Mother of Midnight

Chapter 270 – Dominance

Zerathiel was stunned.

He had been forged by the Machine Father in the Aether Forge to be a weapon of perfection. A champion with every fiber of his being infused with divine energy. No mortal or construct could match his might.

And yet, here was Korriva, this animal, holding Godslayer as if it were no more than a toy.

Then a blur of movement. Korriva, the Lekine woman, with a force Zerathiel could barely comprehend, she wrenched Godslayer from his grasp, snapping it in half with a single motion and sending the pieces flying across the battlefield.

How could a mere mortal—this woman barely taller than he—manipulate such a weapon with such ease? How could she bend the impossible to her will?

Zerathiel’s wings twitched instinctively, and he stepped back, but the beast woman did not follow. She looked down at the abomination, calm, confident, every movement radiating control.

“Having trouble?” she asked, her voice sharp, measured.

“Bah, I had it completely under control,” The abomination replied, her tone cocky, unshaken.

“Oh, I’m sure. Need help?” Korriva pressed, a teasing edge in her smile.

“I wouldn’t be averse. If you would be so kind,” the abomination said, smirking.

The beast woman kicked one of the restraints, and the shimmering spell dissipated in a flash of light.

“Go help your bondmate. I’ll deal with this upstart,” she said, voice calm but carrying an edge of authority.

“He’s strong,” the abomination cautioned, pausing just a heartbeat. “Don’t underestimate him.”

“You don’t live as long as I do by underestimating your opponents. Go,” the beast woman replied, giving a small nod of encouragement.

With a roar, the abomination leapt into action, sprinting around him with blinding speed. The man made a motion to intercept, wings flaring, but before he could reach her, he slammed into an open palm.

It wasn’t her intention to kill him with this strike, but the force was undeniable. He felt the metal of his chestplate cave in, the clockwork inside crunching audibly, and the impact sent him sailing backward across the battlefield. Dust and dirt erupted around him, leaving him floundering in the air as he struggled to regain his bearings.

Zerathiel crashed into the dirt, sending a torrent of soil and gravel spraying into the air. The impact left a crater where he had landed, metal plating groaning from the force.

Before he could even recover, the beast was in front of him again, and a deafening thunderclap followed her a moment later, shaking the very air around him.

He was fast. Faster than most could perceive. Faster than sound itself.

But even with all his speed and perception, he could not track her movements. She was everywhere at once, a blur of fur and muscle.

She planted her fist squarely into his mechanical gut. This time, he had braced for it, and though the impact staggered him, he remained upright, metal plates groaning under the force.

Another strike came, and he raised his forearm to deflect it. She feinted with blinding precision, and her other foot slammed into his side, rattling his chest and sending a jolt through the intricate machinery within him. How could he even feel pain? He wasn’t designed with such vulnerabilities. Yet the sensation rippled through his systems, a discord he hadn’t accounted for.

She struck again, almost lazily, yet with lethal precision. Her claws latched onto his arm, lifting him into the air as effortlessly as one might hoist a ragdoll, before slamming him down onto the dirt with a bone-jarring impact. Dust and grit exploded around him, some of it embedding in the fine cracks of his armor.

He needed his weapon. There was no civilized way to fight this creature with bare fists. His body was meant for precision, for strikes honed by discipline and purpose—not this chaotic assault of raw power.

Desperately, he activated his aether circuits. Time slowed, reality stretching around him in the familiar blur of a high-speed assault. He was ready to counterattack with surgical precision, to regain control of the fight.

But she was already moving. Her foot slammed into his knee with brutal accuracy, and for the first time, he almost buckled under the sheer force. This time, he actually saw the strike coming, and yet, even with time itself bending around him, he could not avoid it completely. The pain—or whatever semblance of it his body registered—shot through him, a warning that this fight would not be simple.

The beast struck again, but this time he was ready. Zerathiel pivoted sharply, dodging to the side with mechanical precision, then launched himself into the air with a thunderous crack that echoed across the battlefield. The ground shivered beneath the force of his ascent.

High above, he coalesced power in his left hand, a faint glow of aether spiraling around it, while his remaining blade floated obediently, its edges humming with latent energy. What was left of it, anyway. The other half lay scattered in the dirt, a bitter reminder of his failure.

To have his weapon broken by a mere mortal—or whatever that animal truly was—was a humiliation he could scarcely stomach. Yet he pushed the thought aside. Better this than debasing himself further by grappling with her in crude, fist-to-flesh combat like a brute. He would fight on his terms, with precision and the tools of a champion.

He looked down, expecting to see her left behind on the ground.

But she wasn’t there.

“You are an interesting creature. Are you all artifice?” came a voice, smooth and cutting, from behind him.

Zerathiel snapped around midair, servos whining, and there she was—standing calmly on nothing, balanced in the open sky as if gravity bowed to her will. Her arms hung loose at her sides, her expression almost curious, as though she were studying a toy.

With flawless precision, he brought his blade down in an arc meant to split her in two. The strike was perfect. It had to be. It was perfection.

So why was he the one hurtling toward the ground?

He rotated midfall, wings spreading with a mechanical snap. The air shrieked past him as he tried to level out, servos screaming, but he wasn’t fast enough. His body slammed into the ground at an angle, dirt and stone exploding around him for the third time.

He was supposed to be the apex of champions. Beyond mortal limits. Beyond divine limits. The pinnacle of creation.

So why—why was he weaker than a champion of a mortal god?

He staggered upright just in time for boots to crash into his spine. The impact drove him into the earth, a crater blooming beneath him as the pressure built and built. If he’d had lungs, they would have burst. Instead, his clockwork frame shrieked, gears and plates cracking under the relentless force.

The abomination had been a trifle. A distraction. The Machine Father had promised no one could rival him.

No one except her.

He hated that he even considered the thought—calling upon that defective sister of his.

“After I heard what you did to my daughter, I grew wary,” the beast-woman said, pacing around his twitching form. Her tone was calm, but beneath it coiled something savage. “It seemed Praxus had broken the accord. I wanted to tear you apart for it.” She crouched slightly, her shadow stretching long across him. “Do you know what happened to her? Do you realize you were the one who killed her?”

“All… will fall… under the grace of… Praxus…” he forced out, each word ground from his strained core.

“Whether fortunate or not,” she continued, ignoring his declaration, “her mate had been pouring inordinate amounts of aether into her. That both finished her off and brought her back. If my third eldest is to be believed—and he is a clever one—this was the reason she rose again as an aetherbeast.”

Her hand closed around one of his wings. For a moment, there was only the grinding sound of straining gears—then, with a brutal wrench, she tore it free. Wires, fluid, and shattered metal spilled like gore across the ground.

He felt it. Agony spiked through him like fire racing along a circuit. Pain. Real pain. How? He wasn’t designed for this. And yet—he felt broken.

“I’m not pleased my daughter was turned into an aetherbeast,” she said, pressing her boot against his back. “She lost more than she gained. At least she isn’t too wild now. But you—oh, I’m glad you’re here.” Her voice warmed, almost delighted. “It’s a burden, ruling Serkoth. I don’t get to fight often.”

She tossed the mangled wing aside. His body screamed with imbalance, his symmetry shattered, his divine design ruined.

“How much were you told about me, construct?” she asked, tilting her head. “Did you ever wonder why I rarely step onto the battlefield myself?” A chuckle rumbled from her chest, sharp and confident. “Because I have difficulty holding back. Though I must say… I’ve been doing rather well with you.”

Holding back? his mind reeled. This was her holding back?!

That was enough. His internal circuits pulsed, and he sent the signal.

He would call her. His detestable sister. His defective sister.

“You don’t even seem to come from any of the other species…” the beast-woman mused, circling him like a predator testing her prey. Her sharp eyes raked over his frame, every gear and plate laid bare to her scrutiny. “Are you an original creation of the oh-so-high-and-mighty Praxus?”

Zerathiel’s body twitched, sparks flaring at his joints as he pushed himself up from the dirt. His voice was ragged, static tearing through every word, but the fury in it was undeniable.

“Keep… his name… out of your… mouth.”

She smiled at that—sharp and amused, but not unkind. “Touched a nerve, did I?” She tilted her head, then let her gaze drift toward the horizon as though she were speaking to herself. “Have you seen Grey Reach Pass? The gap in the mountains west of here? There was no gap two hundred years ago.”

Her eyes snapped back to him, gleaming. “I do have a history of… failing in restraint.” A low, dangerous chuckle rumbled in her chest. “I will tell you, the Bard Titan is not someone I would recommend fighting. Even someone as incredibly powerful as you.”

Zerathiel ground his hands into the dirt, forcing himself upright, his mangled frame straining to respond to her taunts.

Korriva rolled her shoulders, stretching her neck until it cracked, her confidence radiating like heat from a forge. “Okay,” she said at last, her tone shifting, steel sharpening beneath the casualness. “I think I’ve blown off enough steam to last me a few decades.”

She leaned forward slightly, boots digging into the ground, her stance shifting from relaxed to lethal in an instant. “Let’s see how well you hold up when I go all out.”

She waited, arms folded, as if she had all the time in the world. Zerathiel dragged himself upright, his frame a ruin of dents and warped plates. Golden ichor spilled from tears in his armor, dripping into the dirt like molten sunlight. His single remaining wing twitched uselessly, his balance awkward without its twin.

She looked untouched. Lounging, almost. Her casual stance only made his humiliation burn hotter.

How much longer until she arrives?

The air shifted. Crackled. It was as if the world itself drew a breath. Purple lightning crawled across her body, sparking from head to boot, wreathing her in a storm of burning ozone. The air smelled wrong, like metal and fire and ruin.

She moved.

One heartbeat she was there, the next she was in front of him, her open palm outstretched.

Then came the impact—but not against him. A detonation of air and force hurled him back, nearly toppling him where he stood.

His sister had arrived.

“Little brother, little brother, little brother,” came the singsong voice. Familiar, hated, inevitable. “So perfect, so powerful… but in the end, you need your big sister, don’t you? I’m so glad you called for me.”

Before him stood a towering figure. She was built in his likeness, but distorted—an echo made monstrous. Where he was lithe, sleek, precise, she was massive, built of thick plating and raw strength. Six mechanical wings arched from her back, each feather edged in steel. In both her colossal hands she wielded swords longer than her own frame, gleaming with barely-contained dawnfire.

Zerathiel’s heart—or what passed for one—clenched. His imperfect half, his shame, his constant reminder. And yet… his salvation.

The beast-woman tilted her head, appraising the new arrival. A smile curled her lips. “Interesting. There were two all along.”

“Oooh, you’re strong. We can play together! I don’t like toys that break easily!” Hiryllia sang, her six mechanical wings flexing in jagged harmony. “Little brother, I’ll help you, and you can run your repair protocols for a bit. Then we can all play together!”

Korriva narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “I think Praxus might have skipped a few steps when making you,” she mused aloud. Her voice was calm, almost amused. “Not all there, are you?”

Hiryllia’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide and blazing with childlike fury. “Hey! Don’t say mean things about Daddy! He did his best with me! That’s why little brother is so weak compared to me!”

Zerathiel grit his teeth. The words stung, not because they were untrue, but because they were a reminder. She was incomplete. The soul Praxus had used to forge her was damaged—fractured. She was power incarnate, but broken. An aberration.

And yet right now, she was his only chance.

He hurled himself back, one wing straining to steady him as he forced distance between himself and the beast. His body pitched awkwardly, threatening to spin, but he managed to land heavily and activate his reconstruction protocols. Plates groaned as they bent back into place, gears grinding as they re-aligned, golden ichor sealing ruptures and knitting shattered components together.

Hiryllia only laughed, her voice a gleeful, unsettling giggle that echoed across the battlefield. With the wild abandon of a child swinging a toy, she brought one of her titanic swords crashing down.

To Zerathiel’s surprise, the beast-woman didn’t evade. She raised her gauntleted arm to block, defiance plain on her face.

The blade bit deep. Metal shrieked as the edge chewed through the gauntlet and sank into flesh beneath. Blood splattered, and in the same instant, the force of the impact hurled Korriva sideways across the battlefield, her boots digging trenches in the earth before she skidded to a stop.

Hiryllia clapped her hands together once, the sound like colliding plates. “See? You’re durable! This will be fun!”

She charged, her massive frame barreling forward, both blades cleaving down in a cross meant to split the wolf-woman apart. The lekine ducked by the narrowest margin, her claws dragging sparks from the stone as she skidded away.

Zerathiel wasn’t surprised. To him, his sister had always been like this—sluggish to the eye, but not because of any flaw. She pulled the world into her rhythm, shackling everything to her own ponderous pace. He had seen mortals crumble under it time and again, their strength and speed sapped until they were nothing more than prey waiting to be crushed.

The wolf-woman was no different. She moved with the same savagery as before, but slowed, her motions dragged down as if she fought through mud. Hiryllia’s gift had taken hold.

He steadied himself, lone wing twitching as his balance shifted. He knew better than anyone—once caught in her field, there was no outrunning it. Her aura dragged everything down, reducing gods and mortals alike to her ponderous pace. To him it was nothing new, but watching others flounder under it always soured his tongue.

His reconstruction crawled forward, gears knitting, plating resealing with sluggish precision. Too slow. He urged it on, but will alone could not accelerate Praxus’ design. And time was dangerous here. His sister was strong, yes, but the beast—that thing—was no ordinary opponent. She radiated raw violence, the kind of presence that shattered armies.

Hiryllia swung again. The wolf-thing bent backwards beneath the arc, impossibly fluid, and in the same breath kicked out. The strike caught true, and his sister staggered back, her heavy frame crashing across the earth.

The beast’s laughter rumbled. “Interesting. I feel sluggish. Is it because you struck me? Poison? No… your aether. It clings. Cloying.”

Zerathiel ground his teeth. She understood it already.

Hiryllia clapped her hands, delighted, and bellowed, “I’m not fast, so it would be super unfair if everyone else was super faster! Playtime should be fair!”

She lunged forward with another gleeful swing, both blades shrieking down. This time steel bit into flesh—yet not deeply. The wolf-woman twisted with the impact, her body flowing with the strike instead of resisting it. The blades scored lines across her side but failed to cut deep.

“Of course. Well, I apologise, but I have places to be,” the beast said with casual finality.

Her claws lit with a pale, hungry glow, brighter than steel, brighter than flame. When Hiryllia’s massive blades came crashing down, he expected the usual screech of rending flesh. Instead—silence. The wolf-thing caught them as though they were no more than children’s sticks. Metal ground against her hands and went no further. The glow around her claws devoured the edge, denied it its purpose.

Zerathiel froze. A stutter went through his body as if Praxus himself had ordered stillness. Then he realized—his systems had stopped. His repairs had halted. Wounds still gaped across his frame, golden ichor leaking unchecked. His protocols could go no further.

“So this is as far as I can repair,” he muttered, voice low, almost drowned by the grinding of his own gears. The words tasted like rust and defeat.

His hand twitched, fingers opening to the void, and with a pulse of command his broken blade reformed in his grasp. Fractured, jagged, incomplete—yet still his. Still enough to kill.

He leveled his gaze at the wolf-thing, black hatred burning behind his eyes. His sister could play at games and fairness, but he had no such frivolities left.

He would kill this animal. If it was the last thing his failing body did, he would see her carcass broken at his feet.