he wore the silken robes of the Divine and not the cloaking leather of his alter ego.
He never would have allowed such a lapse in self-control before the elvhen gods had laid siege to the city. Now, Ashur had spent so much time among the Shadows, as a Shadow, during this final Blight that being the Divine felt more like the disguise than being the Viper.
He ran into the fight.
A figure wearing a pointed cap and a tattered cloak fled toward the plaza, doing their best to create obstacles out of the flowering planters lining the street. The flash of a red sash around their waist dissolved any doubts as to the nature of the trouble. In pursuit, gaining ground, a solitary man in Templar armor shouted out a warning. Both of them spotted him at the same time.
Tarquin’s eyes flew wide.
Ashur reached for a sword that wasn’t there.
The Venatori assassin withdrew something from their belt and threw it.
Ashur flinched aside. Tarquin lunged forward. The object sailed clear past Ashur, whistling, and impacted the ground behind him with an audible crack and hiss. Shouted orders from the Templar guards in the plaza choked off suddenly in gasps.
The assassin swung for him, the flash of a dagger streaking through the air, but Tarquin landed on top of them in a tackle. Both hit the ground, practically at Ashur’s feet.
Tarquin scrambled to keep them pinned. “Stay back!”
The assassin drew up their arm, blade pointing backward. Tarquin saw it, threw his arm up, and the blade slid over the vambrace. The Venatori kicked him back and twisted to their feet. With a dagger now in each hand, they launched toward Ashur.
Ice shot upward from the ground, channeled from the scepter Ashur retrieved from his silken sash. The blades carved lines into the magical ice and tossed frosty powder in their wake as they swept away. Tarquin got back to his feet, panic in his face as he beheld the assassin clashing with the Divine.
Ashur drew on his magic, throwing gouts of fire and lashes of lightning, talents he had only used in skills trials against other highborn mages. As the Viper, he had never exposed his magical talent. It kept his identities separate and safeguarded him from suspicion since his magical talent would have stood out among the rest. Too skilled. Too powerful.
The Venatori assassin, however, was fast on their feet and seemed to shrug off the flames rolling over their shoulder, as if their cloak had been treated with fire resistance. So, too, did the lightning seem to divert to specific points on the assassin’s armor. Ashur wouldn’t be surprised if this individual had received some of the Crow’s anti-magic training.
He fended off another brutal swing with a sheet of ice, then pivoted away from the offhand counter.
Tarquin rushed in from the side, drawing his blade up defensively. The assassin nimbly danced back, allowing Tarquin to push space between them, but they weren’t thwarted for long. They darted in, shoving Tarquin’s elbow high, expanding the opening beneath his sword and punched inward—
Ashur snapped a dart of lightning into the assassin’s wrist, jolting their aim at the last second. The dagger tumbled out of numb fingers and clattered to the stone. The assassin spun on Ashur and thrusted with their other hand. Tarquin regained his balance and snatched at the flying end of the cloak. The tug and another flash of ice halted the blade short of its destination. Nevertheless, a crimson line bloomed on Ashur’s white sleeve.
Seeing it twisted a fierce scowl on Tarquin’s face. “No!” With the grip he still had on the cloak, he wrenched the Venatori aside.
They rolled into the force of the pull and then cut the ties of the cloak, popping back to their feet with ease.
Tarquin quickly positioned himself in front of Ashur, holding his sword ready for the next clash. “Get back, ser. You’re in danger here.”
A stark reminder that they were in public and not in their usual roles. Ashur had the command of Tarquin twice over, but none of the freedom to wield it. As the Divine, he should have fallen back. As the Divine, they couldn’t reveal their familiarity.
And yet Ashur could not retreat.
In the seconds that had elapsed, the toxic fog at their backs hadn’t yet dissipated, still holding back the Templar guards. For now, they were on their own.
Ashur hailed down ice from above, but the assassin moved fast enough to avoid all but a glancing blow. Without the cloak, it became apparent the Venatori possessed a concerning amount of pockets and pouches attached to their armor. From one, they lobbed a spherical object and the thought struck Ashur like misfired lightning—he and Tarquin stood too closely.
He grabbed Tarquin’s armor and shoved him down with all the desperate strength he had. The orb clicked as it reached the pinnacle of its arc above Ashur’s head. He raised a shield of pure magic, a dome snapping and flickering into existence around them. Plumes of flame fell on all sides of them, as forceful as a waterfall. Sweat prickled his brow as intense heat radiated through the shield. At his feet, Tarquin looked up in open surprise.
Seconds ticked by as the spinning orb continued to expel flame, seconds Ashur strained to hold his defense with arms upraised. With his concentration fixed on the attack, he nearly missed the subtle parting of his magic.
Tarquin’s attention jerked away. “Shit, they’re coming through!”
Glancing, Ashur saw the assassin slicing an entryway through his magic with a knife which hummed and buzzed and glowed with arcane power. They seemed unbothered by the heat, even as their clothing, sans cloak, began to smolder with errant sparks.
Ashur’s brow furrowed with the effort of pressing back against two fronts. Sweat ran down the side of his face, down the length of his back. The cut on his arm stung and blood dyed his sleeve in a stream of red toward his shoulder. He blinked his eyes clear, and so he missed the twitch of an extending arm.
He only saw Tarquin leaping to his feet before him, then jerking with the force of something thudding into him. Tarquin fell backward onto him and Ashur was forced to drop his hands to catch him.
They both tumbled to the ground as the magic shield vanished. Flame caressed his back. Ashur rolled on top of Tarquin and called on an icy maelstrom to twist up around them. Its cold winds raked over them, stealing Ashur’s breath. He tucked his face into Tarquin’s shoulder and counted out the seconds it took for the power he’d channeled into the spell to extinguish.
When it ended, there was no longer any fire. As Ashur lifted his head, he spotted the inert device lying on the ground a foot away. He looked, but there was no immediate sign of the assassin. They must have used the cover of the storm to escape.
Tarquin gasped beneath him and it sounded wrong. Wet.
Ashur looked down.
Punched through the chest plate of Tarquin’s armor was the long throwing dagger meant for the Imperial Divine. Tarquin’s mouth, lips glazed red with blood, parted on a futile gasp for breath.
The electric grasp of panic wrapped its fingers around Ashur. His hands flew to the dagger’s hilt, but the weak gesture of Tarquin’s reaching fingers stopped him. Their eyes met and locked: brilliant, unearthly teal against warm and earthy brown.
“Pleasure,” Tarquin forced past trembling lips, “to serve, Your Perfection.”
“No. Quin!” Ashur leaned over him. “Stay with me.”
“Stay safe,” Tarquin said. “Tried to—keep you safe.”
Ashur shook his head, ignorant to the background clamor within the plaza. Tarquin’s cheeks were so pale. “You’re not going anywhere. Brace yourself, dear heart.”
The words may well have been intended for himself because pulling the dagger from Tarquin’s chest, listening to his strangled cry of pain, sent shivers through his whole body. The weapon fell to the stone, forgotten in an instant.
Ashur’s hands swept forward to cradle Tarquin’s head, lifting him as he bent down to press his lips to Tarquin’s bloodied mouth. Into the kiss Ashur poured his healing magic which, since becoming the Divine, was conspicuously more powerful. He felt it swim into Tarquin’s body, finding the torn flesh and muscle, the severed veins and arteries, the damaged lung and cartilage. His magic grasped the waning life within Tarquin and held him securely while the grievous wound mended.
Despite the effort it had taken to hold his shield against simultaneous attacks, Ashur’s healing magic took nothing at all. This magic flowed like an endless font, wanting ever and only to seek out and restore that which was broken and damaged.
Only when he was certain Tarquin was whole again did Ashur part their lips and lift his head. Tarquin opened his eyes, tired at the edges, and peered up at him. “Ashur—”
“Your Holiness!”
Templar guards surrounded them and more—reinforcements—fanned out into the street.
“We must ask you to leave the vicinity at once.”
Ashur pulled his hands away, cognizant, in the last second of his magic’s connection, of the discomfort created by the punched-in pieces of steel plate. His fingers wanted to reach for the clasps of the breastplate and remove it. Instead, at Tarquin’s subtle nod, Ashur drew himself to his feet and stepped aside.
Immediately, the Templars moved to encircle him and exclamations were made over the blood decorating his sleeve. They would escort him to the Chantry where one of their priestesses would treat his wound. Ashur was familiar with their protocol of care. He knew not a single scar or blemish would remain and he would again, as ever, be the epitome of Divine Perfection. Whatever secret marks he had accumulated as the Viper would be wiped clean. Hard-won proof of struggle and triumph, of life lived—gone.
Checking his private disappointment, Ashur turned his head to catch Tarquin’s eye as he was led away. “Please ensure this soldier is commended for his efforts. He fought valiantly in my defense at great cost to himself.”
“Of course, your Holiness.”
With a similar parting nod, Ashur allowed himself to be escorted away.
Later, the Viper would meet him atop some drain-drizzled roof in Low Town and Tarquin would curse him out for commendation, saying it was unnecessary and it would only draw attention. Ashur would assure him it was the most appropriate response to what had happened, not to mention he needed to redirect curiosity from his own willful involvement.
For now, though, the Imperial Divine returned to the Chantry to be meticulously examined and healed, and the lowborn Templar soldier who’d chased down an assassin alone stood by to give his report, one hand pressed reverently over the hole in his armor.
Ashur’s heart still drummed with adrenaline. He drew in his bottom lip and tasted the sweet, iron tang of Tarquin’s blood. Tonight, he promised himself, he would give Tarquin the thorough kiss he deserved. He would hold him in an embrace the way he craved to do now.
Tonight, he repeated as he stepped through the Chantry’s massive doors, already counting the hours.