Paragon

by Rowan Rook

  The woman reached for the lab's manual lock, but before she could latch it, a batch of wide-eyed students crashed past her and out into the hall. A flood of sound washed in—screaming, calling, clanging, cursing. She slammed the door shut and fastened the bolt with a shout of her own, cutting off the lab and everyone left inside from the chaos.

  Several of her colleagues crept closer.

  "It—it's Lyrum, isn't it?" a scientist stammered, his ear to the door.

  "How did they—" another whimpered, her legs shaking under her. "How the Hell did they get in?"

  "Is locking ourselves inside wise? Maybe the kids had the right idea. Maybe we should try to get—"

  "No! No no no!" The woman who'd locked the door pressed her back against it, protective. "We have to stay here! They told everyone to lock down in case of intrusion, remember? They told us that way back in freshman year, remember?"

  "Hold the door! Lyrum aren't strong enough to break it open!"

  Amaranth let himself linger in the lab's shadows, his legs stiff beneath him. The alarm wasn't stopping. The panic wasn't silencing. He wasn't waking up from a nightmare. His shock pooled in his stomach like liquid dread as it settled.

  The intruders had to be Lyrum. Conflicts between Humans were rare, and the Academy was held in renown throughout society. The school's scouts had sighted a Lyrum troop traversing the fields beyond the city that morning—Shakaya had mentioned it before setting off with her own troop in response—but how could they have made it inside the school?

  Amaranth's heart climbed into his throat with cold fingers. Had something...gone wrong? Shakaya was okay, wasn't she?

  Everything dragged like some lucid dream he wasn't quite a part of. Footsteps banged through the halls outside, sending up screams nearer and nearer to their room like clouds of dust. Lucillo and a few others hung back from the door, like him. Dark anticipation bleached their faces, their gazes mirroring each other's grim thoughts. Amaranth and Ryn exchanged a wide-eyed glance.

  Had the Lyrum come for the specimen room? Amaranth's focus drifted to the body on the table. ...How much farther would they get before the soldiers stopped them? He swallowed, an acrid taste sticking to his throat.

  Wait! That taste... Smoke. A shudder fell through him. His gaze jerked toward the doorway, chasing the stink. Liquid seeped in through the crack under the door and pooled around his colleagues' shoes. Oil.

  Get back! he wanted to scream, but his chest squeezed too tight to let out the words.

  The door exploded, flames racing across the liquid and eating everything in their path. The blaze was alive, empowered by the fuel it devoured...and almost certainly by Translation. Screams shook the lab. The bodies by the doorway disappeared beneath a flood of fire. Only one man escaped, stumbling away in his smoldering coat. Ryn rushed to help him. Lucillo nearly stumbled over, paler than a ghost. Other scientists stared like the audience of a terrible play.

  All that was Amaranth shivered. His storage box fell from his grip, spilling its precious contents on the floor with clangs and cracks. He breathed through his mouth to fight back bile. This couldn't be real... He'd witnessed so many scenes like this in the depths of sleep—this couldn't be real!

  The screams died away until there was only the stench of burning flesh.

  With a final snap, the melting door surrendered.

  When Amaranth forced himself to look, a man stood in the doorway. The stranger waited just beyond the curtain of flames, painted red and yellow like he'd stepped out of a fever dream. He smiled, his foot resting on an empty oil canister. Fire danced inside his open palm.

  Amaranth took in the stranger through a blank stare.

  How bizarre. Lyrum avoided even the most basic of tools. Food was cooked on fires started by friction or Translation; clothes were sewn by hand from animal hides. They relied solely on what nature and their abilities provided. They lacked the technology needed to harvest oil...so why had they used it?

  The stranger stepped forward, parting the fire birthed by his own Translation. The lab's flickering lights revealed clammy brown hair, a face of petite features, and an unfamiliar uniform—an elegant red cloak worn loose over light armor. A wing-shaped gold pin rested above his heart.

  Amaranth forced his body to move, to step back. He hadn't encountered a Lyrum beyond the lab tables in years. The other scientists did the same, shrinking away from the fire and the intruder controlling it.

  The Lyrum waved his hand over the flames and they faded, leaving nothing behind but ashes and blackened bones. The remains looked brittle, like they'd crumble to dust if touched. Amaranth gulped down nausea.

  New figures appeared in the doorway. Silhouettes made of pointed features and lithe shapes—Lyrum. Splattered blood painted their cloaks. They looked to the arsonist, perhaps waiting for a signal.

  The leader stepped closer, his eyes narrowed.

  The hair rose on Amaranth's neck. Why did it feel like the arsonist was looking at him? The Lyrum's gaze stopped on the Academy ID card hanging from his neck, taking in his details. His name: 'Amaranth.' His age: twenty-six. His occupation: Translation specialist. Amaranth's trembling fingers instinctively clasped the badge, hiding it.

  A strange smirk spread across the arsonist's lips, "There you are." He motioned for the rest of the Lyrum to stay. "To think, I'd been about to give up looking for you."

  ...What?

  Amaranth's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. The Lyrum...couldn't really be talking to him, could he? Lucillo shot a glare into the back of his head and other gazes followed, suspicious. Panic pulsed from the soles of his heels to his skull.

  ...What in the Author's name?

  The Lyrum held out his palm, the flame there growing in size until it licked the ceiling. Fire Translation. Translation's capabilities varied uncountably, and each Lyrum possessed different gifts. It was nearly impossible to know what to expect. The arsonist, however, did nothing to conceal his talent. He opened and closed his fingers, letting the flames dance. There was something almost playful about the way he moved. "Let's see if you're worth all this trouble." The Lyrum's brown eyes bore into Amaranth's. The Lyrum really was looking at him. Amaranth didn't know why, but he was.

  Amaranth backed away on woozy legs. "Who are you?"

  The Lyrum sneered, stretching an accusing finger toward him. The fire in his hand spread to its tip and lashed out with red tongues. "If you have to ask, you're as much of a hypocrite as she said you would be."

  She? Who the Hell was⁠—

  "You may as well embrace it." The Lyrum drew his arm back, his fire curling in on itself as if preparing to strike⁠—

  A silver blade whirled through the room.

  The Lyrum barely ducked before the weapon whistled over his head.

  Amaranth's gaze chased after it as it bit into the wall. A chakram. Blood dripped from its jagged edges. He whirled toward the doorway, the first flickers of hope cutting through him the way the blade had cut a path through the crowd of intruders. There was only one person it could belong to!

  A second silver shape streaked into the room⁠—a Human soldier who slid past the arsonist and snatched her weapon from the wall. She positioned herself in front of Amaranth. Her heavy armor obscured her shape, but the familiar chakram and the tan hair peeking from under her helmet gave away her identity.

  Amaranth's heart leaped out of his chest, "Shakaya!"

  The soldier smiled through her metal mask, "Found you."

  Weight lifted off Amaranth's body. Shakaya was there when he needed her, just like always. As long as he stayed near her, everything would be fine. She was invincible.

  The moment lasted a heartbeat longer before Shakaya's gaze returned to the Lyrum.

  While a soldier by trade, Shakaya had learned enough from the company of Amaranth and Rickard to tinker around inside the labs. She put the knowledge to use by crafting her own weapons. While many soldiers in her squadron used guns, the chakram was her favorite. It didn't rely on
bullets, was nearly silent, and was adaptable enough to serve as both a ranged and melee weapon against Lyrum's frail bodies. Her fingers curled around it so tightly that she nearly drew her own blood, triggering a hidden switch that opened slits in the blade and expelled poison into any wound it carved.

  The Lyrum tilted his head at her. "Careful with that, sweetheart. You wouldn't want to hurt me, would you?"

  A gasp made Amaranth look at her, and what he saw took him aback.

  Shakaya held a reputation for her brutality, and as strange as it was for him to try to understand, she was proud of it. She lived to fight, and she wore a stoic smile to every battlefield. Her expression now was different. She bristled, her fists clenching her chakram until her knuckles turned white. "Shit." She hissed through her teeth, "It's one of the Butterflies."

  "Butterflies?" Amaranth blinked.

  Shakaya's eyes never left the Lyrum, but Amaranth saw them widen. "You don't know?"

  The Lyrum beamed, "Sylan Rita. Vice Overseer of the Scarlet Butterfly, Lyrum division."

  Shakaya only glowered. ...Why was she hesitating?

  Rita stepped forward, that sick smile growing on his face. "And I already know who you are."

  Amaranth shivered, instinctively raising the wrist bound by the Not.

  Shakaya opened and closed her mouth, as if to speak, but stopped after a glance at Amaranth.

  Her reluctance earned her a chuckle from the Lyrum. His eyes narrowed into edges sharp enough to pierce his mask of nonchalance, "You aren't nearly as fearless as you think you are, are you?"

  The soldier leaned forward, her wrists shaking, her face red. She visibly ached to move, to fight, but she didn't. "Do not test me."

  Shakaya's answer to any problem was action. So why...? Why would she get so angry, and yet⁠—

  "It's not you I'm testing, sweetheart."

  Fire erupted with a thrust of Rita's arm, hurtling toward the scientist and the soldier. His colleagues threw themselves out of the way with shouts and flailing limbs, but Amaranth's legs wouldn't work. It was Shakaya who yanked him to the floor. The flames licked the air above their heads, summoning sweat to his brow.

  Shakaya leaped to her feet and threw her chakram toward the Lyrum's neck.

  Rita pulled a sword from under his cloak and caught the chakram with a clang. The force sent him backward, but he landed with quick, elegant steps. The circular blade hung from the sword's hilt. "You would let your temper get the best of you? My, you really are a child!"

  Shakaya clenched her teeth, drawing a dagger from her belt. Whatever had held her back before was gone. She charged him, staying low to the ground like a carnivore ready to strike.

  But Rita didn't aim for her. The Lyrum punched the air and unleashed another wave of fire toward Amaranth.

  The scientist reacted on instinct, his body moving before his mind could. He thrust out his right hand, and new flames⁠—his flames⁠—erupted in front of him.

  Rita and Shakaya both leaped back to avoid the explosion when the two streams of fire clashed. Flames danced wildly, like enraged, caged creatures finally offered freedom. Amaranth's fire devoured Rita's, and within seconds, the heat sizzled away. Nothing remained but scorch marks on the walls.

  Amaranth steadied his balance and stepped forward, his right arm raised. Ember light reflected orange on the Not. His face was pale and his breath came heavily, but aside from singed clothes, he stood unharmed.

  Shakaya gaped, "It actually works?"

  Amaranth was suddenly far too aware of the cuff on his right wrist. The Not stung, hot from the flames. It looked like armor—like a soldier's gauntlet—but it was connected to his nerves through wires that left his arm constantly aching. It had been there for so long that he hardly noticed the pain anymore⁠—hardly noticed the absurdity of what he wore every day. It was an experimental weapon designed to emulate Translation.

  Rita stared for a while, before a satisfied smirk resurfaced on his face. "That's more like it!" His lips switched to a more serious line—those rapid shifts had to be practiced. "It'd be a shame to stop now."

  Fire Translation exploded from Rita's outstretched palm.

  Amaranth raised his right hand and countered with his own fire Translation, summoning another wave with only a flick of his wrist. The motion was clumsy. His flames disintegrated almost as quickly as they appeared. He grimaced, birthing a blast with a wider flourish⁠—and much greater force than necessary.

  Flames spewed across the lab, colliding in a storm of heat. Metal and glass and burned flesh screamed with wild snaps.

  Scientists cowered, clinging to the walls to escape the blaze. Shakaya only watched.

  The fires of Translation tangled in tongues of light, painting the room red and black, turning everything they touched to smoke. Then they dissolved. Flickering remnants of flame lit up corners of the room like candles.

  Amaranth exhaled, dizziness nearly knocking him off his feet. He stooped down, clutching his stomach and heaving in rasps. His vision swam.

  Rita glared him down.

  For a while, there was nothing. Silence. A hush blanketed the room like slumber surrounding a dream, before gunfire from the corridor outside snapped it back to reality.

  An expression Amaranth couldn't identify flashed across Rita's face.

  The gunshots closed in, each one making his ears erupt with ringing.

  Rita's gaze whirled to the doorway, "Let's go!"

  The arsonist retreated into the halls with the other Lyrum. Gunfire drowned out their footsteps, merging with the ocean of shouts and screams. Shakaya snatched her chakram and raced after them.

  The violence raged on outside, but for Lab 2, it seemed it was over. Amaranth fell to his knees, sick with smoke and bile, fighting his own battle for breath. Lord...he'd just...! The rest of the scientists waited in equal silence. He felt eyes on him, but no one dared speak.

  Chapter Two: Ashes

  The chaos outside the lab tamed into the tension of the unknown as the battle came to an end. The alarms finally silenced. Distant cheers replaced screams. Smoke gave way to cleaner air, disappearing into gaps torn through the Academy's brick and mortar skin. Suddenly, it seemed Lab 2 sat on the threshold of a separate world entirely, and no one inside was quite sure what they would find when they braved their way through the rubble. What remained of their school and their home? Who out there was alive and who was dead? The questions weighed so heavily, bloated with so much dread, that for too long, Amaranth couldn't get his legs to move.

  He couldn't say whether he'd sat on the floor for minutes or hours⁠—everything passed in an instant and in an eternity⁠—but time slowly returned to its regular self. Dust settled in the faint light on the other side of the destroyed door, revealing broken glass, burnt metal, and shattered shelves. There was blood, too. Lots of blood. The view was a perversion of the hallway he traveled daily. Shadows censored the details, but he could already tell that it was wrong. All of it was wrong. The labs, the lounge, and the⁠—

  Amaranth sucked in a breath, and fresh concern finally got him to his feet. The specimen room. What had happened to the specimen room? He raced across the rubble and into the corridor before his colleagues could say anything.

  The research area comprised the second floor of the three-story Academy. It was always bright, pristine, and organized, with an unpleasant but familiar mélange of chemicals hanging in the air. The equipment was sanitized after every procedure; all the files and books were carefully sorted; all the supplies were restocked daily. The Academy expected nothing less from its graduates.

  All of that work had gone to waste in one afternoon. The floor was dim⁠—devoid of light⁠ but for the sun filtering in through broken patches of wall—but Amaranth's nose and ears filled in details for his eyes. He covered his mouth against the sick, sweet air. While always strong, the stench had turned toxic in its own right. The lab's droning, mechanical hum wasn't the same anymore, either. What was usually a low whir had tr
ansformed into angry crackles. Every so often, a spark would flicker up from somewhere in the shadows and tell stories of its own.

  As Amaranth's vision adjusted to the dark, he almost wished it hadn't. Files⁠—many born from years of labor⁠—were scattered all along the corridor, torn to irreparable bits. Books were rooted from their shelves. Machines storing precious data were reduced to rubble. Beakers lay in splinters. Doors were melted. Walls were burned, cracked by bullets, stained with blood. And... He swallowed. Human shapes lay on the floor, their lab coats painted red. Other bodies crumpled beneath failed armor⁠—fallen Academy soldiers or Lyrum. His boots left crimson footprints on the once-white tile as he dared himself deeper inside the wreckage.

  When he found the specimen room, all that remained of the door was another blackened cavity. He gritted his teeth and peered inside. Sure enough, most of the cells that had contained the Academy's live Lyrum specimens were empty. Less than ten captives remained, riled from their drug-induced haze and grasping at the bars. Perhaps the intruders had freed them all before those most ill-fated had found themselves recaptured. Most of them...most of them truly had escaped. He let out a breath, his chest loosening with a medley of emotions he didn't let himself dwell on.

  Unlike the rest of the doors, these metal cells had been unlocked, not melted. The intruders must have snatched the keys from whichever unfortunate scientist had happened to be in possession of them. He shuddered, looking away from another body on the floor.

  If Shakaya hadn't arrived when she had...

  "A shame, isn't it?"

  Rickard's voice floated through the carnage, as sweet but somehow hollow as always.

  Amaranth didn't bother turning around. "For the Head Scientist, you don't sound especially concerned."

  "I won't be the one covering the damages. All of that will come from mayor Blaker." The woman lifted up the hem of her lab coat, too clean by contrast even with its usual paint stains, to step past the rubble. She surveyed the room from inside with only a slight frown. "After all, none of us are at fault. It was Edgard and his soldiers who failed the Academy. It truly is a pity. It appears we've lost a considerable amount of research and some of my better students."