Chapter 138: Hijacking the Sky
Salem tilted his head at me like a bird trying to puzzle out whether the crumb in front of it was bread or poison. His eyes narrowed, then widened, and then, suddenly, he burst into laughter so loud and sharp it melded into the air.
The sound was obscene in its joy, completely at odds with the pounding of fists and the hurling of spells just outside.
I stood still as stone, my arms crossed. My silence seemed to feed his hysteria rather than starve it. His laugh rolled like thunder, loud, proud, and maddening, until it finally sputtered out into little hiccups of disbelief. He wiped a tear from his eye, lips still twitching.
"Wait," he asked, his tone dripping disbelief, "you’re serious?"
I nodded once. "Yes."
And saints, the look he gave me—oh, that look. A cocktail of incredulity, glee, and the faint suspicion that I had finally snapped completely. But for once, I refused to retreat beneath my usual veil of jokes.
I had an idea, damn it. And for once it wasn’t even my worst one. "The balloons. All we have to do is hijack one of the nobles’ balloons. They can’t stay up there forever—they’ll eventually need to descend to refuel, to restock, to remind themselves they’re still human." My mouth twitched. "Well. Mostly human. You know how nobles are."
Rodrick’s voice rasped from the shadows, hoarse with exhaustion. "And how, pray tell, would you suggest we hijack one?"
He leaned heavily against his sword, still propped like a crutch, blood dripping steadily from his nose. His tone carried that damnable knightly authority, as if asking me to please be reasonable about stealing an airborne luxury carriage.
I spread my arms wide. "Easy. They’ll land eventually. We don’t have to chase one through the skies like madmen with wings; we only have to wait for one to come to us. And then, when it does—" I let my grin sharpen to something halfway between brilliance and madness—"we board it. We take it. And we rise above all this filth clawing at the ground."
A silence hung then, heavy and doubtful. My pulse thudded like a drum in my ears. I could feel their skepticism like a weight pressing against my chest.
And then, slowly, so very slowly, heads began to nod.
The Naked Knight was the first to speak then. His voice carried the boyish excitement of someone who had never learned the concept of self-preservation. "When do we leave, my lady?"
I didn’t even pause. I stormed past them, cloak snapping, my chest burning with something dangerously close to confidence. "Now."
My boots echoed down the stairs as I descended to the bottom floor. My heart hammered. The church stank of mildew and desperation, the cracked walls bleeding dust with each pounding from outside.
The Man in White stood at the altar as though presiding over some grotesque sermon. He was whistling a cheerful little tune that seemed to mock the world’s ruin.
I brushed past him, my jaw tight, when his voice slipped out like a knife between ribs.
"You’re much stronger than he expected."
I froze. His tone was not mocking, not grandiose, but casual, almost conversational, as though we were old friends speaking over a glass of wine.
I turned, eyes sharp, stomach dropping. "Excuse me?"
His hood tilted slightly, but he did not elaborate. The silence stretched. The pounding at the doors grew louder. Saints preserve me, but there was something in the way he said it, as though he knew exactly which shadow in my chest to prod.
I wanted to demand answers, but the words withered in my throat. Not now.
The others came down to gather in the church’s center.
It was time.
I cleared my throat, forcing authority into a voice more accustomed to sarcasm. "Here’s how we’ll do it. Nara, you’ll be our distraction. I want rabbits, as many as you can muster. Make them scatter, make them shriek, make the mob think something’s breaking loose behind them. The rest of us—" I jabbed a thumb at the heavy church doors, already groaning under the relentless pounding—"we go out the front. Straight into the open. No hesitation."
Their mouths opened. Protests waited on their tongues. But before a single one could speak, the decision was made for us.
A crack split across the wooden doors with a groan like a dying tree. Splinters spat outward. The pounding grew incessant, vicious, desperate. The barriers quivered under the weight of a hundred greedy fists.
I snapped, louder than I intended. "No time!" My gaze locked on Nara, his eyes wide, ears pinned back. "Head to the rooftop. Now!"
He swallowed hard, but nodded. Then he bolted up the stairs, light as a shadow, vanishing into the night air.
The rest of us waited in silence. I pulled out my pen again, just in case. Salem’s knuckles whitened around his blades. Dunny muttered prayers under his breath that even he didn’t seem to believe.
And then, at last, it came.
A sound like a floodgate breaking open.
From outside of the far wall, a torrent of rabbits spilled forth, thousands of them, ears twitching, paws thundering, their squeals piercing the chaos. The mob erupted into confusion. Shouts cut through the night: "Over there!" "Catch them!" "What is that?!"
I grinned despite myself. "Now."
We bolted.
The church doors exploded open with a scream of wood and iron. We surged into the night, lungs burning, feet hammering the stone beneath us.
Behind us, the horde faltered, turned, swarmed toward Nara’s illusion. Ahead, freedom beckoned like a cruel joke.
Overhead, Nara sprinted across the rooftop, his small frame silhouetted against the sky. Without hesitation, without pause, he leapt. His body arced downward, weightless for one glorious instant, and I whipped around instinctively, arms outstretched.
He landed in my grip with a giggle, as though this were all some grand adventure instead of a descent into madness. I nearly collapsed under the impact, my ribs screaming, but somehow I kept us upright. His grin burned bright. Saints, the boy might be madder than I was.
Shouts erupted behind us. Some of the mob had seen. Fingers pointed, throats screamed, feet thundered. But it was too late. Too slow. We were already gone, sprinting into the night with nothing but desperation and a lunatic’s plan to guide us.
Time stretched. Hours seemed to bleed together as we ran. My lungs felt like torn parchment, my throat raw, my legs molten lead. The city blurred past us—ruins, shadows, collapsed homes, broken dreams—all bleeding into one endless sprint.
"Cecil!" Dunny’s voice cracked through the dark, ragged and desperate. He pointed ahead with trembling hands. "There!"
And there it was.
A balloon. A noble’s balloon.
Deep crimson silk, trimmed in gold, drifting slightly apart from the others. Its shadow stretched across the rooftops like a promise. My heart lurched. Salvation. Escape.
We turned, chasing its path, sprinting harder despite our shattered lungs. But the mob was not far behind. Their cries echoed through the streets, growing louder, closer, pressing from both sides like wolves herding prey.
The balloon drifted low, descending gracefully toward the industrial district—a part of the city not yet drowned in ruin. Its silk canopy billowed, glowing faintly in the moonlight. And then, with the ease of entitlement, it slipped into a warehouse, the open roof gaping like a wound.
We followed. Saints help us, we followed.
The building loomed ahead, its skeletal frame blackened with ash, its vast doors half-broken but still standing. We surged inside, lungs searing as we struggled to catch our breath.
Dunny collapsed forward before sketching runes in the air, symbols fragile and flickering, until a faint shimmer spread across the entryway. Another barrier. Weaker this time, trembling, but enough to buy us a breath.
We scattered into the shadows, each of us ducking behind rusted machinery, ash-stained gears, remnants of industry long abandoned. My hands shook as I pressed my back against cold iron, the heat of pursuit still clawing at my neck.
And then I risked a glance.
The balloon had landed. Its crimson silk sagged slightly as ropes anchored it to the stone. And descending from its basket came the nobles.
They emerged with all the grace of oblivious royalty, waving themselves daintily with jeweled fans as though the city’s ruin were nothing but an unfortunate draft. Their voices rose in high, airy chatter, gossiping about recent events as if discussing the weather at a garden party.
Behind them loomed two bodyguards. Massive, broad-shouldered, their gazes sweeping the warehouse with sharp precision. Steel gleamed at their hips, their postures bristling with the arrogance of men convinced nothing could touch them.
I ducked back into the shadows, my heart slamming, my breath shallow. My mind spun.
So. There they were. Our ticket out. Our salvation wrapped in silk and arrogance.
All we had to do now was take it.
I crouched lower behind the machine, my eyes locked on Salem’s shadow to the right. He was still as stone, his blades quivering faintly in the dim light like hungry fangs waiting for a throat.
He looked at me once, and I gave him a series of hand signals. Not elegant, not military grade, but sufficient: Right. You take left. We kill them quickly. We get out. His eyes gleamed with feral joy. His mouth curled ever so slightly into a smirk that promised violence.
Then we moved.
Not like men, but like nightmares. Swift, soundless, shadows unchained from walls. We sprinted straight toward them, two streaks cutting through the dust.
The nobles shrieked, voices shrill and thin, collapsing against one another like children glancing at spiders. Their jeweled fans snapped shut, their perfume cloyed the air, and they squealed as though the apocalypse were somehow insulting to them.
The bodyguards reacted as expected—without hesitation.
Steel flashed in the surrounding moonlight as the right-hand brute stepped toward me, his chest a wall of muscle, his arms thick as tree trunks. His sword sang out of its sheath, broad and cruel, gleaming like it had been polished with the blood of peasants.
I met him head on, my pen gleaming like the world’s most ridiculous dueling blade. The stopwatch burned in my pocket, whispering to me, begging to be used, but I refused. Not for this. Not for him. He was flesh and blood. My pen alone would be enough.
"Over there!" I shouted over my shoulder as I lunged, my voice echoing sharp against the walls. "The rest of you—find as much fuel as you can and secure the balloon!"
From the corner of my eye, I saw them scatter. Rodrick, limping but unbowed, Dunny pale as parchment, the Naked Knight hefting his absurd broadsword as though he were striding into a wedding instead of a battlefield.
Even the Man in White, infuriatingly calm, strolled toward the balloon as though nothing could possibly inconvenience him. Nara and Fitch vanished deeper into the warehouse, searching, hunting for the supply of fuel.
My attention snapped back as steel whistled for my throat.
I ducked low, slashed, and stabbed, every movement frantic but precise. The brute swung again, faster than I expected, his blade cleaving down with the force of an avalanche.
I twisted. Barely.
The edge grazed my shoulder, a scream of pain bursting in my chest, hot blood slicking my shirt. My knees wobbled. My grip tightened. I roared and lashed my pen across his arm. Ink flared bright against his skin, my mark burning into him.
That was one.
He bellowed, swinging wider now, his rage making him sloppy. I danced back, feet sliding against dust and ash. My pen darted, sharp and cruel, cutting across his thigh this time. Ink burned once more.
That was two.
Salem was a storm beside me. His guard never had a chance. His blades moved like twin serpents, striking, snapping, carving arcs of silver through the air. The brute tried to defend, tried to lift his blade to block the strikes, but Salem was already there, already past, already smiling that awful grin that promised nothing but blood. Sparks danced, steel sang, and the guard howled as Salem’s sword bit into his side.
But I had no time to admire his carnage.
Because the warehouse doors—oh saints, the warehouse doors—burst open then.
The sound was like a dam breaking. A crack, a scream, and then the flood. Competitors poured in, their eyes alight with greed, their mouths twisted in hunger. A tide of bodies, weapons raised, spells blazing. They shrieked like vultures, like jackals, like every scavenger who had ever seen a prize too fat to resist.
I cursed so loudly I think even the gods might have winced.
My brute snarled, emboldened by the chaos, his blade whistling down again. My bones begged me to flee, but I had no choice. I lunged forward, pen thrusting, jabbing deep into the scar on his chest. The third mark blazed into existence.
And then the world bent.
His body collapsed. His scream twisted into a gargle, half rage, half horror. My ink flared bright, searing against his flesh, crawling up his veins like liquid fire. His eyes bulged, his lips peeled back, and the transformation began. His muscles writhed, bones creaked, his body reshaping, twisting, rewriting itself beneath the pen’s decree.
I staggered back, eyes blown wide. Even now, even after everything, the sight of it still left me shaken with the horrifying nature of my own power.
Next to me, Salem finished his work. His blade slid clean across his opponent’s throat, silver gleaming red. The guard collapsed in a heap, blood painting the cobblestones in viscous arcs. Salem didn’t pause. He didn’t grin. He didn’t even gloat. He simply turned, blades dripping, eyes locked on the balloon.
"Move!" he roared.
The balloon was already rising. Ropes creaked, silk strained, the nobles shrieked higher than ever as my companions scrambled aboard. Nara and Fitch returned just in time, fuel canisters clanging as they hauled them up to Dunny, who shoved them into the basket with desperate hands.
Rodrick planted himself at the base like a pillar, bloodied and broken but unyielding all the same. Even the Man in White helped, if you could call it help—he leaned casually against the railing, watching the chaos unfold with faint amusement.
Salem sprinted, his body a blur, and vaulted up onto the basket with the grace of a hawk. He turned back, arm outstretched, eyes wild.
I ran. Saints help me, I ran.
The flood was behind me, arrows shrieking through the air, spells bursting against the walls. My legs screamed, my lungs tore, my ribs begged for mercy, but I pushed through it. The balloon rose higher, the silk straining upward, the ropes pulling taut.
And then—I jumped.
For one horrible, gut-wrenching moment, I thought I had miscalculated. The ground fell away beneath me, the air roared in my ears, the mob’s shrieks chased me upward. My hand stretched, desperate, clawing.
And Salem’s grip found me.
Our hands locked. His arm wrenched me upward, muscles straining, teeth bared in effort. Arrows shrieked past us, one piercing clean through the silk above, another burying itself in the basket’s side. A third nearly clipped my ear, and I shrieked a curse that would have made any priest faint.
But Salem’s grip held. My body slammed against the basket’s side, bruises blooming across my ribs. Salem hauled me in with a roar, and I collapsed in a heap against the floorboards.
And just like that—
We were airborne.
The warehouse fell away beneath us, a pit of chaos and hunger, the mob screaming curses and hurling futile arrows into the dark.
Down in the ruin, I caught one last glimpse of him—the stitched man—his ruined face tilted skyward, watching us rise with that awful, patient fury, as though he were already planning how to drag us back down.
The silk canopy billowed above us, wounded but intact. The wind roared in my ears, cold and sharp, carrying with it the acrid taste of smoke and blood.
I lay there for a long moment, chest heaving, every bone trembling. Then, slowly, a laugh bubbled up my throat. A mad, exhausted laugh, wild and thin, but real nonetheless.
Because somehow, impossibly, against every law of reason and decency—
We had stolen the sky.