The sun spilt fainting light as it moved towards the horizon, painting cloudless sky in hues of crimson and orange. What once might have been walls of a residential building were now only sporadic obstacles in the way of sunlight, casting thin shadows, which slowly crept outwards across the desolate ground filled with smaller remains of human civilization buried underneath it. A labyrinth of directions in the past, this place was brought down to an endlessly wide road, charred walls with blasted off chunks splitting it into adjacent tracks.


    A winged creature encased in metal armour soared through the sky in the distance. Diving closer to the ground in a swinging motion, it spewed clouds of fire that engulfed everything in its way, erasing what little reminded of human presence in this place as metal and even stone slowly melted away.


    Somewhere farther, where a foot could still land without being set ablaze, a human clad in a full set of red armour hid behind a corner within a maze of walls that one could call intact amidst the scenery of devastation. With a long rifle held upright against his body, he was breathing slowly inside the helmet, as if not to let the breath obstruct his auditory senses. The weapon had claimed one life already as witnessed by the body that lay beside him, and he was waiting for the silence to be broken to let it claim another.


    At last, a crack of rubble crushing to dust beneath another human’s foot triggered a chain of predetermined motions: his head and then his body turned to the left in an unbroken sequence bringing him into a kneeling position as he aimed from behind the corner. A pull of a trigger released a projectile, which left a blazing trail in its path and a gaping hole in black armour, its wearer staggering and falling to the ground. Without a delay, the shooter returned to the previous position, as if given inertia by a recoil.


    Assuming an upright stance, he got ready to make a break for the next spot until another foe could trace him through the gunshot sound, but “until” came earlier than expected with a series of rapid steps followed by a swing. A sharp edge appeared from behind the corner outpacing the emergence of its wielder, another man clad in black, slicing through the rifle and slamming the shooter into a wall with an axe blade sinking into his chest.


    The axe wielder’s fate, however, is the same: as he pulled the axe back, gushing blood filling a wide cavity left behind, a dozen shells hit him in sequence. Not as strong as the one that killed his comrade, they still hit hard, one after another, peeling off chunks of armour, until a few of them met the flesh through the openings. Three red figures on the other side of the corridor then withdrew their rifles and promptly relocated elsewhere.


    The blood-stained pattern repeated sporadically throughout the battlefield until but one troop from the black side remained standing. With the screeching sound of a blade rubbing against metal armour, one of them pulled his sword from a fallen enemy and followed three others.


    The troop took a corridor transitioning into a semi-open space, one wall still running ahead of them to their left. The right-most member noted another figure synchronously emerging opposite to them, and he was not from their ranks. His noticing the troop came but a second later, a second too late.


    His hand reached for a grenade on his waist and threw it towards the troop in one swift motion, but it to exploded in front of him hit by a foe’s shell. Two other men beside the one who made the shot lined up next to him, one other accelerating in a dash to close the distance with the rest.


    Ready to release a volley that would ensure a kill, they had their opportunity taken away as a bardiche tore through the smoke left behind by an explosion, whistling through the air on its way towards the shooter in the middle. He got hit and nailed to a wall with a loud thud. The next moment two shots followed the bardiche, hitting the two men to the left and right of him. There was no penetration: shells detonated on an impact. Not enough to do any damage, but their purpose wasn’t to kill but to stagger.


    They regained their balance when the red figure had already shortened the distance, black veil partly enveloping his shape as it transitioned into trails stretching from the smoke cloud, as two side arms hit the ground behind him. His hand grabbed the bardiche, yanking it from the wall and fatally slashing two men in a single swing, drawing a blood-painted crescent moon.


    As he released the grip on the weapon, his body continued the spin until he stopped facing the direction of the fourth foe, only a trooper spraying blood from his neck wound standing between them. Both simultaneously took a sidestep in opposite directions, one in front of his dying comrade, sending the sword in a horizontal strike aimed at the opponent’s core, the other shielding behind the trooper’s back. Using the trooper’s body as a cover, he grabbed his two side arms, pointing them to the enemy’s face from below the trooper’s armpits. The blade hit both, the man in red and the trooper, at the ribs as two shells hit the striker in response: one breaking his helmet, the second delivering a killing blow.


    The man in red let go of both the trooper and his guns, his arms dropping down, just like the bodies of the two enemies in front of him. With the sword stuck in its armour, the trooper’s body fell, revealing a crack in the survivor’s armour. The wound leaked blood that flown invisibly down the red lacquer, yet he remained standing, as if not even feeling the pain.


    Among the pile of bodies, a presence attracted his attention. He turned his head towards the presence’s direction. The presence looked at him and he stared back. His eyes could not be seen behind the helmet, but his glare burned through it. The longer he stared, the more his glare absorbed the presence. The surroundings faded, until…


    “Ouch!”


    The Magister woke up with a pulsing pain in his forehead, hitting his head against a wooden arm of a carriage seat.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    “Watch it, will you?”


    A woman’s voice rang sharp and loud as she shouted at a coachman, punching a vulnerable mind in the state of transition from the dreamland to the reality though sensitive eardrums.


    “My apologies, m’lady. The sun ahead makes it hard to see.”


    Instinctively rubbing his forehead, the Magister opened his eyes. He fell asleep with a book on his chest, which slid and fell to the floor as he lifted his body to assume a sitting position, but he didn’t bother picking it as the aching spot on his head bothered him much more.


    Squinted eyes gradually rendered the image of a black-haired woman in a beige shirt sitting on the opposite side of the carriage. Her hands were resting on a brown brief bag and a black jacket, complimentary to her full skirt of the same colour and texture, in her lap.


    “Hane?”


    “You recognize me. That means you didn’t hit your head too hard.”


    She reached into the bag and held out a metal flask, water audibly splashing inside. Taking the flask, he lifted the dark-grey hair hanging down his forehead and pressed it against the swelling, letting the cool touch of metal douse the burning sensation.


    “You have quite an ability to sleep soundly in such a tight space. Not to mention the sound of hooves.”


    “My, yes! I had such a vivid dream. There were these metal beasts flying and burning everything. Everything was in ruins and then there were… knights? But they were wielding rifles and pistols that were shooting fire and exploding. They were fighting in such intense—”


    Hane’s eyebrows slowly came together as he talked, discouraging the Magister from continuing.


    “You might be reading too many futuristic novels.”


    She picked up the book on the floor, inspecting the title that read “Crimson Days”. By itself, the title wouldn’t have said much, unlike the subtitle, “Based on prophecies of Vanguard witches”, which made one of Hane’s eyebrows rise higher with every word she read.


    “Actually, I don’t read them much. I simply grabbed the first thing that caught my attention at a bookshop to read on the road. Somehow, they didn’t have history books. Which reminds me, did you know that—”


    Hane lifted her eyes from the book. Her cold look suggested she was not interested in a lecture on history either.


    “…anyway, how long till we arrive?”


    “Half an hour, more or less. We could have been already there had we taken a railway.”


    “Yes… technically, we could’ve. But railroads are quite expensive, and being notified about an assignment two months into an academic year didn’t give me an opportunity to purchase a ticket in advance, and they don’t provide discounts for—”


    “You do realize that the railway is cheaper than taking a carriage?”


    “Wait, really?”


    This could have passed as a joke had they not been riding in a carriage already.


    “Just for how long have you been living in a cellar?”


    “Well, living in my home—”


    Before he could finish, both got distracted by a sudden sound and turned their heads to look outside. A thunderclap. At first, it appeared to them as though it had been rampaging somewhere in the distance, but then they caught a glimpse of an electric discharge not far away.


    Hane’s eyes jumped around, trying to pinpoint the source.


    “Lightning? I don’t see any thunderclouds.”


    “And I haven’t seen one arching above the ground either.”


    “Witches, most probably.”


    “You make it sound like that’s something routine.”


    “Not routine, but neither something to be surprised by. They wouldn’t have a Disciplinary Committee at academies if it were not common.”


    “I see…”


    Something was brewing within his mind as signified by him rubbing his chin and looking in Hane’s direction, but not at her, rather through her.


    Hane turned her attention away from the window and focused back on the Magister.


    “Back to what we—”


    “Coach! Please stop the carriage!”


    Hane only let out a sigh. Somehow, she had a gut feeling the Magister would exhibit an exemplary line of behaviour…


    “You want to intervene, do you not?”


    “But of course! What reason could there be not to?”


    “They won’t listen to you.”


    “Of course they will. I’m a Magister, after all, and they are academy students. I might’ve not taken office yet, but factually I am one.”


    …but not to an extent where he would believe the world worked by the book, like he did. Which also might have been the reason he used to pronounce the word “Magister” in a historically accurate way with “g” as in “garden”.


    “Have you ever seen a criminal stop on a demand of a policeman?”


    “They aren’t criminals.”


    “No, before anything, they are children. And… a picture is worth a thousand words, so I won’t stop you.”


    With the carriage coming to a full stop, the Magister opened the door to step outside, showing a confident smile.


    “Let’s hope I have a way with children then.”