The Rider before Arianna spun, kicking through the air. He moved with deft precision and a speed that spoke of no movement wasted. Arianna turned and ducked, the kick passing over her head. With an outstretched leg she tried to hook the heel that still supported the majority of the Dragon’s weight.
The Rider hopped, shifting weight to the foot he was previously kicking with and—in one motion—bringing up his other foot into Arianna’s face. Her nose sounded like celery snapping; Arianna thanked every stroke of luck she’d ever had for the thick cotton covering her face, hiding the blood that no doubt exploded from it. She tumbled back, twisting the dagger in her hand to a saber grip, then lunged forward again, targeting the Dragon’s chest.
A swipe of her dagger, a parry from the Dragon’s claws or a twist for Arianna’s blade to hit a shoulder, a forearm, a hand. The Rider took all forms of punishment in order to protect his heart—the one organ whose destruction would prove a fatal injury. The Rider caught one of the jabs of her blade and with a swift motion, snapped Arianna’s wrist with ease.
Arianna cried out and retreated. She switched the dagger from one hand to the other, giving the bones in her right wrist time to knit. The Dragon didn’t want to relinquish the hard-earned upper hand and continued to strike. A blow to the chest knocked the wind from Arianna, almost rendering her twist to avoid the talons closing in for her throat useless.
The hits racked up. Arianna struggled to avoid any significant blows. Punches she could take, but there were too many people around to take a hit that broke skin. As loath as she was to admit it, Arianna was outclassed. Her eyes wildly scanned the room, looking for alternative solutions, trying to formulate a plan.
A familiar explosion burst out from behind her shoulder. It was the worst thing she had ever felt. It meant Florence had joined the fight.
With a cry of rage, she ducked under the Rider’s open palmed jab. A claw caught on her shoulder, tearing through the white fabric and nicking Arianna’s skin. The Rider’s eyes widened, looking at the superficial wound that was already quickly healing itself. Arianna took the distraction as an opportunity and plunged her dagger into his heart.
Two rose colored hands closed around hers and the Dragon’s stormy blue eyes stared into Arianna’s goggles. They were open, unfiltered. The moment before death could only beget clarity.
“What are you?” the Rider rasped.
“The White Wraith.” Arianna twisted her dagger and felt the last of the Dragon’s heartbeat fade against the blade.
She pivoted. Her golden line wrapped itself around the neck of the Dragon approaching Florence in a rage, no doubt from the shot she’d just landed and which his skin was still knitting to repair. Arianna pulled her hands back, yanking on the line. Her magic did the majority of the work, but the physical movement was instinctual, like a mother wolf defending its pup. She wanted to feel the tension in the line, the closing of the loop around the Dragon’s neck.
The refined steel cabling was nearly unbreakable, and though the Rider clawed at his skin, seeking purchase on the slowly tightening tether, it was futile. She felt his magic pulse against the line; it shuddered, the tempered gold refusing his command. Arianna pushed her magic a little further, dredging it up from her toes and drawing it out through her hands. The loop closed, decapitating the Rider cleanly.
With a flick of her wrist, the dagger at the end of her cable twisted and reared back, stabbing into the Dragon’s heart for good measure. Severing the head from the body was good enough to merit a kill, but anyone who attacked Florence earned death twice over.
Florence missed no opportunity. Arianna wanted to be proud, but the girl was worrying her half to death with this sudden bout of recklessness. It reminded Arianna of herself in the worst of ways. Flor popped open the hinge of her revolver and decided on a new canister with expert ease. She was a Rivet through and through, no matter what was tattooed on her cheek.
Arianna had found the best teachers for her, and it showed. Despite having never been in a fight, Florence moved with the precision of a trained Revo. She kept only one revolver chamber loaded at all times so she could hand select each canister based on the changing needs of the conflict.
Tracking the muzzle of the gun over the Rider that was still engaged with Cvareh, Florence planted her feet and pulled the trigger. It was a smaller version of the canister she’d given Arianna on her mission at the refinery—small enough that it required no extra magic besides what Arianna had stored in the gun with a flare of Alchemical runes. A beam of pure magic shot straight and true, punching a hole through the shoulder of the Rider that loomed over a bloody Cvareh.
She stumbled, dazed. Arianna knew that look: glazed, dull eyes sent reeling from a sudden surge of foreign magic. She’d inflicted it on enough people to know it well and had seen it in Cvareh’s eyes when he’d imbibed from her.