July 1951

The forge had flooded.

That wasn’t fair. The entire city had flooded.

But that city included the forge. 

“It’s fine, Maggie. I’ll go talk to Hopkins. He’ll understand,” Cyrus had promised her. “I’ve been making good on my payments for years, keeping up. The bills have stayed paid. He’ll recognize that we can’t control an act of the earth.”

He’d left to go talk to Hopkins. To explain. To give an apology and receive a payment extension.

Instead, he’d left behind two teeth and been given a black eye. 

Now it was Maggie’s turn, but she wasn’t going to Hopkins to talk. She wanted to kill him. 

…

Present Day

Maggie felt pain and alien thoughts shoot through her mind as Dane overrode her completely. She was weary, and Dane was energized, given strength from all the petraforms nearby.

Dane, no, stop—

You are mighty Maggie

What are you—

You killed me

Stop—

Now I protect you

She drew—No. She wasn’t in control. 

Dane drew her sword and charged. 

…

Long Before

The Least of Them shuddered back as another blast of fire rocked their carapace. They served their master, true. The one who conquered their mind, their creator, The Greatest by Far. 

But there were limits to service. The Least of Them had seen their siblings fall, seen as the brutal machinations of mortal sorcery bound their minds, sealing and shattering them. The true death. The death that even The Greatest by Far feared.

And those mortals had returned.

The Least of Them would serve. They would send their horde out to face the enemy in perpetuity, letting the chaff die as quickly as it could be spawned, but they didn’t want to die, not to Truly Die. 

Death was coming, and they knew it. 

…

1951

Maggie kicked in the door. 

Dammit.

Maggie tried to kick in the door. It was sturdier than it looked, and even a second kick didn’t take it down. 

Before she could kick a third time, someone opened the door for her.

It ruined her entrance, but she didn’t care. She sloshed in through ankle deep water, making a beeline towards Hopkins, sitting at the far end of his bar and nursing a drink.

Glancing up, he surely saw her expression, but he smiled at her anyways. “It’s the little Cyrus!” he called, using his beer to gesture down at the water. “Roll up your pants and have a drink, child. Sorry I can’t do anything about the water.” 

She hadn’t expected the bar to be in full operation, but apparently, if the water had receded enough to stand, it was low enough for business. A dozen regulars were drinking, playing cards, filling up the bar. Mostly elves, mostly not bothering to hide the tips of their ears, but a few humans as well.

Maggie took out her blade, letting the steel sing and draw the eyes of every patron.

It was the first true sword she’d forged. A hand-and-a-half sword, big enough to use two hands on it, small enough it could be held in one. She liked how it felt in her grip. She’d even named it; Ripper. 

“I’m not here to drink,” Maggie said, her voice almost a growl. “I’m here to fight.” 

…

Present 

Maggie’s mind held both her thoughts, Dane’s, and every petraform around her. She didn’t just know what they were going to do, she dictated it. 

Dane slashed through petraforms like a windmill. Their charge was furious, and though their siblings fought for control of the nearest spawn, Dane could hold the other two at bay. Enough that they could slash the chaff down, using themself, the blade that was also them, slaying Maggie’s enemies with fervor. 

…

1951

The bar laughed. Hopkins didn’t even get from his feet. “Child, sit down. Your master and I just had a discussion that got out of hand.”

“You’re a thief!” Maggie shot back, sloshing forward a step closer to Hopkins, only a few paces away. 

She noticed when the rest of the bar reacted, all of them flinching just a touch until Hopkins gave them a look of dismissal. “What did I steal?”

“You took Cyrus’s money!” she shouted. “You took his home, his forge, you made him work like a dog just to keep paying you! You ruined him!” 

Twenty years of failure. Twenty years of barely scraping by, struggling to make ends meet while Hopkins raked in their money. Maggie had finally learned how much Cyrus owed Hopkins, and it was five times what he’d borrowed. 

Hopkins smirked, sipping his beer. “Cyrus agreed to every deal we made.” 

“Well, you didn’t have to make that deal so unfair!” 

Everyone laughed again. 

Maggie’s face burned, and her eyes were wet.

“Your sword!” She screamed, jabbing a finger at him. “You stole your sword!” 

That at least got him to raise his eyebrow. “I paid for it, Maggie.”

“But you never fought for it!” She shot, leveling Ripper at him. “It’s no true Cyrus steel unless you’ve fought and proved your worth, and you’re not worth more than a piece of trash.” 

Hopkins’ face hardened, and he looked across the bar. The sword he’d paid for, a fine piece of steel, was hung above a rack of whiskey bottles. It was a decoration to him. He pointed, and the elf barkeep took it down.

“You want to fight me, to prove I’m not ‘worthy’ of the blade?” he asked. 

I want to drive my sword through your belly for hurting Cyrus, Maggie thought. “Yes.” 

He took the blade from the bartender, swishing it through the air. “Then we’ll fight.” 

…

Continued in part 2