It’s What He Would Do

  Dante was no stranger to the horrors of war. Even years before the Second Arcane War officially began, he had already witnessed its cruel prelude.

  The One-Day War, they called it—a mere footnote in history, dismissed as a small skirmish near the border.

  But to Dante, it was the worst day of his life.

  The day he lost everything.

  He had been only eight years old, yet he still remembered it like it was yesterday—The acrid stench of fire and ash filling his lungs as he walked through cratered streets. The suffocating weight of loss as he left his parents buried beneath the rubble that had once been their home.

  Above him, the sky burned—lit by raging fires, streaked with the silhouettes of hundreds of bombers, their mechanical engines roaring through the air as they rained devastation below. Explosions, slug fire, and screams echoed through the destruction from all directions.

  And everywhere he turned, he saw them. Bloodthirsty Treviet soldiers and their hulking war machines, prowling the ruins, hunting survivors.

  He couldn't understand it.

  How could life change so violently in a single day? One moment, he had been a carefree child, playing with friends, sleeping in the warmth of a loving home.

  The next, he had nothing.

  No home.

  No family.

  No one.

  He couldn't understand why the brave Solaran Mage Soldiers who were meant to protect them were nowhere to be seen.

  He couldn't understand why he had survived when so many others hadn't.

  He couldn’t understand anything.

  But that day, he made a vow.

  One day, he would understand.

  And he would make sure this never happened again.

  And that’s exactly what he did.

  It wasn’t easy—not in that poor, overcrowded Middleland orphanage he had been sent to. But he didn’t let that stop him.

  He read every book and manual he could get his hands on, getting his hands on every book and manual he could.

  He studied the One-Day War, dissecting why it had happened. Digging even further, all the way back the ages when the northerns raider raided through the southern lands.

  He memorized the intricacies of war—how armies moved, how nations fought, how wars were won and lost.

  Magic was no exception. He scraped together every coin he could, working odd jobs for over a year just to afford a old training wand. And when he finally had one, he taught himself his first steps with just a wand and a book.

  And when he had learned enough, he applied to the Provedencia Academy’s entrance exams—and exceeded every expectation, silencing every stuffy Delrado elites who sneered at him, thinking a rankless war-orphan from the Middlelands could never match them.

  Everyone else believed the worst was behind them. That the First Arcane War had been the war to end all wars. And that no one would ever want to wage such a terrible war ever again.

  Dante knew better.

  By the time the Second Arcane War ignited, he was already on his way to becoming a capable Mage Soldier.

  This time, he would be ready.

  This time, he would make sure that someone was there to protect weak Middleland kids.

  That someone would be there would stop any attack, long before they ever happened.

  That someone would make sure the Treviets could never hurt anyone again.

  After graduating from the academy, Dante didn’t waste a second. He joined the Intelligence Corps immediately. He didn’t want to be just another grunt on the front lines—he wanted to see the full picture. To be exactly where he was needed. To do the things that would make the most difference.

  At first, though, no one took him seriously. The High General treated him more like a personal assistant than an intelligence officer, handing him busywork rather than real responsibility. But he didn’t waste his time. Whenever he wasn’t running errands, he was pouring over reports and classified intel, searching for details others might have overlooked.

  And then, one day, he found it.

  An airbase. A whole storage base full of bombers. Older models, sure—but still deadly. And more importantly, barely defended. Any chance to weaken the enemy was an opportunity worth taking.

  But for Dante, it was more than that.

  They weren’t just bombers. They were the same type he had seen in the skies over his hometown that day.

  He brought the intel to the general and requested permission to lead a sabotage mission himself.

  Days later, he stood deep behind Treviet lines, watching as those same bombers burned in their hangars. Flames licked at their metal frames, their engines twisted and ruined.

  And in that moment, as the source of his childhood nightmares burned to ash, he realized just how far he had come. He was no longer a terrified child.

  He had grown.

  He had learned.

  He had become strong.

  Strong enough to make sure that what happened to him—never happened to anyone else ever again.

  So why?

  Why is it that after everything he’s done,

  everything he’s learned—

  does it still feels like nothing has changed at all?

  Why does it feel like he's right back where he started?

  Invaders in the capital.

  A massive windstorm swirling around the castle.

  And above it all, hundreds of Treviet bombers soaring in formation, their silhouettes streaking across the burning sky, raining fire and destruction down on the place he called home.

  Just like that day.

  "Captain Vynheart."

  Like a nightmare made real, his worst memories had come back to haunt him.

  The destruction. The chaos. The death.

  He couldn't move.

  He couldn't think.

  It was as if time had snapped backward, trapping him in the moment that had run from his entire life.

  "Captain Vynheart!"

  It was all happening again.

  The chaos.

  The confusion.

  The unanswered questions.

  He was a helpless child again,

  standing in the streets,

  staring up at the flames,

  asking the same desperate question.

  Why?

  "Captain Vynheart!"

  The sharp slap cracked against Dante’s face, his vision flashing white as a stinging burn spread across his cheek. It was sudden and painful. But it shocked him back to reality.

  He blinked, dazed, and turned to face the source of the strike—the ever sturn Catalira Furtivo.

  She stood beside him, her expression as severe as ever, the familiar look of disappointment. One year his senior. Her dark hair was meticulously groomed, pulled back into a precise ponytail beneath her intelligence officer’s cap.

  "Captain, this is hardly the time to lose your wit," she scolded. "When General Salazar paired us together, I had my reservations—especially given your... unconventional upbringing.

  "But I trusted the General’s judgment, as I always do. Surely, you do not intend to betray his faith now."

  He hadn’t even realized he had frozen.

  Those grim memories had always lurked at the edges of his mind, surfacing when he least expected them. But it had been a while since they had hit him this hard. Given the circumstances, though, it wasn’t really surprising.

  But he should be better than that, because he knew exactly how to deal with them. By doing his job as an intelligence officer and learning exactly what it was that was going on.

  He forced a disarming smile, masking any lingering unease. "Sorry, Cat. I’m okay now. What did you find out?"

  "That’s Captain Furtivo to you," she corrected, her tone sharp as ever. "And yes, I spoke with a Lieutenant Marrow—he’s been gathering whatever scattered capital guardsmen and police officers he can find. They’ve regrouped at the Capital Guard HQ, using it as a makeshift base of operations."

  She folded her arms, her expression unreadable. "He’s even managed to recruit a handful of willing noncombatant volunteers to bolster their numbers. But no one can get close to the base of the storm, let alone attempt a breach. Treviet drop troopers have locked down all approaches to the castle, while an airship provides overwatch above the main road. And while I find the lieutenant’s efforts admirable, I doubt such a cobbled-together force will be effective against trained special forces. Several have already been wounded just trying to scout the situation."

  Dante frowned. "A lieutenant? That’s the highest-ranked officer you could find?"

  "Yes. It would seem most of the higher-ranking officers, in all their wisdom, chose to attend the celebration."

  His brow furrowed. "So… doesn’t that mean we’re in charge right now?"

  Catalira gave him a pointed look. "Exactly. All the more reason for you to be focusing."

  She folded her arms, her voice sharp and deliberate. "Even if we managed to break through with the lieutenant’s forces, we still have no way to get past the storm barrier. If we’re going to have any chance of reaching the castle, we’ll need reinforcements. So…" She narrowed her eyes. "I surely hope the reason you’re on this roof is because you’ve actually accomplished something."

  Dante let out a sigh—just before the ground trembled again. A fresh wave of explosions lit up the horizon, the distant booms echoing across the city.

  "I’ve been on the crystalwave trying to reach anyone who would answer," he said. "Most are either hiding in basements from the bombing or panicking, unwilling to act without direct orders. The few reasonable ones I did manage to contact all said the same thing—they can’t get anywhere near the castle."

  Catalira nodded grimly. "The lieutenant said as much. He sent runners to spread the word, but it seems the Treviets did a number on the roads leading up here. The roads are either burning or cratered beyond use."

  She folded her arms. "It seems they intend to isolate us, then. An assassination attempt on High Command, perhaps?"

  "Maybe. But if they could get this close, why not just drop a bomb and be done with it?" Dante frowned, his mind working through the pieces. "That’s what I thought they were doing at first. But from what you’re saying, it looks like they’re deliberately avoiding Capital Hill—focusing their efforts on cutting off the roads instead. Why waste time like that? Why not finish the job?"

  His voice dropped slightly, eyes narrowing toward the looming castle.

  "They’re buying time. Something’s happening in there."

  "So I assume that means you haven’t had any success getting a connection through to the castle?" Captain Catalira inquired, arms crossed.

  "No, the storm is jamming the signal," Dante replied—then suddenly jolted upright, rummaging through the pouch at his side. "Although… I might actually have a solution for that."

  Inside his bag, a chaotic mess of spell cartridges with glowing green runes lay scattered, long outgrowing any semblance of organization.

  "Where is it? I know it’s in here somewhere..."

  "Really?" She shot him an unimpressed look. "All the spells in the world, and you still can’t come up with a simple way to organize them?"

  Dante smirked slightly. "I guess I’ve always worked a bit ad hoc."

  He continued sifting through the cartridges one by one, until—finally—his fingers closed around the one he needed.

  "Here it is!"

  Dante loaded the cartridge into his slinger, leveling it toward the storm. A small ring of green runes flickered to life around the barrel, glowing softly as the weapon whined, building up its charge.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The result was... underwhelming.

  Instead of a thunderous blast, the spell released with a comical poof.

  From the barrel emerged a fist-sized nut, lazily drifting upward, its movement guided by two broad, helicoptering leaves that spun like a samara fruit caught in the wind.

  For a moment, it simply hovered, as if unsure of what to do. Then, with a sudden burst of motion, its leaves spun faster, and it spiraled upward, climbing rapidly toward the sky.

  "How is that supposed to get through the storm?" Catalira asked, unimpressed.

  “It’s not. That little guy is just a relay. Hopefully it should be able to fly up over it and reflect the signal back down. I figure if this is anything like a real storm, there has to be an eye. Maybe we can just bounce the connection over the whole thing.”

  The two watched in silence as the tiny helicopter plant spiraled higher and higher, its spinning leaves carrying it skyward until it was little more than a speck against the storm-torn sky.

  As soon as it climbed beyond his sight, Dante snapped back into action, tuning the crystalwave radio, switching frequencies in rapid succession. Beside him, Catalira crossed her arms, tapping her foot impatiently.

  "This is Captain Vynheart to Castle Centinel. I repeat, this is Captain Vynheart of the Intelligence Corps—please respond."

  The little nut flew higher, its gentle flight, a stark contrast to the monstrous cyclone raging beside it.

  The plant drifted upward, rising toward the clouds, where the thunderous roar of engines and the shadows of endless waves of bombers loomed overhead.

  And still, it climbed.

  Slowly, surely, the little nut ascended, carried by its delicate, spinning leaves until it broke through the sky.

  Above the clouds, it entered a tranquil and still night, where the sights and sounds of war grew distant. Up here, the spinning maelstrom finally came to an end, revealing a hollow core—a eye in the storm that led all the way down into the castle below.

  A faint electrical crackle ran through the nut as it split open, unfurling a fibrous antenna.

  And a connection was made.

  Far below, Dante continued his attempts at the radio, his voice growing hoarse with frustration.

  "This is Captain Vynheart to Castle Centinel. I repeat, this is Captain Vynheart of the Intelligence Corps—please respond."

  Again and again, he repeated the call, his words beginning to strain with exasperation.

  Then—finally—something came through.

  At first, it was nothing but a staticky, garbled mess. Then, suddenly, a burst of chaotic clattering echoed from the other end, cutting through the interference.

  And then, a voice—unexpected, yet unmistakable.

  "Dante! Dante, is that you?!"

  "Damian? Damian, what's going on? Where is everyone else?"

  Dante's concern for his young friend was at the forefront of his mind, but he hadn’t expected Damian to be the first voice he heard. An oddity that was quickly confirmed by the chaotic noise in the background. There was shouting, hurried footsteps, and then, a deeper voice cutting through the commotion.

  "Damian, give me that! Hurry!"

  The radio crackled as the microphone changed hands, the clattering of metal and static filling the channel before Damian’s voice was abruptly replaced by another.

  "Dante, it’s Dalten. Can you hear me?"

  "Dalte—I mean, General Vearez, sir!" Dante corrected himself quickly. "What’s the situation in the castle? Is everyone okay?"

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  A small sigh of relief came through the speaker.

  "Not quite, but it’s good to finally hear a friendly voice.

  “I’ll be honest, things aren’t looking good in here. We have a lot of wounded and are holed up inside the castle. The guards are still trying to hold them off, but we’re trapped. It’s only a matter of time before they break through. We need a quick rescue.

  “What’s the situation outside? Is anyone on their way?"

  Dante hesitated, his gaze flicking toward Catalira. He found himself reluctant to deliver the bad news.

  Catalira, however, didn’t share his hesitation. She scoffed, snatching the microphone from his hands, more than eager to take the lead.

  "General, this is Intelligence Officer Furtivo," she said, her tone brisk and professional. "I’m sorry to report that drop troopers are guarding the approach to the castle, and ongoing bombings are delaying reinforcements. We can’t muster a force to break through at the moment."

  Dalten’s frustrated groan came through the speakers.

  "Damn it. So things are just as bad out there. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy."

  Catalira pressed him for more info. "Sir, have you seen anything inside that could be creating this storm? Anything at all? If we can take it down, we might have options."

  There was a short pause. Then Dalten’s voice came back grim.

  "Unfortunately, no. And since you’re asking, I’m guessing you don’t see anything on your end, either."

  "No, sir…"

  After her answer, the other end of the line fell eerily silent—as though Dalten was deep in thought, piecing something together.

  When he finally spoke again, his entire demeanor had changed. The sharp urgency in his voice had faded, replaced by something heavier—a grim realization.

  "Dante, magic on this scale can’t exist without leaving a trace. If there were any kind of arcane machine generating this, it would be impossible to hide. And this kind of magic... it’s far beyond even the strongest channelers we’ve ever encountered.

  "That leaves only one possibility."

  Dante’s eyes went wide. "Sir, you don’t mean—"

  "Yes. We need to assume this is the work of a Beast of War."

  "The Raven?" she echoed. "You mean those Treviet rumors you’ve been blabbering about are actually real? There’s a real-life Beast of War over there right now?"

  “I’m afraid they’re all too real, Captain.” Dalten confirmed. “And if that's the situation, we’re all in grave danger.”

  Catalira turned to Dante, expecting some sort of response or confirmation, but realized he had fallen completely silent. His face was pale, eyes wavering, as if desperately struggling to process a reality he simply couldn't grasp.

  As if sensing his approaching dread from across the line Dalten spoke up again, “Dante, listen carefully. I understand exactly what kind of impossible situation you’re facing right now. There are many lives depending on you—my own and Damian’s included. Believe me, I wish I could be out there with you, playing hero and fixing everything like I usually do, but I can’t.

  “Right now, you’re the only one who can see the full picture clearly. You’re going to have to step up and be the hero in my place.”

  Dalten paused, letting the seriousness of his request sink in.

  “I know that feels overwhelming. It’s a lot to place on anyone’s shoulders, especially yours. But I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked to get where you are now. This is exactly what it was all for. Can I rely on you?”

  Dante’s mind spun with fear and doubt. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily onto him, each word increasing the anxiety he already carried. But these weren’t just anyone’s words—these came from the Silver Fox himself. The Hero of Solar was counting on him. And somehow, despite all his uncertainty, Dante felt his resolve steady, bolstered by the trust placed in him.

  “Yes, sir,” Dante replied, his voice trembling slightly but growing firmer as he spoke. “I can do this. I’ll—I’ll figure something out.”

  “That’s what I like to hear, son.”

  Dante repeated the words quietly to himself, drawing strength from them. “I can do this.”

  Suddenly alert, he jolted upright and began pacing rapidly across the rooftop, his eyes anxiously scanning horizon to horizon. Catalira watched him skeptically as he muttered rapidly under his breath, piecing together fragments of information.

  Quickly, he went over everything he knew.

  The storm barrier still raged, blocking his path. He might be able to push through it—but not while the Tomarians could still respond freely.

  They needed to be distracted, occupied by something. The Lieutenant’s forces alone weren't strong enough to engage the entirety of the enemy’s army. No, something was missing.

  He needed more—another distraction, another variable—something.

  And that's exactly when something happened.

  As Dante’s eyes shot back toward the swirling maelstrom, something suddenly emerged from within the violent twisting clouds.

  It was another airship—battered, scorched, and belching thick, black smoke from nearly every breach in its hull. It tilted unsteadily, barely maintaining altitude as flames flickered along its sides.

  “Is that one of the enemy's flying fortresses?” Catalira questioned. “They must have been able to cripple it.”

  Dante snapped his fingers. “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?”

  Dante snapped his fingers, a sudden spark lighting in his eyes. “That's it!”

  Catalira blinked in confusion. “What’s it?”

  But Dante was already running toward the crystalwave, too energized by his idea to slow down. He practically shouted into the receiver, “Sir, I have a plan—I’m on my way!”

  “What do you mean you have a plan? What are you going to do?” Catalira demanded, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  Dante stepped closer, his gaze steady and filled with an almost youthful sincerity that caught her off guard. “Cat, can you keep the Treviet’s attention for a bit?”

  She hesitated. “For a little while, sure, but what about you?”

  He gave her that same reassuring smile—the one that made her want to slap him.

  “I’m going to get our people out of there.”

  Catalira’s expression darkened. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to run in there alone. You won’t even make it to the barrier with it guarded, and even if you do, they’ll be on you in seconds. How exactly are you going to keep them from noticing you?”

  Dante shrugged. “I have a plan.”

  She exhaled sharply. “And you’re sure this plan will work?”

  “It… might,” he admitted, clearly more confident in his resolve than in the plan itself.

  Catalira smacked a hand against her forehead. “So you’re going to run straight into almost certain death on the off chance that your plan might work.”

  Dante simply gestured toward the radio. “It’s what he would do.”

  Her eyes flashed as she jabbed a finger into his chest. “You—” she emphasized sharply, “—aren’t the Silver Fox.”

  “Well, maybe we could use a few more Silver Foxes right now,” he said, brushing off the argument and refocusing on the task at hand. “We don’t have time. Go. I’ll make a run for it once I hear the commotion start.”

  Catalira hesitated, still unconvinced—but with no better alternative, she relented with a sigh. “Fine. Just… don’t die, okay?”

  Dante chuckled, his usual easy charm flickering back. “You too.”

  With that, they split ways.

  Catalira headed for the Capital Guard HQ to take command, while Dante took the opposite route, making his way to the back of the building where a parking lot lay in wait.

  His footsteps crunched over shattered glass—the remains of countless car windows blown out by the force of the recent bombing. He could have stolen any car in the lot, but there was only one he trusted to get him through this.

  Old Viejita—his trusty old magicar he rebuilt himself back in his senior year.

  Still standing strong—more or less as perfect as the day he bought her, barring a few dents and scratches.

  Dante slid into the driver’s seat, shoved the key into the ignition, and gave it a firm twist.

  “Come on, girl. Don’t fail me now.”

  The engine sputtered weakly, coughing in protest. For a tense few moments, nothing happened. Then—finally—it roared to life.

  “That’s it! Alright, one more ride. If we’re going out, let’s go out in style.”

  He settled into the stained leather seat, fingers curling tightly around the wheel. Then, he waited.

  And listened…

  Each second stretched endlessly in the suffocating silence. He could do nothing but grip the wheel and anticipate the moment.

  Then—a shot rang out in the distance.

  Then another.

  Within moments, dozens more joined the chorus, erupting into an unmistakable symphony of war.

  That was his cue.

  Dante slammed his foot on the gas, and Old Viejita roared forward, tearing across the lot as he sped toward the castle.

  The main street of Capital Hill was a wide, glamorous stretch of polished pavement, a symbol of the city's modern splendor. But the sidestreets behind it were a different story. It was a tangled maze of narrow back roads, tunnels, and alleys that lacked any semblance of modern planning or order.

  Luckily for Dante, his first few months in the Intelligence Corps had been far from glamorous. Instead of high-stakes missions, he’d spent his days running errands, driving from one government building to another, delivering reports, packages, and classified files. A tedious, thankless job, but it had given him something valuable—he knew these streets like the back of his hand.

  For a bit, it was surprisingly uneventful.

  The dark, empty roads stretched before him, and for nearly a full minute, he drove without incident. Silently weaving through the abandoned streets, making it nearly halfway to the castle.

  Then, as he turned sharply through a narrow alleyway, he emerged into a larger lot behind the National Repository of Knowledge.

  And that’s when he saw them.

  A full squad of Treviet soldiers.

  They locked eyes in stunned silence—

  just for a second.

  Then—

  Shouting. Pointing. Slugfire.

  Loud snaps filled the air as blaster bolts streaked toward him, flashing violently in the night.

  Dante yanked the wheel hard, jerking Old Viejita into a sharp turn as slugs whizzed past the windshield. He heard as several hit there mark into the car as he heard several loud thunks as they shot as they slammed against the chassis.

  Then—crash!

  A bolt tore through the back windows. Glass shattered, spraying across the seats as an icy, blustering wind rushed filled the car.

  No time to stop.

  No time to fight.

  Foot on the pedal. Head down. That was all that mattered.

  Just as he thought he had put enough distance between himself and the Treviets, another squad suddenly emerged ahead—stepping out from alleys and side streets like they had been waiting for him.

  Dante cursed, yanking the wheel hard.

  The tires screeched in protest, leaving thick, black skid marks as the car veered violently into another side road.

  Then another loud—crash!

  The front windshield exploded before him, shards of glass whipping past him as he desperately protected his eyes. The sudden force of wind sent his cap flying off into the night, as the magicar continued now completely windowless.

  He kept on, the only thing he could hear now was the

  From windows, rooftops, and across open streets mage soldiers appeared and took their chance to take potshots at him as he sped through the darkened streets. Every slug could have been the one to end him. He almost expected it would, but second after second went by and still he kept going.

  Finally he wizzed past the last of the large government buildings. The road opened up before him, and at last, Dante saw his goal.

  The storm barrier loomed ahead, a churning vortex of wind, its deafening flapping hammering against his ears. And beside it, the burning fortress hovered, its once-imposing frame now a mangled wreck of scorched metal and leaking smoke. Up close, it felt all the more real, all the more oppressive.

  But the end was in sight. Not much farther now.

  Then something unexpected happened.

  A lone soldier stepped out from the side and into the center of the road, directly in Dante’s path.

  Even at a distance, Dante could tell the man wasn’t moving to dodge. He wasn’t bracing for impact. He just stood there upright. Challenging him.

  But what sent dread down Dante’s spine wasn’t the man’s stance.

  It was his hands.

  No slugger. No slinger. No weapon at all.

  Just bare fists.

  And that was far, far worse.

  “A Channeler,” Dante muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on the wheel.

  His instincts screamed at him to turn, to find another way—any other way—but he knew there was no time.

  Then, the began to man moved.

  He threw his arms high into the air.

  Dante caught a glint of orange light at the man’s neck.

  Then, he slammed his hands down hard on the pavement.

  The ground buckled under the man’s hands. A shockwave ripped through the earth. The ground buckled and split open, pavement and dirt alike surging upward as a crude stone wall burst up into place across the road, completely blocking Dante’s path.

  Dante cursed, his mind racing even faster than his car.

  One hand gripping the wheel, he frantically yanked open his leather pouch with the other, fingers scrambling through the cartridges inside. The car wobbled violently, lurching left and right as he struggled to maintain control.

  He couldn’t afford to fail. Not here. Not now.

  Not with Damian and Dalten still trapped in that castle. He couldn’t lose the people he cared about, not again.

  His fingers closed around a cartridge.

  “This one!”

  Yanking the cartridge free, henerviously fumbled to load it into his slinger. The wall was approaching fast—too fast. His heart pounded as he struggled to align it into the chamber.

  Then—click.

  The cartridge locked into place.

  Dante didn't hesitate. He aimed straight ahead through the shattered windshield, charged the spell, and fired.

  A green-glowing slug tore through the air, striking the pavement just before the wall.

  Instantly, vines erupted from the ground, bursting forth in a tangled mass of greenery. They twisted and coiled like living serpents, climbing the stone wall in seconds, growing thicker, denser—until they formed a solid ramp.

  Dante barely had time to register his own success before he hit the base of the ramp at full speed.

  The car jerked violently as it shot upward, rocketing into the air.

  Gravity ceased to exist.

  His body lifted off the seat, helplessly suspended.

  Nothing in front of him, but the sky.

  Then gravity returned with a vengeance.

  He felt the magicar’s weight suddenly drag him back down to earth.

  The car slammed back to the ground, its bottom smashing into the pavement with a crunch and sparks flying as it grinded into the ground.

  A jolt shot through Dante’s entire body—his stomach lurched, his bones rattled like dice in a cup. He swore his innards nearly tore from his throat.

  He braced himself for pain, for fire, for the end.

  But nothing.

  His eyes cracked open. The world was still there and he was okay.

  Viejita, on the other hand, was not.

  She was barely holding together. Her windows were gone, shattered by gunfire. Her chassis was riddled with scorch marks and bullet holes, the metal groaning with every bump in the road. The wheels wobbled, struggling to stay aligned. At this point, it wasn’t even the sickly chugging engine keeping her moving, but just sheer momentum and stubborn will.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Because it was enough.

  Dante looked up—and there it was.

  The underside of the massive, burning airship loomed directly above him, its titanic frame casting him in shadow. The heat of the flames licked at the air, and the scent of fire and ash burned his nostrils with every breath.

  But the flying fortress wasn’t his real goal—at least, not entirely. His real target lay beyond it: the sheer, rocky cliffs past the castle, where the road came to an abrupt end. That was where he was headed.

  He quickly unloaded his spell cartridge, letting it drop to the the floor. As he reached for a new once, loaded it, stuck his arm out the window, and aimed straight up at the airship. He firing off the new spell in rapid succession.

  Thin green wires shot high into the sky, each tipped with razor-sharp thorns strong enough to pierce the steel underside like harpoons. Once each latched onto the airship, he quickly secured the other ends to his magicar’s frame.

  As quickly as he could, he switched spells—this one, he was smart enough to find in advance. He fired directly into the car’s dashboard, where a large, round, apple-sized seed clung to the surface.

  The hard part done, he let out a relived sigh in what seemed like his first full breath since he started. He brushed his hand over the wheel in one final, affectionate pat.

  "Viejita, you really gave it your all. I’ll miss you, old girl."

  The edge of the cliff was seconds away, now. He couldn’t stop it if he wanted to. He kicked open the door, the dented, hole-riddled thing snapped clean off, then took one last glance over the edge before shutting his eyes, leaping, and hoping for the best.

  The rough dirt bit into his skin as he tumbled, the impact sending his head spinning. He rolled to a stop just in time to see Viejita speed through the barrier and plummeted straight off the cliff—vanishing from sight.

  Then Dante’s plan began to take shape.

  The green wires, once no thicker than thin cables, swelled—expanding into thick, rope-like vines that pulled taut, Vieja suddenly halting it’s decline and suspending in midair.

  Then inside the vehicle, the seed trembled—

  before suddenly bursting outwards.

  Like rising dough, it grew at a unnatural rate, filling every inch of the magicar’s interior. Even once the magicar was completely filled with the growing mass, it continued spilling out of ever window and crack, until it completely consumed the whole thing into it’s bulk. Eventually, it stopped growing, solidifying into a boulder-sized sphere of solid wood.

  Then, it started growing again—this time inwards. The mass’s surface writhed, the wood thickened and its surface hardened into dark, cracked bark. The entire structure contracted, condensing tighter and tighter, the weight of the thing pulling down harder and harder on the thick wires keeping it suspended.

  A sharp twang echoed through the air as the thick vines pulled tout.

  Up above, the flying fortress began to groan, its metal bending under the force anchoring it down. The ship lurched, its back end tilting sharply. Struggling, its engines roared and sputtered in protest, desperately fighting to pull itself upright. But damaged, weighted, and chained to the bulky wooden mass, it lost the battle.

  Like a slow-motion nightmare, the behemoth of steel and firepower tilted—then plunged. The weight causing it to list over and hurtle directly toward the heart of the Treviet defensive perimeter, beyond the castle gates.

  The impact hit with a thunderous, earth-shaking BOOM!

  Flames erupted, engulfing the wreckage in an explosive fireball. A shockwave ripped outward. Dante barely had time to react before debris shot out in all directions—chunks of twisted metal, burning wreckage, and shattered marble rained down around him.

  He dove for cover. In a open field and without anything to hide behind, he could only lay down and hope for the best.

  He could feel the heat of the explosion even from his distance.

  The blast roared in his ears.

  The ground trembled beneath him.

  Heavy objects slamming into the ground around him.

  But when the chaos finally settled, Dante miraculously found himself still intact.

  Shakily, he pushed himself to his feet, glancing around as if expecting something else to happen. The path he had come from was now buried beneath twisted metal and roaring flames. The channeler he had passed earlier was nowhere in sight. Through the sounds of crackling flames, he could hear the distant, frantic screams of Treviet soldiers.

  And somehow, here he was—unnoticed, and hardly hurt.

  “Huh," he muttered, brushing dirt off his tattered uniform. "That went better than expected.”

  With a sigh, he squared his shoulders. “Alright. Time to get to work.”

  Now he could finally start finding his way into the castle, unmolested. He made his way up to the raging storm walls surrounding the castle. It was odd feeling. Had he been this close to a real tornado, he would have already been ripped from the ground and thrown into the sky, But as here he stood just a foot away and it felt like nothing more than a particularly windy day.

  Curious, he reached out a hand out to test it.

  The moment his fingers crossed an invisible threshold, the wind’s force seized them, throwing his hand back with a heavy force. Whatever magic powered this wall of wind was extraordinarily precise and controlled. If the Raven really had conjured this storm, it wielded an extraordinary level of not just power, but incredible precision.

  There was nothing in his arsenal of spells strong enough to break through the wall of wind.

  But to carve a path beneath it—that was another matter.

  Reaching into his pouch, Dante rifled through his collection of spells. Many had been damaged in his leep from the magicar. Dented casings and haywire runes sparked dimly in his pouch, but thankfully, the one he needed most was still intact. Loading it into his slinger, he took careful aim and fired into the dirt just a few yards back from barrier.

  Familiar vines erupted from the ground, twisting and coiling together as they formed into a sharpened point. From that tip, layers of bark began spiraling outward, condensing into a massive wooden drill head that pointed into the castle yard.

  Then it started to spin.

  Dante raised his slinger, guiding the spell forward. The drill lurched ahead, burrowing deep into the earth. Its bark continuously grew and hardened, continuously reinforcing itself as it churned through soil and rock. A true copycat spell, but one formidable enough to match the burrowing work of even seasoned earth mage soldier.

  Now, all he could do now was wait and watch as the tunnel took shape.

  He whispered a promise to himself, “Don’t worry, Damian. I’m on my way.”