Monica looked to her left to find Aurora, a black panther lycanthrope and one of the six founding members of the War Room, seated right next to her. Though she could see the beautiful cat shifter right there, Aurora had no presence—it felt like if Monica reached out to touch her, it'd pass right through her. Wavy hair, darker than darkness, tumbled loosely over her tawny shoulders and spilled down to her mid-back. Her panther ears twitched on occasion when the clashing of swords was particularly loud, and a long tail sat up behind her, swaying gracefully.
"I'm glad you're back," Monica said, honestly at a loss for words. She was trying to find something to say to the panther to convey sympathy without seeming artificial. She hesitated, and the panther seemed to notice.
Aurora chuckled wryly and spoke in that soft way of hers, "You don't need to worry about me, princess; I am alright."
"I don't think I believe you—and I thought we weren't allowed to use titles here," Monica grumbled. This was just such a shitty situation. All six of them, including Monica, had a hand in their training, but only Foster and Aurora really knew the black Griffons. The knightage was established after the main fighting forces of Ether were recalled, so the only time anyone other than the two of them interacted with their unit was while they were helping with their training. August may have interacted with them more, as he visited the frontline occasionally, but he only did so when it suited him. Foster and Aurora lived up there, doing tours in the biting winters of the north. They'd spent day in and day out with those brave men and women, entrusting their backs to them, leading them, sitting around a campfire, and listening to tales of life and family. It was a special bond—the ones forged in the bowels of tragedy. Monica knew that because it was the same kind of bond their group of six shared.
A fuzzy appendage found its way around Monica's bicep. She looked to see Aurora's tail wrapped gently around her upper arm. "It is my carelessness that caused their deaths, and it is a mark of shame I will carry for the rest of my days. They were some of the bravest people I knew. The kind of people uncowed by the looming presence of death."
"You know, Aurora, it's okay to cry. You don't need to be strong for anyone, especially not that lug," Monica jerked a thumb in Foster's direction, "He's plenty strong on his own."
She hemmed and hawed, "Maybe you're right. But… it would feel wrong not to be strong for them. I can cry after I've told all of their next of kin." The furry black tail slithered under Monica's arm, seeking her warmth.
Just then, a shout rang out from the dueling pit, and they both looked to find Foster on his knees in mortal form, clutching his chest, right over the phantom of the knight brand. Everyone spectating was up instantly, and Monica and Aurora immediately warped to ring. When they arrived, Aurora looked to the ref, "Go tell Regina to meet us in the infirmary."
"And tell her it's a soul wound," Monica added.
"Understood, madams." Elwin bowed and vanished from his spot.
Monica ran to Foster's side, casting the same soul-sight spell she had in the throne room. A humanoid aura overlaid on top of Foster's body in Monica's vision—his soul was as pristine as his glass sword, and it warped space with the immensity of the Zyph he carried. Like a heat mirage, the air flickered and wavered around him. The damage was glaringly obvious, and the wound had gotten bigger. What had looked like a minor fracture an hour ago now looked like a stone had been thrown at a window, how the cracks spiderwebbed out from his head and heart.
Monica canceled the spell and controlled her Zyph body transformation. Strength rushed through her, and without a word, she gingerly grabbed Foster under the knees and around the back, hoisting him into her arms, "Wha… Hey! Monica, what the hell are you doing?!"
"What are you freaking out about? Thanks to your incompetence, Regina needs to look at you before you do more damage to yourself, idiot."
That was when August decided to pipe up, "Um, Nica… As a fellow romantic, I can appreciate the gesture. Still, the name 'princess carry' comes from the princess being carried. She's generally not the one doing the carrying."
The staff broke out in chitters, Aurora choked on a laugh, and Foster's face went beet red. It seemed like the situation was not as severe as she initially thought. Whoops. Whelp, it was too late to levitate him with magic, and she wasn't going to just foist his injured form onto someone else. Sorry, Foster. With a silent apology, and while the peanut gallery gawked, Monica warped into the infirmary where Regina was already waiting. When she saw them, she rolled her eyes.
"Set the damsel on the cot over there." She nodded to a bed in the corner of the infirmary, where a pair of nurses had just finished putting down a clean sheet.
"I will never live this down," Foster muttered, "It's not that big a deal. The pain's already gone. Besides, I've had worse."
Monica kept her irritation in check, setting him down instead of dropping him on the bed. Then, she released her Zyph body and returned to a more mortal form, feeling the slowness of mundanity swallow her. Regina put on a pair of glasses enchanted with a more powerful version of the spell Monica used to check the damage.
When she looked at him, she whistled, "How the hell did you do that?"
"I tried to break the vows again. Well, technically, I created a contradiction so they would destroy each other." Foster shifted his shoulders to get more comfortable.
"Why? You'd already beat the Demon lord; they would've disappeared on their own." When Regina said that, the blood in Monica's veins froze, and her palms began to sweat. She thought back to the conversation the prior night:
Monica sat up, hugging the sheets to her chest. Foster's naked form was sprawled next to her, his bottom half obscured by the down comforter. His eyes were closed, and a hand was tucked under his head while the other plucked grapes from a charcuterie board she'd had a member of the staff bring to her room. A gentle breeze flitted in from the open window, rustling the curtains and chilling the bare skin of her exposed back. The sound of crickets and the occasional owl provided the calm serenity of the night woods. Though they were underground, Monica's mastery over illusions that manipulated reality allowed her to create permanent fixtures like artificial windows. They were all over the War Room's many chambers and even had weather, temperature, and scenery settings.
Magic was so much more than a tool for war. It was an art. Zyph was her medium for expression—just like the paint of the painter, the language of the writer, or the sound of the musician. Zyph was the foundation of the world, the breath of the world. There was poetry in how the lower-order attributes formed the world, while the higher-order ones shaped it. Fire and water, air and earth, light and dark, life and death, space and time—everything in existence, as far as Monica knew, was made of some combination of these lower-order attributes. Existence was a dichotomy of tragedy and triumph; her heart sang that beautiful song in the illusions she created.
Rough fingers traced idle circles over her spine, "You've been staring at the window for quite a while now."
"I was just thinking…"
"About?"
"About magic…"
She could feel his chuckle on her skin, "Of course you were… And here I was thinking I'd fucked you so good, I'd left you speechless."
Monica turned to look at the hero, "I am a princess. I don't get fucked, I make love. Such crude words will taint my maidenly spirit." Mockingly aggrieved, she playfully batted his hand away from her back.
He laughed, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. When he did, he strode to where his clothes lay sprawled on the ground and began to get dressed. Monica watched his powerful form, grace in his easy movements. He ducked his head to pull on a loose tunic. When he was done, he turned to look at her, his eyes serious, "I don't know what Randall's plans are now that the Demon Lord is dead, but I am not getting involved in the rest of the war."
"I expect the war will reach a rapid conclusion—what with their head of state dead along with three of the four highest-ranking elder demons."
"Will Sebastian and the pope let the war just… end? Just like that? I mean, it will be nearly impossible to get even one of them to sit down with whoever is in charge of the demons now and hash out a treaty—if the demons even want that." While he spoke, Monica got up and began getting dressed as well, feeling the conversation take a turn that warranted clothing.
She thought it through aloud, "The king never expected you to kill the demon lord, and Ether as a whole pulled out of the war, at least publically, back when Mom died. You, and by extension Aurora, and by further extension the Black Griffons, will have officially washed your hands of active duty when you confirm the demon lord's death," Foster winced at that, something indescribable, twisting his features a mere blink. Monica must've imagined it; it was gone so fast. She held up a fist and began folding open fingers as she listed the problems another war would accrue, "Since that is the case, continuing the war means drafting, training, feeding, arming, housing, and not to mention transporting them all the way to the north, through two different countries, both of which hate Ether with a passion thanks to our rampant racism and fondness for non-human slaves. I'd hazard a guess the only reason they haven't declared war on us as well, is because the hero, you, kept their front lines from collapsing. Point is, continuing the war would be a political and logistical nightmare—one that peace has not prepared Ether for." Monica punctuated her statement by pulling her hair through the neck hole of a spare tunic of Foster's she had in her closet. She liked wearing his baggy clothes.
Foster made no secret of enjoying that sight. Eyes trained squarely on where the hem of his shirt… and where it met her thighs. Monica strode up to him and continued, "Still, I can't deny the possibility of the king and the pope wishing to continue. To avoid that outcome as much as possible, the best option is probably to reveal your success publicly in court tomorrow morning. You'll also need to participate in one of your favorite pastimes."
Monica laced her fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him close. He hugged her waist and did the same. Nose to nose, he spoke, "Sorry, Monica. My favorite hobby involves you wearing very little clothing, and it is not one I would like to participate in in front of your father."
She slapped his shoulder. It was like hitting stone, "Not sex, you moron. I mean humiliating the king." She pecked him on the lips.
He tilted his head back and laughed, and she watched his adam's apple bobbing as he did so, "Hahaha! Oh, Monica, you know me so well. To think the day I spit on Sebastian in public would finally come. I waited nine years for this!"
His genuine laughter had been so rare lately that she was scared she'd never hear it again. A loud bellowing of infectious joy brought a genuine smile to Monica's lips. Suddenly, she was lifted from her feet under her arms like a child and spun in a circle. "Oh, this is going to be so good! I know exactly what to do. I bet I can finally get that giant vein in his forehead to pop!"
Just as abruptly as she'd been lifted, she was set on the bed, and within seconds, he was striding for his jacket on the couch, "Well, since my plans have changed, I might as well make some preparations."
Monica quirked an eyebrow and folded her legs under herself, "As you said, you've had nine years to prepare for this. What else could you possibly need to do?"
"I have to prepare a surprise for you—though, admittedly, you'll probably be pretty pissed with me if it fails… or if it succeeds." he rubbed his head sheepishly as he swung his dirty coat over one shoulder.
She scowled, "Then don't do it."
"Nah, nah—it'll be fine… probably."
Monica could feel a headache coming on. "Haaa, well, I know there's no stopping you—just expect a scolding when your hair-brained scheme fails."
"Of course. You can even break out the fluffy handcuffs, I don't mi—" The rest of his sentence was cut off by a pillow rocketing into his face with a wind spell.
"Shut up and get moving before I make you sleep here tonight."
"You do realize that's not much of a threat, right?"
"Just go!" With that, he walked out the door. Monica ran her hand over the sheets, feeling the warmth fading from where he'd been lying. She ran her hand over the sheets, wishing she'd followed through on her 'threat.'