Spellcraft and Glass
Spellcraft and Glass
  âCan anyone tell me the similarities between glass and the beginnings of a spell?â
  No voices bore an answer. The silence in the courtyard broken only by the clamor of the city. Muffled shouts too far to make out, the clang of craftsmen at work. No answers though. The circle of shifted, wavered in discomfort, glances shared between neighbors. None of them bothering to meet the cold gaze of the magistrix in the middle of them. A womanâs voice finally called out,
  âEnough force and they both will shatter.â
  âClose enough. Whatâs your name?â
  âVyriali Cinderspear. House Cinderspear. Battlemage.â
  âAh, a Magisterâs daughter. If you didnât know that, I bet your father would be rather displeased. You have any further insight?â
  âSpells are crafted, they are fragile. You can break them with so little if you know where to put pressure. Unless the spell is tempered, all you need is a nudge in any direction and it disrupts.â
  The magistrix raised her chin, cobalt eyes focused on Vyri. Slender fingers clasped behind her back before she spoke again, âGood. Come by my office later, would you? There are some things we need to discuss. But before that, can anyone else tell me how to stop a spell?â
  Once more the muffled sounds of Silvermoon filled the court. Vyri clenched her jaw before she opened her mouth to speak, but before the words were even on her tongue.
  âYou silence them. You bend the arcane in their bodies and wrap in around their throats. Or you starve them, siphon away any mana they attempt to turn against you.â The voice echoed from a far hall, each word followed by the sharp clatter of metal against stone. Nervous chattering erupted in hushed tones as attention wavered from the woman in the middle. Her sapphire eyes closed into narrow slits, brows bending in as one corner on her lip curled in a snarl. The circle parted, a wide opening as the white-haired man came close. Each step sang like the shaking of chains, each footfall was a metallic stomp. Red and gold encased his form that towered over most by a head.
 âSo, the Spellbreakers show once more. Lovely, so I assume you are her for --â
  âFor her.â The armored and robed manâs final bootfall brought him looming over the magistrix. A thumb hooked over his shoulder, leveled at Vyri. âKnows what she is doing. Donât know why she even attends these, sheâs proven.â A faint azure glow peered over his shoulder towards Vyri, âYou want to be a spellbreaker, girl?â
  The darkness broke, a faint green glow just barely visible as it spread over white. Vyri pushed herself up onto her elbows, the glow swiveling about. Silence. The light blinked out as the quiet was ruffled, a sigh so quiet it almost didnât manage. She shifted, the shush of the sheets following as she tried to pull herself over the edge. Just the right twist made her bite down on a groan. Fingertips trailed over the bindings she felt over her ribs, over the uneven tightness of a not-so second skin. Bare toes pressed over the smoothness of earth and rock.
  How long had she been doing this? Was this how it was always going to be? Traitor princes.. The world seemed to be gathering them. Arthas, KaelâThas.. Who was going to be the next to throw their people out a window? A sharp hiss press from between her lips as she tried to stand. But she still did, the darkness hiding away the muscles of her jaw working to keep any more noise down. Her gaze just slipping over to the edge of the tent. Another light, a dim purple line. Each step grew the light, made it brighter until her eyes narrowed and she pushed open the tent.   âCinderspear.. What are you doing up?â The voice familiar, one that had barked at her, called her out, snapped at her. Older, rugged and harsh, time worn from decades of doing what he did best. âGet back to bed, girl. Donât be daft.â
  âCaptain Morrowmourn, Wh--â
  âYou donât want to hear about this now.â
  âI think I do, sir.â Vyriâs jaw set, squinting up at the captain. âWhat. happened?â
  Morrowmournâs gaze bore into her, harsh and hard. It lingered there, unmoving, as he chewed on nothingness. Until a grunt broke the silence, âFine, kid, fine.â One of his gauntleted hands grazed over the short white stubble, âYouâve been⌠out a while. No idea what actually happened, probably some mechanical bullshit. Point is, we found you. A few others. None of you were in great shape.â Vyri stared up at him, her eyes darting over a stoic face. It was like trying to read stone.
  âCaptain⌠what else?â She stumbled forward, legs still not quite steady, but she kept herself up.
  âThe last one, Freeburst, passed. About a night ago.â His hand came down onto her shoulder, âSorry, kid.â The smooth plate pressed on her shoulder as his hand closed, just enough to be there.
  Vyri shook her head, but it didnât hide how her brow drooped, it didnât hide the way her ears fell. Fists balled up into the fabric of her pants, but she didnât speak. Not for a while. When she finally opened her mouth to speak once more. She was cut off just like that evening.
  âNothing you could of done. No one could of seen it coming. Youâre on leave, my orders. Go home, Vyri. Rest, recover, do whatever you have to, but nothing left here. We got this. So. Go. Home.â Morrowmournâs hand double tapped her shoulder, thumb digging below her collar and fingers clamping down for just a moment. Then the captain turned away, those unchanged eyes glancing over his shoulder as he walked off. The clattering of heavy armor muffled as if it were coming through water. Vyri looked up then over the Eye.Â
  Flurries and swirls of fresh snow cascaded from the trees above. The sounds of the warcamp ringing out and drowning the sounds of the forest. From the clatter of crashing trainees to the call of criers, shouting out wears and news. Vyri sat the the edge, the head of her spear lost in a sea of white. Soft creaks and protests came from the crate below her, but all these sounds never reached her mind. The spellbreakerâs eyes shifted about under closed lids as if reading something long forgotten.
  Scenes from the past few months. The battle of the beard, her holding a choke point. Her company starting to falter, but the Sunguard helped her. The Siege of Sundial, the blood of so many over the stone roads leading to the point, not of the fresh from innocent veins. And once again, she threw herself into a choke point. She flung herself into danger. Blood ran down her face and three KulâTirans beared down on her, but the Knight-Commander, Corinth, Zana all came to her aid. Brawling during Mistlefoe and meeting Razail and Thordemar, laughing as she shoved snow down Narridelâs shirt, then winning the tournament.
  The cacophony of to two different worlds collided back into her sense, a sharp blink that shook her from her daydream. Golden eyes looked around at the mask of her home, studying or searching, for a moment. The cold air bit all the way down her throat as she took in a deep breath and slowly brought herself back to her feet. Shouts of familiar people and friends came to her ears. The effort of the smiths and the people around her in a home that is no longer intimate.
  Itâs been too long.
  Her feet carried her, sabatons clawing through the stark white sheet, towards the heart of the camp. Faces that were once unfamiliar smiling up at her as she passed. People that were once characters of a completely separate book now friends she saw daily, that she bled next to.
  Enough of this. They fight with everything. They do what must be done. And you, what have you done? Tried to throw yourself away.
  The war councilâs tent came into view as she straightened herself up to her full height.
  If you are to protect them, then do so as they do you.
  âArchon, if I may.â Vyri spoke as she raised her chin. The talon tips of her gauntlets scraping along the chainmail of her palms.
  You will not lose them, not again. Theyâve done so much for you. Return the favor, kid. Or else, go home and cower.
  âI formally request my own unit of Spellbreakers once more. Allow me to show our enemies that the only thing they hold against us is glass.â
