From the Ashes

Breaking and entering was a routine gig for them. The job was supposed to be an easy one—get in, find and nab the Baron's lockbox, and get out. So... where the hell was Cedric? Silver's mind raced with scenarios as she quietly paced the fourth floor's main corridor. Was he lost in the manor? Captured by the guards? Executed on the spot?! No, no he couldn't be, Cedric had more experience, more training, more wit for Spark's sake! She had to find him, and fast before he did something stupid.

At the end of the lavishly decorated hallway, a massive stained glass window depicting some abstract event filtered in multicolored light. Trimmed hedges aand pruned flower beds stretched around the perimeter of the manor below, illuminated by the blue light of Ever-Burn Lanterns and the dull glow of the arcane sun overhead. Silver's breath hitched at the muffled sounds of clanking armor and barked orders echoing up through the window. She had her answer: Cedric got himself in deep shit. Again.

In a fluid motion, she unsheathed twin daggers from beneath her cloak and scurried to the wall next to the top of the stairwell. Peeking past the corner, she saw a column of dark smoke billowing through the center of the spiral stairs like a gaudy smokestack. The manor was on fire, and it just had to be raging on the floors closest to the ground. If she knew Cedric would do something as foolhardy as commit arson on a Baron of Industry's personal abode, she would have packed the proper potions. Alas, she was stranded on the top floor of the manor, with no choice but to fight the fires alone.

“Fucking Cedric, why's he gotta make shit difficult for the Conclave,” Silver huffed, sprinting down the stairs with one hand covering her face. This wasn't the first time he had done something this stupid. She recalled several instances where he provoked groups of Watchman, or insulted some industry big-wig at a party they were meant to infiltrate and rob. It was almost like he was trying to complicate jobs, and he was damn good at it. The air around Silver began to burn, and fire began to lick its way up the walls from the floorboards as she careened past rows of locked doors. Loud shouts and the tell-tale sounds of a Platehand's armor from the Wrought Watch rang up from the second story staircase at the other end of the main corridor.

She froze mid-stride some five feet from the stairwell, crouched low with daggers at the ready. A single, stray lock of sterling hair fell from underneath her shadowy hood, framing her face in the flickering light of both sconce-bound candles and blazing walls. The stairs groaned under the lead Platehand's weight, and an orcish man twice her size clad in full platemail wearing a wicked helmet pushed through the opening. Two other Watchmen—one Ordling in a well-trailored coat and a Seeker with a rifle slung over his shoulder—filed up behind him, their faces both obscured by rune-lined gas masks.

“Leave this one to me, Lance,” the orc growled, looking over his shoulder towards the Ordling. “Get the staff out to safety.”

The officer nodded curtly before sprinting away from the confrontation to the doors behind them. Silver's eyes darted from Watchman to Watchman, waiting for the first semblance of hostilities. In a flash of polished steel, the rifle slung across the Seeker's shoulder found its way into his hands, and Silver was staring down the barrel of one of the most deadly inventions made in the last two hundred years. She spotted the twitch of his trigger finger and reflexively stepped back, flinging the dagger from her right towards the masked officer as he took in a short breath.

Click-Crack! Black powder exploded from the end of the barrel and a bullet tore through the air, piercing the cloak no more than a few centimeters from Silver's ear. It impacted the wall somewhere behind her, ricocheting once before embedding itself into the charred walls. Her dagger sliced through the smoke and found it's target, plunging through the Seeker's trigger hand to earn a yelp and groan of muffled pain. The rifle fell from his grip, clattering to the floor below as Silver pushed off her back foot and launched herself to the side of the hulking Platehand.

Wind rushed towards her as the orc swung wide, his balled, gauntleted fist acting as a biological flail in place of any real weaponry. The blow connected with her left shoulder and she felt something pop out of place, and she screamed as the force sent her tumbling to the floor. Her other dagger slipped from her grasp, spinning through the air before landing several feet away from her. The only other weapon she had was one she refused to use under normal circumstances, that she hated having to resort to. It made her weak, a coward, spineless—she still had her hand-forged revolver.

Struggling to her feet, fighting for every breath in the thick smog of the house fire, she reached beneath the cloak towards her belt. The Platehand had taken several, thunderous steps towards her, threatening to break the very floorboards they walked on, as he made his approach. The Seeker had ripped her dagger from his hand and was scrambling to his feet, reaching for his own revolver at his belt with a crimson hand. She had been faster, though, as in a mere moment she hoisted the weapon infront of her and fired two shots towards the Seeker. The first connected with his left eye, the other in the chest, and he collapsed in a heap behind the orc.

Four shots left. The brute bore down on her, reaching up before bringing a heavy wrecking ball of a fist through the smoke towards her. She rolled to the side, cursing as her dislocated shoulder connected with the ground before springing up behind the Platehand. She knew their armor was weaker in the back, their joints all but exposed from that angle. Two more shots ripped through the smoldering air and landed in both knee joints from behind. The colossus of a man buckled and fell forward, howling in agony as he tried to get back to his feet. She wasted no time: this was her chance to get the hell out of there!

After wrestling with the idea of leaving her twin daggers behind, she swiftly made her way down the second-story staircase, holding her breath so as to not breathe in the thick smoke billowing up from below. Everything was set ablaze on the ground floor, and many of the structural rafters above began to creak and groan. Elaborate chandeliers in the grand hall fell, one by one, as their anchors gave way. Screams of both men and women from upper floors swirled around her in the blazing cacophony, but she had just one question on her mind as she dodged falling debris: Where the hell was Cedric?!

***

Covered in soot, ash, and cinders, Silver trudged up the small hill through the shrubbery where she and Cedric had decided to meet if they got split up. She sat down and leaned against a stunted tree, gritting her teeth as she moved to set her shoulder back in place. With a dull thunk! and a sharp pain, her shoulder fell back into socket beneath her scorched leathers—it took every ounce of dicipline within her not to scream at that moment. Taking harsh breaths through clenched teeth, she closed her eyes and waited for her dumbass, irresponsible, partner in crime. If he wasn't dead, he shouldn't be far behind her.

An entire hour later, the foliage on the opposite side of the small clearing began to rustle. A soft, reddish-orange glow peeked through the leaves, and stepping through was Cedric, his hair a flowing mane of crackling flames. In the Cinderkin's orange arms was a small, charred box that was missing a lock on it, and Cedric was wearing a shit-eating grin when he took in Silver's disheveled state. Her hood was thrown back, revealing pointed ears and a criss-cross of scars that ran across the left side of her face and a pair of steely, gray eyes that pierced through his very soul. Curly, sterling silver hair wreathed her head, stained with soot from earlier.

“Arson?” Silver asked, tilting her head to one side, her face painfully stoic. “With me in the fucking building, you commit arson? Give me one good reason I shouldn't use one of my last two bullets on you.”

“'Cause,” Cedric shrugged, plopping down next to her by the tree, “I know you love me. Got the box, didn't I?”

Her fist balled and soared through the cool, tranquil air and connected square with his jaw after he said that. “Don't make me worry like that again, idiot. Understand?”