Friendly Fyre: Chapter 32 - Spiritual Successor

I stop outside Mirzayael’s chambers. Her door is closed, and I’ve never actually been inside before. Funny that I only now realize how it’s always her coming to visit me in my lab—or the throne room, or Ollie’s chamber, or anywhere else I might be investigating. I should have gone to her before now.

Gently, I push the doors open. The light from active wall runes are glowing from inside, so I poke my head in.

The chamber is decorated sparsely. That’s not out of place for Fyrethians; most don’t have a lot of personal belongings. But Mirzayael’s is even more bare than others I’ve seen. Apart from a chest for clothes, a water basin, and her spear resting against the wall, all that’s left is a bed.

Designed to accommodate arachnoid physiology, it’s more like a nest, or perhaps a kind of giant beanbag chair, made from moss, furs, and whatever else could be scrounged up. That’s the next thing I should work on fixing: find a way to produce textiles.

Then again, there won’t be a “next thing” to fix if everyone is leaving.

“Are you just going to stand there all day, or are you going to come in?” Mirzayael asks from inside the mass of blankets.

“Sorry,” I say, slipping through the door. My wing gets snagged on the handle on the way in, and I end up stumbling into her room. Still not used to those things, sometimes. “I didn’t want to bother you if you were sleeping.”

“Well, I’m not,” she grumbles.

I smile. If she’s feeling well enough to be cranky, then she must not be too badly injured. “Nek told me you’ve been seen by healers?”

“Haven’t lost any more limbs, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Mirzayael struggles to push herself upright within the folds of her nest, but I gesture for her to stop.

“Stay there. Just rest. I’ll come to you.”

“I’m not an invalid.” Yet, she sags back into the bed.

I gently sit down next to her. “I never said you were.”

She blows air out her nose, looking up at the ceiling instead of at me. “I hate being useless.”

“You’re not—”

“I was!” Mirzayael spits, and I flinch back in spite of myself. “I was entirely useless against the Jorrians. All my life I’ve trained as a guard, as a scout, as a Captain, and when it came down to it, I fell to just one of their attacks, and was used against my allies.” She turns her head to the side, away from me, but I can still make out the pain and disgust in her expression.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say. “We weren’t prepared. None of us were.”

“I’m pathetic,” Mirzayael says. “A disgrace.”

“Hey. Enough of that.” I give one of her legs a shake through the bedding. “You’re allowed to feel hurt. You’re allowed to feel helpless, and frustrated, and upset. But I won’t sit by and listen to you talk down to yourself. You deserve so much more than that.”

Mirzayael scoffs. “A guard who can’t guard—a captain who can’t lead—deserves nothing but demotion.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, please. Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“You’re an outsider,” she says. “What do you know of our values? What do you care if I am punished for my failings?”

I soften my expression. “I care quite a bit about you, Mirzayael.”

Beneath the blankets, I feel her tense up. “What do you mean?”

I chuckle. “What do you mean, ‘what do you mean?’ We’ve spent every day together for the last two months. You’ve shown me around your home. Introduced me to your people. Taught me how to live here. Perhaps most importantly, you see me for me, not for some idol. Your honesty and kindness has meant quite a bit to me. The time I’ve spent here has been more meaningful than the years—decades—I spent in my previous life.”

Mirzayael snorts, finally looking at me and searching my face. “Kind is not an adjective often used to describe me.”

“Well, perhaps I can see through your tough front in a way that others can’t,” I say. “I know you’re so blunt and abrasive only because you care very much about protecting those you care about. More so than your own image.”

Mirzayael’s face pinches in an unfamiliar expression. Annoyance? No… Guilt.

“You’re being far too understanding with me,” she says. “Especially after how I’ve treated you. I’ve kept you at arm’s length. Distrusted you after all the help you’ve offered. Always suspicious of ulterior motives.”

I chuckle. “Well that’s not terribly different from how you treat everyone else, is it?”

Mirzayael shifts uncomfortably. “The lost Fyrethians should have been welcomed with open arms, not treated with suspicion.”

“Luckily for them, not everyone here is so distrusting as you,” I tease. “I don’t believe any of them feel alienated.”

She passes a hand over her face. “Rationally, I know I shouldn’t be so wary. It’s just… hard to let others in. It exposes us to the possibility of betrayal. And there’s always people like the Jorrians out there, waiting to take advantage. If you don’t allow others to get close, you can avoid the pain for when they disappoint you. Or leave.”

I wonder if she’s talking about the lost Fyrethians, or her parents. I wonder if even she knows.

I put my hand over hers and give it a squeeze. “Well my walls are down. My doors are open, if you ever want to venture inside.”

She looks at me in bewilderment. “But I thought you and Dizzi… nevermind.”

“Dizzi? What about her?” I ask, tipping my head. What has she got to do with any of this?

“Forget I said anything,” Mirzayael hurriedly says. “I was being foolish.”

It slowly dawns on me. “You’re asking if she and I are… are an item?” I laugh. “You are being foolish.”

“I’m sorry,” Mirzayael says, flustered. “You just seemed to get along so well.”

“A common interest in inventing does not a relationship make.” I shake my head, grinning. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s a very nice girl. But she’s half my age. I’d be more prone to see her as a daughter. Or apprentice, perhaps. Really, Mirzayael, what brought this on?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “It’s irrelevant. At any rate, I should be getting up, now. Make sure all the others from the confrontation are alright.”

Quickly, the lighthearted mood evaporates. I don’t even have to say anything; Mirzayael can read it on my face.

“What?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”

I grimace. “Your guards are all alive, but Beryl was injured. And Hetlanir was killed.”

Mirzayael’s expression crumples with despair. “Hetlanir. I should have gotten to know him better. He seemed a good leader. He shouldn’t have died because of my rashness.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t your fault. The conflict would have happened regardless. There’s no way we could have given into their demands and gone back to sequestering ourselves beneath the ice. That wouldn’t have been right. But what happened happened, and now we need to move forward.” I squeeze her hand. “With Hetlanir dead and Beryl injured, your people need a leader, Mirzayael. They need you.”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I am a guard, not a leader. I protect, I don’t rule. You should be the successor. They already worship you anyway.”

I snort. “You know I don’t want to be worshiped. But my station is beside the point. The Fyrethians are planning to flee, and they’ll need someone who knows this world to guide them.” I hesitate before adding, “I can’t go with you.”

“What?” Mirzayael’s head snaps to me. “Flee? Where? Why can’t you come?” She struggles to push herself upright. “What’s happening?”

“There’s something I never told you about the strange magic I have,” I admit. “The visual magic that provides me statistics of what I can see.”

“You’ve mentioned it before.” Mirzayael frowns. “What has that got to do with anything?”

I take a breath. “Ollie and I each have a unique stat that no one else in this world seems to have. A quality called a ‘Role.’ I never really understood what it meant before, so I didn’t think much of it. That was a mistake. My Role is The Dark Lord.”

Mirzayael searches my expression. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

“I think it means I’m the villain,” I admit, and now it’s my turn to glance away. “The Role Requirement is that I must stay within my domain—Fyreneth’s Fortress—and protect it. The name of the Role itself, The Dark Lord, is indicative of what part I have to play, whether I wish it or not. Clearly, I’ve been set up as the antagonist to overcome. I fear, when the Jorrians attack, the end will not be favorable for me.”

Mirzayael blinks. “You think you’re evil?”

I shrug helplessly. “According to the System, it seems.”

“Fyre.”

I look up in surprise. That’s the first time she hasn’t called me Outsider.

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

I cough out a laugh. “I, uh. Sorry? What?”

“You heard me,” she says. “That’s idiotic. You think you’re evil? Fyre, listen to yourself for half a second.”

“Well, that’s not exactly what I meant,” I say. “I just mean that the System is trying to push me into such a role—”

“Absurd,” Mirzayael cuts in. “You’ve done nothing but help people since you’ve got here. If you aren’t Fyreneth’s literal reincarnation, you’re her spiritual successor, at the very least. And the fact that you’d even entertain otherwise makes you dumber than I gave you credit for.”

I blink. “Is this supposed to be a pep talk?”

“So you’re supposed to be a dark lord,” Mirzayael says. “What makes you think that’s a bad thing?”

“The… name?” I say, holding up my hands helplessly. “I’m not sure what else that could imply.”

“Fyre, we live in a cave,” Mirzayael says flatly. “It’s dark. Literally. If you’re a lord of this place, you’d be a dark lord.”

“I don’t think that’s what—”

“We also live at the pole,” Mirzayael continues to bull her way through the conversation. “Half the year we don’t get much sunlight. Right now, it’s literally dark for most of the day. Dark Lord. There you have it.”

I can’t help but laugh. Her explanations are absurd. Far too blunt and literal. And yet… do I have any evidence she’s wrong? “This is certainly a unique way of looking at it.”

“What does this System of yours say about your Role?” she asks. “Does it specify that the Dark Lord is evil?”

I get Echo to repeat her definition of my Role Requirement. “No, actually. It’s just that I have to defend my kingdom.”

Mirzayael looks at me pointedly. “Yes, that sounds very evil.”

I chuckle, but my laughter quickly dies out as I recall what spurred this conversation in the first place. “That’s not all, I’m afraid. During the Jorrian fight, I discovered the limitations of this role: I can’t leave Fyreneth’s Fortress.”

Mirzayael raises her eyebrows. “That is annoying. I would not want to be restricted in such a way. Even if the restriction was mostly irrelevant. It sounds as though you will be fine as long as you stay within our realm?”

“That’s the issue, I’m afraid.” I smile sadly. “Nek and the others have already started to organize an evacuation. The plan is to leave the Fortress and retreat back to the caves in the Ash Peak mountains. If they move quickly, they should be able to escape before the Jorrians arrive. However, I won’t be able to come with.”

“What?” Mirzayael snaps. “Absolutely not. We are not abandoning our home.”

“That’s not up to me,” I say. “And I have no right to try to dissuade—”

“Ridiculous.” Mirzayael throws her bedding aside and stumbles her way to her feet, kicking off a blanket. “You have just as much of a say in the future of our people as anyone else.”

“Careful!” I say as she trips out of her bed, catching her arm. “You shouldn’t be up yet. You need to be resting still.”

“Rest is a luxury for when we’re not preparing for a siege,” Mirzayael says. “Now where is Beryl? We need to discuss war plans.”

“She’s also in bed recovering.” I follow Mirzayael to her chest. “Like you should be. She was gravely injured.”

“If she’s well enough to flee across the arctic, she’s well enough to talk.” Mirzayael snaps open her trunk and tears out a shawl, throwing it around her shoulders. “Go gather the others. Nek, my guards—any of Hetlanir’s scouts. We’ll hold council in Beryl’s chambers in ten minutes.”

I wisely opt to make no more objections and hurry out of the room.