arrogant nationalism

The inside of the Convoy’s engine car hummed with enough magic to make her teeth ache, which was impressive considering she’d spent three years at the Institute.

Artificing lines covered both walls, centering on eight brilliant white orbs—the power cores. Those same markings radiated down across the car, and would have continued to the rest of the train as well had the carriage not been ripped away from the Convoy.

Otherwise, the interior of the room was rather plain. She had no doubt the engineering both physical and magical had been monumental, but all of that genius was compacted into an arrangement of glowing lines that Saffra couldn’t make heads or tails of. The language of artificing was similar to enchanting—which used the same language as spells—but decidedly not the same.

“Good gods, girl. How did you even get here?”

Saffra took a second to catch her breath, then, having been bent over with hands on her knees, straightened out.

There were two engineers: a bald one and a hairy one. The latter was short and musclebound, and the bald one was thin, tall, and wearing spectacles. She mentally nicknamed them ‘Hairy’ and ‘Glasses’, since she was too pressed for time to be making introductions.

“Convoy derailed,” Saffra said. “Um, obviously. A Ghul-Feather, level 1200 undead, somehow tore the engine from the rest of the Convoy. Which means the aether cannons are down, and we’re stuck in the Emberblade Fields. A ton of monsters will be swarming soon. Already starting, actually. We need to get the cannons back up. Apparently there are emergency power slots in the Lounge? I need two of those.” She pointed at the glowing orbs. “Do I just…yank them out of the wall?”

Glasses seemed alarmed at her explanation, eyes widening the more she talked. Hairy was even more obvious about his shock, mouth falling open.

“That’s what’s been attacking?” he asked. “A level twelve hundred?” As if to emphasize his words, the carriage shook as the Ghul-Feather perched onto the engine car and pecked, a deafening gong-like sound that rang in her ears. He said over the racket, “Guess it’d have to be, for it to have broken us apart from the Convoy. Still. Heavens Above. Twelve hundred.”

“People are fighting even as we’re talking,” Saffra said.

At that, he grew serious. “How did you get past a Titled-rank monster?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Yes, there are emergency sockets in the Lounge. In the floor, center of cab. Rip up the carpet, slot them in, and pull the lever. In that order, mind you, there are no safeties.”

Glasses had already walked over and deactivated two of the power cores—the other six seemed to glow brighter in response. The now-inert ones had faded from bright white to dull gray.

Saffra breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to convince them.

“Just two?” Hairy asked. “We can spare all but one if need be—that’ll keep the defensive enchantments going.”

A single one of these power cores could maintain a barrier that was holding off a Titled-rank beast? Saffra suspected she was about to be holding a second artifact that was worth its weight in starmetal.

Well, maybe not that dramatic. The cores looked heavy, and the hard part had to be charging them, not the crystal itself, whatever the objects were made out of.

Saffra squirmed in place, wondering if she should explain. “Yes, only two. So that the engine car has six, and keeps the Ghul-Feather’s attention.”

Hairy blinked, and Glasses paused in his work. The corner of his mouth quirked up, and Hairy boomed out in laughter.

“Using us as bait? Fair enough. If it hasn’t gotten in yet, we’ll be fine a while longer. Even if there was risk, better us than the entire Convoy.”

Saffra relaxed, and admired how easy the man made his decision. Not everyone was selfish and awful…Saffra had just seen more than her fair share of such people. “Back-up is on the way,” she told them. “It shouldn’t be more than an hour before a Titled is here.”

Hairy reared back in surprise. “So quick? How?”

“Not from the city. It’s complicated.”

Glasses held the power cores out, and Saffra took them. They were heavier than they looked, and she almost dropped them.

“No time,” Hairy said. “I understand. You’ll be fine out there?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Would love to know how, against a Titled-rank monster.”

“I’ll explain after?”

Saffra tried to deposit the items into her inventory, and sighed in relief when it worked. Some objects were weird about inventory access, especially artificed and mundane ones. Her professors had explained that it was some inscrutable function of size, weight, value, rarity, ownership, composition, and level or power density—and probably other factors.

“I’ll be going then,” Saffra said.

“The gods watch over you.”

They opened the door, and Saffra slipped out. The moment her feet touched withered ash—remnants of what had been grass a few minutes ago—she sprinted away.

The Ghul-Feather screeched and flung attacks at her, but it didn’t pursue. It was clearly unhappy she’d smuggled away some of its coveted treasure, but overall happy to see the strange, invulnerable creature leave. It settled onto the engine car and began pecking and clawing again, with more urgency now, as if sensing time was running out.

Saffra found herself laughing, somewhat hysterically, as she ran through the tall grass. She hadn’t thought she’d left on a suicide mission, but still. She’d faced down a Titled-rank monster and walked away without a scratch. Was she dreaming this whole event?

The Convoy was well and truly under assault by now. Even the weakest monsters of the Emberblade Fields were a match for most of their defenders. Bursts of elemental magic—primarily lightning—exploded out of the upright aether cannons, but without the main power cores fueling them, the attacks were light slaps to what should have been sledgehammer blows. Even that was probably what kept the Convoy from being overrun, though.

She couldn’t see Jasper anywhere, which invoked some irrational—or maybe rational—panic. He would be the one fighting the worst of what appeared. Was he alive? She pumped her arms and legs faster, gasping down air as she sprinted for the Lounge.

Saffra trained her endurance as any adventurer should, but she didn’t have the benefit of a physical class, so her stamina was only moderately better than most thirteen-year-old girls’. She moved as fast as she could, which was still painfully slow. A [Cinder Hound] intercepted her, but when it bounced off her shield two lunges in a row, it decided to try its luck elsewhere.

She scrambled up the metal bulk of the Lounge. Finding the door, she pounded her fist into the metal.

“It’s me,” Saffra shouted. “It’s safe. I just need in again. Please open?”

It would be awfully ironic if the Lounge turned out to be the sticking point in this plan.

“There aren’t any monsters,” Saffra called. “I have power cores that—”

She cut off, yelping, as the first half of her statement became a retroactive lie. Because another gray canine jumped onto the carriage and charged her. She scrambled backward by pure instinct.

Growling and thrashing, the beast proved far more tenacious than its brother from earlier. Hind claws raked into metal as it shoved its bodyweight against the sparkling prismatic barrier, not discouraged by the lack of success.

The Lounge’s door slammed open, and in a flurry of white and black, a woman vaulted out. A flash of silver appeared and disappeared so quickly Saffra might have imagined it, and a second later, a bisected [Cinder Hound] fell in two halves to meet metal with a wet squelch.

A mithril-rank monster, killed in an instant. Saffra was almost getting used to ridiculous displays like that.

“At your earliest convenience, miss,” the White Glove said, curtsying.

Where had her sword even come from? And gone? Her inventory? Had it even been a sword?

Saffra shook her astonishment away and scrambled into the open hole. The maid joined her momentarily, pulling the door closed behind them.

“What is this?” Lord Caldimore demanded. “You aren’t to be coming and going as you please! Out or in, make your decision.”

Saffra wasn’t Vivi to blatantly disrespect a count, much less a Caldimore, so she hastily bowed toward the portly man, no matter the distaste that surged through her. “No time to explain, my lord.”

The backup power core slots were in the center of the Lounge, in the floor, the engineers had said. Seeing how the carriage had been overturned, and the floor had become the wall, reaching the hatch posed a challenge. Thankfully, while Saffra's magical abilities weren't nearly impressive enough to help with the assault happening outside, she was an aspiring elementalist, and could summon an [Ice Wall] as impromptu scaffolding.

The barrier grew from the ground and propelled her upward, and she managed to keep her balance. Reaching the halfway point, she released the spell, stabbed a knife into the carpet ahead of her, and began sawing. That no less than seven noblemen and a White Glove watched her with curiosity made her skin itch, but she had more important things to worry about.

Tearing up the plush red carpet revealed an iron hatch. She grabbed and pulled on the handle, but it didn’t budge—it was especially difficult with the slippery footing. She yanked harder, panic rising, but still nothing.

Jammed? Seriously?

A white glove slipped into the handle next to Saffra’s hand. Saffra jolted in surprise; she hadn't even heard the woman jump up. With a tug, the iron hatch exploded open.

The maid curtsied and stepped aside, watching her with interest.

Her cheeks heated, but she ignored her embarrassment and pulled out the two power cores.

“What is she doing?” a voice muttered.

There were eight slots inside the compartment, and artificing lines covered the metal face, similar to what she’d seen in the engine car. When the inert gray orbs got close, an invisible force yanked them from her hands, and they thunked loudly into the slots.

She grabbed the lever and pulled.

The train shuddered under the injection of mana, gray orbs turning white and humming with power as they expelled who knew how much energy down and through the Convoy.

She stared at the now brilliantly glowing cores.

She’d…done it?

It had even been easy, all things considered.

A burst of exhaustion weighed her down, but she forced herself to stay upright. Releasing her hold on the mana keeping the ice wall up, the construct melted to nothingness, setting her and the White Glove on the floor. She faced Lord Caldimore.

“Power cores from the engine car, my lord,” Saffra told him. “A level twelve hundred ripped the engine away from the rest of the train, deactivating the aether cannons, so we had no way of defending against the swarm. I had to go and grab them.”

“Twelve hundred?” Lord Caldimore said, genuinely shocked. “And—you retrieved the cores? How?”

Saffra took satisfaction in explaining. “Lady Vivi put defensive spells on me before she left. I walked up and knocked on the door, and the engineers let me in. The Ghul-Feather couldn’t do anything to me.”

Saffra had never, ever been in a position to make a nobleman squirm, so she thoroughly enjoyed the look of shock, confusion, then dawning horror on his face. He was realizing just how powerful the Titled he’d gotten into a petty spat with earlier was.

“I…see,” he said after a long moment. “How…fortunate for everyone aboard.”

“I need to get back.” Saffra glanced at the exit door. “I might be able to help still.”

She hesitated before leaving, her eyes falling on the White Glove.

“There are a lot of monsters out there, and we only have one orichalcum. The aether cannons will help, but—will you join us?”

“Only if my Lord wills it,” the White Glove responded.

Lord Caldimore’s attention jerked the woman’s way, eyes widening in surprise. Saffra intuited that the White Glove had spoken out of turn. Had put pressure on Lord Caldimore, however deferent her tone. That wasn’t something White Gloves did. But apparently this woman wasn’t pleased with being cooped up in a fortified cell when she was needed elsewhere. She wasn’t a bad person, just bound by duty.

Saffra’s estimation of the woman rose, but when Lord Caldimore said with a hint of irritation, “I’m sure they’re managing fine,” the White Glove didn’t countermand him. She stayed loyally at his side, dipping her head in acknowledgement.

Saffra supposed speaking out of turn was more than almost any other White Glove would have done. To them, their role as servant and bodyguard was everything.

Still. She was strong—really strong. Maybe more so than Jasper. Saffra wasn’t sure how to feel about the woman’s refusal to help, regardless of the circumstances.

She exited the Lounge, a frown on her lips.

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