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The floor was damp beneath Primroses’ feet. It was uncomfortable, but not a problem; she had ventured out into the world ready to face anything—and crawling through dark cellars and caves was no different. Such pastimes were more rule than exception, since the group she’d chosen as her companions (more or less chosen, anyway) always ended up in underground places one way or another.
This time they had branched away from their path after many thoughtful hums from Cyrus and crawled into a slight crack in a stony hill right beside a river. And despite this being a regular occurrence, the suddenness was truthfully… unexpected. Even to Primrose.
And yet she followed without hesitation. They had travelled the world together for nearly a year, and Primrose had long ago noticed how she no longer kept a watchful, suspicious eye on them from beneath her eyelids. Trust was hard to come by, but with them, she could afford some.
So, if Cyrus said that this was a tomb of one of the Twelve, Primrose would believe him. She’d crawl in first, if that was what it took for the hesitant look on Ophilia’s face to go away, and for H’aanit’s to twist into an impressed smile.
Now the torches magically alighted for them as they progressed, Alfyn and Cyrus held a lantern each, casting light onto the painted walls.
“There is no doubt about the legitimacy of such handiwork—fascinating, deeply fascinating with ancient scriptures and imagery, is it not?” Cyrus took great care in not thudding into the walls with his lantern, but he hovered with his hand over them with reverence of the ancient colors and artistic skills. “Notice the carvings over the torch-sconces, with the iron twisted just so!”
“Don’t see the big deal,” Therion muttered into his scarf. “I’ve seen toddlers draw better.”
This caused H’aanit to scoff a small laugh, and Primrose’s eyes darted over to her. It was a subconscious thing, to always pay attention to what H’aanit was doing, and a smile or laughter was a rarity from her.
H’aanit met her gaze and it tugged at her lips, amplified by a new torch that magically ignited before them and cast light over H’aanit’s harshly pale features. Her shadow on the wall was pointy from all the weapons she carried over her back, and the sword that Olberic was teaching her to use, she kept drawn and ready.
“Careful with your feet,” Alfyn shouted cheerfully from the front, followed by the slow splashes of him wading through ankle-deep water. “We’re in the Riverlands, all right!”
Primrose looked down. Wading through it was not an appealing thought; she cared more for her sandals than Alfyn did his boots. The puddle was not big, she could skip over it, but she’d need support—and as though reading her mind, H’aanit offered her hand. She spoke little, but she paid such deep attention. Always.
It was a rare thing to find in people, though Alfyn was similar. He listened deeply, but could also always find some small topic to ease tension or establish friendliness; he listened to reply, while H’aanit listened just for listening’s sake.
And that might be why Primrose would often find herself by H’aanit’s side, even at the beginning of their journey. Silence, secure and consistent as the breaths passing through to her lungs. Primrose tended to lash out, defend herself at every turn, but with H’aanit, there was simply no need.
Primrose had even begun to open up to her, slowly but steadily. Expected for H’aanit to shy away or at least pity her, but it did not seem like H’aanit ever would. It was most likely a unique trait. Primrose had not shared much about herself with any one of the others, and bless them, they hadn’t asked.
The cave opened further, and the torchlight dulled as light leaked in from where a stream had eroded through the ground above. Their path winded like a bridge, the rays of sunlight dancing through slits covered by grass and flowing water. A small bird chirped and darted out through one of the slits, disturbed by the sound of eight pairs of human feet.
This place seemed too peaceful to be the resting place of the goddess of might and war, but Primrose still would not doubt Cyrus’ keen mind. And like most of the time, he was proved right.
As they neared the end of the cave, the solid rock had shifted into marble railings and stairs untouched by moss and decay. Like an arena, or the setting of a battlefield, the ceiling was far above them and the floor stretched on and on, interrupted only by a pedestal at the top of the stairs.
Waterfalls poured from behind the pedestal, joined with the natural stream and formed a swirling pond around the arena-like structure.
The light-hearted air around their party evaporated as Cyrus brought his lantern closer to the pedestal. Primrose did not need to look for long to recognize the sculptured emblem resting atop it—the six crossed weapons, the mark of the Warbringer. The sculpture pulsated with a weak light that reflected over the floor, silver threads swirling just below the sheening surface of dew drops.
Primrose had seen this many times before, but it was a different emblem every time. The resting shrines of the gods were similar in their design, but none of them had had an entire arena dedicated to them. It did not bode well.
“Are we ready for this?” Ophilia asked. She disliked disturbing the gods for religious purposes, but now she seemed hesitant for a different reason.
Cyrus looked over his shoulder. “As ready as we’ll ever be, I think.”
H’aanit nodded. “I shallen awaken her.”
The huntress put her hand on the pulsating sculpture, her pale skin almost translucent with the silver light igniting her arm.
Some of the gods were benevolent and gave their blessings and knowledge freely. Primrose had a feeling that this would not be one of them, and her gut was rarely wrong.
“I am Winnehild, Warbringer.”
The voice that cracked through the air was deep and commanding. The unstoppable force of a flood.
“Thou wouldst learn the lost secrets I hold…? Then first, thou must prove thy worth!”
The voice grew ever further in strength, a divine power swelling before them as the silver light grew and the waterfalls stopped running. The distant chippering between birds came to a halt as the apparition of a goddess reawakened to once again walk the mortal realm.
And she was magnificent. Her clothes were ancient, unlike anything Primrose had seen any seamstress consider. Not armor in the typical sense, and not a simple tunic either. Her girdle was pure iron with a blood red banner with golden fringes draped beneath it like a loincloth over her thighs, covered in soft leather that allowed for the individual muscles to stand out. Her chest covered by a breastplate that ended over her shoulder joint to make room for the six gauntlet-clad arms protruding from her body. Each of them holding on to a different weapon.
Primrose’s face reflected in the gleam of a dagger not unlike her own, but as large as her entire body, crossed by a pike that nearly scraped the ceiling.
This was the embodiment of war. Magnificent, yes, but otherworldly. Merciless. And although Winnehild’s eyes were hidden behind a mask and flaming red hair, the twist of her mouth told Primrose that her gaze down upon them was not kind.
Primrose’s heart quivered. She could not hold that back.
“Stand your ground!” Olberic grunted at them all, his sword held at the level of his eyes.
Primrose raised her dagger as well, her eyes focusing on the parts of Winnehild’s ethereal body that was a potential target. The shoulders (multiple), the slit between the breastplate and the girdle, her throat, the back of her knees—
Primrose had killed humans (a simple action, a single slit) and animals (more of a struggle and multiple stabs) and yes, even godly apparitions. They had bested the apparition of none other than the Archmagus God Dreisang himself, not long before. His magic had been formidable, his defenses ever-shifting, but a dagger was small enough to always break through. And with Cyrus’ extensive knowledge and flexibility, the Archmagus had recognized him as worthy of his knowledge (after being stabbed a little bit by Primrose, first).
So, perhaps this wouldn’t be too different, after all. They needed to provide an opening, and they commenced like they always did. Primrose darted forwards with Alfyn at her heel (something Therion referred to as the Axe-Dagger-Pinch).
But she barely reached the feet of their foe before the butt of a pike was slammed into her chest and she was sent sprawling into Alfyn. They tumbled over the marble floor with the ill-boding crack of glass from Alfyn’s satchel.
“Yikes,” she heard Alfyn gasp, and then he hurled the satchel over his head, a purulent smell and violet smoke rising from the little bundle—and, she soon realized, his abdomen. The poisonous liquids Alfyn assembled to use for antidotes and weaponry had corroded through satchel and clothes. Blisters were already forming over his skin.
“You aren’t hurt, are ya?” Alfyn panted at Primrose.
“Worry about yourself first,” she snapped through painful breaths, even though that was very much not something Alfyn ever did. He shook his head and fished out a small wooden container from his pocket (his satchel was not his only hiding place for healing supplies) and with a quick shake and uncorking he released some of the dust from within.
Inhaling the sparkling dust eased the pain in Primrose’s ribs (and dulled her head a little), granting her the will to look at their foe once again.
Winnehild had not moved to strike. She floated like an image on water, her impossibly red hair moving in a non-existent wind, eyes hidden but digging into Primrose all the same.
She waited.
“Now!” Olberic’s voice rumbled as he rushed forth, Tressa and Therion at his side and Cyrus right behind him.
Winnehild’s pike stopped Therion dead in his tracks, as its blade dug down into the marble by his feet. He reined back, but the rest of the charge continued on. Tressa sprayed dust into the face of Winnehild’s unblinking figure with her wind magic and Olberic used the diversion to swing his blade.
Winnehild parried with a sword larger than Olberic in his gigantic entirety, before she retaliated with a bored kick. Tressa threw herself down to dodge, but Olberic was too slow and skidded across the floor.
All in a manner of seconds, before Cyrus drowned Winnehild in fire.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
The apparition’s mouth twisted downward as she found Cyrus kneeling and out of breath. She shoved him aside with the butt of her bow, looking like she almost pitied him and wanted to be gentle, but as Cyrus struggled against her shove she flexed her muscles and flung him into the pool of water with little effort.
“Dreisang.” She said the name of the Archmagus God with humorless familiarity, staring at Cyrus struggling to keep above the surface. “Thou never were much of a match for me. Even if thine vessel is doubly blessed by Alphean, thou remainst weak.”
Therion muttered to himself as he drew his dagger and sword, watching and waiting for his angle to appear, but he’d hesitated for too long. Winnehild turned her head to him, still with a bored expression.
“Those who mimic Aeber holdst as little chance… I have seen the feints of thine kind throughout any age. Thou cannot surprisen me, but I imploren thee to try me.”
Therion’s gaze darted to Alfyn, who clung to his abdomen, while Ophelia tried to keep him upright with her divine healing. Both of their teeth were clenched tightly in focus or pain. Whenever Therion’s eyes darted like that, he looked like he was calculating what he had to lose.
Primrose’s head was spinning, but she stood up as well, joining Therion’s side. Fact of the matter was that they had everything to lose, but they had started this, so they couldn’t not finish it. Primrose could say many things about herself and her friends, but they were not quitters. She supposed it was a common flaw of theirs.
“Twin Daggers,” she panted at Therion, drawing at the wisps of speed with a graceful flex of her wrist, and the shadow of a smile set on Therion’s face.
“Right,” he answered, and so they darted forth.
This was a signature move of theirs. With Primrose’s special kind of magic, Therion’s speed and nimbleness were unmatched. Even by the shadows of the gods. He rolled away from the pike that dug into the ground before him, and continued, digging his knife into Winnehild’s left knee.
Primrose successfully aimed for the spot between the iron girdle and breastplate. She surged with confidence, the grace that she had practiced for years on end would carry her safely through this battle as it had many others, of that she was sure.
As she looked up to gather the effects of their assault, she saw that an arrow broke through the mask covering Winnehild’s face. H’aanit had taken her aim as their foe was distracted (and not completely covered in fire), but that was evidently no use either. Winnehild seemed to have barely noticed her injuries.
She stood yet unmoving for a few eternal heartbeats.
“Is that all?” Her voice echoed over the hall, drowned out the splashing sounds of Cyrus being helped out of the water by Ophelia. “Then ‘tis my turn to retaliate.”
All six of Winnehild’s arms moved at once.
Primrose had no time to react before a staff slammed into her.
The world was gone. Dark.
It was something that Primrose knew well. The temporary and confusing blackouts of blunt trauma to the head happened to every dancer in Sunshade at one point or another.
She came to by the edge of the stairs. Her hair had gotten free of their restraints and covered half her face. She grimaced and tried to brush it away, but she could barely move her arm.
As the ringing in her ears lessened, she heard the swishing sounds of steel being swept through the air. Divine, silver light stung her eyes as she opened them.
“Retreat is our only option,” Cyrus shouted with a course voice.
“I accepten no other surrender than thine deaths or victory,” was Winnehild’s echoing reply.
Primrose lifted her head. Winnehild’s weapons slashed at her friends at once with cold indifference, but she played by her own rules and did not target all of them at once. If it was kindness or mere politeness in stepping down to mortal level, Primrose couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter, anyway. They were outmatched either way.
Tressa managed to sidestep the slit of a dagger, Olberic shielded Cyrus with a piece of crackled marble flooring, and Ophelia had retreated to the water, carrying Alfyn with her, and—
And now Winnehild turned to Primrose.
Her body hurt so much, she could only struggle up to her knees. An axe came down upon her. She willed herself to move, but could only gasp faint breaths.
The axe never hit its mark. H’aanit parried the blow with a furious strike of her pike.
“I shallen not run from thee,” she cried. “And my comrades shallen not die, either. Cometh then, Warbringer! In mine heart, I hold no fear of thee!”
She turned her pike and attempted a stab at Winnehild’s chest. She was deflected and disarmed in an instant.
Primrose wished she could call out to her. The hammering in her chest was no longer fear for her life—the axe could do to her whatever it wished, but if she would have to witness H’aanit be felled—that was unthinkable. She should run, and by the Lady of Grace, she should not stay just to protect Primrose.
Because right then, it looked like she did.
H’aanit took a step back as her pike spun through the air. Not missing a beat, she drew the bow from her back and released an arrow that lodged itself in the slits of Winnehild’s mask. From such a close distance, the arrow protruded from the back of Winnehild’s head, and the goddess halted.
Silver light bled from her eye, seemingly blinding her, and the injuries she’d sustained before ignited with similar light. She wasn’t invincible.
H’aanit didn’t wait for Winnehild to compose herself, but let arrow after arrow fly. Hitting into her shoulders, her arms, her thighs, her throat. Anything to slow her down.
But Winnehild merely nodded as H’aanit’s quiver was empty.
“Good,” Winnehild said. “One blessed by Draefendi still stands… I shallen not hold back anymore.”
Primrose hacked a cough of despair. She’d been holding back?
Fear clawed its way into her throat, her heart beating at the top of her mouth. Like so many times before, she was afraid of her own helplessness. There was only so much pain one could hide, only so many tears that could be left unshed.
But Primrose had never let her fear break her. Her whispers to Yusufa, and Yusufa’s whispers to her whenever the world pressed them to the floor.
On your feet, now.
Primrose could never afford to lay shattered. Never, not when she was needed for something bigger than even herself and her cause.
She forced herself to stand. With a deep breath, she drew upon the wisps of magic tempted by dance. She frowned and surged the power to her palms, let it swirl down her wrists as she herself did a clumsy twirl on the spot.
She called on the wisps of strength. And they beckoned at her command, skipping over to swirl around H’aanit’s arms beneath ripped sleeves and furs. H’aanit glanced over her shoulder at her, met her with knowing eyes.
The waterfalls exploded with flowing water as Winnehild released her full power. Her hands adjusted their grip. Then her weapons came down toward H’aanit with all her might.
Primrose could only stumble back, nearly falling down the stairs. The floor cracked to fine powder, but H’aanit’s figure, still burning with the power of Primrose’s magic, had moved in close.
Her lonely sword struck through the gauntlet of one of Winnehild’s hands. And the blade of a goddess clattered to the floor.
Another five arms still swung toward H’aanit, but wind magic pushed them back with the force of a storm. Primrose did not see which of the others had cast the spell—it mattered little.
What mattered was H’aanit hoisting the sword of Winnehild. What mattered was her fearless war cry as she plunged the blade right into the chest of the goddess. The red glow around H’aanit’s arms extended to a strong light as her arms tensed, and the blade thrust itself through the steel of Winnehild’s breastplate.
Impossible for ordinary humans, but the wisps of strength, fickle as they may be, could break through stone.
Another crack like lightning, and the beautiful magnificence of Winnehild evaporated into a silver light entirely. Dense and consuming, right by H’aanit’s face.
“Thine worth is proven,” Winnehild said. “Thou art fit to become Warmaster.”
H’aanit did not speak. She extended her hand into the light, like Cyrus had not many weeks before.
In one moment, H’aanit was just her own self, her pale blond hair loosely braided.
Within the space of the next heartbeat, her hair flowed loose, filled out by a red like flames.
Primrose needed only blink to watch H’aanit’s hair return to her ordinary color, but the sheer force of the blessing had still left it undone. It fell down her face and back in pale waves. Although as H’aanit turned around, her face was just as usual. Stern, but with a soft gaze upon Primrose. She walked without hesitation, eyes locked on Primrose’s unstable frame like she expected of her to fall over any minute.
Like the blessing of a war goddess was a secondary priority to that.
“Art thou well?” she asked, and Primrose couldn’t answer her with anything else than throwing her arms around her shoulders.
H’aanit grunted in surprise, but embraced her back.
Over by the arena-like surface, Olberic stretched his back and helped Cyrus to his feet.
“Ah, that’s a bummer,” Alfyn said and lifted his corroded satchel. “Zeph is gonna kill me for breaking this.”
“I’ll get you a new one,” Tressa teased and dusted off her hat that had fallen on the floor. “For a price!”
“It’s the contents that I’m mostly worried about, Tress.”
“I think I saw Noxroot herbs over behind the altar,” Ophelia said helpfully. “Those might help with your blisters. Oh, and Therion, I’ll do what I can for you too, hold on—”
Primrose let the speech of her friends fade out. Their return to small quips and chuckles was a good sign, and she knew when she could tune her focus otherwhere. And otherwhere her mind went, to H’aanit’s face so close to hers. Her soft hair stroking Primrose’s cheek.
H’aanit supported her in their embrace, and Primrose couldn’t help laughing. They’d been near death almost every other week, but somehow, this felt different. They were nearing the end of their journeys, not close enough to imagine separating just yet, and truthfully, Primrose never did want that.
She wanted to stay in H’aanit’s arms, now and forever. That thought was not strange or foreign to her, despite her caution with touch. H’aanit was just different. Like no one else.
“You are amazing,” Primrose whispered against her cheek.
H’aanit only laughed quietly. “Wast it not thine magic that senden me strength? And thy courage, spurring my own?”
Primrose only shook her head. For once, she was unable to think of anything to say. Something flirtatious might not be wrong, her instincts told her, but she couldn’t… reach anything.
“Thank you,” she said instead, her voice small.
“’Twas something I wouldst repeaten every day of my life,” H’aanit whispered back.
And just like that, ‘something flirtatious’ did not even feel like it was needed. This, just this, was abundant in clarity.
Their faces were so close. They moved, and Primrose’s head felt both empty and full.
While Primrose had kissed innumerable people, she’d never kissed them like this. H'aanit's lips were thin and hard against Primrose’s, but they did not rein back. She looked at Primrose, without saying a word she carefully leaned in to answer with her own kind.
“So who needs medical attention?” Alfyn called, rustling with herbs. “Primrose was hit pretty badly, right? Hey, Prim—”
He interrupted himself. Primrose kept her eyes closed and didn’t see any of it, but she imagined that he’d turned his head and only then noticed her.
“She looks fine to me,” Therion snorted quietly, and Primrose smiled and leaned into H’aanit, upheld in a stout but gentle embrace.
True. She’d never been better.