Chapter 275 – Incandescence

Equinox materialized around Mirian.

“Oh,” Quintus said.

The last thing he saw was the shine of her gritted teeth, predatory, like a bog lion’s.

The fire poured out of her in waves.

The Lord Governor and his lackeys were melted; even their bones turned liquid. The tapestries burned like paper, the wood paneling, just as fast. The marble turned red and molten in places, and then Mirian burst the ceiling apart, emerging from the Governor’s Mansion as the room below erupted like a volcano.

As the smoke and fire billowed up, it passed around Mirian. She appeared before Palendurio like a shadow, silhouetted by leaping flames and hellish smoke that glowed red in the evening light.

“What is wrong with you all?” she screamed to the city, amplifying her voice with a spell, her voice echoing off the walls of buildings and limestone pillars. “The world burns, and you fan the flames! Enteria screams for mercy, and you twist the knife deeper!”

The district was full of guild halls and wealthy merchants, the same ones who had been impeding her reforms at every turn. The marble pillars and gilded reliefs taunted her. “You think greed’s power has sows only benefits? Then reap the consequences!”

Magic moved through her like breath, the spells as automatic as a musician’s fingers across a harp’s strings. She cast her telekinetic spells and scooped up burning chunks of the mansion beneath her. For a moment, they hovered around her, then she hurled them down.

They flew like meteors, streaking through the air as they rained down on the guild halls and mansions. The district lit up with bursts of flame as the huge chunks of burning wood and molten stone crashed into the roofs, shattering the tops of the buildings, sending splintering wood and crushed tile raining down. All around the district, people scattered, the crowds stampeding away in unadulterated terror. The roar of the explosions drowned out the emerging screams.

The fires spread quickly throughout the buildings, the searing heat enough to utterly shatter the fire-proofing enchantments that protected the wood. She stoked the flames with her magic, and even the bricks began to melt.

It still wasn’t as hot as her rage.

She’d had a temper, ever since her mother had been killed in front of her. Killed by the same kinds of people she’d been dealing with this cycle—politicians who preferred hostages to treaties, preferred domination to alliance, preferred gold to peace. They’d see the apocalypse before they’d relinquish their power.

I’ll show them power.

Mirian saw the lives winking out below her, some from the fires, some from the stampede away. She stretched out her bindings like the tendrils of a kraken and drew them in. Souls swelled up to greet her, some swirling around to be consumed, others to fill her soul repositories.

“This is just a taste of what’s coming,” she told the city. “If you won’t believe words, if power and violence is the only thing you’ll answer to, then you shall have it!”

Mere lighting spells couldn’t communicate her rage. Mire fire couldn’t burn hot enough. These people danced on the graves of children, made excuses for entire slaughtered cities, and had no remorse for any of it. If they wouldn’t feel regret, perhaps they could feel fear.

Mirian summoned her leyline repulsors to the slots in her battlerobes, then drew on them. They linked to leyline just below, keeping her aloft, and siphoning the barest fraction of their power.

That power, though, was enough to keep up the enchantments of an entire airship and supply most of the energy of its artillery batteries. The fools below her really had no idea how much she’d been holding back.

No more.

Mirian raised her right hand to the firmament and looked at the sky through her divination. The conditions were almost right; a beautiful sky, ready for a proper storm.

Above Palendurio, vapor condensed out of the air into droplets until it formed clouds, but she kept going. She drew from the Magrio River. Whirlpools formed in the river as she shunted the water up, sending up whirling funnel clouds. The spinning tornadoes sent barges and boats smashing into each other and the river bank, funneling more and more moisture into the sky.

More souls to fuel her spells. Gaius had taught her that trick. He’d understand her rage against these people, these parasitic leeches who only knew how to endlessly draw blood until the rest of the world was a husk.

The winds she was whipping up weren’t just fueling the clouds above; the raging gale was spreading the fire about the district. That was good. The guild halls, parliamentary offices, and mansions of this district needed to be cleansed, and no water could wash off the blood-stained hands of all the people here. Fire would do the trick.

But it wasn’t enough. King Palamas still rested peacefully in Charlem Palace. The Deeps still squirmed about in the Gallery. The Pure Blade mercenaries had their compound nearby. The Corrmier mansion in town was too far for such paltry flames to touch. The remaining Praetorians in the city needed to learn what happened when they murdered a child’s mother. The arcanists who couldn’t be bothered to build the machine that would save Enteria because their hands couldn’t be soaked in enough silver could see what awaited them when they made that choice. And all the merchants and traders who dawdled and argued—

She knew what Apophagorga must have felt when she and her army of gnats had descended upon it, cutting it to pieces with a thousand pinpricks.

The stormclouds above her darkened. She was innovating with her spells, pulling together force spells designed to move particles with divination to track electrical charge. Combining spells to move water with spells to move air. Mixing them all together until they were ready to be combined with the components of a lightning spell.

Then using the massive amounts of arcane energy flowing through her to amplify every aspect. It was like a dozen greater lightning spells, but spread across the sky, merging spell with physical phenomena.

Her aura was a hurricane, and dozens of lashing bindings only brought more souls in to empower it. She’d named her invented dervish stance Burning Tempest Sunders the Sky.

That was what she’d show them.

A dozen bolts struck down from her storm, lightning as thick as oak trees, and across the city, there was no scream that could outmatch her thunder. Another bolt stabbed down, and another, the lightning flash regular enough to illuminate the city like an electric sun. Now, it wasn’t the fire that silhouetted her, but the constant flash of lightning, and the wings of light streaming out of Equinox as the arcane power at her fingertips overflowed.

Several Praetorians were levitating at her from the northwest, but they were far too late; branches of the lightning cut them out of the air like flies, and they dropped away as soot. Mirian moved with her storm now, letting the lightning fall upon the vermin infesting the city. The Corrmiers’ mansion was smashed into kindling and dust; the kindling was set ablaze, and the dust, melted to glass. General Kallin was dead before the lightning finished flashing. The Pure Blade compound burned next, the soldiers scurrying about like ants, as if they could outrun her bolts. Decian died in the little plaza, his corpse blackened and silver breastplate smoldering with a cherry glow.

The storm passed north, crossing the Magrio, and Mirian with it. She could only wonder what the people who saw her thought. They probably couldn’t conceive of a person with this kind of power; perhaps they thought she was the wrath of Carkovakom Himself.

The Parliamentary Building would be empty at this hour, but she sheared off the dome and cracked apart the pillars anyways. But when she got to the Baracuel Intelligence Gallery, Mirian wasn’t content to simply rain lightning down. There were basement layers there, burrowed into the earth like roach warrens, and they needed to be purged. As her bolts burst apart the building, one after another, she used force blasts to crack apart the stone. Then, to make sure none of the murderous traitors infesting it survived, she commanded her stormcloud to rain, dumping it down in thick sheets so that any parts of the basement levels that survived were drowned. The electrified flood poured over the smoldering wreckage, Mirian’s thunder still a furious drumbeat that erased any other sound of the city.

This novel’s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

As she moved towards Charlem Palace, her thunderbolts shattered the cobblestones of the paths below, setting the block ablaze. A few arcanists tried lobbing spells at her, but most couldn’t even hit her from outside the range of the storm. Most fled—or tried to flee. She continued to siphon souls up to her, consuming them as fast as they reached her to fuel her wrath. Any bank she saw, she directed lightning bolts too until golden slag dripped from the vaults. Along her route, she saw the fancy houses that were built atop the limestone pillars, the ones where rich merchants, old nobles, and board members set their mansions. She left them all burning, a hundred lighthouse flames.

People fled in every direction. She let them. Let them witness the fate of the twisted monsters who still think alchemy can turn blood into gold.

By the time she reached Charlem Palace itself, she saw a hasty gathering of royal protectors, Luminate Guards, sorcerers, and soldiers. They’d managed to get a single artillery piece into position. She deflected the first shot fired at her, then sent a line of magnetic detonation spells through the gathering. The steel breastplates and guns became razor shrapnel that tore through the group, and then the edge of the storm caught them, turning them to char.

Soldiers appeared at the windows of the palace, delusional enough to think spellpiercer bullets or standard wands would be enough to pierce her defenses.

There was an imbalance of forces in her storm. The fires below were heating the air, while the cold winter air above was swirling about. She added to the forces, sapping heat from above and displacing it below. The imbalanced forces turned into a whirlwind, then a tornado, lined with lightning and leaping flames, the shrapnel of broken buildings and shattered steel spinning around it.

With a gesture, she flung the tornado at the palace. As the razor winds tore at the stone, she shattered the thickest walls impeding it with blasts of force so that marble debris was added to the gray walls of wind.

The palace was shredded. As the winds smashed pieces of the building into itself, lightning crawled along the tornado, and untamed fire blew through it all. Bolt after bolt smashed into Charlem Palace until the white marble was turned into blackened glass.

Wherever King Palamas had been in the palace, he was dust, as were his swarms of bureaucrats and functionaries.

Only then did her rage begin to cool.

Without her spells fueling it, the storm dissipated, leaving the cries and screams to echo through the city. Along the path she’d traveled were shattered buildings, their remains marked only by still-burning fires.

The cries echoing off the pillars, the sound of distant flames—they reminded her of something. It took her a moment to place what.

When the leyline breached northeast of the city. It’s like that, she remembered. Back then, she’d been full of sorrow for all the innocents that had died.

Now, she wondered how many of them were innocent. As Ibrahim had said, every ounce of fossilized myrvite powering the city had come from Persama. And she’d seen the conditions those people labored in. Now she’d also seen the files on how much blood had soaked the sand to make sure the foss still flowed north.