Dragan had never fought with a knife before -- intended for throwing or otherwise -- but, as he understood it, the general principle was fairly simple to grasp. Hit the thing you want to die with the sharp side.

He slashed, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder.

The spectre bent backwards, as if playing limbo, and the knife sailed over it. Before it could retaliate with its own cruel blade, however, Ruth was upon it -- the blurred barrage of her claws forcing the enemy to focus on defending itself rather than countering.

A smirk played across Dragan's lips as the spectre focused its efforts on Ruth. The enemy was distracted, had its back to him -- there were no better conditions for Dragan Hadrien to fight in.

Blue Aether poured through his leg as he slammed it into the spectre's back, and he swore he heard a choking sound from behind that bone mask as his kick made impact. The sapphire eyes of the creature flicked to look over at Dragan -- and in that moment, Ruth stabbed towards its skull with her claws. In any other situation, that would have been the lethal blow, but this was a world that did not make sense.

The spectre vanished.

Instantly, Dragan and Ruth whirled around and jumped towards each other, landing back to back as they watched the surrounding area. This spectre obviously had the ability to appear and reappear -- that was how it had dropped Ruth off the building the first time.

How was it doing it, though? From what Dragan understood of Aether, it was almost like the spectre was recording its own body, and then somehow continuing to manipulate the Aether while it was inside it. Was that even possible, though?

Well, clearly it is, if it's doing it, the Archivist snarked from a far-off corner of his mind. Food for thought, maybe?

He had no time to consider the intricacies of the ability -- all he had time to worry about was how the spectre was going to use it. Any attack would come with barely a second of warning. Dragan had to be ready to move in any direction the instant it became necessary.

Ruth clicked her tongue, eyes flicking around the rooftop. "Think it made a run for it?" she asked, voice low.

Dragan shook his head. "Not a chance."

"We might still be able to. If --"

The spectre reappeared, right above and behind Ruth -- and in a flash of movement so fast that Dragan didn't even have time to think, it wrapped it's arms around her waist and began flying up at horrifying speeds, taking her with it into the sky.

Dragan could only watch, mouth open, as the two of them punctured the clouds.

"Two paths lie before you!" the enemy shouted, barely audible over the sound of rushing wind. "A path of blue, and a path of red!"

Ruth did her best to lift her arms, to cut apart the thing grabbing her, but the air pressure forced her hands down -- besides, at this altitude, destroying the spectre would mean a lengthy fall for her.

They were inside a kingdom of clouds above the city, the only building visible in the white landscape being the very tip of Coren's central monastery. On one side, she could see the moon sinking over the horizon -- on the other, the blue sun slowly rose up.

If she fell from this height, even the Noblesse Set wouldn't be enough to save her -- once it sent her flying back up, she'd only go through an identical fall. There had to be another way out of this.

"To take the path of blue is to rise until air is but a distant dream, and thus to choke on empty lungs!" the spectre roared, fury and frustration leaking from every syllable. "To take the path of red is to return to the earth below, and to become a smear of viscera and regret!"

Ruth's eyes flicked down to look at the clouds below. It was funny -- she couldn't actually see a way out of this. Was this how she went: dropped like a brick by an opponent she didn't even know the name of?

No. She'd make it a spectacle, at the very least.

"What's your name?" she whispered, voice almost swallowed by the wind. Still, the spectre heard her, and responded.

"Aka Manto," it said. "I am the one who stands atop history. Blue, or red? Which path will you walk?"

Blue or red, huh? It all came down to that? Ruth's answer rose to her lips.

"Fuck you, Aka Manto. I'll make my own path." And without another word, she moved like lightning.

A corona of red Aether spread out as Ruth broke the spectres grip on her -- and in the moment before she fell, she whirled around and slashed her enemy with all the speed and power her claws could muster. The spectre screamed out in pain, and copious red blood flew off into the night, the vertical wound Ruth had inflicted up the creature's torso gushing generously.

And with that --

-- she fell.

A star fell to the earth that night.

Dragan could do nothing but watch as what he knew was Ruth Blaine broke through the cloud layer -- an Aether-red shooting star falling back to the ground at terrible speed.

She would die. Dragan knew that the second he saw her. Falling at that speed, with that velocity, she would die. Her skills and her Aether would not be enough to save her -- not even close.

In a few seconds, if things carried on like this, she would be dead.

The world slowed down. Seconds became minutes.

"What're you thinking?" the Archivist asked, sitting on the edge of the roof, his legs swinging like a child.

"What do you mean?" Dragan mumbled, his eyes still fixed on Ruth's slowly descending form.

"Don't play coy, dickhead," the Archivist frowned. "I'm your thought process. If I'm here, that means you're thinking about something. What is it?"

Indeed, off in the distance, Dragan could see signs of his Archive infiltrating the waking world. Stark-white mixtures between towers and bookshelves rose up past the city, silhouetted by ever-present fog. Even the colour of the tiles beneath his feet was beginning to peel away like old wallpaper.

As his Archive slowly came into being, the vague idea in Dragan's head too began to coalesce into a plan.

"Gemini Shotgun," he muttered.

His Archivist nodded -- it would almost seem encouraging, if not for the mocking smile on his lips. "What about it?" he prompted, voice snide. "Tell me about Gemini Shotgun."

"It records projectiles headed towards me and then manifests them, with my own Aether infused for an extra boost."

"How very impressive," the Archivist chuckled. "So you're going to shoot Ruth out of the sky and spare her the pain of hitting the ground? That sounds like something you'd do, I'll give you that."

Dragan shook his head, but he already knew there was no need to. The Archivist wasn't even a real being -- there was no way for him to misinterpret what Dragan was thinking. All the brat represented, right now, was doubt.

"At the speed Ruth's moving," Dragan said. "And the direction -- technically, technically, she could be considered a projectile. Right?" He glanced towards the Archivist. "That could work, right? I could record her and then just put her down again?"

The Archivist rubbed his chin. "You're the one who trained your mind to specifically catch projectiles in your Aether. If you can convince yourself Ruth Blaine is a projectile, I don't see any reason why it wouldn't work."

So there was a chance, then. That was all Dragan needed.

"Still," the Archivist grinned wickedly. "Don't you think--"

Dragan began running forwards, and all signs of his Archive vanished in an instant. Colour returned to the world.

Ruth was a bullet. He had to believe that, utterly believe it. Ruth was a bullet. Ruth was a bullet fired from the sky. Therefore, there was nothing unusual about him catching her with his Gemini Shotgun.

A bullet was made of matter. Ruth was made of matter. The form that matter took was irrelevant. If someone fired a bullet of bone at Dragan, he'd be able to catch it, so this was no different. The only difference was the size. There were no other concerns.

It was natural for him to be able to catch this bullet, after all.

Ruth plummeted to the ground in front of Dragan and -- in the very last possible second -- vanished in a spark of blue Aether.

For a moment, Dragan only stared at the empty space in front of him, hardly daring to believe he'd actually done it -- and then his Aether flared around him, burning at his skin and forcing him to his knees. Chaotic blue sparks raged around his body.

He'd gone beyond his capabilities. The biggest thing he'd caught before this had been a throwing knife -- the bullet called Ruth Blaine was way beyond that. It was the difference between lifting dumbbells and lifting a house.

Dragan could hear his bones creaking inside his own body. Was this what they called an Aether burn, then? If he carried on like this, something inside his body would snap in the next few seconds. Something vital.

With a roar of exertion, and the last reserves of energy he had, Dragan released Ruth from his Gemini Shotgun -- she was still falling with some speed, but just slowly enough that her Aether was able to defend against the damage. The second Dragan saw that she was still breathing, he collapsed forward, unable to so much as lift his arms to keep himself from falling on his face.

He felt her arms lift him up, supporting the back of his neck to raise him into a sitting position. Ruth's face was pale -- no doubt she'd thought that her life was going to end. Yes, definitely -- he could feel the hands holding him shaking slightly.

Oh, shut up, he told himself. Stop thinking. Stop noticing stuff. I'm way too tired.

"The hell did you do?!" Ruth cried out, shocked. "W-Was that you?! It was like… it was like I was nowhere -- no, no, I was still here, but it was just me, and I couldn't move or anything…"

The mind played funny tricks when you were made out of Aether, it seemed. Dragan chuckled and instantly regretted it as his throat burned.

"Used my Aether…" he choked out, and as they left his throat he knew these would be the last words he'd be saying for a while. "Caught you. Gemini Shotgun. We need to go."

"Huh?!" Ruth was understandably still disoriented, but there was no time for that. That thing would be coming back if they gave it the chance.

"We need to get out of here," Dragan mouthed, his vocal cords spent -- and this time it seemed to register with Ruth.

With a shaky nod, she pulled him up onto her back, his arms linked around her neck. Aether flaring around her legs, she began running -- and the wind began to buffet against his face.

He didn't much care about that, though -- he was already long unconscious.

Asleep, slouched in her chair, the Good Lady seemed as vulnerable as any child. To the unwary assassin, she would seem an easy target -- but her Guardian Entity was never far away, space permitting.

That was the only reason Prester Garth kept his voice down. No matter how disastrous the circumstances, no matter what fury boiled in his heart, he could not lose his composure. Losing your composure was the immediate prologue to losing your objective.

He permitted himself only the smallest growl as he addressed his own Guardian Entity, floating serenely in the air before him.

"This is very disappointing."

Aka Manto bowed theatrically, it's cloak swishing through the air as it did so. "Yes," it said, with a voice like grinding stone. "I understand. They were formidable opponents. I was outmatched."

Garth sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he turned back to gaze over the city. Things were peaceful now, but in the corner of his mind's eye he could see the fires of the war that he knew had been waged outside. Those flames were presumptuous -- if they were allowed to even see the peace that had been built here, they would engulf it.

He would not allow that. He had a duty of protection.

"Go," he finally said to his Guardian Entity. "Leave the city, find Nael. Tell him I will be supporting his hunt for the rebels from this day forward. I will spare no expense."

Aka Manto nodded. "Yes, my lord." And a second later, it was gone.

Garth stared at the red-and-blue godsblood Aka Manto had left behind as it faded away. The Guardian Entity that had been passed down to him was capable of moving at a far greater range and with much more independence than it’s brethren, but at the end of the day it was still a mere Guardian Entity -- more of a mechanism than a lifeform. It was locked into simple, repetitive behaviours, and ruled over humans through power rather than wit.

He’d always thought himself above such means, but...

Garth sighed, cracking his knuckles. Violence was a primitive and lamentable art, and he did his best not to indulge it, but lies were the territory of man, and the source of man’s happiness. His gaze drifted back to the gently sleeping Good Lady, to the gently sleeping city past her. Within a few hours, it would be time for the city to wake. Time for merchants to open their stalls, time for children to run to school, time for life to proceed in all its glory.

They’d stolen this peace from the jaws of the Blindman himself -- and that made it fragile, bolstered only by kind and well-intentioned falsehood. Bolstered only by beautiful lies.

If the only way to maintain those beautiful lies was with the blood of truthtellers, then so be it.