Chapter 15

The Sophic Species, known as Primals or beast-kin, are humanoids that closely resemble mammal animals. Claws, horns, fangs, antlers, ears, fur, and snouts are all traits that can be found in the species. The breeds of Primals are broken down into clans such as Feline Clan or Canine Clan. From there, they are further broken down into what they call tribes, such as Tiger Tribe or Wolf Tribe. Beyond this, they are separated into houses and then into families. A clear example of this would be Yedder Longtooth of House Grayback of the Wolf Tribe of the Canine Clan. But the distinction is too long-winded for most people, so the clan and tribe are normally left off when in person since they are visibly obvious. Even over the net, the individual will only refer to themselves by family name and only go into depth when prompted.

Day 66, Quenchenday 

I pressed my soldering iron down, binding a fine-grade wire to a connection node. I remeasured the wire for the third time as I checked the power coupling. I was in the middle of questioning my power ratio for the umpteenth time when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Looking up, I found Nel glaring down at me. I took a second look around the shop in the cauldron I was working on. The room was empty.

“Come on, Iver. We were supposed to have lunch today. What the hell are you working on?” she scolded, pointing a sharp accusatory finger at me, then shifting the finger’s trajectory from me to my new gear. 

I looked from her to the six disks on the table, each no larger than two and a half inches.

“Sorry, Nel, I was trying to wrap this project up before lunch. Obviously, I lost track of time.” I said with a bashful smile. “Sorry, I missed lunch.”

Nel picked up one of the finished disks, turning it over in her fingers like little more than a large coin and not a tool of chaos. “It’s fine, I guess, but you know that this is breaking the rules by working on the day of rest.”

I let out a derisive snort. “Sacred day of rest, my ass. I can do what I want on my day off from class. Besides, it’s not classwork. It’s a personal project.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asked. “What kinda project are we talking about?” She turned the disk over again in her hand, tracing her finger around the button in the center.

I plucked the disk from her fingers with a deftness I could only dream of having with a blade, pressing it down against the table with a firm finger and thumb. “The kind that I can use to get me where I want to be.”

“You’re still going for the warrior path?” She asked, her tone reflecting that she knew she was treading on thin ice.

“I don’t give two shits about what others have to say. Even if I need to cheat my way into the Sect of the Crimson Blade. Even if I’m building tools day in and day out. I’m going to pass, get into the field, and find the time to hunt. And when I find the slither-spined malrupt, I’m gonna make him regret the day he took my father.”

I really didn’t need to call the killer a coward or refer to him with the slang term for someone who lives in sewer filth, but it made me feel just the slightest bit better.

“Iver, buddy, I think you have a problem.” She said tentatively.

I scoffed in response. “Problem? Would you have a problem if you were hunting the viletempt neffers that did,” I gestured with an open hand to her body. “That to you?”

“I-I,” she stammered, “FINE!” She snapped. “Yeah, I guess I would want to hunt the bastards. But I think you need to take a step back and look at this without feeling.” 

I pushed myself away from the bench with force. As I stood up, I slapped my hands against the table. I picked up my side bag, threw open the cover, and swept the entire set of disks into the bag with vicious force, even the half-finished last two. “Look, Nel, I love you like a sister, but I would really rather not talk about this. You know that I have goals. You know I need to do this. Let me do what I can to get where I need. Other than that, let’s talk about anything else, do anything else.”

She folded her arms over her chest, her face scrunched up in a pouting manner. “Fine.” she spat with a depth of snark that brought to mind visions of a quicksand pit, an inescapable trap. “I want to do something fun.”

“What kind of fun?” I asked with weary trepidation. 

“Well, we aren’t allowed any holo-games or video games till next year. We don’t get any elective classes until, again, next year. And we don’t get access to board games until-”

“Next year. I get it, I get it.” I interrupted. “So, what do you want to do? Play tag? How about bear paws or hatches?”

She took in a sharp breath between her teeth. “Those are all kiddie games. We are almost adults. Let’s do something fun that adults do.”

I shot her a skeptical look as I picked up my tools and systematically put them away. “Almost adults? Nel, we are barely in our teens. Now, I know that Humans grow up around the age of nineteen or twenty, but I have no idea when Darklings mature. For all I know, I could be an adult when I hit forty, like Elves. I’m not even sure what adults do for fun.” I mounted the last Allen wrench in its set case before slipping it into my bag. I turned on my heel and made my way to the door. Nel hopped into step just behind me. 

“Well, what did your dad do for fun?” Nel asked.

I let out an exasperated sigh as I descended the center spiral staircase. “It’s a short list, so let’s start from the top. He did a lot of drinking, which we can’t do being underage. He watched a lot of holo-casts, but we are restricted to educational videos. He used to go hunting regularly. He may have found it fun, but there’s no game here other than birds and squirrels.”

“Well, we could still hunt small game.” she pointed out, her footsteps on the stairs sounding like someone three times her size.

“With what tools, Nel? We don’t have access to firearms ammunition and no ready access to bows outside of class. We don’t even have bladed weapons.”

It was Nennel’s turn to let out an exasperated sigh.

“What about your dad, Nel?”

“My dad? I’m not sure. He liked working on cars and monocycles. I think he would have a beer occasionally, and I know he smoked like a brazier full of damp logs.”

“That’s it? What about your mom?” I asked as we passed through the front doors of the Foundry.

“My mom is even more boring. I know she read a lot, the cringey romance kind of stuff. She also did some baking. OH! And she loved barbequing. She made the Best pulled pork, marinated it in pickle juice and brown sugar.” I made sure she could not see the contorted face of disgust I made on reflex.

“Well, the only reading material we’ve got is study material. And we aren’t allowed to do any cooking.” I pointed out as she stepped up to walk beside me.

“Then we both have a whole lot of nothing.” She threw her hands in the air, defeated. “What do you want to do?” She laced her fingers behind her head and slowed to a stroll with me as I started thinking.

What I wanted was to keep tinkering with my disks or designing something new. But I promised her we could do something fun. She wants fun but no game that could be childish. The only thing remotely like a game we were allowed was a deck of playing cards. I had no desire to play anything involving cards. What would be a suitable compromise? Well, I knew that tinkering was out of the question, but a good backup would be combat training. If I added a point system to the fight, she might be entertained, and I could be productive.

“I think I may have an idea.”

“What’re you thinking?”

“How does point sparring sound to you?”

“Don’t we do that in class already?” She asked with skepticism. She gave me a look that said she thought my idea was less than impressive.

“Well, yes, but that’s always the same weapon used on both sides. I’m thinking a free-for-all.”

“You want to spar, me? Iver, you know I’m gonna cream you, right?” She pointed out, her tone showing that she felt this was a sensitive topic.

An amused snort slipped out before I could tamp down on it. “Oh, I have no doubt you’re gonna beat me around the field like a half-deflated Scaffor Ball. But I want practice, and you want fun. I thought this would be a fair compromise.”

If you aren’t familiar with Scaffor Ball, I’ll give you a crash course. It started as a child’s game among the Ceangar but became a professional game played across the globe. There are three teams, each made up of between eight and thirty-two players. The goal is to kick a ball the size of a large melon into the goal zone of another team. You can hold the ball, but you can’t move while it’s in hand. Scaffor ball is a full-contact sport that allows tackling, tripping, and kicking, but the big draw of the game is that there is a secondary goal. Besides scoring points, another goal is to kick the ball into an opponent’s head. If the person hit in the head with the ball falls or loses their footing, they sit out of the game for five minutes. The game is huge on the Kasis continent but is also played on Yerrim and Quevna to a less fanatical degree.

Nel let out a grunt of disgust. “I don’t even like the sport. It’s just so… brutal.”

“You’re just saying that because you can’t play on a standard team. I hear Chrome teams are far more aggressive.”

They ban anyone with cybernetics from playing on a standard Scaffor team. Instead, anyone with even the slightest augmentation needs to join what is called a Chrome team. I wasn’t sure if the name came from the fact that the professional world trophy was made of chrome for the cybernetic division or if it was because, in some parts of the world, chrome was a slang term for cybernetics.

“Are you a Scaffor junky?” Nel said in an accusing tone.

This time, the snort I let out was more derisive. “Do I look like I get wild for a bunch of meat-heads abusing each other over a ball or with the very same ball?” It was more of a statement than a question as I gestured to myself with both hands. “Hells, I think the sport is stupid. I don’t watch it, let alone play it.”

By this time, we had just reached the Slate sparring grounds, a fenced-in space of packed earth. The far wall opposite us was the stone wall of the cavern. Mounted to the wall were rack after rack of padded weapons of a variety of shapes, sizes, weights, and styles. While we had our own training weapons, the medical staff frowned on us breaking each other’s bones on a regular basis. We were allowed to carry our personal training weapons for dueling purposes as a manner of dispute resolution. Even I carried my training Shortsword just in case, though I had yet to use it despite Mallrimor’s abuse.

We made our way across the space to set our things along the stone wall, my bag, and Shortsword, Nel’s two training daggers, and her own bag. I slipped out of my uniform jacket, folded it, and set it atop my bag. While Nennel stripped out of her own jacket, I eyed the wall of padded training tools, fingering the weapons that caught my eye and noting them before I moved on in case I found something better. I settled on a Longsword Shortsword combo. I picked these two because of a show I had seen before my life had fallen apart. The program was based on a story that I vowed to read at some point. Its main character was a tall, brooding Human with long dark hair who used this fighting style, and he always made it look like a dance of death as he slew thugs and villains in every episode.

I stepped into the nearest sparring ring, twirling both padded blades back and forth to get a feel for their weight and balance. The Longsword was a bit blade heavy, and the Shortsword felt slightly thicker on one side of the blade than the other. Nel stepped into the ring across from me, wielding a pair of curved training daggers. I pulled up the hud of my therra-node, brought up a sparring program, and tagged my blades and hers, using my eyes. My weapons lit up in my vision with a blue light, while Nel’s lit red. In the corner of my vision was a point counter, a red zero, and a blue zero with a thin line separating them. Next, I designated the field, filling out the dimensions of the vacant space. A standard sparring arena was ten feet by ten feet with an eight-foot overhead space for very specific circumstances. A yellow bar rose from the surrounding ground in the set dimensions, hovering four feet from the ground. Finally, a yellow-tinted digital lid covered the set space but didn’t alter the lighting of the field.

I checked to make sure she was ready. When she gave an affirmative nod, we both stepped into the center of the arena. I pressed the guards of both of my weapons together and held my arms out and at a downward angle, the blades pointing up. Nel did the same. I tapped the back of her left hand with the back of my own, then she tapped the back of my right hand with hers. This was a sparring ritual everyone in the school did. According to the Mystagogues, this was a sign of mutual respect and an understanding that both would adhere to the combat initiation rules of nonlethal non-crippling actions. It was a sign of honor which the Order devoutly held to. The Sect of the Crimson Blade had an attachment with honor bordering on obsession that I wanted to respect, but it just seemed weird.

Nel and I sparred for about two hours, taking breaks for water, rest, and the occasional weapon swap. As expected, she beat me six ways to Temporikday. I tried switching to a mace and shield, two-handed a Longsword, dual-wielding Shortswords, using a Towartha set, and even took a daring attempt at wielding an Orcish Kaykith. Every single time she outmaneuvered me, dodging every attack, slipping past my guard, and leaving holographic red lines wherever her blades contacted my body. Every single time by the end of the match, I looked like a red-striped zebra-like person. The most points I scored was five while I was using the Towartha. But in that match, she scored seventeen points. The worst was when I used the massive Kaykith blade. I failed to score a single point while she finished with almost fifty points.

The Towartha and Kaykith are two completely opposite combat styles. The Towartha is an Elven blade set, gracefully serrated and meant to be used in pairs. One blade curves along the outside of the defending arm while the wrist remains straight, and the other blade has a standard straight hilt for extended reach in offensive use.

Meanwhile, the Kaykith is a massive sword cut into the shape of a right triangle that is designed to be as tall as the user. One-third of the whole weapon is a long hilt with an even longer chain at the end. While the Towartha are used in close quarters, in fast-flowing motions, the Kaykith was made for large cleaving motions to keep an opponent at range. The chain is to be wrapped around the wielder’s arm and to be a point of control when you fling the blade out and spun. Trust me, I know that this sounds horrifically stupid in the midst of combat, but this was an Orcish weapon made for battlefields packed with opponents. As stupid as the tactic sounds, these weapons were a crucial tool when they rebelled against their fiendish masters in the First Age.

I fell flat on my ass, panting and damp with sweat. The massive blade fell from my grip as I fell backward. I just didn’t have the size or muscle mass to use the Orcish weapon. I would never admit it to Nel, but I was thoroughly embarrassed by how badly I had been beaten in that last match. At that moment, then and there in the dirt as I dripped with sweat, I vowed to myself that I would never try to use heavy weapons ever again.

Nel stepped up and offered me a hand to pull me back to my feet. To hide just how bad I was feeling, I flashed her a half-grin as I grasped her wrist. She pulled me to my feet, and the quick motion drove all the blood to my head, and the world swam and spun for a good few seconds as a cascade of lights filled my vision.

“Well, well,” Came a snide voice from behind me. “What in the Light’s grace did we just walk into? Are the freaks pretending at being warriors, or are they making goo-goo eyes at each other?”

I knew that voice all too well, but if I needed any more confirmation that it was Mallrimor, the feeling of Nel’s hand that still held my wrist clenching hard enough to make my bones ache was enough. I shook my head to clear off the lights and spinning as Nennel stepped behind me. It wasn’t an over-exaggeration to say that the winged viletempt and his crew had traumatized her when they gutted her. I couldn’t blame her for that terror. As bad as they scared me, I knew they scared her more. That meant I couldn’t run when she was with me. Trust me, I wanted to run. Even at that moment, my legs were shifting to jelly. But how could I run and leave Nel behind? The answer was simple: I couldn’t, I wouldn’t. Besides, they stood in the only entrance into the yard.

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves before I let go of Nel and stepped forward to take a defiant stance. “What’s the matter, you feathered skavy?” I hissed in my own derisive tone. “You can’t hold a blade to save your life, so you hide behind a wall of meat and step on the toes of honest people who just want to improve. You know what that makes you?”

“Oh yeah?” Mallrimor sneered at me. “What would a slither-spined freak like you know about me?”

I shifted a hand behind my back and gestured to get Nel’s attention. I pointed to our things against the back wall and waved two fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion. As she began backstepping, I kept the attention focused on me by stepping forward threateningly. I then started pacing to the right in what I hoped was a way that seemed threatening, defiant, and unworried.

“Who would know you better than someone who you show your hateful and sinvious nature to? You mock and pick on those that stand out just because we stand out. When we show what you think is weakness, you get bold.” I stopped and pointed an accusing finger at him as I turned my pacing in the other direction. “You, Mallrimor hide behind your goons because you can not fight. You pick on the odd ones out because you feel weak and want to be stronger than someone else. You act bold and brash because you are scared. So what are you going to do, coward? Are you gonna take a stride and show that you're the slither-spined one and not me?”

With every word I spoke, I watched the Brightling’s face turn deeper and deeper shades of red. As I watched the ego-saturated half-angel losing control over his emotions, I felt a strange cross between pride and terror. Even as I watched his face darken to a shade of crimson I would normally only associate with an overripe strawberry, I noticed something else. At first, his hands clenched into fists, then they shot open. By the end of my proclamation, they looked to be convulsing between rabid claws and white-knuckled fists, each finger moving slightly off time from the rest.

When he spoke, his words rose from a venomous hiss to a seething snarl. “Get him. Get HIM NOW!”

The Orc, Brecken and the Dracose, Kesher gave each other worried looks, but the High Elf, Gellar didn’t hesitate. As I saw the Elf draw his blunted scimitar, I half-turned toward Nel, raised my right hand into the air, and shouted to her, “Sword me!” Only after everything was over did I realize that the line did not sound nearly as badass as it sounded in my head. 

My one and only friend seemed to be expecting this and threw the weapon at me before I even finished the second word. My intent was to catch it in my single raised hand and look like a badass. The result was far less dramatic. I caught the hilt, but the weight and speed were more than I expected. The weapon pulled me off my feet and forced me to grasp the hilt with both hands and adjust my footing, spinning on my right foot. As I made to spin back around to face front again, I only just managed to get the blade up in a block as Gellar lashed out with a downward chop aimed to crack my skull. My block only diverted the blow, his blade striking my own and sliding down the edge to slam harmlessly against the packed dirt.

I dredged from my memory of combat class something I could use. I drew back my blade and thrust at his chest. Gellar reversed his grip and deflected my blow harmlessly to the side. Flowing smoothly from the deflect, he thrust the hilt into my gut, knocking the wind from me and forcing me to curl in on myself, saliva spraying from my lips as I gasped for air. I staggered back, trying to get some distance, only barely holding onto my own weapon as I fled back a few steps.

“I want him bleeding and weeping!” Howled Mallrimor. 

The other two thugs stepped up, ready to obey the viletempt’s wishes, though they looked a little uncomfortable. At the thought of being outnumbered, I took several more steps back, almost reaching the back wall, where Nel tried to stay out of sight. I wouldn’t call what she did cowering, out of respect because she was not a coward. She just had a healthy fear for the group that, at the moment, faced me down.

When I looked back to check on Nel, I had a small chain of ideas. I reached out my free hand toward my platinum-haired cyborg. “Nel! Throw my bag, slide your dagger!” She knew just what I meant despite her fear and acted in a fraction of a second. That was a testament to the girl’s bravery and ability to keep her head despite her fear. She snatched up my satchel and swung it by the strap before launching it to land just behind me. Without skipping a beat, she snatched up one of her blunted daggers and flung it, her arm acting like a whip to slide the weapon across the dirt to bounce off my ankle. 

I still had some distance between the bullies and me, so taking those precious seconds, I threw the bag so the strap lay over my shoulder. As I shoved my weapon in my belt, I slipped my tech glove onto my right hand from within the bag. I pulled the blade free at the same time as I scooped up the dagger and thrust it into my belt where the sword had just been. Brecken drew his pair of axes as Kesher pulled free a great sword. The two moved to flank me while Gellar pressed toward me, head-on. 

I needed to act fast if I was going to make it out of this with even minimal harm, let alone alive. I reached into my bag and drew out a disk that I had been working on while at the foundry. The disk was about two and a half inches across with a gray rim. I pressed the center button on the disk and turned the timer ring just outside the button to a two-second delay. I flung the disk out. It landed perfectly between the bullies and me. As the timer struck zero, smoke shot from small holes in the disk's edge, obscuring their vision and causing them to cough. I turned back to Nel, pointed to the exit, and shouted, “GO!” She got the message and sprinted around the group at a safe distance. I lost sight of her when she passed behind the cloud, but I knew what I heard next. She shoved Mallrimor to the ground and fled to safety. When I knew Nennel was safe, I let out a sigh of relief. I would take the beating if it meant my friend was safe. At that thought, I saw an odd duality. My father and Nel. My father was abusive, but he cared about me. I fought and lost him. Nel had never done me wrong. I saved her, and she supported me. They both valued me, but I lost the first person who ever cared about me. He was the only person who valued me till I found Nel. I cared about her, and I would sooner burn at the stake than lose her. So I would fight and take the beating and do it with a smile. If it meant Nel was safe, if it meant I showed some spine for once in my life, I would take this abuse and do so with some semblance of honor.

I pulled free from my bag two more disks, both with light blue rims. I turned the timers on each to ten seconds and dropped them not three feet ahead of me. I knew I was going to regret this next bit, but I was going to pay the price. Both Brecken’s axes and Kesher’s great sword would have enough force to overpower my smaller blades. Part of that was the size and design of their weapons, the other half was because of the figures’ size and natural strength. I pulled free the dagger from my belt and readied myself for a serious beating. I would not enjoy this.

Kesher closed in and threw a vertical swing at me. I stepped to the right, just barely avoiding the blade. But Brecken saw me moving closer to him and took advantage of that. The Orc threw a low swing aimed at my knees with one blade. I stepped back to avoid the hacking strike, only to find the Orc throwing another swing with his other blade in a downward chop at my shoulder. I tried to block the strike with my Shortsword, but I just barely deflected the blow. I only diverted the attack enough to let the strike break my right foot and not my right shoulder. I screamed in pain and fell to my right knee. My shattered foot throbbed with a pain that screamed as hard as I had, but I wasn’t about to give up.

I rallied my mind, pushing the pain to the side just long enough to strike Brecken in the knee to force him off me. The strike forced the massive Orc to fall to a knee, my blow clearly caused some pain, if not enough damage, to break the leg. I could tell Brecken was only going to get back to his feet, so I needed to take this time to my advantage, regardless of my position. As fast as I could manage, I threw the training dagger into Kesher’s face, the blunted blade striking his right eye. The Dracose backed off, clutching at his stuck eye, but I couldn’t tell if I caused any lasting damage. 

Gellar saw these actions and, in panic, he rushed forward to strike me even as my disks released blue-green gas. I rolled to the right only a fraction of a second before the blow landed. As I landed on my knees and the gas released, I took my moment. With my still experimental tech gauntlet, I launched electrodes to latch to the High Elf’s chest. Electric current rushed from my fist to the sadistic Elf, and as planned, the current lept from my linked target, through the Secorus gas to strike everyone else, myself included. I felt a kind of pain that I had never felt at that level before. I hadn’t felt a shock like this before, white fire rushing through my body as my muscles clenched and flexed faster than I thought possible. My body locked, and tears streamed down my face as I fell onto my right side. I landed on my broken foot, multiplying my pain and drawing a howl from my clenched jaw. My vision shifted in and out of focus as I tried to keep my consciousness. The only thing giving me a foothold enough to stay awake was the pain from my foot. Pun intended.

The Dracose, Orc, and Elf fell to the dirt, unmoving other than rhythmic breathing. I wasn’t sure what caused the shock to subside. Either the gas dissipated enough to lose the charge, or the batteries of my gauntlet died. Regardless of the reason, I was thankful beyond words for the ability to move again, even if moving my right leg was agony. I pushed myself clumsily to stand on my single good foot. My balance was unsteady at best, and I needed to use the Shortsword as a crutch, but I felt a swell of pride looking at the unconscious bodies of the brutes that tried to put me down.

My pride was crushed when I saw Mallrimor standing across from me, his face painted with furious rage, hands outstretched with a bolt of fire building between them. My eyes went wide, and I tried to turn and flee the attack. I only managed to half-turn before I felt a searing burn strike me in the side. I fell with a cry of pain, losing hold of my weapon. I landed on my chest and tried to crawl away even as I heard the others rising with groans from my surprise attack that I thought would put them down for a while. I vehemently cursed as I redoubled my efforts to get away. 

“Get up, you pathetic fools. The worm is crawling away.” Mallrimor snarled. As he spoke, I thought I might have heard the sound of him kicking one of the others on the ground. 

My already racing pulse jumped to a gear I never thought possible outside of running for my life. My still quivering muscles were little help in my futile attempt to escape. At the time, I didn’t think about how I was crawling toward the back wall, where there was no escape route for me. 

I could hear as each of the thugs pulled themselves to their feet and staggered over toward me. I felt a clawed foot press down upon my back, forcing me to stop before it shifted to roll me onto my back. I raised my hands to guard my face from the figures looming over me. I could feel the malicious intent radiating from them.

Until that moment, I had never prayed for anything in my life. In sheer desperation, I sent up a silent prayer to the Nameless Goddess for some way out of this. I just knew that I was going to die if something didn’t happen. 

I saw the figures above me moving, about to end my short and meaningless existence, when a new figure appeared. Above me, because of the sun overhead, I only saw the shadowed outlines of a large reptilian figure, a large and muscular figure with what looked to be an axe raised over his head, a slender figure with massive pointed ears standing in a menacing stance, and the outlined figure I could only describe as a feathered neffer. The moment that title came to mind, a fifth figure stepped in. Slender and svelte with hints of toned muscle, all under long hair and large cat-like ears. I watched what could only have been a ‘she’ strike Brecken in the back of the knee with a brutal downward kick. The Orc fell, and the others turned towards the newcomer. The stranger spun with feline grace before planting a sidekick in Gellar’s gut, sending him staggering back. Kesher lashed out with his massive blade in a wide swing that would have turned my skull into a paste. The stranger dropped into a squat and swept out the Dracose’s legs from beneath him. The massive training blade in his hand flew from his grip as he toppled like a felled tree. Both the oversized lizard and his weapon sent up plumes of dust as they struck the packed dirt, one landing with a clatter, the other with a meaty ‘Thud’. Without skipping a beat, the unfamiliar figure spun on the ball of their foot to bring an arcing kick to the side of Gellar’s head as he closed in for an attack, throwing him to the ground, limp as a rag doll. Mallrimor staggered back, hand raised as he summoned another bolt of flame. 

I sat up in time to see a streamer of copper hair, a flash of black fabric, and… black fur? The figure dashed towards the Brightling with lithe grace and fluid motions. In a panic, Mallrimor cast the bolt of fire, but the figure sidestepped the shot and closed the distance to land an uppercut to the boy’s jaw that lifted him from his feet and dropped him to the dirt.

This stranger, this girl who just saved me, turned around to look at me with a cocky smirk. She was a Primal. Her body beneath the black uniform was covered in a hide of shining black fur with copper strips like that of a tiger. This was only noticeable because her uniform coat was missing, her arms bare, and her upper torso covered in a dark gray t-shirt. Her face was almost wholly feline, with only the lightest hint of humanoid features, but even under the fur, I could see that her face was shapely and touched by beauty if an animalistic kind. Her long hair was a fiery copper, the same color as her strips, flowing in a river down to her mid-back. Her slit pupil eyes were a radiant yellow with flecks of green-gold. Those eyes emanated with the power of confidence even as the motions of her body whispered of danger as she swaggered toward me. I looked back towards the gate to find Nel, half-hidden behind a steel post. My best guess is that Nel ran for help, and this woman was the one to come answering.

As the Tiger Tribe Primal stepped up to me, she offered a hand in to help me get out of the dirt. “You don’t need to worry about those cock thistles anymore.” She spoke in a tone that reflected the finality of her knowledge that the bastards were down for the count. 

In total numbness, I clasped her wrist, and she lifted me up and off my feet for a moment with little effort. I waggled my even more numb jaw, trying to find the words to express just how thankful I was. She watched my speechless state with a smirk. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” She flashed me a wild grin after the terrible joke, shocking me out of my state.

“S-sorry.” I stammered. “But thank you. You just saved my life.”

“What?” she asked, perplexed. “Na.” She brushed off the comment with a wave of the hand as she turned her head to the side, trying to hide the obvious pride written across her face. “The numbskulls would have just broken a few bones… maybe a few dozen at the most.” Her look shifted from pride to thoughtfulness, tapping a talon against her chin in thought, the other arm folded under her modest bossom. “Other than that Brightling. There is something wrong with that guy.”

“Still, thank you. I’m sorry, but what’s your name?” I asked.

She flashed me an honest grin as she said, “The name’s Roserra, but my friends call me Rose. And I think I’ll call you a friend.”