Arcane Exfil

Consciousness returned in stages – first the phantom throbbing in his shoulder, then the realization that the sunlight hitting the far wall came from directly overhead. Shit, was it afternoon?

Head was clearer than it had any right to be, though, given the doses of strange medicine the healers had given him. There was none of that post-morphine dissociative haze, no residual narcotic fog. Instead, Cole simply felt well-rested, with full awareness. Now, this part of Celdornian medicine he could get behind – none of that horror show that came with watching flesh knit itself back together.

He rubbed his eyes.

The first face he registered was a pretty one – though he still wasn’t used to how elves made ‘pretty’ look almost alien. Nice way to wake up though, even if it was well past morning. There was something familiar about her though… right, Dr. Gracer from their arrival, Elina. Must’ve taken over from Halloway after last night.

She was bent over his arm, hands aglow with soft white light. “Ah, Lieutenant Mercer, you’re awake! How do you fare?”

Cole tested his shoulder. It had a surprising range of motion. Still hurt a bit, but it was definitely more manageable compared to last night; maybe like the difference between a fresh injury and a week of proper rehab, somehow compressed into a few hours. “Like a demon tried to tear off my arm. Better than it should be, though.”

Elina smiled. “Well, most who endure the misfortune of a demon’s assault fare worse still. And though you’re hardly in a position to attempt it at present, I must insist you refrain from any strenuous magic for the next several hours. You’ve just recovered your mana; it wouldn’t do to once more succumb to exhaustion.”

“Definitely ain’t planning on it, Doc.” Cole shifted. He was gonna ask something since he was here… What was it? He’d been meaning to since they first dropped off Mack – ah! “Say, uh… any sicknesses I should watch out for? Y’know, being from somewhere completely different and all.”

Elina tilted her head. “Ah! You speak of foreign maladies. I assure you, there’s no cause for concern. I’ve not heard a story of any summoned hero suffering ill effects. Though, should you request it, I can continue to monitor you.”

“2 in the afternoon.”

Strange how the similarities kept piling. Units of measurement, from feet to pounds, and now this? Well, he’d probably get to the bottom of it one day. Cole set the thought aside and glanced at the stand beside him. The empty vial of blue liquid was probably the reason why his new organ didn’t feel fucked; why his head felt clear.

Across the room, Ethan was knocked out in his bed, clutching a pillow while mumbling something about Lizzie.

Damn. Cole had almost forgotten – not about being summoned; it was hard to forget that part – but about what it really meant. Somewhere back home, Ethan’s wife would be getting the full military widow treatment – two Class-As on the doorstep with a chaplain in tow, one of those folded flags that made everything worse, followed by carefully curated words about duty and sacrifice. As if the right combo of ‘honor’ and ‘service’ and other platitudes could fill the hole left when learning her husband would never be coming back home.

Macy would be getting the same notification, too. And Mom. And Dad. His little sister – who’d endured years of operational blackouts, clinging to stupid 3 AM meme texts just to know he was alive – would find herself back in that familiar hell. And now Macy, of all people, would join that exclusive club nobody wanted membership in: uniformed strangers at the door, shattering her world with the news about her brother.

Except he, Ethan, Miles, and Mack weren’t actually dead; they’d been saved by a miracle. Hell, Ethan was right here, alive and whole, murmuring his wife’s name while sleeping off a night of keeping demons from murdering them in their beds. Then again, ‘saved’ was probably a semantic stretch when factoring in all the bullshit they’d been through.

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And Miles? He probably had his own way of processing it all – compartmentalization; flipping the switch. Pieces of his shotgun lay scattered across a white towel, glistening clean and free from demon blood. It was a common ritual – one Cole had done himself a few times. If he just kept his hands busy, he wouldn’t have to think about shit; just the next objective after the next.

Miles fit the Delta paradigm well enough – no wife to wait for him, no kid to bring him home, only an empty apartment and the ghost of a mother’s prayers. He had his team, sure, but outside the missions? When the adrenaline faded and the silence crept in?

Some men turned to God in those moments. Miles? He hadn’t yet, but he probably should. The empty plate beside him said everything about how this was going. That kind of emptiness had an expiration date. As unsustainable as it was though, it did its job – push through one more objective, zip past another hour without facing the void. And Cole’s growling stomach did just that.

But it was Elina’s voice that truly pulled him back from the abyss. “Famished, are you?” she asked with a smile. “It was quite a night, or so I’ve heard. Sit tight; I’ll fetch something from the kitchens. Do you care for aught in particular?”

“Hmm…” Cole glanced at Miles’ empty plate. “Ay, Garrett! What’d they hook you up with?”

“Standard breakfast. Somethin’ damn close to a Waffle House All-Star: got the bacon, eggs, bread, sausages, some waffles, y’know. And you ain’t gonna believe this – they got actual miso. Like, real, legit Japanese miso.”

Cole raised an eyebrow. Given everything else he’d seen in this place, miso didn’t seem that weird. But Miles had gotten him with dumber shit before. “Deadass?”

“Deadass. Ain’t lyin’, ain’t got a reason to. See for yourself.”

“He speaks true,” Elina chimed in. “That would be Aurelia’s doing – their merchants bring such delicacies through the port often.”

Aurelia. Fotham had brought it up yesterday, some wealthy foreign empire that the Celdornians didn’t seem to like much. “How’d they even get miso?”

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“There's a rumor that one of their summoned champions introduced the recipe, perhaps a century past.”

Huh. So, summoning magic had been used before. Wasn’t much of a surprise, given how prepared the kingdom was, but it lent credence to the theory he’d been cooking up for why the whole place seemed so… Victorian.

“Alright. Guess I’ll have the ‘standard breakfast’, then. Plus the miso.”

“Very well.” Elina headed for the door.

Barely a couple minutes after she left, the infirmary door opened again. Cole looked up expecting breakfast, but instead there was Fotham hauling backpacks. Though, to label them simply ‘backpacks’ hardly did them justice. Runes traced the major seams – load-bearing points, mostly – and there were crystal slots just like their rifles had, positioned wherever those runic patterns intersected.

“Lieutenant, Sergeants.” Fotham approached the beds. “I trust you’re recovering well?”

Cole sat up in his bed, studying his face. “Getting there. Though it looks like you might need to spend a night here, too.”

“Perhaps I ought, when the castle’s been purified.” Fotham set down the rucksacks, then lowered himself into the chair between them with a slack posture, as if even sitting required effort. “We’ve uncovered two more demons playing at guards – this time posted at the western gate. Rest… Rest shall come later, should fortune deign to care for my plight.”

“Wait.” Miles stopped working on his shotgun. “Y’all went over the kitchen?”

“First place we checked.” Fotham gave what might’ve been a chuckle if he’d had more energy. “Fear not; were your food poisoned, I assure you, you’d not have made it past the first bite.”

Miles frowned. “Huh?”

“Half the castle has been scoured – the infirmary itself, along with the service floors, kitchens, and guard posts within its immediate vicinity. You’ve no cause to leave the secured zones; indeed, I should think it inconceivable. But should necessity demand otherwise, you need first pass through the nullification field checkpoint at the main entrance. I trust that is clear.”

“As day, Director.” Cole pointed at the bags. “So, what’s with those?”

“Ah, yes.” Fotham straightened slightly, picking up one of the bags. “Given recent events, it seems only fitting to equip you as befits Slayers of the Office. These packs bear enchantments – standard issue.”

Cole got out of his bed and studied the bag. Up near the top sat a familiar crystal socket – same basic setup as the rifles. Purple runes clustered thick around the straps, with more running through the back where the weight usually tried to pull on the spine. Smaller arrays circled the zippers and clasps, probably keeping things stable when loaded up. “Weight reduction, I’m guessing?”

“Precisely.” It was hard to tell if Fotham was juicing his muscles with magic when he lifted a pack with two fingers. “Though I might caution you – the runes negate the pull of gravity, but the object’s natural force remains. Much like a drifting boulder – weightless, yes, but still quite capable of smashing you flat should it gain sufficient speed.”

Cole thought of the recent Artemis videos – astronauts picking up hundred-pound equipment like it was nothing, then struggling to stop it from drifting. “Right. Don’t throw it around like it’s empty.”

Picking one up, he unzipped the main compartment. Considering how these things usually functioned, he lowkey expected some kind of mindfucking pocket dimension inside. But no – just regular organization: standard compartments, tough canvas dividers, slots stocked with vials of colored liquid, and other gear.

“That’s it?” Miles asked, looking up from his own bag. “Ain’t nothin’ else special to it?”

“Indeed. There is, of course, some modest weatherproofing and a simple protective barrier rune; hardly anything to set one’s imagination alight. Were you expecting something a touch more... spatially intriguing?”

“Yeah, actually. Figured if you could negate weight, maybe you could bend space, too.”

“Ah. Enchantments for such a thing do exist, as it happens. The royal family possesses a few – bags capable of holding far more than their size would imply. Some of our veteran Slayers carry similar equipment, as do a handful of the rather more… enterprising merchants – those whose coffers rival even the Crown’s. Frightfully costly, of course, and devilishly troublesome to maintain.”

“Artifacts, primarily.” Fotham lowered his voice a bit. “Relics from the demon-infested wastes. Ancient and, I daresay, utterly incomprehensible to the likes of us. The truly ambitious merchants – those whose coffers run deep enough – coordinate with OTAC to fund expeditions into Istrayn in hopes of unearthing them. Most of those ventures end predictably: empty-handed… or entirely absent.”

He hesitated before continuing, “Though we did recover one rather remarkable piece. A satchel that simply… Well, it rather makes a mockery of what we thought possible with spatial enchantments. But such treasures remain precisely that – treasures. These packs shall serve your immediate needs quite adequately.”

“What’s in them?” Cole pulled out a blue vial of liquid from the pack. “This one’s for mana, I’m guessing?”

Fotham nodded. “Red for healing, green for stamina. The packs also contain uniforms, field kits, writing implements, maintenance kits for your rifles, bedroll, basic medical supplies – should you lack a healer or potions – and items for daily necessities.”

“Maps?” Miles asked, grabbing his original pack.

“Indeed. Though you’ll require some instruction in our script first. As for your packs, they should afford sufficient space, should you wish to stow any of that peculiar equipment you’ve brought along.”

“All our gear made it, ‘cept what we used last night, thank Christ. Phones, NODs, IFAKs, them solar chargers…” Miles glanced at the broken AK sitting beside Cole’s borrowed AKS. “Well, most of our gear, anyway.”

Losing the AK did hurt, but not a lot. Without access to 5.45 or the ability to make more, adopting Celdorne’s weapons – and possibly upgrading them – seemed like a better play. “Eh, not that it’d be much useful outside of parts or reverse engineering. Ran dry.”

Cole picked up a small container from within the pack and opened it – neat rows of mana crystals, stored like batteries.

“Ah,” Fotham said, leaning, “you’ll seldom find need to replace them – unless, of course, you’ve designs on hoisting mountains. Even then, the drain is gradual enough to afford you ample warning.”

“What if it runs dry mid-fight? Switch to strengthening magic? Channel mana?” It sounded a bit stupid, considering it’d be far more prudent to just… swap out the crystals once they get low, but curiosity had gotten the better of Cole.

“Channel mana.” Fotham’s decisiveness was surprising. “We’ve tested this, in fact. The mana expended in either case is near equal, though channeling proves far simpler than fortifying the body – unless, of course, the body is already fortified.”

Cole nodded. “So, when’s our training start?”

“Training begins on the morrow,” Fotham replied, rubbing his eyes. “I shall send Lady Verna from my office. She is most adept at teaching the fundamentals, and has oft worked with Director Fernal’s office. As for the present…” He straightened slightly. “Once you have eaten and rested – and after Sergeant Walker wakes, Prime Minister Alrick wishes to discuss the particulars of your arrangement with the Kingdom: contracts, compensation, command structure – the necessary formalities.”

Elina returned, bringing with her a maid who pushed along a rolling cart.

“I shall leave you to your meal, then,” Fotham said, rising slowly. “Take what rest you may. Someone will come to fetch you when the Prime Minister is prepared to receive you.”