My Royal Road Writathon story ONI RŌKURA is up with its first chapter, and boy is it a whopping twenty-one pages. If you're interested in reading that, and getting regular chapters onh a daily basis, go follow and enjoy reading!
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Chapter Twenty-Three—A Waxing and a Waning
Debaku had to call upon all of his magical ability to stay out of the grasp of the Angor’s tendrils. These thicker ones Samira told him about, as she had put it, would take hold of him and drain him of his magic.
But he had not known they were so fast.
After escaping their sudden and coordinated strikes to either kill or capture him, Debkau had covered his aura once again, but he was not certain it made any difference, otherwise the monster would not have been able to strike at him in the first place.
The aura…
I can still feel it.
He peered at the Angor. This was not one of the nodes, but rather the central part of the monster, mountainous in size and surrounded by waving tendrils that snaked and licked about like seaweed undulating in the air.
The tendrils here whipped and flew into the sky most darkly, giving him an eerie feeling. Archaemenes was there—inside the Angor, trapped. He knew it to be so. He knew the jinni’s aura—would know his friend’s aura from anywhere.
From his relative south-west, Raz and Samira’s auras had appeared, and then quickly disappeared. Perhaps they were having a similar experience with this Angor. I must attack it.
It was not part of the plan.
But if he attacked the central part of the creature, though stronger it would be, the monster would panic, send its vines to the central part of its body to protect itself, yes?
Samira had never suggested such a thing. Perhaps she did not believe it possible. Debaku took his scimitar—the one given to him by Samira and grasped it in both of his hands.
Again he let loose his magical powers, allowing them to flow. The Angor’s tongues shook and wriggled with agitation. It’s perception for magic was acute and sensitive—a thing that most surprised Debaku.
Someone approached from behind as his body was limned with magical energy, bright, like wisps of smoke or liquid magic.
He whirled, almost striking out at the stealthy figure coming up behind him as he raised his sword.
It was Shiro.
The samurai came up short. “Debaku!” he hissed. “What are you doing?”
“I am sorry,” he breathed, almost breathlessly. “It is Archaemenes. He is here—I have to—“
“This,” Shiro said, “is not the plan.” As he said the words he cut the air with his hand, his scimitar in his other hand.
Debaku nodded, feeling a sense of guilt and sorrow come over him. But he pushed those emotions away. “I am sorry. But I had to come here. Archaemenes is inside the creature and I mean to save him.”
“Would not killing the Angor the way we planned do just that?” asked Shiro.
He shook his head, swallowed. His heart was still thrumming in his chest. It was a strange sensation. He was fearful, and yet fully alive. It made him feel more alive than he had in years. “What if he needs my help?”
“At what cost?” asked Shiro. “Do we sacrifice the plan? Put our men in danger?”
“I do not believe that is the case,” Debaku said.
They both turned when a powerful aura bloomed to the south-east. “Samira?” asked Shiro.
“I sense a great urgency,” said Debaku. “She approaches us.”
“I know—she is fast.”
There was a pause between them as they stood in silence. The Angor beyond was quite agitated, and the sounds of an approaching army doing battle in the distance was on the misty horizon, though Debaku—especially with his eyes, could see none of them.
“Shiro,” he said, feeling a sense of desperation. “I aided you when you most needed my help.”
“I know,” he said with a nod. “Thank you, my friend.”
“I call on you now to return that gesture—to help me.” He growled, not in what Debaku thought frustration, but rather with a certain sense of indecision. “I may never have another chance,” he added. “I have not found trace of Archaemenes in all the time I have searched—not in the void—and not in the physical realm. And now he is here, and he needs my help!”
The samurai gritted his teeth. “Let us… let us wait until Samira arrived. I want to know what she things, yes?”
Debaku glanced at the Angor. He wanted to attack it now, sheer its tentacles, spill its sap and kill it, cut into it, to get to Archaemenes and save him.
He swallowed, feeling like every second that passed was a lifetime of indecision, where each moment could be his friend’s last. But Shiro… He was not a completely reckless adventurer.
At least, not all the time.
He cared for the wellbeing of the army, of the Abassir Empire and the war effort—but most of all, his friends, just like Debaku.
His heart hurt it beat so hard.
Forcing himself, against his better judgment, the Black Cobra of Mar’a Thul nodded. “Very well, Shiro. We will wait.”
“Arigatou! She is almost here.”
