Edryr Forsythe. Satday, Aquarius 16th, 2354 AA. 3:47 PM. New Atlantic Union, New Amsterdam (CIC Headquarters).
“Your teams typically bring a higher level of discretion to sensitive assignments, Edryr.”
Aerigale Morgan, Executive Commander of the Confidential Interests Chapter, sat in her office across from Forsythe, her hands steepled in front of a smirk. This would be far less galling if she didn’t seem so amused by our failures. Oh well. Two can play at blitheness. Forsythe shrugged airily.
“What can I say? Visser had tighter security than we anticipated, and he managed to take a hostage. Killing an innocent woman versus a repellant flesh trafficker didn’t sit well with Cyphira.”
Morgan snickered. She was a severe looking woman. Short silver hair, square rimmed spectacles, and a sharp burn scar on her right cheek from her time in the field. She appeared to be in her late sixties, which meant she could be anywhere from fifty to a hundred-something.
“Well, if it didn’t sit well with your junior, far be it for me to judge. We were prepared for the possibility of Visser taking his own life to evade capture, and this is effectively a fungible outcome.” Morgan glanced at her nails, then folded her hands on her desk. “Frankly, I was less pleased to see headlines about a plain-clothes amagia fighting a dragon in De Wallen.”
I knew you’d throw that in my face.
“The ‘dragon’ left me very little in the way of choice, Commander. As egregores go, it was quite powerful.”
“Indeed? Well, I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t need to remove your ribbon. The collateral damage was considerable enough as-is.”
“We are at your mercy,” Forsythe said bowing.
Morgan scoffed—a rare break in her unflappable composure.
“I think watching four years of work end with a corpse is sufficient punishment. Have the girl write a detailed report explaining the situation and her rationale. I’d bother with a lecture but my hands are full with coordinating interrogations of the bastards from the Amsterdam Chapter.”
“Let me guess,” Forsythe said. “They are claiming we disrupted a long-term undercover operation and killed innocent men or some nonsense.”
Morgan nodded.
“A defense as predictable as it is preposterous. But the more they wag their tongues, the easier it will be to catch them in a lie. With Visser dead, we will be squeezing the Chapter for information on his compatriots. And I do not intend to be gentle.”
Morgan sighed and turned her chair to face the window behind her desk. Outside, airships drifted languidly over the sprawling skyline of Manhattan.
“She really should have let the girl die, Edryr,” Morgan said, sighing.
“She would have obeyed if I ordered her to stand down. But I wasn’t there, and Cyphira still has a conscience—despite our best efforts. Left to her own devices, she follows it.”
After the immediate aftermath of the operation, once the frustrations of a lost lead had subsided, Forsythe saw the merit in his protégé’s decision. We are all so used to hating ourselves for what we do that we resent anybody with the integrity to stand by their principles. But at least one of us in this godforsaken outfit should be able to tell the difference between what is pragmatic and what is decent.
—6 years earlier. Satday, Aquarius 22nd, 2348 AA. 11:08 PM | Switzerland, Zermatt—
Cyphira watched the snowfall, and Forsythe watched Cyphira. The snow fell in silent flurries, leaving the lodge utterly quiet save for the crackle of the fire. Hard to imagine the daughter of Dread Queen Mab of the Winter Court has never seen snow in reality. But life is full of surprises.
“It’s beautiful,” she said after a long pause.
“Certainly beats the soot and piss-soaked streets of Newam,” Forsythe agreed.
Cyphira turned to him and asked:
“How did you find this place?”
“Winter of forty-one, I believe,” Forsythe said. “It was considerably less pleasant then.”
“Work?”
Forsythe nodded.
“Snow hag. Hopefully the last in existence. She had the entire country deadlocked in a ritualistic blizzard. The tram we took to get here was completely snowed over, so we had to take snowcats and eventually climb with contracts to reach the resort. Even then, the resort staff’s hospitality was impeccable.”
“Hard fight?”
Forsythe bowed his head.
“Great and terrible. Ice magic like I had never seen. I felt cold for a week after our encounter,” he said, and hesitated before adding: “And I lost a dear partner.”
“I’m sorry,” Cyphira said. A beat later she asked: “Why come back to a place with bad memories? I just said I wanted to see the snow. We could have gone anywhere.”
“The dawn after we defeated the hag, when my partner lay dying in my arms… The sunrise was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Despite my grief, I was moved. And I made a promise to come back someday.”
The truth was that he made that promise to Ellistacia herself when she was bleeding out. She was taken with the place immediately, even in the throes of the hag’s storm. And as she lay dying, she made Forsythe promise he would visit the place with somebody important. Share it with somebody who would appreciate it like she did.
There was a long pause as Cyphira continued to stare at the snowfall, a cup of mulled wine in her hands. Forsythe watched as well:
“I still don’t feel any—” the words caught in her throat as she realized they were untrue. “All I feel is that I should feel something. But I don’t know what. I’ve tried meditating. I tried praying for the first time since… ever, really.”
“And what did the gods have to say?” Forsythe asked.
“Nothing,” Cyphira said.
“In my experience, the less one deals with the divine, the better. Especially in this line of work. We must hold ourselves accountable for our own decisions.”
“I know Arnault made his own bed… But he had a family,” Cyphira said.
“Everyone has a family, Cyphira,” Forsythe said, though he knew it wasn’t a consolation.
Cyphira smirked and gestured to herself and Forsythe.
“Not everybody.”
Forsythe smiled.
“Touche.”
He was amused. Having lost her young paramour and the other members of her cohort, Cyphira genuinely believed that she was cut off from everyone, or else she wouldn’t be able to claim as much. But everyone has a mother—and yours is more fearsome than most. Our beginnings haunt all of us, regardless of how remote they may seem.
After another pause, Cyphira continued:
“I guess… If I had a wish, it’s that I wish he didn’t run. I always knew it would come to this eventually. I was prepared for the possibility even before I started training under you. But I always thought my first kill would come from an honest fight.”
Allouis Arnault had been a senior detective of the Paris Chapter’s Special Investigative Division. But he went dark days before the CIC heard a rumor that he might be leaking confidential information to France’s asfalis government. The CIC issued a burn notice and put out an APB. After two weeks of tracking, they found him in a safehouse in Geneva.
Cyphira was Forsythe’s shadow throughout the operation, learning the ins and outs of tracking people who don’t want to be found. She had taken to the work quickly, and—apart from the sass—was a model student. Forsythe allowed Arnault to plead his case, but in the end, the turncoat summoned a basilisk and attempted to flee. While Forsythe dealt with the monster, Cyphira chased Arnault down and…
She did what she had to do.
He had hoped to spare her from killing a little longer. It was an inevitability in their line of work. Many of their missions were out-and-out assassinations. But if I had been more cautious, she might have been able to see her eighteenth birthday before taking a human life. She was resilient. She wore the burden better than he had initially. After all, the first time I was ordered to kill somebody—my first solo assignment—I refused. She didn’t hesitate.
Another long pause settled over them.
“What was she like?” Cyphira asked.
“Who?” Forsythe asked, though he had an inkling of who she meant.
“Your partner. The one who died. I don’t know, but something in your emanations made me think she was a woman.”
Forsythe was surprised she was so good at reading emotion, especially given how closed off they both were. I can’t say I loved her. I don’t have that right. But she was precious to me and I never had the courage to tell her outright. We faced death together routinely. Finished our CIC training together. She shared her bed with me on occasion. For a second, he was tempted to tell Cyphira everything. But she clearly had enough on her mind, and he didn’t want to taint the place for her.
“She was beautiful,” Forsythe said at length. “Comprehensively.”
“I’m sorry,” Cyphira said again. “And thank you. For sharing this place with me.”
Forsythe nodded stiffly.
“I think I shall retire,” he said, standing, and stretching. “After all, we are skiing across two countries tomorrow, and our guide will arrive before dawn.”
“I’ll go to bed when I finish my wine,” Cyphira said.
It felt like a long walk back to his hotel room. Who are you becoming, Edryr? After all you’ve seen, and all you’ve done? Sentimentality doesn’t suit you. And neither does kindness. She is old enough to travel on her own. He paused. So why are you here?
Because she has become something more than an obligation. More than a weapon to relentlessly hone. What exactly I don’t know. At least with Ellistacia, there was a ubiquitous template—romance is fairly straightforward. We were partners turned lovers—out of convenience and mutual attraction if nothing else. But Cyphira is my student, and mercifully, attraction has never been an element in our equation. So where does that leave us? Am I a surrogate father? An uncle? An elder brother?
The answer was clear. She’s become a weakness. Worse yet, she’s one I hope to keep.
Cyphira took to skiing quickly, as Forsythe predicted. Her technique was rough, but after a few falls, she grew confident rather than cautious. Aggressive as always.
Forsythe worried that they might handle each other with kid gloves after he mentioned Ellistacia’s promise, but he was relieved to find she had reverted to their usual dynamic—him criticizing, chastising, and instructing her, as she annoyed, needled, and pushed him. She poured salt in his hot chocolate over lunch. She challenged him to a race. She played her ocarina tunelessly to recharge her wyrd. Outwardly nothing had changed. But after that trip, after that first evening of watching the snow together, everything felt different.
— Present Day —
“Edryr? Are you still with me?” Morgan asked.
“Yes, Commander.”
“You are dismissed. Unless there is something else you wish to discuss?”
“I’d like to request a week of leave for myself and Cyphira,” Forsythe said.
Morgan held her ever-present, maddeningly pleasant smile.
“Denied.”
Forsythe didn’t mind the denial, and he wasn’t terribly surprised. But why the smile? Are you that petty? That cruel? I realize that I am not a people person, but even I have the capacity for basic courtesy. She makes me look positively genteel by comparison.
“Is this punishment for our failings in De Wallen?”
“No.”
“Then might I ask why?” Forsythe pressed.
“We’ve allocated you both to a new, urgent assignment. You are to report for briefing tomorrow.”
“I would like to request leave after that assignment is seen to then,” Forsythe said.
“Are you getting soft, Edryr? Before, we had to force you to take breaks.”
“Must be age catching up with me.”
“It’s the girl,” Morgan said, still smiling. “You chastised her harshly for her decision, and now you are worried about her, yes?”
Forsythe shrugged off the bait.
“If I requested leave after every harsh reprimand, we wouldn’t work a day in our lives.”
“Is she stable, Edryr?” Morgan pressed.
“She’s as volatile as pure sodium, but relatively speaking, yes,” he answered, a touch petulant. “What is our new assignment?”
“You are to report for briefing tomorrow,” Morgan repeated, voice firmer.
Forsythe sighed. He briefly imagined drawing Phobos and trying to drive its blade down the woman’s mouth. You don’t rise to become commander of the CIC without some tricks up your sleeve, but I bet I could catch her off-guard if I was fast enough.
“Yes, Commander Morgan, I heard you earlier. Might I request a preview?”
“You may not. It is triple zero.”
“My, my. Aren’t we special,” Forsythe said mildly, though he felt the flicker of a chill in the base of his spine.
The raid on Visser was rated double-zero. Within the CIC, lower numbered designations required higher level clearance. To Forsythe’s knowledge, there were no missions with a higher confidentiality rating than triple-zero. They usually pertained to Xenomancy or higher powers—angelic and demonic egregores or aspects of genuine deities. The last such assignment he took on was the one that landed him with Cyphira in the first place. And this will be her first triple zero mission.
“The girl is ready, isn’t she, Edryr?” Morgan asked.
“Would you grant us leave if I said she wasn’t?” he asked wearily.
Morgan continued to smile.
“Don’t be tedious, Edryr.”
Pot meet kettle, you sneering harridan.
“Cyphira was ready for triple zero assignments two years ago, Commander.”
“Very good,” Morgan said. “You are dismissed.”
— Cyphira Quinn. 4:56 PM | CIC Agent Residences —
Now that her righteous indignation had faded, Cyphira paced her penthouse in Newam, wrestling with the consequences of her decision to kill Visser in earnest.
When you cut the head off a snake that big, it becomes a hydra. His lieutenants and confidants will compete in the power vacuum—split his enterprises into dozens of splinter factions. And if I let that girl die instead, he would have fingered a parade of other traffickers to save his life. Who knows how many people—how many children—would be free from the Fae with his information?
She shook her head. People will suffer and die because of my decision. But ever since her encounter with the purgatorial angel, Averael, she had come to the conclusion that a clear conscience begins with personal responsibility. We are only directly responsible for the lives we can directly control. If causality is too messy for an angel to calculate, we humans have no hope of grasping it. All I know is that girl’s life was in my hands.
Cyphira sighed. I made the right decision. But I still feel like shit.
There were three quick knocks at the front door. Forsythe. She strode out of her living room and opened the door to admit him wordlessly. As soon as she shut the door behind him, she asked:
“What’s my punishment?”
“An exacting incident report that explains the situation and your thought processes as meticulously as possible. Possibly a condescending follow-up interview with Morgan, though I imagine she would like me to shoulder that burden on her behalf.”
What?
“That’s it?”
Forsythe snickered.
“You almost sound disappointed.”
“No, I just… I know I fucked up. I fucked up big. I assumed they would rake me over the coals.”
Forsythe’s mouth twitched into a smile.
“You must understand, Commander Morgan is like a bitter wife. She says everything is fine while stockpiling your mistakes as ammunition for future conflicts. Also… there’s something you should appreciate by now. Something that took me far too long to realize.”
“Oh?” Cyphira asked.
“What can they do to us?” Forsythe asked. “Realistically speaking. How can they meaningfully punish us? They can’t very well fire us. I suppose they could gas us in our sleep, but each CIC agent is a valuable asset representing a substantial investment. Money is no object. Docking our pay would be beyond petty, and seeing how most of our living expenses are handled by the chapter anyway, it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship.”
Cyphira shrugged and nodded.
“Yeah, but I figured they might court-matial me. Or bench me until I complete some kind of bullshit psych eval or re-education program.”
Forsythe smiled.
“Commander Morgan has no patience for bullshit, and she despises bureaucracy for its own sake. That may be her only redeeming quality. Besides, she needs us in the field. Having you molder in detention does nobody any good, and we are nothing if not pragmatic.”
She chewed on that for a second. Why are you telling me this? Forsythe read her expression.
“Slaps on the wrist are just that. If you are going to surpass me, you need to stop gauging judgment calls in the context of reprimands. At this level, professional censures are a waste of everyone’s time. Mistakes are sufficient punishment unto themselves. Visser being dead makes our job harder. It makes finding his co-conspirators nearly impossible, and it splinters his once-unified empire.”
Cyphira furrowed her brow. I know that! But before she could complain, he continued:
“My point is, you cannot perform penance by simply accepting the fact that you will ‘get in trouble.’ That’s the math of a child. The way a student thinks. And while you still have much to learn, I have treated you like a professional for years now.”
Cyphira nodded. I see. Forsythe nodded back.
“So. I ask you. What will weigh heavier upon your conscience? One dead girl, versus the perpetuation of a system that breeds children into faen slavery?”
Cyphira took a deep breath and bowed her head.
“I’ve done that math. And I stand by my decision,” she said at length. “But in the future, I will try harder to avoid putting myself—putting us—in a position like that. I will be more mindful of the broader picture.”
Forsythe inclined his head.
“That’s all I ask.”
Cyphira smirked. We’ve come a long way together, haven’t we, Eddy?
—7 years earlier. Satday, Aries 23rd, 2347 AA. 2:37 AM | New Amsterdam (Grand Central Terminal)—
I’ve been a ghost for three days. Cyphira chastised herself for sulking, but the thought flitted through her head ceaselessly, like a relentless pest. I let myself fall in love. Wholly and completely. And this is my reward. She missed Glem’s sage counsel and savage wit, Senice’s quiet support, and Drav’s boisterous shenanigans. But she already knew Hace was a hole that would never heal.
After three days of assessment, she managed to sneak out of the CIC penthouse. Aren’t these people supposed to be spies? All it took to get away undetected was a couple glamours and a quick trip down the third story’s fire escape.
Newam was a city of many layers. Tiered plates were built between towering skyscrapers, to accommodate even more buildings, and even in the depths of night, the skies were thick with airship traffic. She walked the massive, tiered city alone, not really looking for trouble, but not shying from it either. An asfalis police officer stopped her, but when she showed her emancipation card and aspirant licenses, he decided she was trouble he didn’t want to deal with.
In the end, her wanderings led her to Grand Central Terminal. It was the heart of Newam’s extensive transit system, housing countless subway and light rail concourses, as well as seven stories of commuter airship docks. The structure was circular, centered around a broad shaft where the station’s iconic, globe-shaped clock hung, suspended by levitation magic.
Cyphira made her way to the uppermost level of the terminal in a long, counterclockwise stroll, looking at the closed storefronts of countless famous brands.
“It’s not all bad,” Forsythe had promised on their flight over. “Money will never be a problem again. No luxury will be beyond your reach.” Cyphira attempted a polite smile. Everything except an identity. She had never cared for jewelry, fancy clothes, or other finery. But she was smart enough to recognize wealth as a tremendous asset. The promise of even meager amounts of money had led her impoverished foster families to make foolish, hungry decisions.
She people-watched as she walked. The airship docks exchanged throngs of weary suits, disheveled late-night drinkers, and unkempt street people. All of them shied from her, uncertain what to make of the green-haired girl who looked a little too young to be out so late.
When she reached the observation deck at the top of the terminal, Forsythe was waiting. For once he had left his prized, cross-handled sword staff behind. She wasn’t terribly surprised, and while his eyes were stern, the corner of his mouth was twisted in a smirk.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she said blithely.
“You have a generous curfew, Cyphira. And exceptions can be made if you have reasonable cause to stay out late. But slipping out of the residence without notice—”
“Is forbidden. I know. I figured you wouldn’t mind if I was back by dawn.”
“And I figured you would push boundaries in short order, but it’s still a pain in my ass. I suppose I should thank you for demonstrating the gaps in our residential security. But you have physical training in less than three hours and you will need your rest. The CIC’s regimen is considerably harsher than Arroyo’s.”
Stow the lectures until I have trouble keeping up. The last three days had been entrance interviews and tests like those she had undergone upon enrolling in the Athenaeum, though she had to admit they were considerably more exacting. She decided to change tactics.
“How did you find me? Even I didn’t know where I was going when I left.”
Forsythe fished a chain out from beneath his shirt. It was attached to an amagiate cross with a dark red gem in the center.
“The infirmary supplied me with one of the blood samples from your assessment tests. I placed it in this preservation crystal. Tracking you with sympathy was a simple affair.”
“You made jewelry out of my blood sample? Gross. Gross and creepy.”
“Welcome to the CIC,” Forsythe said with a slight bow. “You don’t get to have secrets from the Amagium anymore, Cyphira. That includes late night strolls through the city.”
“What about you?” Cyphira asked. “I imagine you have your fair share of closet skeletons.”
“Indeed. As a full agent, you shall also accrue your fair share.”
“My last mentor answered every question I asked about her life the day I met her. After that I knew I could trust her.”
“I am not Fera Fitzgerald,” Forsythe said icily. “And I don’t give a damn whether you trust me or not, so long as you obey me.”
Cyphira held up a hand to signify objection.
“I understand the position I’m in. I will try to obey your every word in the field, I promise to take your lessons to heart, and I will study them hard, but I won’t indulge petty power trips like bedtimes. You’d never grow to respect me if I did.”
Forsythe peered at her like he had never considered according her any respect. Cyphira scoffed.
“Fera taught me the difference between teaching and training is respect. The former produces students. The latter makes pets. So do you want a protégé, Forsythe, or do you want an attack dog? Because I will be your student, but I will not be your bitch.”
His expression turned sour. She had out-maneuvered him and they both knew it.
“Obstinacy will not score you points either,” Forsythe countered. “This will not work if you try to bargain every time I require courteous obedience. Act like a dog, and I will be forced to use a muzzle and leash.”
“Alright,” Cyphira said, putting her hands up. “Let’s head back.”
“On the fifth story, there is a twenty-four-hour airship whose route passes by campus. I suggest we head there.”
Cyphira nodded. They took the elevator down to the airship docks, which was empty and exposed to the night air. The wind was oppressively wet and cold compared to Arroyo. Forsythe bought their fares, and they stood on the platform in silence until he finally asked:
“What exactly do you want to know?”
Cyphira smiled broadly. That’s more like it.
“Just the basics.”
“You must understand,” Forsythe said. “Most of my personal history is highly classified. I will indulge a few of your questions, but don’t balk if my answers are vague or restricted.”
“Fair enough. Let’s start simple: how did a sunny guy like you get involved with such a shadowy outfit?” Cyphira asked. “How old were you when they inducted you?”
Forsythe considered his answer for a long time.
“In truth, I don’t know precisely how old I am. My mother was a drug addict in Britain. And she died before I was old enough to have a notion of my own birthday. But I suspect I was around twelve or thirteen when the CIC gave me a choice similar to the one I gave you.”
“And how long has it been since?”
“Roughly thirty-three years ago.”
“So you’re like… forty-five? Forty-six?” she asked, surprised. “But you could pass for twenty-five. What do you do for skin care? Hair care too, for that matter.”
Forsythe smirked at her just as the ferry arrived and docked with the berth. They made their way onto the craft, which was also completely empty, save for the pilot who was in an enclosed cabin.
“Fairly early in my career, I volunteered for a number of experimental treatments to augment my natural abilities. Again, the precise nature of these… ‘augmentations’ is strictly confidential. But as a fringe benefit, I age slowly.”
“Where do I sign up?” Cyphira asked.
“If the opportunities present themselves, I will let you know. But I personally would not recommend it. There are… consequences. And it would be best if we left things there.”
Cyphira nodded and gestured ‘fair enough.’
“What is your opus?” she asked.
“Horror,” Forsythe said.
“Like, scary movies?”
“More commonly novels, but yes. Seeing people afraid or experiencing fear myself—though these days it’s much rarer. I made a practice of frightening people as a child, before the CIC took me in. But now that I am slightly more mature, I honestly find the practice to be in poor taste. So I satisfy myself with fiction.”
Cyphira was stunned. She had never heard of an opus that was so emotionally broad. Wow. He really is creepy. But as she mulled it over, another realization struck her. But he’s not a creep. If he was, he wouldn’t mind scaring people for his own benefit. She had often wondered about the nature of opuses, and what they said about their owners. She had no particular fondness for wind instruments, yet they massaged and empowered her wyrd.
She looked out the window for a long moment, taking in the glittering metropolis below. Cars blared and sirens wailed from the forest of buildings. Manholes smoldered with steam. According to weather forecasts and errant small talk, it was a longer, colder Spring than usual.
“Have you ever been in love?” Cyphira asked.
Forsythe raised an eyebrow at her.
“That seems considerably more involved than ‘just the basics.’”
“Well, professional stuff is off limits, so we need to go personal,” Cyphira explained.
Forsythe also turned his gaze to the cabin window.
“I am not sure.”
Cyphira smirked.
“That redacted too?” she teased, but immediately felt guilty after reading his expression.
“I have seduced people in the course of my duty. I have taken lovers of my own volition, and I have enjoyed earnest comradery. But from what I understand, love—even friendship—requires a degree of vulnerability and reciprocation that… well. I am not sure if I still have that capacity.”
Cyphira remembered how she felt about Hace at first. For the longest time, she didn’t want to love him. He was fun to hang out with, fun to compete against. Fun to tease and be teased by. But she was always afraid of what lay beyond that horizon. Many of her foster parents had claimed to be in love, and plainly weren’t—or if they were, she wanted no part of it. She feared that was the ultimate fate of all romance. The only solace she had found in abandoning him was that their relationship had peaked and would never be spoiled by jealousy, boredom, or other ravages of time. This way it would always be perfect.
“I understand,” Cyphira said, then added: “Sorry.”
“Anything else?” Forsythe asked.
“I think I’ve pushed you far enough for one night, Eddy,” Cyphira said easily.
Forsythe bristled.
“Eddy?“
“Your first name is Edryr, right?”
“Forsythe should suffice,” he said stiffly.
“Eddy it is,” Cyphira said, smiling.
— Solday, Aquarius 17th. 6:15 AM | New Amsterdam (CIC Residences) —
Cyphira showered, brushed her hair and teeth, then donned her dress uniform, as was customary for confidential briefs. But like most CIC operatives, she left the Keepers birdlike tricorn hat in her closet. She enjoyed being in uniform over dressing in asfalis clothing, even though it was customary for CIC to work plainclothes. It streamlined things, gave her a sense of belonging, and struck her as more honest than their usual wolf-among-sheep routine.
Even though Newam’s Athenaeum was the largest in the world, the CIC facilities were tightly contained at the north end of the campus. Cyphira took the elevator down the residence tower and headed for the headquarters’ offices at a brisk pace. She flashed her badge at the desk, picked up a paper and had enough time to spare for a croissant and some coffee in the commissary.
She reported to the briefing room five minutes early and recognized most of the other operatives present. Kuro gave her a lazy salute as she sank into the chair between him and Forsythe, who had both hands folded in front of his mouth, eyes closed in meditation or weariness. Howell, Chastain, and Cruz were also present.
This is quite the outfit. Howell was a grizzled fifty-something renowned for his prowess with earth magic. He had earned the nickname “The Wall” for his ability to armor himself, allies, and assets. Chastain was a woman in her mid-forties who was widely regarded in the CIC’s circles as the best metaphysical binder in the world. And Cruz… Cruz was a twenty-three-year-old hotshot who had an exceptional talent for gravity and temporal magic. Cyphira had worked with all of them at varying points in her career. CIC Agents shuffled compositions as necessary rather than sticking with a consistent venture.
That said, Cyphira only recognized one of the other people in the room, and he wasn’t actually a CIC agent. He was a world-famous—or perhaps infamous was more accurate—Judge from the Asfalis Conflict Mediation Chapter. Must be working as a CIC operative for this mission. She recalled he was of Arapaho descent partially thanks to his distinctive surname: Thunder Stag. He was also the most capable practitioner of his respective fields: pyromancy, electric magic, and directed sonic energy. These gifts essentially made him a walking weapon of mass destruction. Cyphira had heard some—Howell, actually—call him the most dangerous human in the world.
She wasn’t as good at placing people’s backgrounds as Forsythe, but based on their appearance, she suspected the remaining two operatives were also Erician First Peoples. One was a pretty girl around her age who seemed horribly nervous judging by her fidgeting. Cyphira noted that her rank pins indicated she was also a Junior Special Agent. The last amagia was a grandmotherly looking woman with coarse gray hair, kind eyes, and three enormous claw track scars running across her face. She wore the rank of Senior Special Agent.
Well. This got interesting quick. The Amagium loves its nines, but this room represents enough magical firepower to overturn a national army. Are we going to war or something?
Just before the clock struck seven, Commander Arigale Morgan arrived. Ominously, she locked the double doors to the briefing room after entering, and then she cast an anti-scrying barrier on the room. I thought these rooms were already warded against psychic intrusion and remote viewing spells. And the interior super-structure of the building is reinforced with flux plastics. It would take the equivalent power of an atom splitter to penetrate these defenses.
“Good morning, operatives. The following assignment is to be treated with triple zero confidentiality. This is a first for some of you, but it is as straightforward as the designation suggests. Divulging the details of a triple zero assignment are grounds for immediate dismissal.”
Cyphira’s eyebrows raised. She knew triple zero assignments existed, even though Forsythe had never said as much. Over their long partnership, she had learned to read his silences and omissions as clearly as his instructions. Still, I’m only a junior special agent. They must need an akrasiac badly.
“Both of our Junior Agents participating shall be eligible for immediate promotion upon successful completion,” Morgan continued, possibly reading Cyphira’s mind. “But before we can begin, I need you all to thrice swear a vow of secrecy.”
The CIC agents placed their hands over their hearts and recited the customary oath:
“I thrice swear upon my wyrd that I shall not betray the Amagium’s trust.”
Commander Morgan nodded.
“I have called you all here—some of you from other pressing obligations—for a somber assignment of grave importance. This is the first triple zero operation for two of you, and I realize you may question your own qualifications. Rest assured, each operative has been verified by your seniors, and you have been deliberately handpicked for this task. That said, there is no overstating the danger associated with this mission. You must brace yourself for the possibility of casualties.”
Dramatic much, Morgan? Spit it out already. Morgan looked directly at her with a wicked smirk. Cyphira returned it, even though something deep inside of her flinched. If you really are listening to my internal monologue, I can’t be held accountable for whatever awful things come to mind. Like the fact that I think you are a psychotic monster wearing a scarred cunt costume.
“This task force has been assembled to assassinate a god.”
Oh.
Oh shit.
