The sky was bleeding.

And below, the city burned with an azure flame. In the air, which until recently had been filled with laughter and the gentle murmur of daily life, now rose the agonized voices of those near death and those who mourned the deaths of others.

Also the voices of those who wanted to be saved. But there was no salvation to be found here.

The city where he had been born and raised, where he had spent every moment of his life, had become an inferno engulfed in unreal, celestial flames.

Nothing resembled what it had once been.

That was not limited to the city, to what was left of it and its inhabitants. He took a deep breath.

Even an action so simple, so natural caused an explosion of pain to erupt in his chest. He was vaguely aware of what was happening to himself, but he felt what was happening around him clearly.

The suffering, the death of so many people. Of their loved ones.

There was so much blood… and so much debris. However, that nothing resembled how it had been before was not entirely true, really. Worst of all, what really made what was happening a living hell, was that he could almost, almost see how things had been up until a moment ago. How they should have continued to be.

Everything was different, but not different enough to escape the painful thought that he was seeing the brutal end of his childhood.

He was…

Being dragged across the floor, backwards, by a stranger. He didn't know who. He didn't know why. He only knew that it was neither his father nor his mother.

He was sure that the person dragging him was a woman, but it wasn't his older sister either, no, no, no.

She, together with their parents, was under the debris. And she wouldn't come out from there. Their home would become a shared grave. Should that relieve it? The idea that they would be together, even in death?

That soon he would join them?

His chest hurt. He wasn't breathing properly. Still, he didn't think he was dying. Technically, he could still be saved. Yes, technically.

But, although he was only a small boy, he understood that the situation was not so simple.

For, above the all-consuming flames, death itself loomed.

He could see it with his own eyes.

A spider larger than any building he had ever seen was sweeping everything away. But its existence was not due to a mistake of nature, nor was it the ultimate predator to wipe out humans, who had risen too high on the food chain.

No. There was nothing natural about its existence.

It was an artificial monster of wires and steel; whose pumping heart was a big tank behind it. And its blood was not red or black. It wasn't 'blood', really, but the very fire that was devouring his city. That was what gave it life.

Azure blue.

That miracle that had nothing to do with nature was more like a curse.

And it had nothing to do with him either. As he had said, he would survive his injuries, they were so minor that the word survive was misused. But neither he nor anyone else would escape the city before its utter destruction.

The Azure Empire would not leave a single survivor to tell the tale.

Nor to remember, of course, the stories that had taken place in this city, whose name was already slipping from his mind as easily as the blood from his body.

His head felt very light, like a balloon inflated until it was very, very close to the point where it would burst.

It was normal that he could not think clearly.

Actually, the surprising thing about all this was that he had not already lost consciousness.

Even though the darkness had been threatening to consume his vision for a while. With nothing better to do that contemplate the death of everything and everybody he had known, the child wondered who was dragging him, trying to keep him safe and why.

No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't think of an explanation.

A family friend was an easy answer. Naturally anyone would be more concerned about their own family, but if her own had already died in the attack…

It was believable. But, for some reason, he believed it wasn't about that.

If she wasn't a family friend, what interest did she have in saving a random child? Why had he been chosen? Even though they had walked past mothers with most of their bodies buried under rubble or their legs mangled, begging to take their child.

Why save him when she had watched so many die without doing anything?

It didn't make sense.

None of it made sense, and it didn't matter.

Before long they would both be dead, anyway. Still, he'd like to see the face of the woman who was trying to save him. And thank her.

It was the least he could do. Because he was a good boy…

He had been a good boy.

For some reason, it was then that his tears fell, running down his cheeks. Joining the blood spilling from his forehead.

In the midst of this devastation, he had no idea why he was crying.

It was weird, he was weird.

Maybe he was crying in place of the people whose ability to cry had been stolen.

The boy looked up. At the face of his "savior".

But he couldn't see her clearly. He could only confirm that they were a woman, after all.

He had a lump in his throat, which he unwrapped with a laugh.

As the sky bled and the city burned.

——

Desmond opened his eyes slowly.

His face was covered with his sweat. His heartbeat was racing, though he could kill a man without his pulse trembling. Shit.

He didn't know how he had been able to fall asleep on the train, this death trap. But of course that dream had come back to haunt him.

He couldn't avoid it on normal days, so even less so today of all days.

On the one that would justify a decade of effort or he'd spoil it all.

He didn't dream of the same thing every night. But that memory, painted over and over again by his mind, came back to him often enough to drive him crazy. Many times he had stayed awake for days at a time just so he wouldn't have to go through the same thing again.

Because that was precisely where the problem was. It was like living through all that shit all over again.

He pulled the pistol from its holster.

He hammered it, put it in his mouth. He closed his eyes softly, slowly, concentrating on the rhythm of his breathing and heartbeat to the point where the sounds of the train faded from his perception.

Nothing happened, of course.

He heard a click, felt a slight pressure against his teeth. But that was all.

The gun did not fire.

The first of the bullets in the barrel didn't go through his head, scattering his brain across the seat and the window.

No one said anything.

There was no one to yell "you're crazy" or anything like that. The wagon he was in was empty. Yes, he had taken the trouble to walk to the last wagon even though he had arrived early and there were plenty of seats.

Desmond lowered the gun and spun the cylinder. It was a bit like playing a game of roulette. Yeah, only it was a game he couldn't lose.

He put the gun to his mouth again, not opening his eyes the whole time. He pulled the trigger and the same thing as before happened. That is, nothing. This little routine relaxed him somehow. Probably because he was sick in the head.

Who wouldn't be sick in the head after all he'd had to witness?

He did it again.

Again and again, "firing" all the bullets in the chamber, until he heard the back door slide open. His peace had ended faster than he had thought. He lowered the pistol, setting it down on the table placed between the seats and opened his eyes to see the first intruder.

It turned out to be a female intruder.

White dress shirt, a similarly embellished black mini-skirt, short boots and knee-high stockings. In addition, she wore a white coat with blue lining. A black bow tied her long blonde hair, which reached to the white part of her skirt. A red tie crossed her chest.

Yes, that girl was quite a sight. But rather than heading into battle, she looked like she was on her way to a ball or something. Or that she was someone's secretary.

If not for her eyes, empty, cold, pitiless.

If not for the sword that hung from her waist. A rapier sword, to be exact.

He had no doubt that this girl was dangerous. Like him, she had come so far, after all. However, she should at least cut that hair. It wouldn't do her any favors in the middle of a battle for her life. It would just be an easy place to grab her, restrict her movements.

Anyway, it was none of his business. She should know what she was doing. Or not. And if not, well, one less enemy for him.

She walked in alone.

And, for some reason, determined to annoy him. Because, although she could have sat literally anywhere else, she chose to do so in front of him. The smile she gave him was totally devoid of warmth, amusement or, why not say it, attraction.

It was more of a smug smile like that of a cat with a full stomach.

It irritated him. That's why he had to get rid of her fast. He knew that, if she also passed the test, he would probably have to see her almost every day. But it wasn't worth it.

"Okay, I'll bite. What do you want?"

"I saw you through the window... with this," the girl said, patting the pistol on the table. It was as if she didn't dare call it by name, or as if she didn't know it.

In any case, he ought to know now why she had come all this way.

But her smile was too wide. From ear to ear. It didn't fit. Still, he responded as if he was sure of himself. All he wanted was for her to get out of here and leave him alone, not to guess what was in her noggin.

"It's the enemy's weapon. And I deserve serious punishment for making use of something useful. I know. Can you get out of my sight now?"

That should be enough. There was no reason to keep sitting here, talking to him, after being treated like this. She'd tell him to fuck off and go back the way she'd come.

"It's just curiosity. It's not something you see every day. Not in this part of the world."

Or that was what should have happened. Actually, this girl didn't even react, the smile not faltering even a little bit. What was going on?

It didn't matter. It just seemed like he'd have to go a little further.

"Until recently, yes, it was. But when people saw this, they didn't smile as much as you did. Quite the opposite."

Her smile did falter this time. A little bit. But she didn't make any attempt to get up, quite the contrary, she immediately regained her spirits. For some reason.

"You're trying to make it sound like a threat, huh? It's not that big of a deal. I don't bite, I just want to talk to you."

"And why? Why with the weird guy who sits in the last car when there's still room to spare? With a gun in his hand?"

In his mouth, he thought. He couldn't help it. In his mouth.

Would she have seen him do that? No. Surely not. Then she'd have sat down, but at the opposite end of the train, wouldn't she?

"Curiosity. But I don't think I'm the only one who wants this. You've been glaring at me from the start, but you keep talking."

Desmond grimaced. It was as if this was a verbal battle, where he was the only one staking anything. How stupid. How utterly stupid, today of all days.

"Fuck you," Desmond spat, his voice more full of venom, hoarser and gruffer than ever. It was as if it was the first time he had ever really tried, and that thought only worsened the already ugly grimace on his face that to look ugly didn't need any help.

Okay, maybe he hadn't given it his all. But not because of the nonsense that girl was saying. Because he hadn't been able to muster real anger when she'd only irritated him. That accusation had stung, though. That was all.

Desmond looked out the window again. Maybe if he ignored her, she'd get the message. Maybe it was what he should have done all along.

"Look, it's really no big deal. My name is Amy... Amy Sunderland."

Her voice had become softer. He couldn't see her face, not even reflected in the mirror, he'd made sure of that. But she seemed less confident all of a sudden. Even a little insecure.

Desmond bit his lower lip.

Yes. This was all so irritating.

"Desmond."

"Desmond. Okay, can we start again? That gun... It's useful, I'm sure it is. If firearms were no big deal, we would have won the war long ago. But most mages consider them useless against the power of magic. Hence my curiosity, Desmond, would it really be so bad... to talk to me a little?"

Hearing her repeat his name so much was annoying. It was also annoying that he was thinking of twice as "so much".

He wasn't good at any of this.

She should...

"It's because of arrogance. Plain and simple. I can pull the trigger a lot faster than anyone can use their magic. And one bullet is all it takes."

This he could talk about, though. What he knew well. Without hesitation. Or insecurity. It was all he needed to know how to talk about. Here to become a soldier and nothing more.

"That's true," Amy replied and then fell silent. Not exactly making much of an effort to continue the conversation, even though he wasn't the one to talk.

"But besides, I need this gun. Because I have no talent."

"Come on, don't be so harsh. You're here."

This was the most prestigious academy in the kingdom. Not everyone made it here, even when their parents paid under the table. Desmond was aware of that. But he was still right.

"I'm not harsh. I'm realistic. I can't depend on magic to take care of everything in my path."

"You do have a talent then. Working hard."

She was trying to be positive, he supposed? Though she was wasting that on someone like him. But let her do whatever she pleased. It was none of his business.

At least all this shit was distracting him from the fact that he was in a death trap going to at he had no idea how many kilometers per hour now.

Fuck. He'd thought about that again. Fuck.

"It doesn't make up for anything. Magic is something you either have or don't have. " She was wasting those comforting platitudes on someone like him.

"Of course it makes up for it! It's amazing that you're willing to do anything to fight. I wonder what drives you."

Desmond grimaced.

He had known it was a mistake from the beginning and for some reason had kept going, but this? He was fully awake. But the "nightmare" came to life in front of his eyes anyway. He could almost smell the burnt flesh.

What was driving him?

Wasn't it obvious by now? He wasn't some stupid kid from a family of pretentious rich people, throwing himself into war with a smile on his face.

If he was here it was obviously because...!

"I'm sorry. I honestly... I just wish we could be friends," Amy said. She sounded sincere. Hell, he was sure of it.

But to what extent did it matter?

It hadn't been entirely unpleasant to talk to her. But he shouldn't have started this in the first place.

"It's possible. But first worry about passing the test."

Silence returned to the nearly empty carriage.

But now he didn't feel comfortable at all either. It was as if his skin itched. As if he had bugs crawling under his skin. On a day as important as this, he had to focus.

Nothing else mattered.

Right?

——

No.

When the train finally pulled into the station, he found himself regretting that the conversation had ended as it did. He wished they could have filled that time some other way. It wasn't what he should be thinking about now, today of all days, but... it hadn't been bad. And it could have been better.

Desmond ran into Amy on his way out, and thought that would be it. That he'd pass her by. That they would continue to avoid each other at the academy until eventually, someday, he would inevitably forget about her.

But then Amy spoke to him. For some reason she still extended a hand to him.

"I have my own reasons too. I'm not going to lie to you. But... I was worried."

"Eh?"

"I saw you. With the gun in your mouth."

So that's why. He had never felt so ashamed, he wasn't even able to look her in the eye. He didn't consider himself a good person, but what he had done... it wasn't decent. Simple as that.

"I'm sorry. It's not... It's not what you think. I don't... It's silly. It helps me relax."

Couldn't even look her in the eye?

Fuck, he could hardly finish a sentence. Must have been because it was today of all days. For all that was at stake, he couldn't keep his cool when it was usually so easy.

Usually? Desmond usually didn't talk to anyone.

He worked, he trained. And he'd stare at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

"Sorry," he repeated, feeling like even more of an imbecile. And he hurried.

Running away.

Okay, maybe he was running away. What did it matter?

Desmond slipped through the crowd of passengers when he could and pushed and shoved his way through when he couldn't. People were very stubborn, so he had to return a few. As if they hadn't been asking for it. He supposed people were the same anywhere.

He stood looking at the academy grounds.

This would be his home for four long years.

It could also be his grave for the rest of eternity.

What he had said to Amy, or rather stammered, was true. He wasn't...he was that kind of person. He was in no hurry to die. For one thing, he had no right to throw his life away when he had been saved, even if he wanted nothing else. But if he failed at this, he wouldn't be able to live either.

There really was too much at stake. Not being able to continue was the same as being dead.

The academy was divided into four dormitories, four spiraling towers that defied the heavens, tearing at the shroud of the clouds. And, just as the name of the academy suggested, each of the dormitories had a very clear and distinctive theme.

They ranged from spring to winter, and were decorated accordingly.

The Tower of Spring, just to give one example, was shrouded in a constant rain of yellow and red leaves that came from nowhere and fell to the ground. Clustering together, forming a circle around the tower.

Eventually, not too long, as he was able to observe the process with his own eyes, they would disappear to be quickly replaced with others.

That was the tower that caught his attention the most, for it was a most blatant display of magical power in service of nothing more important than a decorative theme.

It was no surprise, of course.

He had heard about this and had read about the how and the when. Still, just one of the towers was a breathtaking sight. All four together gave the feeling that he was about to step into another world. Except for the main building, situated between the four towers, that was the only thing that broke the illusion.

Which was not far from the truth. Once again, he would leave the world he had known behind.

Desmond resumed his march.

Towards the future.

Or so he had thought, but he suddenly encountered his recent past. He must have been deep in thought longer than he had thought, since Amy had overtaken him.

But he only knew that because she was standing there, for some reason, under the light of a firefly lamp, lit even though it was daylight and there was no need for it at the moment.

A crazy thought flashed through his head.

Surely it wasn't true. Surely she was simply nervous and....

And then Amy saw him, and smiled tentatively.

"Is it okay? Shall we go together?"

Desmond swallowed.

"If it's all right with you."

It was he who should be asking that question, after all. It was he who had screwed up. All the way. He supposed it had affected him because Amy had shown that hers was selfless kindness. True kindness, that is.

Like that of his goddess, who had saved him from certain death all those years ago.

A complete stranger.

No, Amy had also told him that she had her own reasons, but in the end....

They didn't have much time to talk, nor to marvel at the sights. A guide was waiting for them, and he led them directly to the auditorium. He had expected that they would start at full speed, that they would be thrown to the lions.

But in reality, it would begin with a no doubt boring speech by the academy director.

The curtains were drawn and in came the aforementioned person. A man riding in one of those modern conveniences, a wheelchair, because he was missing a good part of his right leg. And he would not always be strong enough to walk, even with the aid of a cane.

That was not the only way he had been maimed. He was also missing an eye.

It was too noticeable that it was a glass eye. A simple replacement that could see nothing.

He was an old man, but he was sure… that he still felt a phantom pain, even after so many years. That his leg and his lost eye still burned.

He felt it too.

A phantom pain. And what he was missing, what should be there, but of which only a twisted imitation remained, which only made him nauseous….

He was talking about his whole body.

But he wouldn't go so far as to say he felt sympathy for the man. A man like Jacob didn't need his sympathy, for he possessed all the power he sought and more.

Even in a wheelchair, on one of his worst days, he had no doubt that the director could tear him apart like a baby.

Even though he had come so far already, he was nothing in comparison.

——

He woke up. And saw to his surprise that he wasn't dead or dying. He was still being dragged by that woman… or at least another woman, he hadn't checked, but it would be too much of a coincidence. Not that his savior had been replaced by another woman while he had been unconscious, but that she had been replaced at all, male or female.

And that woman had managed to get him out of the city. For before him stretched the flaming remains of the city.

The blood, the corpses, and the broken spider that had wiped everything out, the limbs twisted to uselessness, the tank smashed to pieces.

How had that happened?

And while he was at it, what had happened to make him lose consciousness? No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember anything beyond the devastation that had occurred around him. It was like a recording with a part that had been erased.

But not unrecoverable. It came back to him along with the return of pain. The truth was also an answer to why he was in pain.

A metal rod had pierced his chest.

Through and through, cleanly.

Being dragged along he was leaving behind a thick trail of blood. It made him think of a snail and its drool, for some reason. The first comparison his mind, that was running out of oxygen, just as his body was running out of blood, had been able to come up with.

How he hadn't died, indeed.

He had a hard time thinking that a human being could survive something like that. He found it hard to think that a human being would have so much blood inside his body.

And he still had quite a while to go before he bled out. Die by bleeding out.

Desmond coughed. What he expelled was not air.

He spat blood on the floor and also, mostly, on himself. He told himself it was disgusting only vaguely aware of that feeling.

He had other things to worry about.

He was conscious, he could think more or less clearly. And he could still feel pain. That, especially, was good. He believed. He'd learned things like that from books and people's mutterings. But he had never faced anything like this before.

The woman stopped dragging him. His slowly stopping heart pounded with redoubled strength at that.

Please, he begged. Don't give up. Don't leave me for dead.

He stared at the woman's face. It was bathed in blood. Blood, like the color of those eyes that were staring at him. There was no resignation in her expression. There was no reason to fear her, he realized. Because she was looking at him…

Strange as it seemed, she was looking at him like a mother. That was the only thing he could think of.

"You have to live," she said, grabbing his head, pulling it into her lap.

As if he could do anything to change his fate. He was just a child.

There was the cry of an eagle soaring through the skies, its territory. Beautiful, terrible and free wherever it went. Desmond gasped and reached out, as if to pluck it out of the air, seconds after it disappeared under the blanket of the sun.

If only I had that power…

If only I had wings…

His arm fell.

It fell, he didn't let it fall. He didn't even have the strength left to hold his arm up.

He sank into the darkness, the woman's voice echoing in his skull like a magic spell.