Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

Lancet extended his hand toward the mountain and summoned Kestrel.

The air in front of him twisted as the twin snake dragons curled around each other before bursting into shards of emerald light. When the shards scattered into the wind, Kestrel Highcastle stood in the center.

Her emerald eyes briskly swept the landscape around her — she was always on alert. The mountain land stretched out in pointy stone and steep ridges, all cold light and distant storm.

Finally, her gaze moved to Lancet, who opened his arms a little as if presenting the whole place to her.

”Tada!” he said.

Her face remained perfectly flat. Then she looked back up at the mountain.

”This is the one you chose?” she asked.

”Yeah.” Lancet nodded, then frowned at the way she was looking at it. ”What’s wrong? Don’t tell me it’s not tall enough.”

Kestrel gave him a dry look so sharp it could have been a blade all by itself. ”That is not what I was thinking.”

”Oh?”

She turned from the mountain long enough to face him properly, and now there was a faint trace of approval under the usual severity in her expression. ”I expected you to choose deceptively. A lesser path. Something that looked difficult but was not.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction. ”You chose well. I am impressed.”

He’d earned a little respect from her.

Lancet let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. ”I’m serious about this training,” he said. ”I can’t go into it halfway.”

That earned him another long, measuring look. Kestrel said nothing at first, and in that silence Lancet had the uncomfortable feeling that she was not merely studying the mountain but comparing him to it.

The wind moved over the stone around them with a cold, thin whistle, tugging at the ends of her braids and the hem of her gown.

Finally she spoke again. ”I saw the others,” she said.

Lancet blinked. ”The others?”

”In your Summon Space.”

That made him pause. ”Oh.”

She folded her arms under breasts and continued in the same calm tone. ”You summoned Astensia Valengard and Thor Stormchild.

”You must be a rather powerful Summoner.”

He gave a small, awkward laugh. ”I don’t know about that.”

”But why are you so determined to fight at all?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious now.

Lancet looked up at the mountain, then back at her, and answered honestly. ”I wonder the same thing sometimes.”

She lifted a brow.

Then he went on, because once he started saying it, it came out more easily than he expected. ”I like to think my Summons aren’t just tools. They’re people. I’m bringing them back so they can have a chance to live again, to do things they never got to finish before.”

He glanced toward the mountain, then back to her. ”I’m not super powerful right now. But when I am, and when I’ve got a lot more Grace in me, I want them out in the world doing whatever they want. Not stuck because of me. Just... free.”

Kestrel watched him for a long time after that. Her expression changed only slightly, but Lancet could see the effect of his words land.

”There is some part of you that is noble,” she said at last.

Lancet relaxed a little before she immediately narrowed her eyes again.

”Then again,” she added, ”you also summoned the Demoness, Spectra Hexarra.”

His eyes widened. ’Oh yeah! I remember now. Two of them were born in the Era of Rebirth. If Kestrel doesn’t know Spectra, then she must know of her. I almost forgot.’

Lancet cleared his throat. ”I just needed her help,” he said sheepishly, then tried to recover with a strain grin. ”But I don’t think she’s all evil, you know. People can change. That’s something I intend to prove.”

Kestrel looked at him for another moment, the wind tugging lightly at the loose ends of her braids. Then she turned her head toward the mountain again and said, as if the conversation had reached its natural end, ”Begin your ascent.”

Lancet nodded once, then looked up at the cliff face.

It seemed taller now.

A lot taller.

He swallowed and forced a nervous laugh. ”Hey,” he asked, turning back toward her, ”do you think I might die?”

Kestrel didn’t even hesitate. ”Yes.”

Lancet stared at her.

Then he let out a breath through his nose. ”Good to know.”

She gave him a flat look, then unfolded her arms and stood with the calm posture of someone preparing to watch a very predictable accident from a comfortable distance.

Lancet adjusted his stance, rolled his shoulders once, and moved to the lowest end of the mountain where the rock was rougher and easier to grip. He planted his fingertips into a small ledge, found the next one with his other hand, and began climbing.

”Alright Lancet,” he spoke to himself. ”You can do this. It’s like riding a bike.”

The stone bit coldly into his skin almost immediately. The mountain did not care about his confidence or that he had fought demons and killed a Head.

The only thing it offered was jagged rock, thin footholds, and wind sharp enough to make every breath feel as though he had to earn it.

Lancet hauled himself upward inch by inch, shoulders tightening, forearms straining, boots scraping for purchase on narrow cracks in the cliff. The first few feet were simple enough, but the higher he climbed, the more the incline turned cruel.

The cold got into his fingers first.

Then his wrists.

Then his legs, which began to tremble each time he tried to shift his weight to the next hold. A sharp gust tore across the mountain face and shoved against him hard enough to make his body sway away from the rock. He gritted his teeth and drove his elbow into the stone, anchoring himself with a rough, ugly breath that burned in his chest.

”Okay,” he muttered to himself. ”Okay. Fine. We’re doing this.”

He climbed another few feet, then another. A loose shard of stone slipped out from under his boot and dropped away into the gray void beneath him, and for one second his stomach lurched so hard it nearly undid his grip.

”Shit!” He flattened himself against the rock face and breathed through the panic, fingers digging deeper into the rough ledge until the shaking in his hands slowed enough for him to move again.

”Don’t be dramatic,” he told himself under his breath, though the words came out a little strained. ”It’s just a mountain.”

The wind immediately answered by slamming colder air into his face.

Lancet grimaced and kept going.

Halfway up, his arms were already burning. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled apart one joint at a time, and the mountain had become a maze of tiny ledges that seemed to shift whenever he trusted them too much.

He had to search for each hold before moving, press his weight carefully, and keep one eye on where his balance was going even while the other kept tracking the next ledge. A few times his hand slipped, and each time his heart jumped into his throat before he caught himself just in time, fingers clamped white-knuckled around the stone as he hung there for a breath, swaying in the storm wind.

”Stay calm,” he hissed to himself. ”Stay calm, stay calm—”

Then he remembered Kestrel was down below.

”What is the point of this anyway?” he yelled down at her, the wind carrying his voice. ”What does climbing a mountain have anything to do with swordsmanship?”

Kestrel did not even raise her voice. ”Better conserve your energy.”

He blinked. ”What?”

He looked up and his stomach dropped instantly.

Kestrel was no longer standing where he had left her.

She was on top of the mountain!

Her arms were folded, posture relaxed, her silhouette barely disturbed by the biting wind that was trying to tear him off the mountain.

Lancet stared upward in disbelief. ”What the— she’s already up there?”

He looked back at the rock, then up again, then reached for another hold in a burst of hastier determination.

His fingers found a crag just a little too loose.

”Shit!”

His boot slid.

”Fuck!”

The next instant his leg kicked out from under him and the world pitched sideways in a violent rush of wind and stone. Lancet’s grip tore free with a sharp scream of effort, and then he was falling, the mountain face spinning past him as the cold air ripped the breath out of his lungs.

”Shitfuck—!”

His shoulder slammed against the rock, his other hand clawed desperately for anything to catch, and for one terrifying heartbeat there was only the sensation of slipping, dropping, and the unmistakable certainty that gravity had just become his worst enemy.