The gun was useless.
Against other types of Baylan, it'll be an ace. Against Shacklers, it's like dousing fire with oil.
With a flick of a wrist, the Shacklers resealed the hall, trapping the brothers, and making Alain's suicidal effort worthless.
Shurikens bombarded the walls and floors. Sarion and Alain skirted around them, dashing towards the Shacklers, which stood at each other's back on the centre of the room, arms and fingers twirling. But their distance didn't draw any closer as the metal floor would drag them away.
When Sarion thought he'd found a chink in their stance, three bullets firing off his revolver, only to find it rerouting towards them.
Alain remained behind Sarion, the satchels and pouches clattering as he strode. The tome flapped when he had to flee from an idle position trying to weave something that'll aid them.
They revolved around the Shacklers. Their eyes on the winding staircase they guarded; the way into the agimat sanktum, where the Amber Ring probably rests on a velvet cushion. And, a thousand lethal contraptions installed on every tile to decapitate anyone attempting a steal. Not a fact... yet.
What Sarion surmised was true, all the four doors and halls leads to one metal chamber. The heart of the Gilded Palace is a metal cylinder, probably multiple levels connected to that staircase. The freedom, the key to unlock the metal dome, steps away.
Guarded by their Baylan nemesis. Alain dared to contemplate while the metal floor came alive beneath his bare feet: Were Shacklers an attempt at means of regulating us Vanshi? He imagined the Heavens giving life to the Vanshi, and when they started absorbing the capabilities they held, abused them, then came the Shacklers.
"Why did we agree to this?" Sarion blurted, tumbling sideward to avoid another blade. Rolling over his shoulder, the gun in his hand tucked tight in a finger.
You agreed to this, you signed the blood contract. Alain thought.
"Maybe it was an ill-decision after all." Sarion fired another round, instantly ducking as it homed back, and reloaded the cylinder.
Was I thinking too loud?
Alain's confusion got the best of him. Another wave of sharp blades swarmed towards them. Sarion pulled him by the belt, down the floor. The ink-stained tome crashed a feet away from them. Along it were vials of substances probably, which were probably hazards to humans.
He immediately scrambled for it. When he heard the whistling shurikens. He rolled to the side.
Sarion covered for him, firing another round, then tumbled forward as they redirected towards them.
"Make this easy." One of the hoods said in a drawling accent.
"Give up." The other added.
"Maybe if you'd step aside, we'd be on our ways." Sarion retorted.
Alain pressed his back against his brother and opened the Shadow Tome. His hand submerged into a pond of ink.
One of them chuckled, "That is not how works in palace."
"We fail job, no money in our pockets."
A force of wind fell into the room, sending their hoods back.
The younger boy swept up the fringe off his eyes; he couldn't be surprised by what he saw.
"Morge and Misha." Sarion gritted.
Their unmistakable blond curls framed their pale faces. Both shared a scar on their faces, Morge on her cheek, and Misha on her right eye. Eyes of the calm winter sky. Twins, born into the world of mercenaries-Alain had chatted them; it was easy all he had to do was talk about war.
"But, you're the Minstrel's pets?" Sarion sounded confused.
The provisions, which The Minstrel mentioned, came from the twins. They also briefed them (scarcely) of the palace's weak crevices, which crenels they should take, and the interval of the rotation of the guards. Its maps also came from them, though they were outdated.
"For a price." Morge answered Sarion's rhetorical question.
Alain breathed, "Then..." a jinxed joy rising in him.
Sarion stood steadier, "Then the blood contract is sealed. The Minstrel shall be brought onto a pyre-"
"You forget." Misha interjected.
"Misha and Me, not in contract." Morgue followed.
"I signed upon 'and their lackeys'."
"Lackeys no more. We serve Gilded Palace now." Misha raised a hand.
Sarion grabbed Alain and dashed.
Alain knew they'd soon be cold on the floor if this goes on. The room was barren, but for its endless metal interior. No covers; no barrels, no crates, desks, beds. Nothing but metal.
And the stairs.
Something was starting to form in Alain's mind. Despite his vulnerable heels, and the metal floor he stepped upon, neither Misha nor Morgue had taken advantage of his mishap. Surely, they could probably direct those bullets right at their hearts or any vital part of them; they're as good as sitting ducks; clad in thin tunics. Something's not right, if they do serve the Gilded Palace, then... then they won't have second-thoughts bringing us to our knees.
"But why?" He asked.
"We are women." Morge announced with pride.
"Woman's time is paid." Misha held her fist over her heart.
"Not bought." Morge wagged a finger.
Alain could stand by that. On a different circumstance, that is.
"Sure a woman could spare two young agonized boys saving their village?" The words left him before he could comprehend what they meant.
Sarion shot him an incredulous glare.
Alain hissed low, "What? A turncoat is a turncoat." If they could use currency, or at the very least trick them, Alain would like the odds better.
The blades stopped assaulting them.
"How much is offer?" The girl with the scar on her cheek proffered a hand.
The younger boy groped for the right words, "Uh-u-uhm-the Amber Ring! Yes, the Amber Ring." Alain said while fervently wiping his hands on his tunic. Uncertain if it was the right one. Negotiation was never a part of his daily living. Never did he haggle in the markets. He just adores the idea of uncertain odds. Heavens, tricking someone is a feat. I might as well trick myself.
A smirk rose on the twin's lips.
"Adept thinks he's clever. But not so clever." Misha drawled teasingly.
