It had been three days since the pair had left the town of Gyueson and Fyr had to admit that cutting his hair had been a great idea. Not being able to wash his fine hair had left it a greasy mess. He had started itching only a few days into his escape but had stubbornly ignored both the itch and the rash across his shoulders caused by the grease buildup. 

He adjusted his kerchief again, wincing as the fabric brushed against the still healing sunburn on his scalp. He didn’t miss the smirk on Rika’s face at his discomfort. She had warned him to cover his head even as she had shaved his hair down to mere fuzz. He just hadn’t thought it necessary since they were nowhere near civilization, there was no one to recognize his mark. Turns out, it wasn’t the mark she had been concerned about.

“Enough of your gloating Ri!”

She giggled- actually giggled- and he froze. She had never done that before, a wry chuckle perhaps, a sardonic guffaw on occasion, but never a giggle. He knew the moment she realized what she’d done, for she froze as well, as if astonished in her own reaction. 

How sad that her life had not been one of happiness and laughter.

Breaking free of the potentially awkward moment, he strode past her and up the next rise, seeking any sign of the city he knew had to be close. With the temperature dropping and dusk closing in, they would have already found a campsite for the night had the city-and its promise of a safehouse- not been so close. 

In the distance he could just make out the walls of their destination, the city of Aarav. He could already see the tiny flames of torches being lit for the guards along the wall; they’d never make it before the gates shut for the night.

“We might as well find a spot to camp. We’re not getting in there tonight.”

 He never heard her footsteps but she was beside him in an instant, heaving a sigh of disappointment as she too spotted the miles between them and their goal. 

“We must be moving slower than I thought.”

“Or the map just isn’t quite as accurate as we believed,” he tried to reassure her. “We’ll get there when we get there. And when we do, we’ll have a warm meal, a good night’s rest and if we’re really lucky, maybe another bath. But this time I get the hot water, you can have the lukewarm water that smells like my feet.”

He had hoped to lighten the mood, to draw out another heartfelt laugh, but she remained quiet and withdrawn.

“Ri?”

“The temperature is dropping too quickly and this fog,” she waved a hand at the valley between them and Aarav, at the thick wisps of white flooding it, “it isn’t natural. Our pursuit has caught up. If we were behind city walls, with places to hide and the city guard to prevent arrant violence, perhaps we would have stood a chance.”

The defeat in her tone chilled him to the bone, “What do you mean?”

Her amber eyes were sad when she faced him, the certainty of defeat gleaming wetly in their depths,” I know these tactics.” She waved again at the now invisible valley, the milky fog having covered it so completely it may as well have not existed. “I know who comes for us and as we are, weak,” she gestured at herself before pointing at him, “and untried, we are doomed. Death is the best outcome we can hope for at this point.”

He recalled the blistered skin of her back, the smell of burnt flesh, her screams of agony as he removed her sigils and shuddered; yes, if captivity was so cruel that she would brave such torture for the mere chance at freedom, then death would be the better outcome. But untried as he might be, she had taught him much in their short time together and he had learned even more than she had taught. Did they truly stand no chance? Who was this monster that hunted them?

“Her name is Zara. She is the best and most favored of Feol’s mage killers, serving him for nearly two decades.”

He started to do math in his mind, could her age work against her? Perhaps they were faster and could out maneuver her? 

He must have muttered his thoughts aloud for she continued, “She’s only thirty three. Still in her prime. And she has spent every moment not on assignment training her gift or studying strategy. Her ice magic is terrifying.”

“How wonderful to hear such compliments from the mouth of a runaway.”

Fyr froze as an unfamiliar voice rang out, filled with amusement and arrogance. He shuddered, but ensured his face showed nothing but cool disinterest before he turned to face their foe.

The woman before him was short with broad shoulders that belied her strength, she was compact but all muscle. Her hair was thick and pale at the roots, still dark at the ends. Her cloud-like markings covered her entire face and disappeared past her hairline, no doubt the cause of her hair’s discoloration. Her fingers twitched as if in anticipation of their imminent clash, their tips blackened and cracked from frostbite. 

“To what do we owe the terrifying pleasure of your presence, dear Zara?”

Zara's face changed in an instant; gone was her friendly smirk and in its place was a fierce scowl. “Master Feol has insisted I extend to you the opportunity to return to his service. I don’t see the point, I’d rather just kill you, but he was insistent.”

“Is that so? What conditions would my return entail? Surely he would not simply welcome me back without some trade off. He is not so naive as that.”

And just like that the smirk was back, but strained, as if forced. Zara didn't want Jerika to return. Perhaps she feared Rika would usurp her position as the favorite? 

“All you have to do is finish the job you were contracted for. Kill the boy and you can return to the Master's side. Given the fact that you will be completing this contract as a free agent, not bound by magic, he has decided that if you return, you will no longer require such distasteful coercion. You could choose your assignments. You would be free.”

Fyr glanced over at his companion, his partner, concerned for a moment that she might actually consider taking the deal. The familiar can be comforting, after all. And she would be free, able to refuse contracts and no longer bound by pain to another’s will. But though she seemed calm and confident, he noted the faint tremble in her hands, the slight stiffening of her posture. She was terrified but determined. She would not return. She would die first.

“Zara. Choosing to either kill our own kind or face torture is not freedom. Regardless of whether he fits me with new binding sigils or not, torture is what awaits me if I return. He would not allow a runaway to give others hope, he would attempt to break me with every ruthless trick he knows. He took my Fheyr from me, just as he took your child from you, and he has taken enough. I will not return. You and I will finally be able to test each other as you've always wanted.”

Fyron reeled in shock. Children? It was implied that the man- no, the monster- had killed their children and yet, Zara still served him? Was she bound as Rika had been? He tried to sense the repulsive sticky grit of the binding magic but failed, the only magic he sensed was the odd magic that resonated from her collar. It was the same as the collar he’d removed from Rika. It’s magic swirled against his own cold, malicious and almost sentient. 

The cold wind built as Jerika's voice grew stronger. Zara was readying an attack. 

“Ri…”

Her eyes met his for the briefest of moments and he saw, not resignation as he’d expected, but a fiery determination and when she spoke it was in a quiet voice threaded with steel, “You will remain behind me. You will watch my every move and learn all you can from this fight. When she is down and her magic too weak to shroud the valley, you will run for the gates of Aarav. Tell the guards of this fight, send them to investigate and in the confusion find the safehouse and disappear.”

Fear gripped him tight, “What about you?”

She smiled faintly, her magic building around her, far more than he’d realized she possessed, “I will not return to Feol. I will do whatever it takes to ensure that.”

She turned away, focusing on her opponent, “Fyr… your name reminds me so much of him. I can’t help but wonder if he would have grown up to be like you, fiery and strong, or if his father would have broken and enslaved him as well.”

Fyron blinked. There was so much to unpack in that one sentence. But he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted, he needed to gather his magic. He would not sit on the sidelines helpless as the woman he had begun to think of as a friend was slaughtered. 

“Fyron. Don’t.”

He looked up at her as she continued, “This fight is between me and Zara. you and I have never fought together. We do not even possess similar magic. We would be a hindrance to each other and that cannot happen. I have fought a mage before and you have not. That is the only reason why I will fight. It is nothing against your strength, or your magic. It is only your lack of experience. So learn all you can today so that if I survive this, we can fight side by side next time.”

He nodded faintly, releasing his magic and watching in awe as Rika squared off against Zara. 

“Done talking? Good. It was a touching speech but you will not be surviving this, Jerika. I’ll make sure of it.”

Spears of ice flew past Fyr’s face and while he scrambled, Rika dodged them effortlessly and he could see why she had insisted he sit this one out. He stalked to the very edge of their artificial clearing, the cold damp of Zara’s fog at his back and crouched down, comfortable but still ready to move.

Rika hadn’t drawn her dagger and he realized that was because he still had it after their last attempt at hunting. But she didn’t even need it. Stones the size of dinner plates flew at her command, acting as both her weapons and her shield. But when Zara closed in, two swords of crystalline ice in her hands, Ri truly shocked him. She didn’t use stone for a weapon as he’d expected. No, she drew iron from the earth and used the molten heat from deep within the earth to forge it into a double bladed spear.

The two stared each other down and in the silence, Fyr began to tremble. His instincts screamed danger. He knew now why Zara was the best of the mage hunters. It was only because Jerika had held herself back, unwilling in her servitude. The two sprang into action again just as a cold blade slithered across Fyr’s throat. 

“Be silent, boy, and you might survive this.”

Fyr swallowed hard and drew from his deliquent brother's extensive vocabulary, F*ck me.