Jackal Among Snakes

To ascend to S-rank was to break the barrier between the body and the consciousness. It was to make the boundary between her perception of herself and magic almost non-existent. With Llewellen’s perfected A-rank ascension, [Life Cycle], she already felt she had a strong grasp on magic. Now, it was to permeate that mythical realm. Once broken, she wasn’t entirely sure what would change. Magic would exist alongside her inner voice, her inner self.

“To reach this far, you have to learn and accept exactly what you are,” Rowe’s calm voice filtered into her thoughts. “No biases. Even if it’s ugly, if it’s true, learn to accept and embrace it. Only once you’ve conceptualized your inner self in its entirety can you fit magic inside there.”

Who really was Anneliese? There was the physical. A tall Veidimen—or perhaps not. Perhaps the term ‘snow elf’ fit her more, now that she had abandoned most of her people’s traditions. Her appearance was one part of who she was. Long white hair, bright amber eyes, pale skin… that had affected the way that everyone had treated her, and in turn, that had shaped her.

Anneliese had been born curious—her first memory was asking a question. Her mother’s negligence and abuse had taught her stoicism and diligence. Her status as a pariah, both during her time in Vasquer and back in Veiden, had taught her to be calm and resilient. Under the tutelage of her grandmother, she’d learned cunning and ambition, even if unwittingly. The praise she received during those years had felt like a light, leading her toward leadership and careerism.

Just when she felt that her path was solidified—that she was to be a commander underneath Dras, and would elevate him to glory as she herself rose up—Argrave came crashing into her life. She had felt attraction before, but never like this. The way he thought and acted entranced her. It helped he was tall and handsome, with dark hair and steely eyes. And admittedly, catching his wayward lecherous gazes repaired much of the hurt to her self-esteem she’d received being outcast by all her peers. What she was most ashamed of, however, is that she had only been brave enough to ask for Argrave’s affection because she thought he could never bring himself to leave her.

And in the time following, her very being shifted. She had gone through enough to call herself brave. She had learned enough of the world to accept she was wise. There was the ugly, too. Anneliese’s grandmother had been right in many ways. Argrave’s relentless drive upward, toward power, was part of the reason she’d become his companion, lover, and then wife. She wanted to be important, to be respected, and to remain humble amidst it all. She wanted to be an S-rank spellcaster as much for her own curiosity as the prestige. She wished to work together with Argrave to elevate their kingdom to a nation without peer, that their children might see the fruits of their labor and partake in them joyfully. That desire, frankly, had grown to be larger than her curiosity about the world.

A moment of clarity came after Anneliese realized her curiosity was no longer the foremost thing spurring her forward. She pictured herself in totality, inside her body, in this world, in this place, at this moment.

“Now, weave magic inside delicately,” Rowe’s interjection came, yet Anneliese’s focus was so intense it felt like one of her own thoughts.

Anneliese resigned herself to the vastness of magic. Despite Rowe telling her to weave, it did not feel like that. Rather, it felt as though her consciousness was being slowly lowered into an ocean of liquid magic. It soaked into her inner self like water into a sponge, permeating into her legs and then rising upward as she sunk deeper.

At a point when magic permeated her consciousness’ head, it felt like all of the diagrams she’d ever read about S-rank magic finally made sense. She grasped for one, opened her eyes to the biting winds, and cast it almost by instinct. A gigantic mana ripple spread out, then a roaring inferno burst free from her hand. It left a great scorching pathway, turning some of the rocks nearby red hot and outright melting others.

As Anneliese stared at the mayhem, the revelations that she’d made about herself came rushing to her head. She realized she was crying only when a tear fell upon her left hand. She felt a gentle prod, and when she looked, Rowe held a handkerchief.

She was puzzled for a long time, and did nothing. Rowe had to explain neutrally, “Lot of people cry after going to S-rank. Take it.”

Anneliese gratefully accepted it, moved by the fact even this curmudgeonly man could show some tenderness. She felt like she needed to go tell Argrave that she wasn’t half as great as he thought she was. But then… he wouldn’t accept that, would he? And that was much of the reason she loved him. His insistence on her.

“How old are you? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, something like that?” Rowe looked at her, then grimaced. “By Veid… you’re S-rank, girl. I hate you. I really do.”

Anneliese laughed, voice still distorted from the runny nose.

“Well…” Rowe walked to his icy blade planted into the ground, and hefted it free. He sheathed it back into the slot in the cane, and in a moment, it looked like nothing more than a walking stick. “As I promised, I’ll pass this blade down onto you. It’s only right that one of the youngest S-rank spellcasters I’ve ever heard of is my student.”

Anneliese accepted the walking stick. With a hard pull, the blade slid free. She examined its surface. Sharp on both sides, it had writhing vortexes on the surface of its blue-white blade.

She looked at Rowe. “Why is this so important to you? Argrave said you’d never part with it unless you died, and yet now...”

“Argrave never told you?” Rowe looked surprised, then stroked his hairless chin. “I hope he simply doesn’t know. That’s the only weapon that Veid ever forged. It’s been passed down to the best spellcaster among our people for countless generations. Most gods use their nails, their hair, or perhaps their bones to forge weapons. I’m told it’s a gruesome thing, oft done in private. Veid… she used her heart to forge that.”

“Her heart? Truly?” Anneliese repeated.

“Yes,” Rowe nodded. “A lot of her power is vested in that blade. Sheathed, it functions as a focus. No spellcaster will be your peer, especially if you use ice magic. Drawn, it’s a sword—I hope you gathered that much from looking at it.”

“And the sword? Is there anything special about it?” Anneliese probed.

“It’s not special enough already?” Rowe frowned, shaking his bald head. “Well… fine. Yes, there is something special about it.” He looked away, seeming to hesitate. Without looking at her directly, he said, “I’ve heard that there’s a spellcaster that’s troubled you. Traugott.” Rowe whipped his head to look at her fiercely. “I’m told he killed Castro.”

“In…” Anneliese closed her eyes, then nodded. “In effect. In part.”

“The next time you find yourself facing Traugott, I expect you to draw that blade. With Veid’s heart as your blade, that useless, craven, piss-drinking bastard will meet his end. I expect you to kill him, Anneliese, as my apprentice. I liked Castro, genuinely. I can’t say that about a lot of people. So, I charge you with his killer’s death.”

Anneliese looked at the blade again. “How? He escapes into the Shadowlands—another realm, separate from ours.”

“Veid’s sphere is contracts, honor.” Rowe gestured toward her. “If you draw that blade, you can compel a duel to the death with another mortal. They cannot flee unless you sheathe the blade or perish. He should still be capable of entering the Shadowlands, but he cannot flee.”

“That’s…” Anneliese looked at the staff in a different light. “That’s an amazing tool.”

“Do you know my A-rank ascension, Anneliese?” Rowe asked.

“Argrave did tell me, once,” she nodded.

“I was groomed to carry that weapon,” Rowe pointed at Veid’s heart in her hand. “With my A-rank ascension, I can limit the rank of spells that can be cast in an area—that of myself, and my foes. I trap them with that, limit their ability, and ruthlessly dismantle them with superior combat skill. I’ve killed hundreds of S-rank spellcasters like that over my incredibly long life. But you and your A-rank ascension might be even better suited to that role.”

“…I see why Argrave thought you were monstrous in combat,” Anneliese reflected, looking upon the blade. “Normally I’d not so easily agree to kill another, but I have seen Traugott and the empty void within him. I accept your charge, Rowe. If again Traugott appears before me, I’ll take his life. I believe it a fitting match.”

“Fitting? How?”

“I’ve long thought he and I are the same person that took different paths,” she expressed. “He is curiosity without restraint. Whereas I…”

“He’s nothing so grand. Just a man who’s not yet dead,” Rowe tapped the icy blade once last time as though bidding it goodbye. “Make sure that changes, Anneliese.”

She put the blade fully back into the stick, then set it upon the ground. “I will.”