Claire shivered as the cold mountain air rushed by. She was outside the volcano again, courtesy of a path shown to her by her new cetacean guide.

Navigating the mountain’s steep exterior was impossible on foot, but surprisingly easy on dolphinback. The magma swimmer was unbound by gravity. It could move in any direction it wanted and would hover in place if otherwise left alone. Despite its fiery appearance, it wasn’t hot or even warm to the touch; the halfbreed was dismayed to find that it was just as cold as the icy environment around it.

“I never should’ve given that stupid goddess my cloak.” It was even colder near the mountain’s peak than it was by its base. She was sniffling, sneezing, and only half conscious—an effect largely born from the sudden switch from the burning heat to the biting cold.

Even with gravity as a nonfactor, the trip remained equal parts lengthy and tiresome. The dolphin moved at an irritatingly slow pace, but it did at least keep the giant sparrows at bay. Its warning shots ensured that the watcher-sized birds steered clear of them throughout their ascent. Claire had tried to mimic her newly acquired mount, but her spells were much less effective. The giant feathered beasts were so heavy that her vectors could barely deter them.

All in all, it took about an hour to reach the caldera’s outer edge. The volcano’s peak wasn’t as warm as the city that lay within it, but neither was it as cold as the mountainside below. The occasional stream of lava kept it at a reasonable enough temperature to thaw the vector mage’s frostbitten fingers.

“We’re close,” said Herk. The dolphin kept glancing at his rider as if expecting a reply, but she continued to ignore him.

They were situated almost directly above one of the city’s major landmarks. Namely, the well-guarded manor situated away from the other two. Slowly, they descended upon it. The dolphin dimmed the light of his core as he moved, minimizing any chance of detection.

The building stood out thanks to its hilltop position and its obvious high security, but it was really its unique construction that emphasized its importance. Unlike everything else in Borrok Peak, the manor was only covered in ice. It was built instead of all the usual things seen in a fancy home. Wood, clay, glass, and lime were worked into its frame, the foundation of which was laid with large stone bricks. It almost looked like a relic from another time, a building that no borrok could have possibly built.

“It looks… dwarven,” muttered the rogue. The doors were tiny, likely meant for people no taller than five feet. Combining that with its flat roof, its stout, squarish construction, and its mountainside location provided the impression that it was made by and for Dorr’s favoured.

“We don’t know much about its history,” said the dolphin. Again, he awaited a response, and again he was ignored.

Kicking off the mini-whale’s back, the halfbreed leapt onto a nearby rock and shook her makeshift dress free of any remaining snow. She was at least fifty meters above the manor, but her weapons were already drawn. One of her hands held a dagger, while the other dragged her mace. She had only one other blade strapped to her thigh. The rest had been lost to the horde.

“Stay here. It won’t take long.”

“For you to die,” laughed Herk, with his shrill, soprano voice.

Narrowing her eyes, the halfbreed turned around, spun one of her knives into a reverse grip, and approached the manor under cover of night.

Her survey had revealed that there were around thirty guards patrolling the premises, but as numerous as they were, none managed to catch her as she infiltrated the property and snuck through its halls. The one-eyed watchmen were far from orderly or competent. Their routes were uncoordinated and they didn’t seem to be keeping track of their allies. Not a single watcher had sounded the alarm by the time she halved their number.

A better-prepared assassin would have surely abused the security and eliminated her target in a heartbeat, but Claire knew nothing about the so-called corrupter. Tracking wasn’t doing its job; she picked up on a number of trails, but they had only ever led her to guards.

Straining her ever-reliable ears had provided a clue—there was a strange droning chant coming from the basement—but the only stairs she discovered led up to the second floor.

Searching the ground level yielded nothing but wasted time. Everything from the baseboards to the fittings to the chandeliers was completely frozen, encased in the same frigid layer that covered the rest of the building. She doubted that the second floor would be any different, but the rogue soon gave in and ascended the steps regardless. There was only time to lose and frankly, the building had captured her curiosity. It was her first time laying eyes on a residence whose furniture was made entirely of stone.

A one-eyed guard stood near the top of the steps, but a quick stab to the throat, followed by a dozen more to the face, soon rendered it moot. Leaving the corpse out in the open would surely have alerted the next patrol to pass, so she quickly cleaned it up by ordering the vacuum on her shoulder to consume it. As it had all the others.

A series of unpleasant sensations filled the lady’s mouth as her guardian spirit performed its task. The combination of the acrid flavour of its flesh and the stringy texture of its hairy body almost made her retch, but she suppressed the urge by gritting her teeth and clenching her fists. She hated it. She hated the taste and the mouthfeel. And most of all, she hated the way the horse was celebrating its meals. Every time it was fed, it would squeal and tap its toes like a happy shoat.

Seven doors and two dead watchers later, Claire found a smoking hearth with its inglenook removed. The fireplace was inside an ancient study with empty bookshelves lining its walls. A half-rotten desk sat centre stage, surrounded by three broken chairs and adorned with a metallic candelabra whose flames were frozen in time. It was a confusing sight to behold, but the halfbreed didn’t dwell on it for long. She focused instead on the dark billowing clouds that clearly stemmed from a source beneath the otherwise empty stone basin.

Sticking her finger through the burning hot smoke, Claire doused the source of all the heat in a stream of stale water. It soon fizzled out, leaving her to poke her head over the edge and examine the shaft that lay below.

She slid into the narrow passageway after confirming a lack of threats and dropped down onto the freshly watered coals. A gasp was caught in her throat as the brick gave way to a room full of familiar creatures. She drew her weapons, nearly lunging at the nearest one before realizing that it was lifeless and unmoving as its silent heart. Just like all the others.

Before her eyes lay a curious scene painted by a hundred corpses and an equal number of boxes. Monsters of all shapes and sizes were arranged throughout the room, ordered loosely by their species. Some had been made to stand idle, while others were shown as they were in combat. One of the watchers was even holding a frozen blade, poised as if to strike at the winged frog beside it.

Lowering her daggers, the mage took a deep breath as she walked down an aisle of frozen cadavers. The specimens nearest the flame were the only individuals fully flush with insectoid features. It was a gradual, obvious transition. The ones at the back, near the only open doorway, were entirely untouched.

Moving closer to the doorway enhanced the sound that had attracted her to the basement to begin with. The quiet murmuring was almost intelligible, distorted only because the same voice was giving life to a thousand high-pitched whispers at once. It came from a room at the other end of the hallway, another room illuminated by flame.

Sneaking down the hall, Claire scanned the various empty chambers before sticking her head through the final door. There was a lone figure standing inside—a hooded man with a dark green robe over his shoulders and an odd-looking blade staff in hand. The weapon’s poorly constructed, meter-long shaft looked to be made of cooled molten rock, perhaps even carved from the crater’s walls. Its handlebar was covered in jagged extrusions, sharp enough to cut the skin of its wielder. The chunk of ice that adorned its tip was almost as long as her forearm. It started with a thick, wide base, but rapidly thinned into a sharpened, geometric point. If not for its magical aura, the icy edge would have more closely resembled the head of a spear than that of a catalyst.

The staff’s bearer was equally as curious. Like every other borrok, he could vaguely be defined as a mix between a monkey and a beetle. If one was to ignore the insect-like wings sticking out of his cloak and the bits of shell that covered his limbs, then he likely could have passed as a sort of ascended simian. The only oddities were his fluffy, triangular ears. They vaguely resembled those of a cat, given the tufts of fur that bordered their edges, but their shape wasn’t quite right. There was a strange, almost human-like curve to their tips that threw their frames off balance.

Though the borrok was eye-catching, it didn’t hold the halfbreed’s attention for long. Following the tip of his staff, she found her eyes on a line of frozen pillars, each of which restrained a creature. On the end closest to the borrok was a pure white bear that stood at roughly four meters tall, its head just barely shy of the cellar’s ceiling. The monster was in clear distress. It flailed its arms about as it roared and howled, but try as it might, it was unable to break loose of the shackles that bound it.

A magic circle appeared directly above the bear as the borrok finished his chant. He crafted an eye-catching spell, a complex, twelve-sided plane with over a hundred runes inscribed in its perimeter. Ignoring the ursine’s cries of panic, the borrok slowly lowered its staff and moved the circle downwards. The poor monster suffered an epileptic attack on contact, an especially violent seizure that didn’t end until half a minute after the spell finished passing it through. At the end of it all, the bear was left with its body slumped and its mouth foaming.

“Who’s next?”

The caster’s strident, nasally voice was more out of place than it was intimidating, but that didn’t stop it from terrifying nearly every one of its prisoners. The sole individual to resist was the dolphin next in line. It had its head held high and its core burning as brightly as the wooden furnace situated against the opposite wall.

“Release me, coward!” squeaked the cete. “Release me and return the staff, or you will feel our wrath!” To the halfbreed’s displeasure, it was not her mount, but another similar creature with a much deeper voice. 

“Wrath? What wrath?” The nasally monkey laughed. “Your ‘lord’ can’t do anything without his shard.”

Twisting his wrist, the corruptor pointed the icy staff toward the gargoyle and initiated another long chant. Again, his words, his unintelligible multilayered whispers, echoed through the chamber. The windup lasted for about thirty seconds, after which he formed his mana into another ominous purple polygon.

Like the bear, the dolphin screamed and convulsed as it was exposed to the magic. Its body lurched, twisted, and turned until it finally collapsed. But unlike the mammal, whose chest still heaved, the lavaswimmer fell perfectly still. The burning red light within its core faded and its body slowly crumbled to dust.

“Before you ask, yes, that was necessary.”

The borrok slowly lowered his staff as he turned to face her. He had a large, wide nose with an obvious receding hairline. His face was covered in darkened spots, and his eyes were pitch black with not even the faintest hint of an iris.

“I wasn’t going to,” said Claire. “I would’ve killed him if you didn’t.”

The borrok cocked a brow. “Most intruders don’t understand our ways, but you seem like someone more open to,” he paused to twist his lips into an ugly grin, “negotiation.” The sickening smile revealed a set of half-rotten teeth alongside a second, smaller set of insect-like jaws.

“Then you’ve got the wrong impression.” The halfbreed drew her daggers. “I’m here for the staff. And I don’t negotiate with barbarians.”

“But you’re not on their side, are you?” He gestured towards the ash and dust. “What would you do with it? Only spirits can channel its power.”

“I’m going to snap it in half right in that stupid whale’s face,” she said. “Now hand it over.”

“He wouldn’t care. The shard at the end is the only part that matters. The rest can easily be reforged.”

“Then I’ll just destroy that.”

“Not possible. It’s true ice. Without another pure element, or perhaps the power of a god, it may as well be indestructible.” The bug monkey snorted. “Now leave. I’m busy.” He gestured towards the door with his chin before turning back around. “I’ve got a batch of creatures to corrupt and no time to deal with intruders. If you want someone to fight, then go attack the guards. You’d stand more of a chance against them anyway.”

“I already have,” she said, as she coated her weapons with poison. Her voice was perfectly calm, but under the surface, her heart was boiling. Everyone was parroting her father. Patronizing her at every turn.

“I heard. You dropped some of our men into the lava and made an escape before the mages could finish you.”

“I meant this manor’s guards. Half of them are dead.”

She slowly began stepping forward.

“Only half? Go finish the rest. I’ve got no time for you. I’ve got an army to build, a skill to improve, and a celestial to kill. This is my final warning, and the only courtesy you’ll get.”

“I don’t care.”

The corruptor sighed and craned his neck back to look at her. “You’re in over your head.” His eyes were glowing a deep shade of purple. “We already know you can’t handle mages, and I’m the best in town.”

“Not for long.”

Ignoring the warning, the halfbreed raised both her blades and lunged. She closed the ten-meter gap in the blink of an eye. The sudden lack of distance threw her off-balance and messed up her aim—it was only the second time she had dashed at her new top speed. Everything was made a violent blur.

The blind rush’s target was just as startled. He barely managed to react, opening his eyes wide before spinning around and wildly flailing his staff. Claire parried the blow with her arm and slashed at the borrok’s legs, but her blade proved incapable of piercing his fur. His hairs were tough; slashing them felt no different than cleaving at a suit of armour. It took a spinning, backhanded blow to draw even a drop of blood.

The corruptor responded with magecraft. He pointed a finger at the rogue and fired a bolt of ice, only for his aim to be disrupted by a violent sneeze.

“Soarspore poison. How droll.” The borrok wrinkled his nose as he wiped the parachute-laden seeds off his face. The warriors had been immune to the toxin, but the corruptor lacked their insect-like heads.

Switching her poisons to quicksilver and rocket fuel, she lunged again, but her foe was prepared. With a snap of the fingers, he materialized a massive icicle half an inch in front of her nose. It was devoid of momentum, but it still would have skewered her had she not rolled to the side. It was a quick dodge, but not one that led her to safety. A second set of projectiles spawned right where she was set to land.

She spun horizontally as soon as she noticed. The maneuver prevented her immediate impalement, but the sharpened winter blades did not miss their target. They tore at her clothes and flesh, lining her torso with a bridge of deep, bloody gashes.

There was no time to nurse her wounds. Raising her head revealed an omnidirectional hail of icy spears. They were gathered around her in a loose spherical formation, with each firing as soon as it was fully formed. The lack of synchronization allowed her to dodge some and parry others, but even with her newfound speed, she was unable to prevent every blade from finding its mark.

One ended up in her thigh, another in her gut, and yet another in her bloody flank. It was an endless barrage. Every projectile that was expended had its place immediately taken by two others. If not for the horse on her shoulder, she would have surely met an inevitable demise.

Activating the deformed pony’s vacuum capabilities, she consumed the mage’s spell and relocated before he could recast it. It was a desperate measure. Destroying a spell required her to expend twice as much mana as its caster, and breaking free of the icicle prison had eaten a fifth of her sum.

“You es—escaped?” said the borrok, with a sneeze. “I thought for sh—sure that would kill you.”

Having gotten over the shock borne of her speed, his voice was calm and controlled. Save for when his nostrils flared.

“Shut up. Just die already.”

Claire threw both her daggers and forced the man to action as she drew her mace and charged. Sidestepping the projectiles, he tried to interrupt the rush as he had the one preceding it, but the halfbreed was ready. She jerked just her neck to the side, evading the fatal blow by the skin of her teeth as she continued to close the distance.

The wall of ice between them also failed to deter her. She smashed through it with a swing of the bone cudgel and followed with a strike to his head. It was a well-aimed blow, but his skull remained uncracked. Another sneeze provided the opportunity to deliver a second, more powerful strike, but it too was impotent, weak enough that he barely flinched. When she raised her mace to strike again, she was only driven away. The borrok warded her off with a wave of frosted spikes.

And then, another, quieter sneeze.

Hardly a minute had elapsed since the battle had begun, but the soarspore poison was already losing its effect; his sneezes had been reduced to tiny, insignificant sniffles.

“Give up now, and I still might let you go.” He wore a confident, invincible grin. Like a man that stood atop the world.

And that was exactly why she got him. Clenching her toes, she pulled both her discarded daggers towards her feet—straight into the back of his ankles. Unlike her weak physical attacks, her magic-fueled strikes were more than heavy enough to penetrate his defences.

The borrok groaned as his legs buckled and gave out beneath him. Closing the distance, Claire bashed his arm with her mace, over and over until his fingers finally loosened. Once his grip was weakened, she cast her weapon aside and replaced it with his, magically pulling it right into her hands.

Depriving a mage of his staff was nowhere near as crippling as robbing an archer of his bow. A magical implement was not a strict requirement, but an add-on whose purpose was to facilitate and enhance. But that was hardly why Claire had opted to disarm her foe. She was much more interested in the offensive prowess endowed by its sharpened tip.

Wielding it exactly as she would a spear, Claire stabbed the bladestaff straight into the borrok’s rib cage. It ran him all the way through; more than half the icy fang erupted from his back, accompanied by a spray of sickly yellow blood.

She ripped a lung with a twist and dragged it across his chest, but it never left his body. He froze his own flesh and locked it in place as he blasted her with icy shrapnel. She endured and fought to keep the blade, but a second burst of mana forced a retreat.

He grabbed the weapon’s shaft as she backed away, and in one swift motion, wrenched it from his breast. The thick, goopy flow that spilled from the fresh wound stopped as soon as it started, cauterized in a layer of frost. And he didn’t stop there. Channelling his power through the catalyst, he created a thick sheet of dark blue armour that spanned the full length of his body. No part was left unguarded. Even his face was entirely obscured.

“I should have just done this from the start,” he said. “I don’t know why I held back.”

He sounded tired and annoyed, but not hurt. He didn’t stutter or wheeze, even with a missing lung.

“Because you’re an idiot,” said Claire.

“Maybe I am.” The monkey chuckled.

She pulled her mace into her hands and renewed its noxious coat as she stared him down. Unlike a traditional suit of armour, whose joints could easily be exploited, the borrok’s magical aegis was a single cohesive structure with no clear gaps or faults, not even any holes for air. His words shouldn’t have been able to reach her.

“But that is just the borrok way.” But they did. Loud and clear.

He raised his staff and waved it to create a thousand icicles, a wall of sharpened blades as wide and tall as the room. There was nowhere to dodge, nowhere to go. The moment he launched it was the moment she would be skewered.

The halfbreed nearly entreated the pony, but stopped as she felt his magic pulse. There was too much of it. Objects could be consumed piecewise, but spells could only be eaten in their entirety. The borrok’s barrage would surely break its limit. And if that were to happen, the puppet’s ability would backfire. It would implode on its own core and completely mangle her form.

Gritting her teeth, Claire dashed straight out the room’s door and ran down the hall. She was tempted to hide in one of the rooms, but it was too risky. She would be dead if its spell was like its minions’ and accelerated as it pierced the ice.

Likewise, standing out in the open may as well have equated to surrender. She would have to dodge or parry every projectile that came her way for even the slightest hope of survival.

That was why she stood at the end of the hall. If the projectiles were sped up, she would just have to meet the ones that passed through the door head-on. If they didn’t, she could dive into another room and rid herself of the need to deal with the barrage. Whatever the case, the halfbreed was ready, prepared to handle his ruthless barrage.

But it never came.

The mage cancelled his spell and pressed the bloodied tip of his staff against the floor. A moment later, the ground was covered in half a meter of ice. Everything in contact with the ground was frozen in place. And Claire was no exception. She was encased from foot to thigh, trapped where she stood. Her legs wouldn’t budge, no matter how much she struggled.

Only the borrok remained capable of locomotion. His steps were slow, confident. He had her in check. But there was a problem. The combination of his armour and his domain rendered his regeneration moot. He didn’t have the fuel he needed to cast a more powerful spell, and his opponent was likely to ward off any cheaper projectiles.

So he—Gregor—approached. Emboldened by his magical armour, he slowly closed the distance to deal the final blow. He was confident that he would end her so long as one of his deadly touch-based spells was able to find its mark. But even with her legs glued in place, the half-reptilian monster girl was able to outperform him. He couldn’t get close. She bashed his staff away every time he drew near. Still, it was hardly a problem that needed an immediate solution. She wasn’t able to harm him. None of her attacks could get past his frost armour.

Or so he thought.

She raised her free hand overhead and pulled one of the blades in his ankles towards her palm. The mercury-coated object rose up through his leg. It tore through his flesh with no mercy and forced his muscle fibres apart, stopping only when it made contact with the ice that encased his flesh.

Her hand moved up and down, sawing his flesh with every motion. She ripped apart his tendons, bore holes in his bones, and carved away his organs. Again and again without a moment of reprieve.

Howling in agony, the corruptor rapidly retreated. He shifted his armour to the door frame as soon as he entered his room, sealing the door with a meter-thick wall. His mana began to regenerate when he dismissed his other spells, but he was given no time to recover. His foe threw herself against his wall, bashing it over and over again with a massive femur. Cracks formed in the frost, growing wider with every passing moment. Barely enough time to weave another spell.

The reptilian was met with a massive glacier the moment she broke through his defences, a thick block of ice that outright destroyed the doorway. It shattered her arms and ribs, completely pulverizing the bone structures that held her body together.

It was a narrow victory. His inner fountain was dry, but she was crippled. His enemy would not rise again.

Or so he assumed.

There was only one problem, a minor error among his axioms that led the result astray. He had assumed that a set of broken bones was enough to debilitate his foe. But she was undeterred.

Rising immediately, the blue-scaled maiden leapt through the entrance before he could seal it and kicked him in the jaw. Her legs were the only tools still at her disposal. But that didn’t stop her. She assaulted him with her knees and her feet, a continuous barrage of strikes without a moment’s pause.

Her strikes lacked power, but they were delivered with dazzling speed. She hit him every time he moved, disrupting his attacks before they could even begin.

She kicked him into a wall when he stumbled before coating her fangs in quicksilver and tearing at his throat.

The borrok groaned as his veins were flooded with poison. But he didn’t give up. He desperately tried to reach her with his grasp, but his nerves were dulled and his limbs were struggling to respond.

Gregor’s body was half-filled with mercury by the time she finally let go. Slowly but surely, his health was ticking down. The heavy metal was spreading to his vital organs, leaving him listless and unresponsive. Even his eyes were failing him. They were drooping. Closing against his will.

Death was coming. Before he could break free of the restraints imposed upon his race. Before he could try to rebel against the librarians that had doomed his people to a cycle of torment.

After being released from her fangs and kicked against another wall, he mustered up the last of his strength and forced his eyes open. Her back was turned. She knew what would come with his death, and she was trying to retreat before she was affected.

But that too provided a chance at reprisal.

His body could hardly move. Nothing seemed to be responding to his commands. But he wasn’t without his bag of tricks.

With the last dredges of his mana, Gregor cast the spell that would be his swan song. A mould of ice appeared at his feet. A final will that anchored his weapon in place. After checking to ensure that it was angled just right, the borrok stopped resisting the reaper’s advance.

He allowed death’s embrace to take him.

And propelled the bladestaff with the explosion that accompanied his end.