The War Room

Walking into the lounge, Monica caught sight of one Regina Sour aloft, perched sidesaddle atop her staff, skimming over various floating documents in her paradoxical Zyph body. Every known saintess in history has had a representation of their will to sacrifice (the crown of thorns in Regina's case). Yet, none have ever had horns or talons—markedly demonic traits the Church of Sabrina was none too pleased about. Zyph bodies were a personification of one's most common Zyph attribute, subconscious inclinations, will, and character. Monica figured the horns belied her cunning ruthlessness—her will to do anything, no matter how crooked, to achieve her ends. Monica was unsure where her friend drew the line, but she knew very few things were off the table.

"Hey Reggie," Monica waved to the saintess, the dour from the castle long gone.

Regina glanced from her documents to the princess, "You seem to be rather chipper, considering how your brother stormed through here not too long ago. I asked him what was wrong, and he blew a spell circuit—uncontrolled transformation and everything. Scared the poor daylights out of our bartender… again." She shook her head, looking back at her documents and muttering something about 'Twice in one day' and 'Boys will be boys.'

"He's… here? I thought he'd be halfway across the continent by now." Hopefully, she'd get to apologize to him properly before he went off to Zyph knows where.

"Oh yeah, he dragged Foster off to the training rooms for a few rounds of sparring. It seemed to me they both needed it."

"Both? What's wrong with Foster?" It was hard to tell with him sometimes. In the throne room, he'd adorned the mask of callous arrogance he always wore when dealing with the king, and admittedly, they hadn't done much actual speaking the night before. He gave her the good news. They, uh, had some fun, then they briefly spoke of when and how the reveal would go down, and then he was off to make some final preparations.

"Why am I not surprised he didn't tell you." She sighed, pity in her red, reptilian eyes when she looked at Monica, "Most of the Black Griffons are dead; only Aurora is uninjured. Their souls were destroyed by cursed speech."

Dead? Dead? The black Griffons? Knights personally taught and trained by the immortals of the War Room were the best knights of the kingdom, and they were the elites of the War Room's standing army. Those forty-eight knights, even excluding Foster and Aurora, were enough to raze or liberate a city. They'd done it several times in the demon lord's domain, and, military implications aside, they were some of the best people Monica had ever known. Brave, loyal, noble, honorable, kind. They were everything she believed the kingdom could be—she had hoped Randall could build Ether's future on the shoulders of people like them.

She suddenly had a thought. What was the death toll of the entire war again? It was definitely over a hundred thousand by now. No wonder Foster and August didn't believe the country was worth saving. Those two had been at the front lines the most—August even returned there several times against the king's wishes secretly to help maintain the front lines. How many of the best of us died on those frozen battlefields up north? 

She sighed, putting that matter aside for the moment; a seed of ugliness was growing in the pit of her stomach. It latched on against her will and steered her thoughts towards dark and selfish places.

She was jealous.

She hated that she was even a little jealous Foster decided to bare his heart to Regina instead of her. It was horrid, and she was a wretch for feeling this way after such a grave loss of life. She tamped down on it, smashed it, smothered it until it was ashes instead of an inferno.

She smiled at Regina, and they both saw it for the lie it was. Regina, the damn mind reader, spoke softly and a little sadly, "Don't be jealous of me. He had his pick of the litter, and you're the one he chose."

The nameless emotion that seeped through Regina's mask vanished, and she shooed Monica off to her brother and the hero.

 ~~~

The training and sparring rooms were several floors below the lounge. Monica rounded a corner and found herself in a smaller version of the receiving hall. Traveling between floors in the war room involved short-range warps rather than stairs. There were two warp anchors here instead of the dozens in the lobby: one for traveling up and another for traveling down. The lounge and receiving hall existed on one of the middle floors. The upper floors were the private residences, rooms, and labs of members, while the floors below were the other facilities open to anyone, members and staff alike. Stairs existed in case of a malfunction, and Monica could see the door for them across from the warp anchors, but there was just so much convenience in stepping on a magic circle and bouncing between floors in seconds. Some may say this was a grossly excessive use of magic, to which Monica would simply say, 'If you have wealth, use it.' 

Monica stepped onto the warp that led down and let it carry her three floors below the lounge before stepping off. After another minute or so of walking, she could hear the distinct hum of Zyph-clad blades cutting the air and impacting one another. There was nothing quite like the sound of two immortals clashing in melee combat. It was a high-pitched whine followed by a distinct pop. It was more than just noise; the effect seemed to vibrate the atmospheric Zyph, and it felt like static on the skin. Bracing her hands on the door of the noisy training hall, she thought briefly of her encounter with Regina, then mustered her courage and pushed the door open. The room they were using was a small dueling arena complete with colosseum seating enough for around two thousand spectators, so Monica slipped into a seat all the way in the back, right next to the door she'd just come through. A young man with vibrant green hair and long, dagger-like ears that Monica recognized as Elwin, a Fae staff member, stood in the arena with the two combatants as a referee, and a small crowd of a dozen or so staff was sitting pit-side. The dueling stage itself had the option to alter the terrain, allowing for all kinds of unique encounters, not excluding gravity manipulation. The arena was currently set with a classic sand dueling pit, and if she had to guess, based on their slightly sluggish movements, Foster cranked the gravity to about twenty times normal.

He was there, sparing with her brother as she expected, looking for all the world like the angry earth god he was. Foster's hands up to the elbow were pure and clear crystalline glass. The rest of his body was made of white marble streaked with gold veins like the shattered pieces of him were puzzled back together and someone poured liquid gold into the cracks. He stood a foot taller and six inches broader in the shoulders than his mortal form. His now dark violet hair swayed ethereally, as if underwater, while he swung his sword. His eyes glowed like two miniature suns, and a curtain of cold mist lightly obscured the top of his vision as it poured down from a cracked bronze halo so cold it had a thin layer of frost. It was a form that screamed power, raw and unfettered; a stone statue of an ancient warrior come to life in his black toga and brown leather strap sandals that crawled up his legs to the mid-calf.

August was also in his Zyph body; his once sunkissed tan skin now shone the alabaster of the moon, and his hair was a contrasting black that seemed to eat the light around it. He wore a gray and blue silk combat robe he had called a kimono, which, according to him, was a style popular in a country far to the southeast, primarily populated by various races collectively known as yokai. The robe was pulled loose, exposing his upper chest, and was tied with a matching belt at the waist. A long, thin strip of red cloth was tied over his eyes, blinding him as it flapped behind him on a phantom breeze. Usually, August was objectively handsome, but in this form, he could only be described as hypnotically beautiful.

August wielded a long, curved, single-edged falchion made entirely of Yggdrasil wood—a gift from a tribe of forest elves he'd once spent a couple of months living amongst. His opponent's weapon was one Monica thought she'd never get used to seeing. One would expect a giant, moving marble statue to wield an equally large and imposing weapon, but that was not the case for Foster. It was long and elegant, not quite a saber and not really a traditional bastard sword, but somewhere in between. It had a straight, hand-and-a-half hilt and a flat guard that barely reached past his knuckles. The blade itself was impossibly thin, no thicker than a single sheet of parchment, and to top it all off, the whole thing was made entirely of clear, crystalline glass, just like his forearms. Glass, ordinary, plain old glass, was the most Zyph conductive material in known existence—the only caveat was the necessity for absolutely no impurities to exist within it. The material was commonly known as dragon glass because it was thought a dragon's fire was the only technique capable of purifying glass to such a degree. That was until Foster accidentally made some during his training, trying to perfect his earth magic.

"Good to see you, Monica." Monica nearly jumped from her seat at the familiar voice, not realizing she'd sat right beside someone.