I Only Summon Villainesses

And it seemed that the bird had figured out that much too.

It screamed. The first sound it had made, a raw tearing shriek that came from everywhere at once and set my teeth on edge. And then it stopped playing. It came apart. Not literally. It scattered.

Dozens of black-crimson feathers burst outward from wherever it hung, spinning down through the frozen air, each one edged and humming with a sick corrupted light, and the world in front of me turned into a storm of little falling knives.

I couldn’t see. That was the point of it. Vision gone to whirling black, every feather a cut and a distraction both, and somewhere inside the storm the real strike was coming, the beak, the killing line, hidden in the noise. Old me would’ve swung blind. Old me would’ve panicked, which was exactly the meal it wanted.

Instead I stopped looking for the bird.

I looked for the one wrong thing in the pattern. The single line among all the drifting ones that wasn’t drifting. That was climbing, purposeful, aimed. There. Coming in low and left under the cover of its own feathers, straight for my open shoulder.

I brought Wren up and met it.

The impact rang up my arms and nearly took me off my feet, beak against steel, the creature’s full falling weight behind it. For one frozen second we were face to face. The skeletal crimson mask fused over its skull, the veins beneath it pulsing that awful light, close enough that I could smell the rot coming off it. And right then, before it could tear free and vanish back into the dark where I’d never find it again, I gave it something to remember me by.

White flame licked up the blade and jumped the gap. It caught on the mask, in the feathers, a pale clinging fire that didn’t burn hot so much as mark, a hunter’s brand, the kind that doesn’t let go and doesn’t let you hide. The thing shrieked again and wrenched itself away, back up into the black, feathers scattering off it as it climbed.

But now it was burning. A single spot of cold white light, rising into the nothing where there had been nothing to see.

”Brunhilde,” I said. ”It’s lit. You’ve got eyes on it now.”

She was already moving.

She pulled the greatsword up out of the stone in one clean arc, and the whole frozen field seemed to lean toward her as she did it. When she spoke, her voice had lost every trace of the wry older woman who’d combed my hair in the cave. It was flat and vast and old, a judge reading a verdict already decided.

”Spear of the Frozen Heavens.”

The sky answered.

They came down out of the dark by the dozen, lances of crystalline ice longer than I was tall, each one wreathed in a clean sacred light that made the bird’s corrupted glow look like the sickness it was. They didn’t fall where the bird was.

They fell where the white flame was, because I’d told them where to look. A converging cage of holy frost hunting a single burning point, and against a thing made of corruption the holiness bit twice as deep.

The night lit up. I heard the shriek climb into something that wasn’t rage anymore. Wings folded, opened, folded, the bird twisting through gaps that kept closing, and for the first time it was the one running out of room.

But it was still fast. Faster than the spears, barely, threading them, and I watched it start to pull clear toward the open dark where speed would save it like speed always had.

’Not this time.’

”Absolute Zero Domain.”

The cold reached it.

I felt the exact moment the field caught up with the bird, because everything caught up with it at once. Its next wingbeat came late. The one after came later. The impossible speed that had made an idiot of a continental-grade winter goddess simply... ran down, like a clock in a freezing room, every motion arriving a half-second behind where it wanted to be.

Ice climbed out of the frozen air in reaching arms and closed around one wing, then the other, dragging it down out of the sky it had never once left, screaming, into the white.

It hit the stone in front of us.

And I remembered the one line from Brunhilde’s telling that she’d said almost as an afterthought.

’Hollow bones.’

Built light to fly fast. Which made them exactly as strong as anything else built light.

Brunhilde walked toward it across her frozen field, unhurried, a season that had finally been given the time it needed, and she raised the colossal blade over the thrashing, grounded, ice-caged thing that had beaten her once.

”You made me hurry,” she told it. ”I don’t do well hurried.”

She brought the sword down.

I looked away, honestly, right at the end. Not out of squeamishness. It was just that the crack of it, the specific brittle sound of a hollow-boned thing meeting the full weight of a winter that had finally arrived on schedule, was the kind of sound you feel in your fillings. And I’d had a long day.

When I looked back there was a fan of black-crimson feathers scattered across the ice, going grey as the corrupted light drained out of them, and Brunhilde standing over it with frost sighing off her shoulders and no expression at all.

[You have slain a level 7, Profane Beast. The Hollow Raven]

[You have received Dark Mantle]

For a moment neither of us said anything.

”So,” I managed, pressing my hand back over my leaking shoulder. ”Turns out you’re good at your job.”

”I am aware.”

”You could’ve led with ’I lose to fast things unless someone slows them down for me.’ Would’ve saved us a conversation.”

She looked at me. Something in that cold face thawed by a single degree, which on Brunhilde was practically a hug.

”You didn’t panic,” she said. It wasn’t quite a question. ”Not once. Not even when it opened your shoulder. I have watched trained knights fall apart faster than that.”

”Yeah, well.” I gave the dead feathers a nudge with my boot. ”It really wanted me scared. Felt rude to give it what it wanted.”

You also cried about a splinter while sleeping, Wren said helpfully. Extensively.

’That was a big splinter.’

Brunhilde didn’t smile. But the corner of her mouth twitched, and she turned toward the ridge of leaning spires, toward the hollow beneath the roots of the stone where she’d hidden the woman who used to hold her.

”Come, let’s find Ilse first, then we can think about your shoulder...”

”Frankly, I should be your priority, Brunhilde. I won’t take that.”

She paused and looked at me.

”Please.”

The word caught me by surprise, so I silently followed her across the ice, and I only half-noticed, as we went, that the quiet had come back down over the layer.

The wrong kind.

Because up in the black overhead, where there was nothing at all to drop them, a single feather had begun to fall.

Then another.

’...Oh, come on.’