10. Arianna

Dragons could not be trusted.

She’d known this much to be true all her life. When the first Fenthri broke through the clouds of Loom and uncovered the Dragon homeland, it began a chain of events that proved Dragons were opportunists and liars. From the Dragon King promising equality between Loom and Nova, then enslaving her people, to the Guilds being overthrown and turned into a mockery of their former glory, to what happened the last time a resistance stood against them. At every opportunity, Dragons acted in their own self-interest, pursuing their own goals at the expense of others.

Dragons could not be trusted.

Arianna’s magic pulsed through her fingertips as she commanded the dagger at the end of her line like a barbed whip. It cut through the air with a sharp whizzing sound that rang louder and more true to her ears than the cries of the other Fenthri at the fight that had broken out among them. She managed it like a cat and a tail. It was part of her, but moved seemingly with its own mind.

Her other dagger in hand, she launched at one of the remaining three Riders. Three Riders, and two of them—Florence wouldn’t be much help. Arianna loved numbers, but she hated those odds.

Cvareh moved for the third Rider. His claws flashed in the sunlight that flowed unfiltered through the glass ceiling above. Her ears picked up the sound as they locked against the Rider’s, bone grating on bone.

They had been through the line when he attacked. It made absolutely no sense. They were free and clear and there had been no reason for it. He had willingly endangered them all for nothing. If they made it out of this scrap alive he would have some serious explaining to do—assuming Arianna didn’t just get on the next train back to Dortam and leave him to fend for himself.

That was an appealing thought, the idea of taking Florence and running from the fight. But Arianna didn’t give it too much heed. There was no time to think that plan through and besides, she was already committed to the struggle. At the very least, she’d get to slay some Dragons, and it was always a good day when that happened.

The Rider before Arianna spun, kicking through the air. He moved with deft precision and a speed that spoke of no movement wasted. Arianna turned and ducked, the kick passing over her head. With an outstretched leg she tried to hook the heel that still supported the majority of the Dragon’s weight.

The Rider hopped, shifting weight to the foot he was previously kicking with and—in one motion—bringing up his other foot into Arianna’s face. Her nose sounded like celery snapping; Arianna thanked every stroke of luck she’d ever had for the thick cotton covering her face, hiding the blood that no doubt exploded from it. She tumbled back, twisting the dagger in her hand to a saber grip, then lunged forward again, targeting the Dragon’s chest.

A swipe of her dagger, a parry from the Dragon’s claws or a twist for Arianna’s blade to hit a shoulder, a forearm, a hand. The Rider took all forms of punishment in order to protect his heart—the one organ whose destruction would prove a fatal injury. The Rider caught one of the jabs of her blade and with a swift motion, snapped Arianna’s wrist with ease.

Arianna cried out and retreated. She switched the dagger from one hand to the other, giving the bones in her right wrist time to knit. The Dragon didn’t want to relinquish the hard-earned upper hand and continued to strike. A blow to the chest knocked the wind from Arianna, almost rendering her twist to avoid the talons closing in for her throat useless.

The hits racked up. Arianna struggled to avoid any significant blows. Punches she could take, but there were too many people around to take a hit that broke skin. As loath as she was to admit it, Arianna was outclassed. Her eyes wildly scanned the room, looking for alternative solutions, trying to formulate a plan.

A familiar explosion burst out from behind her shoulder. It was the worst thing she had ever felt. It meant Florence had joined the fight.

With a cry of rage, she ducked under the Rider’s open palmed jab. A claw caught on her shoulder, tearing through the white fabric and nicking Arianna’s skin. The Rider’s eyes widened, looking at the superficial wound that was already quickly healing itself. Arianna took the distraction as an opportunity and plunged her dagger into his heart.

Two rose colored hands closed around hers and the Dragon’s stormy blue eyes stared into Arianna’s goggles. They were open, unfiltered. The moment before death could only beget clarity.

“What are you?” the Rider rasped.

“The White Wraith.” Arianna twisted her dagger and felt the last of the Dragon’s heartbeat fade against the blade.

She pivoted. Her golden line wrapped itself around the neck of the Dragon approaching Florence in a rage, no doubt from the shot she’d just landed and which his skin was still knitting to repair. Arianna pulled her hands back, yanking on the line. Her magic did the majority of the work, but the physical movement was instinctual, like a mother wolf defending its pup. She wanted to feel the tension in the line, the closing of the loop around the Dragon’s neck.

The refined steel cabling was nearly unbreakable, and though the Rider clawed at his skin, seeking purchase on the slowly tightening tether, it was futile. She felt his magic pulse against the line; it shuddered, the tempered gold refusing his command. Arianna pushed her magic a little further, dredging it up from her toes and drawing it out through her hands. The loop closed, decapitating the Rider cleanly.

With a flick of her wrist, the dagger at the end of her cable twisted and reared back, stabbing into the Dragon’s heart for good measure. Severing the head from the body was good enough to merit a kill, but anyone who attacked Florence earned death twice over.

Florence missed no opportunity. Arianna wanted to be proud, but the girl was worrying her half to death with this sudden bout of recklessness. It reminded Arianna of herself in the worst of ways. Flor popped open the hinge of her revolver and decided on a new canister with expert ease. She was a Rivet through and through, no matter what was tattooed on her cheek.

Arianna had found the best teachers for her, and it showed. Despite having never been in a fight, Florence moved with the precision of a trained Revo. She kept only one revolver chamber loaded at all times so she could hand select each canister based on the changing needs of the conflict.

Tracking the muzzle of the gun over the Rider that was still engaged with Cvareh, Florence planted her feet and pulled the trigger. It was a smaller version of the canister she’d given Arianna on her mission at the refinery—small enough that it required no extra magic besides what Arianna had stored in the gun with a flare of Alchemical runes. A beam of pure magic shot straight and true, punching a hole through the shoulder of the Rider that loomed over a bloody Cvareh.

She stumbled, dazed. Arianna knew that look: glazed, dull eyes sent reeling from a sudden surge of foreign magic. She’d inflicted it on enough people to know it well and had seen it in Cvareh’s eyes when he’d imbibed from her.

This was their chance.

Arianna sprinted over to Cvareh, pulled him off the floor and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. The man was built like a bag of bricks and even Arianna’s muscular legs strained against gravity, pulling him to his feet. If she could run against the slowing of time, she could run and support him—or so she told herself repeatedly. With a magical command, her line retracted, the gears in her winch box whirring.

“Time to go!” she called to Florence.

Her apprentice nodded. With a jerk of her hand, she snapped her revolver closed, another canister loaded in the chamber. Florence looked at the Rider, nearly recovered from her last shot.

“Filthy Fen,” she sneered.

Florence lowered her gun slightly, her aim changing from the Rider’s heart to her feet. Arianna gave an approving nod and Florence pulled the trigger. They had no canisters on them that could sufficiently destroy a Dragon’s heart. Their chest cavities were practically made of diamond. And even if they did, it would need to be Arianna shooting it in order to give the canister enough magic to be lethal.

The explosion was small by Florence’s standards. Enough to stun, but not enough to hinder. Its real purpose was obvious as the reaction of the chemicals plumed thick purple smoke into the room. Remaining Fenthri coughed, trying to blink through the smog. Florence pulled up the goggles that sat around her neck and settled a mask around her nose and mouth.

Arianna gave her an appreciative once-over as they sprinted out into the sun. Florence panted softly, but returned the gesture in kind. The girl was brilliant for thinking of practical, multi-functional disguises. Flor’s planning and foresight had bought the three a few precious seconds. Now, it was up to Arianna to figure out how not to waste them.