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”Uncle Mal!"
A flash of red, a furious, desperate grab.
The casual reference to Karuka.
The too-perfect friendship, formed straight from the still-warm ashes of Radasanth.
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Click. Click. Click. Click.
All the delicate tendrils of impossible, fibrous fate began to cross each other in a geometric web that seemed far too beautiful to be anything but meticulously planned. Of course, Storm had never recognized the name Rayse Valentino, nor connected it to his niece’s father, whom she had conspicuously referenced multiple times as “Uncle Mal”. Her mother had seen to his ignorance. Karuka had told him so little, and Rayse had told him less.
Ceasing his run, the wizard stood frozen for a moment near the base of the wall the child had just sealed, trying to piece together the impetus for this insanity. His chest heaved as he sucked in the cool air, his lungs burning and heart pounding as he tried to reconcile it all.
Rayse used you to get back to his girl. HIS girl, not yours. HIS girl, the same one Karuka had kept from him. Just like she kept you from her. Just as she let her be dragged off with this random asshole into the bowels of Corone.
Control. It was ALWAYS about control, wasn’t it?
The magician affixed himself to the notion that it was Karuka who had been the puppeteer, a notion that shook him to the foundation. It was incredible; how could he have been so thoroughly deceived? Karuka had been the only individual he had truly trusted; by extension she was the only one capable of effectively deceiving him. A lingering hiccup of doubt was all that kept abject hatred at bay. He needed answers, and it was unlikely the diminutive girl would be able to provide any. Her protector, kidnapper, or assailant would be the source of information, if there indeed was more to be gleaned.
But where in the blue f*ck is he?
The heavens answered Storm Veritas, as the crash of glass from the higher floors of the warehouse screeched a piercing, tinny echo down to him. Moments later, as if on cue, the dim silhouette of the interloper appeared thirty feet above him, peering over the edge of the edifice at the struggle below. The electromancer scrambled to find metal; anything large and ore-rich would do. The stone and mortar foundation offered little help; the chemically treated wooden ballasts of the great building appeared even less useful. Ten feet from the base of the building, a short pole spilled from the ground, rising high from the cobblestones before doubling back down, suspending a shrouded oil light. A hollow “ting” answered the tap of his dagger, confirming his suspicion that the pole may serve his trick.
He quickly jumped, pulling his body into a low crouch atop the lamppost’s arch. His weight immediately caused a creak, squeal, and sag from the thin metal, which he ignored completely as he suspended the dagger firmly an inch from the top of the metal. It was dangerous, stupid, and perfect.
Screw it. Any port in a storm.
A hard, soundless pulse was generated, the electromagnetic field sending both metal objects in opposite directions with speed, power, and reckless abandon. The streetlamp crashed to the ground as though sucked intentionally from the earth’s very core. Moving upward, the blade carried Storm Veritas in a high, wild arc, sailing toes over head as he somersaulted to the roof. His body was cast as a hard ebony shadow against the purple-pink background of the setting sun, the only light apparent within his frame popping from his pulsing white eyes. The stranger on the roof would pay him.
He would pay with answers, or he would pay with blood.