Avatar: The Legend of the Three Heroes

by Milisa_0

Summary:

Avatar Korra became the one who started a new cycle of Avatars and opened a portal between two worlds. After her death, the Avatars changed from generation to generation. But what if one day the Avatar doesn't come to save the world from a war between worlds? What if three sixteen-year-olds were to bring back the Avatar and world peace?

(Please excuse me, I'm not from America, so use a translator, don't judge me harshly, please)

Chapter 1: Book 1 "Earth"; Chapter 1:The beginning of all beginnings

Once upon a time, an Avatar named Korra broke the connection with Raava's past incarnations and started a new cycle of Avatars. Korra was the first to open a portal between the human and spirit worlds. Since then, much has happened and changed... But sooner or later, the balance is lost, and the world awaits the next Avatar. However, what if the Avatar... is never found?

The morning light that filtered through the clouds of dust over Ba Sing Se was dim and cheerless. It wasn't that the sun was shining less brightly, but rather that the city had learned to ignore it. It was consumed by its own rhythm, the rumble of cars on the new pavements, and the quiet, persistent hum of anxiety that had been in the air for the past few years.

Chris Dreamurr walked through the Lower Ring Market, carrying a bundle of fresh bread. He was sixteen years old, and he knew every stone of the road. The familiar faces of the salespeople nodded at him, and their eyes held the same familiar question.

"Chris, son!" called Mrs. Chen, who was arranging bundles of dried sealskin on the counter. "Have you heard from your brother? How is our Azriel doing with the nomads?"

"Not yet, Aunt Chen," Chris replied politely, trying to keep his voice steady. "But in his last letter, he wrote that he was learning to control the air currents in the highlands."

"Oh, what a talented young man!" — the saleswoman shook her head, and her gaze involuntarily slid over Chris's hands, over his usual, unmarked clothes. The look quickly, almost guiltily, recoiled. — well... Give my regards to Toriel. Let him come in, new tea has been brought from the Republican city.

"A talented guy." Chris had heard this phrase since the day his older brother, Azriel, accidentally stirred up a whirlwind of pillow feathers in the room when he was seven years old. In their family of monsters, where magic was as natural as breathing, Azriel was a source of pride. And Chris... Chris was Chris. Quiet. Observant. Human.

He wasn't abandoned. Never. Toriel, his foster mother, with her warm, furry hands and purring voice, would ask him every evening how his day had been. She would stroke his head when he stayed up late reading. But there was a special, distant sadness in her eyes when she looked at the portrait of Azriel above the fireplace. A sadness for something that was clear. For the magic that lived within her own son. Chris wasn't jealous. He understood. He was just different. Different in a world where "different" often meant "superfluous."

He turned down the alley leading to their house when his gaze caught movement against the wall. Not rats—shadows. A long, elongated shadow from a drainpipe suddenly twitched, separating from its owner and writhing across the stone in the opposite direction. Chris froze. It wasn't the first time he had seen this. In recent months, small anomalies have become part of the landscape: a pebble rolling up a slope, a puddle suddenly freezing in the middle of summer, a whisper from an empty well.

People said that the spirits were "playing around." Without the Avatar, who had served as a bridge and judge for centuries, they had become restless, easily offended, and unpredictable. A Wind spirit might take offense at a laundry line and cause a hurricane in the neighborhood. An Earth spirit might become angry at a new construction project and cause a crack in the foundation. They were bored. They were lonely. And they didn't know how else to remind the world that had forgotten to listen to them.

The shadow by the drain stopped for a moment, as if it could feel his eyes on it. Then it disappeared. Chris sighed and continued on his way.

At home, the air smelled of cinnamon and warm dough.
"Chris, is that you?" – Toriel's voice came from the kitchen. "Come and help me knead the dough, it's being stubborn today."
As Chris entered the kitchen, he saw a wooden spoon for mixing dough jump out of a bowl on its own and plop to the floor. Toriel was looking at it not with fear, but with tired annoyance.
"Again. It's been like this all day. Either a cup will move on its own, or a curtain will flap like a sail. The spirits are in a bad mood today."
"Maybe it's just the wind?" Chris suggested uncertainly, raising his spoon.
Toriel looked at him with infinite tenderness and sadness.
"Oh, honey. If it was just the wind..." She took his chin in her hand and gently lifted it. "How's your day? Did old Chen ask about Azriel again?"
"Yea"
"Don't pay any attention. She's kind, but her thoughts run along the same tracks as a train to Republican City. Will you tell me something interesting from your books over dinner?"
Her support was a warm cloak that still left him chilled. It was a shield against the world, but not against his own thoughts.
That evening, as Toriel dozed by the fireplace, Chris went up to his room. He pulled an old notebook out from under his bed. These weren't diary entries. These were notes. Observations. "The 3rd day of the Dragon month: the spirit in the fountain in Lotus-Eater Square did not spray above the knee today. Old Man Li threw a coin into the water and asked for good luck. The spirit spat the coin back in his face. Li left upset. The spirit then laughed for an hour like ripples on the water." "Day 10: The shadows at Ping's butcher shop repeat the movements of the customers, but with a delay of three seconds. They seem to be learning."

He studied them. I was trying to understand the logic. The books talked about great spirits — about the Mother-Swell, about the Old Man-Stone, about the Lord of the Sky. But there were others here in the city. Small, moody, lonely. How is he.

He had just closed the notebook when he heard the first scream. It was sharp, full of real, animal terror. Then another one. Chris ran to the window.

Outside, in the light of a streetlamp, a figure was thrashing about. It was the baker, Feng, a jovial, portly man. But now he was beating his hands against his own body, against his broad shadow, which refused to obey him. The shadow was living its own life: it wrapped around his legs, trying to trip him, and lashed his cheeks with dark, cold tendrils. Feng was screaming, and people were gathering around with torches and sticks, shouting at the spirit, threatening it, and begging it.

It wasn't a prank anymore. It was an attack.
Chris's heart started racing. He could see a pattern. The Mocking Spirit (he had already given it a name in his mind) didn't choose random people. It chose those who were particularly angry or depressed in recent days. Feng had just had a fight with a flour supplier and had been grumbling all day. The spirit fed on this negative energy and then... it had fun.

Chris grabbed his jacket and ran outside without hesitation. He didn't know what he would do. He didn't have any magic. But he did have observations. And a sudden, intense determination to put an end to it. At least for one baker.

He didn't know that on the same night, across the neighborhood, a girl named Susie had run away from her forge, breaking another anvil in a fit of rage. And on the deserted road to the city gates, a young nomad was walking with a staff on which bells tinkled softly, and his eyes were filled with anxiety. He was searching for something very important. Or very dangerous. Or both.

The great Ba Sing Se held his breath. And the balance continued to swing like a pendulum over an abyss.

***

Chris stood in the shadows of the alley, watching. His fingers nervously fiddled with the rough fabric of his jacket, but his mind worked with a cold, almost mechanical precision. He saw not just chaos, but a pattern, a dance with strict, albeit insane, rules.

The Mocking Spirit was like a huge, spreading shadow on the ground, capable of condensing into tentacles, faces, and hands. It did not touch the old man Lo, who was sitting quietly on the porch, humming an old song. However, it fiercely attacked a young merchant who had been loudly arguing with his wife an hour earlier. The Spirit wrapped itself around him, tickling him with icy touches, causing him to writhe in hysterics. The conclusion was that it fed on negativity, fresh and loud. He also avoided the burning braziers near the kebab shop. The flames? A possible weakness.

Chris acted almost automatically. He jumped out of hiding, ran up to a man shaking with fear, who was clutching, but not lighting, a pitch torch.
"Give it to me" his voice sounded unexpectedly firm.
The man, without thinking, shoved the torch at him. Chris struck it against a stone wall. Shhh, shhh! A tongue of flame lit up his concentrated face.

He stepped forward to meet the spirit, holding the torch out in front of him like a sword.
The shadow that had been playing with the merchant jerked as if it had been struck. It recoiled, cowering. For a moment, there was a hint of fear in its shapeless form. A whisper of hope passed through the crowd.

And then the spirit laughed. The sound was like the creaking of rusted hinges and breaking glass. It did not attack the flames. Instead, it retreated. Dark tentacles, thin as smoke, slipped out from under the merchant's shadow and wrapped around Chris's ankles. An icy burn pierced his skin through the fabric. Chris gasped in surprise and pain, and his legs buckled. He fell heavily to one knee, but he held up his hand with the crackling torch, away from the shadow. He wouldn't let it be extinguished!

"Hold him! Fire!" someone in the crowd shouted. Several men with sticks and burning brands rushed forward, distracting the spirit. The shadow hissed and retreated from Chris, amusing itself with the new game of dodging blows.

Chris limped to his feet. His legs burned with cold. He saw the spirit wriggle away into the dark gap between two dilapidated buildings, towards the most remote slums of the Lower Ring. Instinct, sharp and inexplicable, screamed at him not to let it go, not to let it escape.

He took a step forward. And in that moment, the space in front of him flared up.

A ball of fire, white-hot, roared past his face, scorching his eyelashes. The air snapped shut like a blow. The ball crashed into the wall just where the shadow had flashed, showering the stones with a burst of sparks. The spirit, already almost gone, materialized for a moment, taking on a clear, grotesque form on the wall—a comedy mask from an old theater, with a huge, mocking smile. The mask blinked and disappeared into the darkness.

"That 'prankster' is mine, small!"

The voice was low, hoarse with rage and tension. Chris turned.

At the other end of the alley, in a cloud of steam rising from her skin, stood a girl. She was tall, powerful, with purple skin and ruffled dark hair, matted with water. She was literally dripping. A simple work-jumper clung to her muscular shoulders, smoking. She was breathing heavily, and with each exhalation, a short cloud of steam escaped from her clenched fists. His eyes, yellow as brimstone, burned with pure, undiluted malice. She wasn't looking at Chris, but into the darkness where the spirit had disappeared.

"He beat me out of the well, you creeping bastard!" She hissed, more to herself than to anyone. "Let's see how you dodge now."..

She spread her arms wide, and a new ball of fire grew between her palms, hissing as it evaporated the last of the water. It wasn't a ball, but something angular and jagged, like a broken piece of brick. She threw it into the darkness without aiming, as if releasing her anger. Then she threw another one.

And she took off. Her powerful legs, encased in heavy boots, splashed through the puddles. She ran down the alley, into the mouth of the slums, like a torpedo on the trail of its prey.

Chris stood with his back against the wall, the torch in his hand flickering and crackling. The ice in his veins had been replaced by a strange, tingling heat. He saw more than just a fire mage. He saw a storm in the form of a girl. A rage that was blind, but also... directed. Fierce, but his own.

He watched her go, until her figure faded into the darkness, swallowed up by the flickering lights of her distant city. The sound of her voice still echoed in his ears. And something stirred in his chest, beneath his ribs. Not fear. Anticipation.

An adventure had just taken shape. And this shape was unstoppable.

Chapter 2: Book 1 "Earth"; Chapter 2:The Blacksmith's Wrath

Summary:

One day on behalf of a purple girl named Susie. Hello, Susie!

Susie's morning began not with the sound of an alarm clock, but with a distant, dull hum—the sound of a city that was already awake. She awoke in her room on the second floor of the smithy, where the air was forever tainted with the smell of coal and metal. A ray of sunlight filtered through the dusty window, striking her directly in the face. For a moment, she simply lay there, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, a hint of a smile on her lips. Dreamy, quick, and immediately banished. The dream still clung to the edges of her consciousness, not as a picture, but as a feeling: speed, wind in her face, an endless road leading anywhere but here.

Her smile faded as she sat up in bed and remembered that today was just another day. Thursday. The day of coal deliveries and plow repairs for the farmers on the outskirts.

"Susie!" came a voice from below, gruff and familiar. "The furnaces need to be fired before the metal arrives!"

"I'm already running!" She barked back, not really trying to hide her annoyance. I pulled on a battered jumpsuit, shook off the sawdust and went downstairs into the realm of heat and hard work.

Her father's blacksmith shop, Garth's, was a solid, reputable establishment in its neighborhood. Garth, a former soldier of the Fire Nation who settled in Ba Sing Se after the last major wars, believed in order, discipline, and usefulness. Susie, his only daughter, who had inherited not only his monster's purple skin but also his rare and powerful gift for fire, was more than just his daughter in his eyes. She was his heir. The continuation of his legacy. The embodiment of the stability he longed for.

Susie, on the other hand, longed to burn that stability to the ground.

She mechanically performed her morning duties, inflating the furnaces with bellows, setting out her tools, and accepting a cartload of coal. Every movement had been honed over the years, every movement caused a quiet, dull gurgle of discontent somewhere under her ribs. She watched her father, powerful and silent, fuse with the anvil, and felt how the same muscles in her arms itched to break free, to strike not at the obedient metal, but at something that would fight back.

"Susie, hold the workpiece," Garth said without looking up.

She sighed so that he could hear, rolled her eyes at the soot-stained beams of the ceiling, but she came and took the heavy tongs. The sparks from her father's hammer bounced off her hardened skin without causing any harm. The heat of the stove was like a warm bath to her. It was a paradox: she lived in an element that was a part of her, but it was also her prison.

During a break, she looked outside. Across the street, Mrs. Chen was busy at her small shop. When she saw Susie, she waved happily, her face lit up with a warm smile.
Susie snorted, as if she'd inhaled smoke, and pulled the rope sharply, closing the worn-out curtain on the smithy's window. She didn't need those sugary, fake smiles. The whole neighborhood, with its bourgeois comfort, gossip, and constant questions ("How's your father doing? Are you thinking of starting your own business?"), made her feel nauseous. They were like the nails her father had hammered into the wall of her life: strong, secure, and permanent.

The day dragged on. And that's when He appeared.

At first, it was just a small thing. Susie had just placed a newly straightened horseshoe nail on the table, and it suddenly curved into an arc on its own. She attributed it to fatigue. Then, a metal rod that had just been heated to a crimson glow in her pliers suddenly cooled in a second, as if it had been doused with ice-cold water, even though there wasn't a drop of water nearby. Susie froze, feeling a strange, needle-like chill in the air. My father didn't notice anything.
The third prank drove her completely over the edge. She had almost finished a difficult order, a wrought-iron chest for a wealthy merchant. The last decorative hinge remained to be soldered. Susie focused, directing a thin stream of flame from her index finger to the seam. At the most crucial moment, the flame flickered to the side, as if it had been deflected by an invisible wind, leaving an ugly, black scorch mark on the polished surface of the lid.

The silence in the forge became deafening. Garth looked up.
"Carelessness," he stated dryly. "Redo it. Metal will not forgive mistakes."

That was the last straw. Carelessness? It was a diversion. She could feel it on her skin—there was an alien, mocking presence in the air. Someone or something was playing with her. And Susie hated being played with.
She spent the rest of the day in a simmering silence, feeling the invisible jester's gaze upon her. The shadow in the corner moved differently. The tools shifted slightly when she turned away. It was a torture of small pinpricks, and her patience, never bottomless, was dwindling with each passing minute.

As the sun began to set and Garth retired to the house, Susie remained behind to close the shop. She closed the heavy shutters, her movements sharp, jerky. And then, right in front of her face, on the newly polished steel plate for a new order, words appeared, as if written by an invisible pen in the frost: "ARE YOU BORED, BLACKSMITH?"

That was it. Her years of rage—against her father, against the city, against her fate—and today's humiliations found an instant, perfect target.
"Come out, you disembodied creature!" She growled, and her voice broke through in a low, dangerous vibrato. She wasn't thinking. She reacted. A ball of blinding flame, ragged and untrained, burst out of her clenched fist and crashed into the wall opposite, leaving a deep, fused scar.

The answer came instantly and was ridiculously simple. The bucket of water for cooling the metal, which had been standing at her feet, flew into the air on its own and poured its contents over her with the precision of an experienced duelist.

The icy shock was replaced by an absolute, silent rage. She stood drenched from head to toe, water dripping from her hair, her eyelashes, and pooling in her boots. Steam began to rise from her scorching skin, enveloping her in a ghostly cloud. She didn't even flinch. She was boiling.
Somewhere in the darkness of the workshop, there was a strangled, creaking laugh. And the shadow—no longer a shadow, but the essence itself—darted to the open door, onto the street.

Susie didn't scream. She didn't threaten. She just took off. His heavy boots thumped on the stone floor. She flew out into the street, into the gathering dusk, and saw a dark clot falling into the alley behind the market. Her breathing became a technique not for calming herself, but for fanning the flames of her inner fire. She ran, leaving a trail of light steam on the wet stones, like a steam engine set free.

She burst into the square just as she saw the back of a man carrying a torch and the same shadow dodging the flames. Without thought, purely on reflex, she hurled a ball of her rage at the spirit, a fireball that flew past the stranger's face.
"This "joker" is mine, small!" She blurted out, and it wasn't just a phrase. It was a challenge to the world, to her father, to fate, and to this pathetic spirit who dared to pour it over her. She saw the spirit make a face at her, a mask of laughter, and disappear into an alley. She saw the scared face of the guy with the torch. And she didn't care.

She fired two more flaming missiles after him, not to hit him, but to clear a path, to let off steam. Then she ran. Not to her father, not to the forge, not to her cage. Forward. On the trail of the man who had finally given her a legitimate reason to break everything.

And in that moment, wet, angry, and steaming, she felt more alive than she had in all the sixteen years she had spent in Ba Sing Se.

Chapter 3: Book 1 "Earth"; Chapter 3:On the Roof

Summary:

Chase and meet the cute goat!!!

Once upon a time, an Avatar named Korra broke the connection with Raava's past incarnations and started a new cycle of Avatars. Korra was the first to open a portal between the human and spirit worlds. Since then, much has happened... Many things have changed, but sooner or later, the balance is lost, and the world awaits the next Avatar. However, what if the Avatar... is never found?

Kris didn't hesitate for a second. The "do first, think later" principle in his life had so far resulted in ruined sweaters and reprimands from Toriel, but now he was feeling an unfamiliar rush of adrenaline. This girl had entered his evening like a meteor, bold, dangerous, and unstoppable. And she was pursuing his spirit. The very problem he had been observing for weeks. Letting her go would mean accepting that he was once again just an observer. And today, with the baker Feng shouting at him and a torch in his hand, he was tired of being an observer.

He gave chase.

What started as a pursuit quickly turned into an absurd, dizzying race through the backstreets of the Lower Ring. The Mocking Spirit was elusive: it slipped through the cracks in the fences, merged with the evening shadows, sometimes splitting into two to throw him off. But he had a powerful beacon—The stranger

The girl didn’t try to be graceful. She was a hurricane in boots. When the spirit ducked under a low-hanging canopy, she didn't look for a way around. Instead, she roared and thrust her clenched fist forward, unleashing a short, wide wave of fire that scorched the boards and forced the entity to retreat in the desired direction. When a pile of empty barrels stood in her way, she didn't run around it. Instead, she accelerated and ignited the air at her feet at the last moment. A rumbling mini-explosion, more like a kick from an angry giant than magic, propelled her up and over the barricade. She landed with a heavy thud, not even looking back.

Kris had to be resourceful. He didn't have magic, but he had sixteen years of living in this city and a brain that worked differently. He saw the route not as a line, but as a three-dimensional puzzle. A rusty drainpipe, a precarious fence, a protruding shop ledge—these were his footholds. He climbed, clung, jumped from box to box, and slipped through narrow passages that her body simply couldn't navigate. He was lagging behind, but he didn't lose sight of her, guided by the trail of steam she left behind and the sound of her heavy, angry breathing.

At one point, he even felt... cheerful. His muscles burned, and his lungs ached, but it was a living fire rather than the smoldering ashes of longing. He hadn't run like this since Asriel, back when he was just an older brother and not a wizard, had taught him how to climb rooftops to watch the sunset over the Inner Wall. A lot had changed since then. Asriel had literally flown away, leaving Kris standing on the ground. But now, on these slippery roof tiles, he could feel the wind again. He breathed in deep, and it was like a release.

The spirit, cornered by a narrow dead-end street, was trapped. It darted to the wall, and its dark substance spread over the bricks, crawling up with an unnatural, spider-like speed. In an instant, it was on the roof of a one-story building.

"No way! You're not getting away from me, not on my shift!" Her voice boomed from below, already hoarse from running.

Kris, hiding in the archway opposite, saw her kick off the ground. But not in the way an airbender would do—smoothly and gracefully. Her jump was forceful. She threw her arms down, and two jets of chaotic flame shot out of her palms, which, with a roar and clouds of black smoke, literally threw her upwards, as if from a catapult. She crashed into the ridge of the roof, grabbed hold of it, pulled herself up with force, and disappeared over the parapet.
"Damn," Kris cursed silently. He jumped out of the hiding place. There was a blank wall in front of him, but to the right was the rickety staircase to the attic that he remembered from his childhood games. He ran up it, pushed the jammed door with his shoulder, crossed the dusty, cluttered room, and climbed out through the skylight. A second later, he was on the same roof.

From here, there was a view of a sea of tiles, chimneys, and weathervanes, painted the red of sunset. And at the two figures in the middle of this sea: Susie, who, breathing heavily, was slowly approaching the shadow that had gathered at the very edge. The spirit seemed to tremble, but it could also be a game.

Kris took a step forward to... what? Shout? Warn you? He didn't have time to decide. His gaze was fixed on her and on the spirit. He didn't see that the flat roof he was running on ended abruptly over a nearby alley. His foot stepped into nothingness.
His heart gave a lurch and sank into his boots. The world tilted. The sky and the roof tiles switched places. The wind, which had been so pleasantly caressing his face a moment ago, whistled in his ears. Instinctively, he pulled his head into his shoulders and closed his eyes, presenting his palm as a useless, pathetic shield.

There was no impact.

Instead, he felt a sense of weightlessness. It was soft and resilient, like falling into a vast bed of down. He stopped falling and froze, still horizontal, a meter above the cobblestones, which were studded with sharp stones and broken glass.

He cautiously opened one eye, then the other. He was floating. A barely visible haze swirled beneath him, distorting the outlines of the cobblestones.

"Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

The voice was soft, caring, with a slight melodic trill. Kris slowly, as if afraid to startle the invisible force holding him, raised his head.

On the edge of the roof, directly above him, stood a... goat. A young one, with soft features and large, warm eyes the color of the sea. It was dressed in the simple yet clean robes of a wanderer, loose trousers and a jacket in the red-orange tones of Airbenders or far-flung nomads. One of his hands was carelessly clasped behind his back, while the other was extended forward, palm down. His fingers were relaxed, but there was a subtle sense of concentration in their position. It was from this palm that the invisible force emanated.

As Kris opened his eyes and appeared to be unharmed, the stranger's face lit up with an even softer, more genuine smile. There was no mockery in it, only relief and genuine kindness.
"Phew," the goat breathed out, and its ears twitched in a cute way. "It's dangerous to run on other people's roofs like that. Especially without looking where you're going. My name is Ralsey, by the way. And yours?"

Kris froze, still floating in the air, and stared at his savior. In the light of the sunset, the soft features, the big eyes, and even the shape of the ears looked painfully familiar. For a moment, he thought it was Asriel who had found him, but no. The skin color, the shade of the coat, the aura itself were different. It was a gentle, calm version of his impetuous and impetuous brother. He pushed his thoughts away. Coincidence. Just another airbender.

"Thank you" he finally managed, feeling invisible currents gently lowering him to his feet. He stood up on shaky legs, straightened up, and nodded. "I'm Kris. Kris Dreemurr."

"Oh, I know!" Ralsey landed softly next to him, and his face lit up with a joyful smile again. He cheerfully reached out and shook Kris's outstretched hand with an enthusiasm that Kris had never expected. The handshake was warm and firm. "Toriel often wrote to my teacher. She's very proud of you."

These words sounded so unexpected and unnatural that Kris just blinked. Proud? A man without magic in a family of monsters? He looked away.

"You sound like a wandering monk," Kris remarked, trying to change the subject. "Have you wandered far from home?"

"I'm searching," Ralsey said simply, and there was a serious, almost solemn note in his voice. "I'm following the trail of an ancient scroll that belongs to the Western nomads. It tells of a time of great imbalance, when the worlds will begin to lose touch with each other. And of three heroes who must reunite to guide the way." A Firebender who devours darkness with his heat. An Airbender who carries the words of peace. And... a Guide whose power lies not in the elements, but in the connection between worlds.

Kris listened in silence, his stomach clenching into a cold, skeptical knot. Heroes. Prophecies. It was nonsense. Beautiful, poetic nonsense for bedtime stories. He was nothing. A guide? He could barely convince the spirit in the fountain not to throw coins at passersby. He nodded, unable to find the words to speak.

And then it hit him. His whole body twitched as he remembered why he was on the roof in the first place.

"Damn! The girl! The spirit!" He spun around, scanning the now-deserted roof. There was no one there. Just the shingles and the distant cry of a seagull. Panic, sharp and swift, pounded in his temples. He had lost them. Because of his clumsiness.

"I need to... I have to..." He hurried back to the wall he had fallen from, looking around frantically for some way to climb back up.

"Let me help," Ralsei's voice sounded right behind him, calm and confident. Before Kris could protest, he felt the familiar feeling of lightness again. Invisible air currents gently but inexorably wrapped around him, lifted him off the ground and smoothly carried him over the edge of the roof, gently lowering him next to the goat.

"Thanks, but... " Kris began, confused and annoyed by this show of force.

"I can help you find her,— Ralsey interrupted, and there was unshakeable conviction in his eyes. "If she's part of this, then our paths must cross."

Kris wanted to refuse. Shouting that it was none of his business. But he saw the shadow of a mocking spirit. I saw the rage in that girl's eyes. And I felt an icy burn on my ankles. It became his business. He sighed, long and weary, giving in to the weight of the events and the insistent but sincere gaze.

“Okay. So be it.”

Ralsey seemed to bloom. He leapt lightly, and the air seemed to thicken beneath him, allowing him to hover for a moment, several meters above the ground, like a feather in the wind. He turned slowly, his gaze sharp and attentive as it swept across the maze of alleyways, rooftops, and chimneys. Then he landed softly, pointing in the opposite direction from the bustling streets, towards the poorest and most neglected section of the Lower Ring, at the foot of the city's inner wall.

"There. I can feel it." flashes of energy. Angry and bright. And something old, dark, and hidden.

Descending from the rooftops was surprisingly easy with Ralsey. Where Kris would have had to climb and risk his neck, the air mage used gentle currents to cushion his jumps and guide his steps along the precarious ledges. It wasn't a show of power, but a practical and caring assistance. As they moved in the indicated direction, the city around them began to change. The bustling market noise faded, replaced by an oppressive silence. The air became stifling, smelling of mold and old poverty. They were entering a realm that Kris had only heard about in whispers, an area where even city guards rarely entered. A place that was rumored to be ruled by someone called the King.

And as they moved, Kris felt goosebumps running down his spine more and more clearly. It wasn't just harassment. It was an immersion into something much bigger. And right beside him, never a step behind, was Ralsey, with his gentle smile and quiet, unwavering faith in a prophecy that Kris was still desperately trying to call delirium.

(To be continued...)

Chapter 4: Book 1 "Earth"; Chapter 4:The Story

Summary:

Ralsey talks about the "prophecy" and soon the duo meets the scary, formidable Susie.

Once upon a time, an Avatar named Korra broke the connection with Raava's past incarnations and started a new cycle of Avatars. Korra was the first to open a portal between the human and spirit worlds. Since then, much has happened... Many things have changed, but sooner or later, the balance is lost, and the world awaits the next Avatar. However, what if the Avatar... is never found?

They walked down a narrow alley, where the walls of the buildings almost met overhead, casting deep, cold shadows. Ralsey moved with surprising ease, his soft boots making little sound on the broken stone.

"I come from the Western Temple of Air," he said, his voice echoing softly in the narrow space. "But I am not a monk. I am a... a wandering student." The teacher gave me a scroll just before I set out. It said that when the balance was too far out of whack and the Avatar didn't show up to right it, three would awaken. They would be the bridge until the true bridge returned. That's why I'm searching. I felt that the time was right. That the heroes were finally ready.

"Heroes?" Kris couldn't help but sound skeptical. He pushed aside a rusty barrel blocking his path. — So there's someone else besides me?

"Yes!" Ralsey's eyes lit up. He deftly stepped over a pile of bricks, and Kris, out of habit, automatically offered him a hand to help him climb onto a nearby crate. Only then did he realize and awkwardly retract his hand: the air mage certainly didn't need any assistance. "I'm sorry, I..."
"It's okay," Ralsey smiled gently, accepting his gesture and allowing himself to be "lifted." "Thank you. So..." Yes, there are three heroes. A Fire Mage whose fury can clear a path. An Air Mage to carry the word and calm the storms. And a Guide. Someone who sees connections where others see only chaos. I am the air. Susie is the fire. And you are...

"Susie?" Chris interrupted, pausing for a moment. "Who is she?"

Ralsey blinked, his ears slightly drooping in surprise.
"Well... the same girl we're chasing. Were you running after her? Don't you know each other?"
Kris shook his head no, moving forward again, peering carefully at the fork in the alley. There were no tracks, only silence.
"No. I saw her briefly when I went to Garth's forge to sharpen Toriel's shears. She was helping there. She was standing by the forge, covered in soot, staring at the metal as if she wanted to melt it with her gaze rather than forge it. But to speak... no. Not once."

He fell silent, listening. Somewhere in the distance, there was a dull thud, as if something heavy had fallen. Or been overturned in a fit of rage.

"Then fate has brought you together today," Ralsey concluded, and his voice held that same unwavering faith that made Kris's jaw clench. "It is part of the journey. She is already on her way, even if she does not know it. Her anger... it is not accidental." He is a force that has not yet found its true path.
"Her anger almost burned my face off," Kris remarked dryly.
"But it didn't," Ralsey countered gently. "And she attacked the spirit, not you. There's already a direction in her chaos. Can you feel it?"

Kris wanted to retort that he couldn't feel anything but the smell of garbage and the old danger emanating from these walls. But he listened. Not with his ears, but with something else. Indeed, there was a subtle shimmer in the stifling air. It was like the heat of a distant fire, but not physical heat. It was an energy that was fiery, unstable, and bright.

The silence that followed Ralsey's words was oppressive and unsettling. Kris wanted to say something, to object to this idea of "heroes," but the words stuck in his throat. The air in the alley seemed to thicken, filled with static electricity, a harbinger of a storm.

And the storm broke.

Right in front of them, around the corner, in a blank wall, something exploded. Not a fireball, but a devastating wave of pure force that sent bricks and a cloud of dust into the air. From the center of the explosion, a piercing, furious scream echoed through the smoke.

"You scum! Stand down!"

It was her voice. Susie. The name, finally claimed, sounded like a battle cry.

A dark, amorphous mass, the Mocking Spirit, flew out of the clouds of dust like a projectile. He darted across the alley, momentarily frozen in confusion. And that moment was enough.

Susie was blown out of the explosion cloud on the crest of the shock wave. She didn't fly—she was thrown out like a cannonball. Her entire body was tense, her clenched fist blazing with a dazzling white-yellow flame, swinging for a crushing blow. She collapsed where the spirit had been a second ago.

But the spirit wasn't stupid. It dissolved, crumbled into a myriad of dark splashes just before impact. Susie's fist crashed into the pavement with a terrific bang. A wave of hot air and cracks exploded from the point of impact in all directions, raising a new storm of dust and rubble.

Ralsey reacted instantly. He didn't back down. He stepped forward, in front of Kris, and raised his arms. The air in front of them thickened, becoming a solid, vibrating shield. The impact wave and debris crashed into this invisible wall and rolled away, leaving them unharmed in the midst of the chaos.

The dust slowly settled. In the center of a small crater, Susie stood, breathing heavily. She brushed off her hands, clearing away the crumbs of stone and the remnants of the flames. Her gaze, sharp and irritated, slowly lifted and fell on the two young men.

"Were you just standing there?" Her voice was hoarse from the strain and smoke. "We could have caught him while he was vulnerable."

"But we didn't know you needed help," Ralsey said softly, without reproach.

"I don't need any help," Susie snapped, looking away. But her eyes met Kris' gaze again. She was looking at him—not at the airbender-savior, but at the same guy with the torch. The one who had dared to stand in her way. Kris felt a chill run down his back, but something inside him stirred—a challenge, a recognition in her gaze.

“Susie,” Ralsey began, taking a small, almost courteous step forward. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Ralsey. This is Kris.” Susie, I've come to tell you that you're... The girl rolled her eyes so expressively that it seemed to creak. She turned her back on them abruptly, looking into the depths of the gloomy neighborhood.

"I'm not interested in listening to what you have to say. I don't care who you are. If you're not going to help, then get out of here. Otherwise, your mothers will worry if you 'accidentally' disappear," she said over her shoulder, her voice filled with a venomous, bored mockery. She took the first step away from them.

And then the space behind them laughed.

"Ho-ho-ho!"

The sound was unexpected—not an ominous bass, but a high-pitched, mock-menacing chuckle. Susie froze in place, and as abruptly as she had turned, she turned back. Kris and Ralsey turned in unison.

A boy was sitting on a pile of broken bricks left over from the explosion, his legs dangling. He was no more than ten years old. He was wearing a strange, patchwork-like "uniform": a tattered vest, trousers that were too big for him, tied with a rope, and a tin mug with holes for the eyes on his head, which served as a helmet. He was holding a sharpened stick that looked like a spear.

"You'll all die today!" he proclaimed in the same high-pitched voice, trying to make it sound menacing. "Trust me! Ho-ho-ho!" He jumped off the pile, landed awkwardly, and assumed a dramatic pose, pointing his stick at them. "I am the Prince of Darkness, Lancer! And I will not allow you to take another step!"

There was a pause. The drama of his entrance was overshadowed by the deathly silence of the three. Even the spirit seemed to be quiet somewhere in the shadows, watching.

Susie looked him up and down slowly, exaggeratedly. There was no fear on her face. There was outright, genuine bewilderment mixed with growing irritation.

"You.. seriously?" She finally said, and her voice was as flat as a board.

(To be continued...)

Chapter 5: Book 1 "Earth" Chapter 5:The Prince of Darkness and the Fury of the Forge

Summary:

Susie intimidates Lancer, and then the "heroes" split up.

Notes:

There is obscene language (there is one word, but still)

Once upon a time, an Avatar named Korra broke the connection with Raava's past incarnations and started a new cycle of Avatars. Korra was the first to open a portal between the human and spirit worlds. Since then, much has happened... Many things have changed, but sooner or later, the balance is lost, and the world awaits the next Avatar. However, what if the Avatar... is never found?

The silence that followed Lancer's statement hung in the air like a thick, awkward blanket. His "ho-ho-ho" echoed through the alley, but it sounded pitiful and lonely.

Susie slowly raised her hand and rubbed her nose, rolling her eyes so that only the whites were visible. Her shoulders drooped with the weight of her frustration.

"Are you... serious?" she finally breathed. Her voice was flat, devoid of any inflection, like a plank dropped into mud.

Lancer blinked. His theatrical grin slipped from his face, replaced by a genuine, childlike bewilderment. He even lowered his "spear"-like stick.
"What?"
"Are you, fuck, serious?" Susie repeated, but now there was a raw, unfiltered fury in her voice. She took one heavy, purposeful step forward. The screech of her soles on the gravel was louder than any scream.

Lancer instinctively took a step back.
"Well... yeah?"

"Listen, man, I don't have time," Susie hissed, her words quieter but no less dangerous for that. "I need to find this stupid spirit." So get out of my way. Quickly.

And then something started happening to her. It wasn't magic in the usual sense. It was a manifestation of something deep, animal. Her pupils, already narrow with anger, seemed to have disappeared completely, leaving two cold, implacable sickles in her yellow eyes.
She opened her mouth slightly, revealing sharp fangs, and a thin trickle of saliva rolled down her lower jaw with a light click. She wasn't trying to look scary—that's what she was at that moment. A primitive predator who is tired of games. It wasn't a mask that distorted her face, but a pure, unfiltered threat, so blatant that it chilled the blood.

Ralsey, who had been watching with his usual mild anxiety, reacted on pure instinct this time. He grabbed Kris by the arm above the elbow and pulled him back sharply, away from Susie, creating a buffer zone between them. His fingers were clenched tightly. Kris didn't even resist. He stood frozen, watching the transformation, feeling an icy shiver run down his spine. He had seen her in various states - furious, explosive, and rough. But this... This was the first time he had seen her like this. It wasn't a fire that could be extinguished. It was a chasm.

Lancer froze. All his bravado, all his cardboard image of a "prince of darkness," evaporated like morning mist under her gaze. He looked like a small, frightened boy in a ridiculous homemade helmet, suddenly realizing that he was not playing with someone from the neighborhood, but with a hungry saber-toothed tiger. His spear-like stick trembled in his hands.

Susie slowly, without taking her eyes off him, ran the back of her hand over his chin, wiping away the saliva. The sound was disgustingly wet.
"Well?" — She said monosyllabically, taking another step. Her shadow covered Lancer.

The boy squeaked. It's not threatening. For real. He darted away, tripping over his own too-big pants, and disappeared into the dark space between the two houses without even trying to say anything.

There was a silence, even more hollow than before. Susie stood for a few more seconds, staring into the void where Lancer had fled. Then her shoulders twitched, not a sigh, but rather a release of tension. She straightened up, her features gradually returning to their usual scowl, her pupils regaining their normal size. She turned to Kris and Ralsey, as if noticing their reactions for the first time.

"It's not a big deal," she muttered, but there was no trace of the chilling threat in her voice. It was just her usual irritability. "He was in the way. I put it away. It's simple"

Ralsey gently released Kris's hand.
"This.".. it was a very convincing argument," he said softly, and there was no condemnation in his voice, but rather... scientific interest mixed with mild horror.

Kris didn't say anything. He just looked at Susie, taking in what he had seen. He realized one simple thing: in their pursuit of the spirit, they had not only driven it into an abandoned area. They had driven it into a territory ruled by a raw and uncontrollable force. And Lancer was merely its comical harbinger.

Somewhere deep within the slums, as if in response to this thought, a distant and truly ominous screech of metal echoed. And another, deeper voice, growling something unintelligible.

Spirit, Lancer... and now this. The adventure that had started with an attempt to tame a mischievous spirit was quickly turning into something much darker and deeper. And Susie, judging by the predatory grin that flashed across her face once again, seemed to be enjoying it.

Kris turned around, looking back at the labyrinth of identical, dirty, litter-strewn alleyways. His heart gave a little lurch for a moment—he had no idea where they had come from. All the turns had merged into a single, dreary picture.

"Ralsey," he called, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. "Where did we come from? We need to go back. The spirit is gone, and..."

He turned back to where Susie had been standing, but she was gone. His eyes caught a movement in the depths of the yard. She was walking away from them, not looking back, her figure fading into the twilight.

"Susie!" Kris called out, taking a step forward. "Where are you going? Aren't you going home?"

"Get lost, you weirdo," came her voice, distant and indifferent. "I need to find this spirit."

She didn't even turn around. She just raised her hand, and a ball of fire burst out of her palm with a short pop, hitting the wall. The recoil from the mini-explosion, which felt more like a kick, propelled her upward. She deftly grabbed onto the ledge, and in the next moment, she was already on the roof, where she disappeared from view.

"But Susie, wait!" This time, it was Ralsey who shouted. He ran over to the wall, peering up in vain. — You are one of the heroes! You have to come with us!

"Fuck off!" — the last, final answer came from above, after which only retreating footsteps could be heard.

Ralsey lowered his head. His shoulders, usually so straight, hunched under an invisible weight of disappointment. He took a deep breath, and there was so much sadness in that sigh that Kris felt uncomfortable.

"Forget about her," Kris said, coming closer and tentatively putting his hand on Ralsey's shoulder. "Come on." Let's get back before it gets completely dark.

— Kris! — Ralsey turned around, and in his big eyes burned an unusual fire — not gentleness, but almost despair. "Are you going there too?" You are heroes! The three of us must stick together! This is our destiny. The scrolls make it clear... "Then we'll change the fate," Kris said coldly, removing his hand. He crossed his arms over his chest, creating a barrier.

"Fate can't be changed!" Ralsey exclaimed, his voice ringing out for the first time, breaking into a high-pitched note. "It's like... like the plot in ancient books! You can imagine what would have happened if the hero had taken a different path, but the story always leads them to the same place, the same goal!" The paths change, but the end... the end is predetermined!

Kris rolled his eyes loudly, with theatrical exasperation. It wasn't visible under his bangs, of course, but his whole appearance screamed of extreme irritation. He turned around without a word and walked slowly, with exaggerated indifference. But not in the direction Susie had gone, and not back in their footsteps. He chose a third, completely random alley.

"Exactly" he called over his shoulder, and there was steel in his voice "If this is really fate, then sooner or later we will meet without any forced associations. The problem is solved. Let's go."

" Kris!" Ralsey's voice became pleading. He took a few steps after him, but stopped, torn between duty and his newfound, stubborn comrade "Well, please! You just... You're even going the wrong way! We didn't come from there!"

This remark, so practical and caring in the midst of all the mysticism, caused Kris to slow down for a moment. But he didn't turn around. Instead, he raised his hand and waved it dismissively, saying, "Leave me alone."

"Then find the right one," he said more quietly, almost to himself. "And I'll... I'll find a way out."

He continued walking, and the sound of his footsteps on the stone soon faded into the approaching twilight. Ralsey was left standing alone in the wasteland, sandwiched between the two "heroes" who had gone their separate ways. He looked up at the roof where Susie had disappeared. Then he looked down at the alley where Kris had gone. His ears drooped in defeat.

The prophecy had said that they should be together. But the prophecy didn't seem to take into account human (and non-human) stubbornness. Instead of a triumphant reunion, he had two teenagers running away from the very idea of their destiny.

He took a deep breath and straightened his back. If they don't want to go to fate, maybe fate will have to go to them. And he, Ralsey, must decide which of the two stubborn men to go after first. Or... find a way for their paths to cross again. In a more painful and unexpected way.

He looked in the direction where the spirit had disappeared and which Susie was chasing. To where the low, domineering rumble came from and where another force ruled. To where the "Prince of Darkness" Lancer had probably already reported the uninvited guests.

The decision was made quickly. He turned and, with a soft but quick step, followed not Kris, but Susie. The fire had to be handled with care. It could be extinguished... or it could be allowed to burn so brightly that it would attract the attention of whoever was hiding in the darkness.

(To be continued...)

Chapter 6: Book 1 "Earth";Chapter 6: Dead End and Fiery Help

Summary:

I know that you need to write chapter descriptions here, BUT DAMN, HOW DIFFICULT IT TURNED OUT TO BE TO WRITE FIGHT SCENES!

Once upon a time, an Avatar named Korra broke the connection with Raava's past incarnations and started a new cycle of Avatars. Korra was the first to open a portal between the human and spirit worlds. Since then, much has happened... Many things have changed, but sooner or later, the balance is lost, and the world awaits the next Avatar. However, what if the Avatar... is never found?

Kris wandered through an endless maze of identical alleyways, kicking the stones in front of him in frustration. It was all a dream. The prophecy, the heroes, the obsessive goat with its belief in fate—it was all one big, ridiculous prank. The irony, bitter and acrid, twisted his stomach: as soon as he had dismissed Ralsey, the man had disappeared, and now Kris was helplessly wandering through an unfamiliar area, where even the traces of their arrival seemed to have been erased by the earth itself. He was so lost in his dark thoughts that he almost ran into them.

There were two of them. They were huge, silent, and clad in rough armor made of compressed earth and stone. They stood blocking the narrow passage like statues. Kris froze, an icy lump of fear in his throat. One of the guards leaned in, and a low, hollow whisper came from beneath his helmet.

"Code..."

"Eee..." Kris's voice cracked treacherously. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. "Code?" he asked incomprehensibly.

"WRONG!" the second one thundered and stomped his foot.

The impact was not physical, but magical. The ground beneath Kris's feet heaved up in a powerful, circular wave, like the skin of a giant beast. It was a damn earthquake! Instinctively, Dreemmur spread his legs to stay upright, but his left foot slipped on the rising slab. With a slight cry, he staggered, barely managing to grab a ledge on the wall. Before he could recover, the first guardsman stomped his foot again. This time, a large, uneven boulder erupted from the ground in front of him and hovered in the air. With a precise, well-practiced swing of his stone fist, the boulder hurtled towards Kris with alarming speed.

"Run!" the brain screamed, turning off the fear. Kris lunged to the side, pressing himself against the wall. The rock flew a centimeter away, crashed into the opposite wall, and shattered into a hail of fragments. His heart was pounding like a hammer in his chest. Without looking at the road, he fell to his knees, then, without hesitation, he crawled, and then he jumped up, without slowing down the pace of the escape, and rushed to run without looking back.

Behind his back, new strikes thundered. Stones of various sizes - from a fist to a head - flew after him, knocking out pieces of plaster, breaking wooden barriers. Kris dived around corners, using any ledge as a shield, hearing how the world collapses behind him with each new hit. He ran until his eyes saw a blank, three-meter-high wall resting against the same high sides. Dead end. Real.

"Damn it!" "What is it?" he blurted out as he looked around in despair. Two long, implacable shadows of the guards were already falling from around the corner from where he had run.

And at that very moment, another shadow stretched out between his own legs, playing with an exaggerated, familiar grin. The Mocking Spirit. It materialized from the patches of darkness on the ground, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

"Oh, come on! You're the last thing I need right now!" Kris barked, rolling his eyes in frustration.

Another boulder whistled past his head, smashing into the wall of the cul-de-sac with a dull thud. Dust, dirt, and rocks scattered in all directions.

"Damn it!" Kris, acting on pure adrenaline, jumped onto a pile of half-rotted wooden crates in the corner. They creaked under his weight. He reached up to the only ledge on the wall, a narrow, crooked cornice. His fingers found purchase. He began to pull himself up, his back and arms burning with the effort. And at the most critical moment, when he was almost overbalancing, the old, damp ledge beneath his fingers gave a crunch and broke off.

"No, no, no!!!"
The fall was short. He crashed back down onto the crates, crashing through several planks with a thud. Pain lanced through his side, and air was forced from his lungs. He lay there, staring up at the gray sky above the walls of the cul-de-sac, resigned. The shadows of the guards fell over him. One of them was already raising his hand for the final blow.

And then the space exploded with sound.

It was not the sound of stone. It was a roar—fierce, hoarse, and full of inhuman malice. In the next moment, something dazzling bright slammed into the wall just above Kris’s head. Dreemmur put his hands over his face. The white-hot fireball didn’t just hit—it spread across the stone, melting it for a moment before it died with a hiss. The heat scorched Kris’s skin.

“Get out of here! I almost had that thing!”

A voice. Her voice.

Kris, forgetting about the pain, rolled onto his side and raised himself up on his elbow. The scene was surreal. One of the guards was lying on the ground, his stone armor covered in soot and cracks, and he was breathing, but he was unconscious, his helmet had fallen off his head, but his face was covered by his hair. The other guard, the one who had been about to finish off Kris, had turned around, adopting a low, stable stance. And between them, a little further away, Susie was frozen in a dynamic pose. Her right hand was extended forward, with a clenched fist, and smoke was still pouring from her knuckles. Her left hand was pressed against her chest, as if to absorb the recoil. Or perhaps for a different reason, Kris had heard that firebenders channeled their magic through their hearts, but he wasn't sure. Her legs were spread wide, and her body was leaning forward. She was breathing heavily, but not from exhaustion; it was a sign of concentration. Her gaze, yellow and sharp, was fixed on the remaining guard. For a moment, she seemed to have forgotten about the spirit and Kris. There was a new target worthy of her rage.

Everyone froze in a silent pause. Even the spirit cowering in the corner went quiet.

"Let's go," Susie hissed, and it wasn't a question. It was a command.

She abruptly changed her position. Her body turned sideways, and she took a wide step back, as if she were swinging her entire leg instead of just her arm. The heel of her heavy boot scraped against the ground. And where she had drawn, a thin, roaring line of fire flared and burned, like a red-hot wire embedded in the air itself.

The guard had just begun a magical movement to raise a new block from the ground. He didn't have time.

Susie thrust her leg forward with force, and the line of fire leapt from her heel to her opponent, not as a beam but as a whip—flexible, whistling, and incredibly fast. The blow struck the guard's breastplate with a dull, ringing CRUNCH!

He was thrown back like a rag doll. He crashed into the wall of the dead end with his back, so that the masonry cracked. But he did not collapse. His stone claws on his arms and legs, which should protect the owner's hands and were a part of the earth in a confined space, dug into the stone, keeping his body half a meter off the ground in a twisted, unnatural position. The armor held, but something inside clearly broke. He hung there, then fell on his back, still holding his hand in the wall, and bowed his head. Susie considered that the enemy had been defeated, nodded to herself.

In the silence that followed, only Susie's heavy breathing and the crackling of fading spots of fire could be heard. She lowered her leg, straightened up and finally looked at Kris, still lying on the wreckage of the crates. There was no triumph in her eyes. There was only a check: "alive?".

"You... Saved me!" Kris croaked, then cleared his throat to speak better. Susie shook her hand, shaking off the remaining warmth from her arm to rest for a while.

"Saved you?" No, I was catching him," the girl raised her hand and pointed to a shadow in the corner. The spirit chuckled, and that stupid smile appeared on his so-called face again.

Kris tried to say something. But he was interrupted by a new sound—a quiet, ominous creak. It came from the wall that the guard had crashed into. The crack from the impact slowly, inexorably crept upward.

In the next moment, the pile of stone that the guard had crashed into began to move. There was an inhuman, low moan, more like the grinding of boulders against each other. With difficulty, his massive figure rose to its feet. The cracks in his earthen armor shone like wounds, and fine dust fell from them. He turned his head, and two dull yellow dots flashed through the slits in his helmet—not eyes, but smoldering embers of hatred.

"You'll... pay..." His voice was like a rockfall in a deep cave is dull, layered, inexorable. He tried to pull out his stone claws, which were deeply embedded in the masonry. With each tug, the crack left by Susie's blow widened with a dry, cracking sound reminiscent of breaking bones. The bricks began to fall out like rotten teeth.

CRUNCH! — SCRATCH... — BANG!

The guard finally pulled his hand away, but this action was the last straw. The entire wall segment, the size of a peasant's hut, shook, tilted, and collapsed. It wasn't just a pile of rocks. It was an avalanche—slow, heavy, inescapable. The shadows of the falling boulders swallowed up the scant evening light, covering Susie with a grave shroud of dust and stone.

Kris didn't think. His body reacted before his mind did. He lunged forward, feeling the soles of his boots skid across the gravel. His fingers dug into the rough fabric of Susie's jacket, and he pulled her towards him with force. But the dead end was as narrow as a grave. The rumbling grew louder, turning into a deafening roar. A whirlwind of dust filled the air, forcing them to close their eyes. And in that last moment, when the cold of the stone seemed to touch the back of her neck...

The air sighed.

Not just shifted, but transformed. The suffocating, dusty density that had pressed against her ears suddenly dissipated. It was replaced by a light, resilient movement—fresh, clean, and filled with power. The stones, which had been suspended just inches above their heads, suddenly hovered. Not just stopped, but were entangled in an invisible web of thickened wind. Around each cobblestone, a light, silvery halo sparkled and shimmered, a visible manifestation of the will that held back the chaos. The dust, unable to penetrate the barrier, settled in a thin veil on the invisible dome above them.

"Ralsey?" Kris shouted, his voice breaking into a falsetto. He was still instinctively covering Susie with his body, even though she was already struggling furiously and silently, her muscles tensing like steel ropes.

"I'm here."

The voice did not come from behind, but from above — calm, concentrated, devoid of the usual melodiousness. Kris lifted his head, pushing back his bangs. On the crest of the wall, silhouetted against the crimson-purple sky of the sunset, stood Ralsey. He was like a weather vane in the midst of a storm, a motionless frame in the midst of the whirling currents of his own power. Both of his arms were extended, his palms open, his fingers spread in a tense yet graceful gesture, as if he were both holding an invisible sphere and pushing back against an invisible weight. There was no trace of a smile on his usually gentle face. His eyebrows were furrowed, his lips were tightly pressed together, and his eyes, wide open, reflected the sky and a titanic effort. He wasn't just "doing magic." He was carrying weight.

"There's no time, you idiots!" Susie snapped, finally breaking free from Kris's grip. Her movement was abrupt, full of contempt for danger. She turned to the guard, and her movement coincided with his action: seeing that the blockage hadn't worked, he wasted no time and hurled a new rock at her—smaller in size, but launched with such force that it whistled through the dusty air.

Susie's reflexes kicked in at the speed of a flash. She didn't even move. Her body became a monolith. She shifted her weight to her right leg, curled her left leg up, and then, as if cutting off the threat itself, she abruptly raised her leg and swung it horizontally in front of her, from the hip and outward.

WHISTLE!

A fiery arc blossomed in the air and then rushed forward. It wasn't a stream, but a thin, white-hot filament that left a shimmering scar in the air. It didn't cut through the stone. Instead, it pressed against it with such concentrated force that the space between them trembled. For a moment, there was a silent confrontation in the air: the dull, inert mass of stone against the fierce, focused pressure of pure flame. There was a sharp CLACK!, as if a bowstring had snapped. The stone stopped, shuddered, became covered with a web of black veins, and with a dull, final thud, it fell at her feet, emitting the acrid smell of hot silicon.

In response, the guard raised his foot for another strike. His foot, heavy as a hammer, crashed down on the ground. The ground beneath him did not tremble; it heaved. From the pile of debris at his feet, another boulder began to slowly emerge, grinding and crushing everything in its path.

"Come on, let's move! We're leaving!" Susie shouted over her shoulder to Kris, but her gaze, yellow and unwavering like a predator's, remained fixed on the enemy. She made a short, explosive lunge forward, her body coiled like a spring, and threw out her fist. It wasn't a ball, but a compressed, dense a bundle of rage, a fiery bullet that burst from her knuckles with a sharp POP! She slammed into the guard's chest, right where the cracks converged. Instinctively, with a stone-like grunt, he covered his face with his hands, halting the magical effort. The stone at his feet froze, losing its shape. The impact knocked the giant back a step. Not only did it leave a black mark on his armor, but the stone itself began to melt, forming a small, dark, and smoking indentation. However, the armor held strong.

Meanwhile, Kris took advantage of the pause and sprinted towards the wall. His heart was pounding in his throat. Ralsey, his face pale with exertion, made a subtle movement with his index finger. The air around Kris came to life. He didn't feel a push, but rather a gentle, cool current that lifted him effortlessly from the gravitational grip of the ground. He floated up along the rough masonry, not feeling it under his feet. It was like climbing in an elevator with glass walls, only the walls were made of wind. A few seconds later, he was quietly placed on the narrow, cold parapet next to Ralsey. There are slippery tiles underfoot, and a three—meter-wide void and a battlefield below.

"Are we running?" Kris gasped, clutching at the air and barely keeping his balance. The altitude was dizzying.

Ralsey only shook his head slightly, without taking his feverish gaze away from Susie below. His raised arms trembled slightly from the strain. "Let's wait for her,— he whispered, and there was steely determination in his whisper.

Downstairs, Susie was doing her wild, aggressive dance, a dance of pure attack. She didn't back down an inch. She was advancing. Short, lash-like bursts of flame from her fists made the guard stagger and retreat, preventing him from gathering for a powerful earth spell. Her movements were sharp and angular, but she was terrifyingly efficient. Once, almost in a leap, she raised her leg and drew a vertical line of fire, creating a scorching curtain that rose from the ground to her shoulder level, forcing the guard to jump to the side with surprising agility for his size. There was no hint of defense, block, or pure dodge in her style. Every move she made was designed to crush, burn, and destroy. However, the guard, breathing heavily, had already regained his strength. He took a more stable stance, and the ground around his feet began to vibrate, ready to unleash a new, more terrifying attack.

It was at this critical moment that Susie... turned her back on him.

It seemed like a suicide move. But no, it was a cold, insane calculation. She bent her knees sharply, almost crouching, pressing herself into the ground for a moment, like a spring at its lowest point. And then she fired.

Four short, roaring jets of dazzling white flame erupted simultaneously from her clenched fists and the soles of her heavy boots. This was not the flight of a mage of the air. It was a catapult launch. The explosive impulse, rough, noisy, and furious, propelled her upward with a roar and a wave of searing heat. She streaked like a meteor past the edge of the wall, somersaulting in mid-air, and landed heavily on the roof beside them, nearly knocking Kris off his feet. She immediately sprung into a low fighting stance, fists clenched, looking around for threats, but all she saw were the backs of Ralsey and Kris, ready to flee.

"Now," said Ralsey, and for the first time that evening, there was a light, triumphant note in his voice. He opened his fingers and lowered his hands.

And the force that had been holding the rubble in place vanished.

With a low, prolonged GRO-O-OHT, the stone avalanche crashed down, burying the entrance to the dead end and likely immobilizing the disoriented guard for a long time. A cloud of dust rose high into the sky, turning the sunset a dirty gray.

Without wasting a second, Ralsey turned and ran along the narrow ridge of the roof. His movements were light, almost silent; he didn't run, but glided, as if his feet barely touched the tiles, and the wind beneath him did the work. Kris took a deep breath and followed suit. His steps were less sure, his legs buckling with adrenaline weakness, but the fear of falling behind gave them strength. Susie, the last to arrive, snorted, a sound of contempt for the whole thing, cast a final, scorching glance at the rising cloud of dust, and ran third. Her running was heavy, echoing, full of pent-up energy; every step she took made a dull thud, and the tiles beneath her seemed to creak at the seams.

They were running along the back of a sleeping giant, Ba Sing Se. Below, in the stone wombs, life was busy with its petty concerns, but here, above, the wind was colder, the freedom was dizzying, and the danger was sharper and purer. Behind them were the angry guards and the ghostly, mocking spirit. Ahead lay a labyrinth of rooftops, chimneys, and uncertainty. But now, by chance, defying prophecy and their own desires, they were no longer alone.

There were three of them. A man without magic, an airbender who believed in fate, and a firebender who denied everything but her rage. It was the strangest team this time without the Avatar could produce.

(To be continued...)

Chapter 7: Book 1 "Earth";Chapter 7: The Prince of Darkness and the Alley of Salvation

Summary:

Escape, the market, and the little Prince of Darkness

Once upon a time, an Avatar named Korra broke the connection with Raava's past incarnations and started a new cycle of Avatars. Korra was the first to open a portal between the human and spirit worlds. Since then, much has happened... Many things have changed, but sooner or later, the balance is lost, and the world awaits the next Avatar. However, what if the Avatar... is never found?

The chase turned into a dizzying sprint across the backs of stone giants—the roofs of Ba Sing Se. Behind them, from the ground, came hoarse cries and heavy footsteps. The guards were not giving up.

“To the left!” Ralsey shouted, and his hand flashed out in a short, precise gesture.

The air before them thickened and struck like an invisible battering ram. A huge cobblestone, flying at them with a terrifying whistle, veered off, crashed into the chimney, and blew it to smithereens in a cloud of brick dust.

“I can’t keep doing that forever!” Ralsey’s voice was breathless for the first time. The concentration of both running and defending was draining his strength.

"Then don't beat it!" Susie snapped. She didn't look back, her eyes searching the sea of tiles for a place to land. And she found it: the roof of the building next to her was lower, and on it was a dilapidated wooden gallery that led straight into the dark gap between the buildings. "Down!"

Without explanation or warning, she ran to the edge and jumped. It wasn't a graceful flight like a wizard of the air. She just fell down, bending her knees, and at the last moment punched the air below her. Two explosive pulses of fire cushioned her fall, and she landed on the ground with a deafening crash that rattled the old planks. She didn't even flinch from the impact, just rolled forward by inertia and disappeared into the darkness of the alley.

"Your move! Quickly!" Her voice shouted from below, already muffled by the distance and the walls.

Kris and Ralsey looked at each other. They could hear the guards stomping around below, searching for a way up. Ralsey nodded, grabbed Kris's elbow, and they stepped into the void. This time, there was no smooth gliding. It was a controlled drop. Ralsey used his air current to slow their fall, conserving his energy. They landed on the same creaking boards, much more quietly than Susie, but they barely managed to stay upright.

"This way!" Kris, his mind working at full capacity, had already noticed what the others had missed. Nearby, in the shadow of an overhanging wall, a narrow, black passage shone—not just a crack, but a real crevice between two old warehouses, smelling of dampness and oblivion.

Without ceremony, he grabbed the bewildered Ralsey by the sleeve and, in a familiar gesture, grabbed Susie's forearm as she passed by.

"Hey! What are you-?" she began, but Kris was already dragging them both into a black corner of the alley.

"Be quiet!" He hissed, pressing his back against the cold stone.

They hid, merging into the shadow. A second later, the heavy, thudding beat of several pairs of boots swept past. Rough voices shouted orders: "Inspect the roofs!", "They couldn't have gone far!". The footsteps faded into the distance, disappearing into the labyrinth of streets.

Three hearts beat a different rhythm in the darkness. Kris exhaled, about to say something, maybe sarcastic, about "heroic destiny."

"So, what was I saying?" a thoughtful, squeaky voice asked right in front of them.

All three of them jumped and turned around in unison.

Two paces away, his back to them, stood Lancer. He was looking up the wall, rubbing his chin under his tin helmet-mug, clearly trying to regain his train of thought.

"Ah, yes!" he turned around dramatically, trying to give his masked face a menacing expression and brandishing his stick-spear. "I am your most fearsome—"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. Susie, her face set in a grimace of extreme, beyond-excessive annoyance, simply shoved him out of the way with a powerful shoulder thrust.

"Ow!" Lancer squeaked, and went down on his butt in the dust of the alley, his "lance" clattering to the side.

Susie didn't even look at him. She passed by with the same grim expression, saying over her shoulder,
"I don't have time for you, boy."

Her eyes were fixed on a narrow strip of dirty yellow light at the far end of the alley. There was some kind of life there, judging by the noise and occasional shouts, maybe another street, maybe a small market. She headed towards it with a clear, determined step.

Lancer was sitting on the ground, his head bowed so low that the edge of his helmet was resting on his knees. His little shoulders were hunched over. Ralsey, whose heart was always as soft as freshly baked bread, rushed over to him. The goat's face was filled with panic; he hated seeing anyone in pain, especially children.

"Don't worry so much," Ralsey said, crouching down next to him. He hesitated to touch him. "Susie is... she's just very determined. And she's had a hard day, and she's been drenched, and..."

"She..." Lancer repeated softly, almost in a whisper.

Ralsey braced himself for the worst. Tears, hysteria, accusations...

Lancer raised his head.

And he was beaming. Not metaphorically. His face under the mask broke into an enthusiastic, radiant smile, and his eyes lit up with such adoration that Ralsey physically recoiled.

"She's so cool!" Lancer exclaimed enthusiastically, leaping to his feet with the energy of a spinning top. He didn't even bother to pick up his "spear." "Hey! Cool purple girl, wait! Hold on!"

And he chased after Susie, his oversized pants flapping in the dust.

Ralsey froze on his haunches, his hand still extended into the void where the “unfortunate” boy had been sitting a second ago. His brain, accustomed to the logic of scrolls and the harmony of the elements, was reeling. He simply couldn’t process this sudden shift in emotions. He slowly raised his gaze to Kris, his eyes filled with a silent question: “Did you see that? Is this even normal?”

Kris, on the other hand, let out a deep, weary sigh. The whole situation—the chase, the explosions, the falls, and now this... this clown—seemed to him the perfect embodiment of the absurdity into which he had been drawn. He approached, tapped the stunned Ralsey on the shoulder, and passed by, following the two retreating figures.

"Let's go" Kris said, without slowing his pace. "Maybe she really knows what to do. Or at least where to go. Sitting here is definitely not an option."

He took one last look into the darkness of the alley from where they had run. The guards were still out there somewhere. And ahead was the light, Lancer, whose enthusiastic babble was already mixing with the street noise, and Susie, who was no doubt about to punch someone in the face. In fact, there was no choice.

Ralsey, finally coming to his senses, hurried after them, shaking his head and muttering softly about "unpredictable variables in the equation of fate."

The dark alley led them not to a cozy street, but to a place that was a cross between a flea market and a garbage dump. The space, squeezed between tall, dilapidated buildings, was filled with stalls made of old crates and rubble on the ground. Instead of the smell of spices and fried flatbreads that permeated the main market, the air was filled with the stench of stale smoke, wet rags, metal shavings, and something else pungent—perhaps low-quality moonshine. The people and monsters scurrying about didn't shout to attract customers. They spoke in hushed tones, their gazes quick, assessing, and wary. Instead of selling fruits, they exchanged strange mechanisms, tattered scrolls, tarnished amulets, and clearly unanswered questions.

As Susie walked forward, her body seemed to cut through the dense, unwelcoming atmosphere. She didn't notice the stares or the grumbling of the vendors whose goods she almost knocked over. Her goal was simple: to find a trail.

Kris followed, his eyes scanning the surroundings as he always did, taking in every detail. Ralsey, on the other hand, cowered. His gentle nature vibrated with the collective aura of this place—an aura of distrust, tired anger, and hidden threats. When a large merchant with a scarred face looked at them for a long time without expression, Ralsey couldn't bear it and instinctively grabbed Kris's hand with both of his (paws?), holding it close like an anchor.

"Relax," Kris said quietly, not taking his eyes off Susie's back. "They're probably not that bad. It's just... the local flavor."

"Oh, no!" Lancer piped up cheerfully, trotting along behind Susie like a devoted puppy, occasionally jumping up to keep her in sight. He turned his head to them, his voice ringing with genuine enthusiasm. "They're crazy! Real crazy! Dad says only scum and losers live here! It's fun!"
Kris just sighed. It seemed useless to explain to Lancer that "fun" was not the right word.

Suddenly, Susie stopped. Their entire little formation froze.
She turned to Lancer, her voice hoarse and impatient. "Have you seen a ghost here?" The thing that runs on the walls?

Lancer froze, his face turned serious under the mask, as if he was pondering an important state secret. He scratched his chin.
"I saw it! It seems... He went west... either to the north... or... — he hesitated, apparently geographical concepts were abstract for him.

"Gods," Susie rolled her eyes, her voice icy with despair. "Just point the way!"

Without hesitation, Lancer immediately reached out and pointed to the left. There, behind a counter filled with old bolts and gears, stood a blank, dirty wall of a neighboring building. The only object on it was a peeling sign: "Seam's Shop." Beneath it was a barred window and a door, once red, now a dirty pink.

Susie looked at the door, then at Lancer, then back at the door. She seemed to be calculating the probability of a spirit passing through stone. In the end, she just lowered her head, leaning toward the boy.
“All right,” she hissed. “Let’s ask this guy how to get to where you pointed.” Maybe there's a backyard or something.

"Maybe he'll have a map of the area!" Ralsey offered with timid hope, slightly raising one hand, as if in class. The idea of a map seemed to him a reasonable, civilized way out of the impasse.

Susie just nodded, already turning back to the store. At that very moment, the trajectory of her movement was crossed by another one. A man was waddling heavily around the corner, a burly guy in a greasy leather jacket, with a face that had clearly seen more fights than kind words. They collided shoulder to shoulder.

It was like a spark falling into gunpowder.

"What, are you broad?" the stranger barked, turning around. His small eyes were filled with an instant, irrational rage.

Susie didn't flinch. She turned her full body toward him, standing up to her full height. Those pupils that had frightened Kris shrank again, almost disappearing into the yellow eyes.
"Didn't you have enough room?" Her voice was low, dangerous, rolling like thunder before a storm. "You could have just walked around me!"

"Go on! Hit him! Right in the face!" Lancer, forgetting all about the world, jumped up and down nearby, clenching his fists in ecstatic anticipation of the spectacle.

Ralsey gasped and rushed between them, throwing his arms up.
"Wait, wait! Let's not start any conflicts over nothing!" He turned to Susie, his eyes pleading. "Susie, please, calm down." Then to the stranger, trying to make his voice as diplomatic as possible: "Sorry, sir, we just wanted to go into the store and..."

"Get out of the way, little goat," Susie interrupted in a flat voice. With a single motion, she pushed Ralsey aside, as if brushing aside a branch in her path. Her gaze never left her opponent. "Do you want to fight?"

She took a fighting stance. It wasn't a graceful stance like a master of the art, but a utilitarian, street-smart stance: her legs were slightly apart, her body was tilted forward, and her fists were clenched and raised to her face. In that moment, her clenched fists ignited. The fire didn't just surround them; it thickened like bright, hot armor, evaporating the moisture from her skin with a quiet, ominous hiss. The air around her shimmered with heat.
"Well," she said, her voice ringing with steel. "I'm ready."

The stranger grinned, revealing a missing tooth. He took a step back, not out of fear, but to swing his arm. His heavy boot lifted, ready to crash down on the ground, summoning stone spikes or a wave—a standard move for a rough earth mage.

The punch never happened.

“Gentlemen,” came a voice. Not loud, but surprisingly clear, cutting through the thick atmosphere of impending violence. There was no threat, no fear. Just a tired, but unquestioning, statement. “If you want to fight, go to the abandoned area. I don’t want any trouble in front of my store.”

Kris, Ralsey, Susie, and even Lancer all turned their heads toward the source of the sound. The owner of Seam's Store was leaning against the doorframe.

It was a monster. But not like Toriel or any of the others Kris had seen. It looked like... a huge, battered-looking stuffed animal. Its fur was a patchy, dirty-purple-and-black color, and it had a lot of matted-up areas. Its face was soft, but its single yellow eye (the other one seemed to have been lost a long time ago) had a sharp, unchildlike look of understanding. The most striking evidence of its "toy-like" appearance was its single ear: it was neatly but noticeably sewn with coarse threads, and a piece of some kind of white filler protruded from a small tear at the very base. He was wearing a simple but clean apron over a worn shirt.

The stranger, seeing him, was instantly transformed. All his aggression evaporated, replaced by almost obsequiousness. He muttered something unintelligible in a low voice, nodded in the direction of the Driver and hurriedly shuffled away, disappearing into the crowd of the market.

Susie slowly unclenched her fists. The fire went out with a hiss, disappearing into the air in wisps of smoke. She turned to the old man.
"He started it first," she said without a shadow of justification, just stating the fact.

The chief blinked his one eye slowly.
"I don't care who started it first," he replied, and his voice sounded like the creak of old but sturdy wood. "I'm only interested in one thing: whether this fight will affect me and my property. The answer was «yes.» So it's over." He looked from one to the other. "I'm the owner. My name is Seam. Do you need anything, kids? Or have you just come to decorate my doorstep with potential violence?"

"We've come for the map, sir!" Ralsey was the first to speak, anticipating any potential rudeness or sarcasm from his companions. He instinctively understood that their temper needed to be cooled, and the old monster in the doorway exuded a sense of calm authority that defied argumentation. "We apologize for disturbing you..."

Seam, his single eye fixed, sighed heavily, as if exhaling the smoke of long-forgotten battles. He nodded silently, turned around and disappeared into the semi-darkness of the store, clearly expecting to be followed.

Susie, without hesitation, went first. She was still driven forward by rage, but now she found a specific vector: the map. The others followed her like ducklings.

Inside, the shop was surprisingly spacious, as if it had been hollowed out of the thickest part of the city wall. The air smelled of old age, oil, dust, and something sweet and herbal. The shelves, made of rough dark wood, were filled with a variety of junk and, in some cases, real treasures. There were piles of tattered scrolls next to neat stacks of new paper, old, mysteriously shimmering amulets mixed in with ordinary nails and bolts, broken mechanisms whose purpose was impossible to guess, and a few truly well-made tools. It was a treasure trove of everything forgotten, unnecessary, or carefully concealed in the Lower Ring.

"Do you need a map of this ring or the Middle Ring?" asked Seam, standing behind a counter made of crates. His voice was calm and businesslike.

At these words, both Kris and Susie froze in place, as if they had run into an invisible wall. Susie was the first to recover, as always.

"What do you mean, 'this'?" Her voice lost its aggression, and was replaced by pure bewilderment. "Aren't we in the Middle Ring?"

Seam shook his head slowly, and there was a kind of tired pity in his movement.
"Oh, no, dear. You are in the Lower Ring. In an area ruled by a King." His single eye slid towards Lancer, who was nonchalantly examining a pile of old keys. "I thought you knew about it, since you go in the company of his son."

There was silence in the store, broken only by the crackling of some old wiring. Slowly, very slowly, Susie turned her head towards Lancer.

"Wait a minute..." Her voice was low and dangerous. "Are you some kind of prince, little guy?"

Lancer looked up from his keys and smiled brightly, holding up a thumb in a gesture of complete confirmation.
"The prince of darkness! The most important one after dad!" he announced proudly.

Susie closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose hard, as if trying to erase the information along with her headache. Without saying a word, she walked over to the counter and leaned on it with both hands, looking directly at Seam.
"All right. Then give me a map of 'this' ring."

Seam slowly pulled two rolled-up, worn maps out from under the counter. He unfolded them on the countertop. One was a detailed map of the area, with a maze of streets, alleys, and dead-ends, marked with wells, broken-down areas, and strange, unmarked buildings. The second was a schematic map of the entire Lower Ring, with bold lines indicating the main arteries, a few gates leading to the Middle Ring, and a large building in the center marked with a crown-like symbol. The castle.

"I'll sell you two if you pay a little more than one," Seam said matter-of-factly, but Susie wasn't listening anymore. She grabbed the detailed map of the area and crouched down, spreading it out on the floor in front of Lancer's nose.

"So," her voice was low, pressed into the floor. "Now, no nonsense. Where did he go? Show me exactly."

Lancer, frowning seriously, pointed a chubby finger at a spot on the map. "Well... I think it was here!"

But then Ralsei's voice was heard, who was looking over the girl's shoulder.
"But... It's a market. We are here now," he pointed to almost the same area. "We haven't gotten anywhere.

"The spirit is looking for a large crowd of people,— Kris joined in the analysis, sitting down next to her. He ran his finger from the marked market to a densely shaded area on the map, indicating a dense building. — Maybe he went to a residential area? To the people.

A short, dry, humorless laugh came from behind the counter.
"Residential areas?" Seam was already folding the second, general map. "Ha-ha. That's funny, boy. There are no residential areas in the King's territory. There are only destroyed buildings and abandoned buildings. If you can occupy, recapture, and hold onto them, they are yours. That's the rule. And there are no more "areas."

Kris and Ralsei exchanged glances. This simple explanation was the whole point of this place: the law of force, lawlessness masquerading as order.

Susie, on the other hand, ignored this social comment and stared intently at Lancer. Her instincts told her that something wasn't adding up.
"Are you sure you saw him?" "What is it?" she asked, emphasizing the last word. —The shadow. Who's joking.

Lancer thought about it, scratching the top of his head under his tin helmet. His eyebrows went up.
"Well... Aren't we talking about a dog right now? The red-haired one with the bushy tail?"

Susie made a long, moaning sound, full of the deepest suffering, and got to her feet. She was looking at the map, but her gaze was glazed.

"If you're looking for that shadow," the Chef spoke again, as if reading their minds, casually wiping the glass with a worn cloth, "then I advise you to go to the castle. This spirit was already here at the market a couple of hours ago. He was playing pranks, scaring merchants. Then he moved in that direction. To the source of the biggest fuss.

"Great" Susie said, instantly brightening up. She abruptly folded the map into the tube and, without looking back, headed for the exit.

Seam shifted his silent, expectant gaze from her back to Kris and Ralsei. Lancer, without hesitation, galloped after his new heroine.

Ralsei, casting a guilty glance at Kris, hurried after them, muttering something about gratitude and apologies.

Kris was the last one standing. He sighed heavily, like an adult, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a single silver coin with a square cutout in the middle—an old capital currency that Toriel had kept for a rainy day.
“Is that enough?” he asked, placing the coin on the counter.

Seam looked at the coin, then at Kris. He nodded once, briefly and matter-of-factly. He took the coin, and it disappeared silently into his paw. The deal was done.

Kris was already turning to leave when the voice of the Driver stopped him on the threshold.
"Give my regards to Toriel."

Kris froze. He slowly turned around and met the gaze of the old monster's single yellow eye. There was no threat or familiarity in that look. It was just a statement of a connection that Kris didn't know about. Nodding in return, just as reservedly, he stepped outside to catch up with his unwilling companions, leaving behind a door to a world that, it turned out, knew his family better than he did.

The road now led to the castle. To the King. And to the spirit, who may have already found a new, powerful master to play with.

(To be continued...)

Chapter 8: Book 1"Earth";Chapter 8: The Rift

Once upon a time, an Avatar named Korra broke the connection with Raava's past incarnations and started a new cycle of Avatars. Korra was the first to open a portal between the human and spirit worlds. Since then, much has happened... Many things have changed, but sooner or later, the balance is lost, and the world awaits the next Avatar. However, what if the Avatar... is never found?

The road to the castle was not a straight highway, but a labyrinth, where the King's power was felt in every detail: in the wary silence of the alleys, in the graffiti of a crude crown on the walls, in the rare passers-by who hurried away with their eyes downcast. And also in his guards.

They came out onto a more or less wide street when two appeared from around the corner. Not the giants that had chased them before, but just as rough, in worn armor made of compressed earth. When they saw the group of strangers, they instantly became alert, their hands reaching for their batons.

Susie took a fighting stance without saying a word. The flames hadn't ignited on her fists yet, but it was only a matter of seconds. Her whole posture screamed, "Finally, something understandable!"

"Susie, no!" Ralsei stepped forward, trying to get between her and the guards. "We can just explain!"

But there was no need to explain. The guards, their eyes squinting, noticed Lancer, who jumped forward and waved at them happily. Their tense postures relaxed instantly. They bowed their heads in a casual but unmistakable gesture, not out of respect, but out of recognition of their status. Without a word, they turned and strode away, as if a group of four teenagers (one of whom was fuming with rage) were just part of the landscape.

The fight did not take place. The threat has dissipated. But the poison remained.

Ralzey turned to Susie, his face expressing not relief, but reproach.
— Susie, you can't solve all problems with your fists!
He waved his arms (paws?), and there was an unusual sharpness in the gesture.

Kris, watching from the sidelines, just folded his arms across his chest. He was a spectator in this performance.

"Why not?" Susie snapped, not fully straightening up. "They were the ones who attacked me first!"

"They're the guards! They're protecting the territory!" Ralsei's voice rose in frustration as he struggled to make sense of her actions. "And you... you just started attacking!"

"It wasn't just like that! It was self-defense!"

"Self-defense?!" Ralsei couldn't stand it anymore. He pointed back at the retreating market. "What about that 'nice' man behind the counter? Was that self-defense too? You were ready to burn him for pushing you!"

Susie rolled her eyes with such annoyance, as if she was trying to see her own brain.
“I was hungry,” she muttered to the side, as the weakest and most ridiculous excuse in history. She was distracted, unfolded the map, rubbing the top of her head. “Where are we going at all... This castle, damn...”

“Don’t get off the subject!” For the first time, Ralsei’s voice sounded real, not feigned severity. He took a step towards her, and there was a fire of conviction in his usually soft eyes. "It's important, Susie! Your power... That's not what she's for! A hero shouldn't...

He didn't finish his sentence.

Susie whirled around. Her movement was as swift as a whip. She didn't just look at him—she stared, and her pupils shrank back, turning her yellow eyes into two narrow, glowing slits in a dark tunnel of rage. She didn't scream. She spoke softly, but every sound was sharp as a blade, burning hotter than any flame.

"Listen, you little bitch."

She jabbed the rolled-up card into his chest, forcing him to take a step back.

"Shut up. Stop giving me your damned moral lectures. You've never lived here. You don't know how things work around here. There's no 'please' or 'sorry' here. It's either you or you don't exist. You're not my father! Don't you dare tell me what to do. Not ever."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Kris, feeling the icy wave coming from her, instinctively stepped back even further. Ralsei froze. All his fervor, all his belief in dialogue and kindness, was shattered by this wall of absolute, cynical denial. His face was not filled with anger, but with something worse—confusion and fear. Fear not of her power, but of the realization that there was a chasm between their worlds that he could not bridge with words.

Lancer, standing to the side, was the only one who looked completely satisfied. He was staring at Susie with adoration, as if she were an erupting volcano.

Susie, her eyes fixed on Ralsei's white face, grabbed Lancer's arm and pulled him closer.
"You're a prince," she said, her voice returning to its usual rough tone, but this time it sounded like a condemnation. "You should know the way. Come with me."

She didn't even look at Kris. Grabbing Lancer with one hand and lifting him easily as if he were a kitten, she took a step back. Two jets of dazzling flame erupted from the soles of her boots with a short, furious roar. The explosive force propelled them both into the air. She deftly hooked her free hand onto the ledge, pulled herself up with a jerk, and disappeared onto the roof without a backward glance. A second later, all that could be heard was the sound of heavy footsteps retreating across the tiles.

—Susie! Wait a minute! Ralsei shouted into the void, but his voice, full of pain and helplessness, was lost in the echoing silence of the deserted street.

He slowly lowered his head, his shoulders hunched. The card she had poked at his chest landed on the dirty stone at his feet. The trio broke up before they could form properly. The Guide and the Air Mage were left standing among the strange walls, while the Fire Mage went off into the unknown with the Prince of Darkness to search for the ghost. The prophecy seemed like more than just a delusion; it was an evil, mocking joke.

Kris approached, picked up the map from the ground, dusted it off, and looked in the direction that Susie had disappeared.
"Well," he said without emotion. "Should we follow her?" Or do you have a scroll that tells you what to do when your heroes scatter?

The question hung in the air, and there was no answer to it in any of the ancient scrolls.

The silence after Susie's departure was thick and awkward. Ralsei walked forward almost mechanically, his gaze fixed on the dirty stones beneath his feet rather than the path. Kris walked alongside him, maintaining a respectful distance but never falling behind. He now had the castle map in his possession, rolled tightly in his hand.

"I don't understand," Ralsei began quietly, his voice sounding lost, like a child who had been lied to for the first time. "Why was she so angry? I was just clarifying... what she should know. She should be better. It's important for a hero..."

He was talking more to himself than to Kris, trying to put his confusion into words.

"It's easy," Kris said, matching his step. His voice was calm, analytical, and non-judgmental. "You tried not to clarify. You tried to impose your opinion. You tried to tell her how to live her life."

Ralsei looked up at him, his big eyes full of genuine bewilderment.
"But I wanted to help! To keep her from hurting herself and others! Is that wrong?"

"It's not wrong. It's just... inappropriate," Kris shrugged. "Ralsei, we're teenagers. Look at us. Look at her. You came here with a lofty idea of heroes and destiny, but she lives here in this shit, where every day is a struggle. Her "should" was to survive, not to live up to some ancient scroll's ideals. She didn't like you, a stranger, lecturing her like you knew her life better than she did.

Ralsei froze for a moment, digesting the words. Then he rubbed his neck, his ears drooping.
"Oh. Yes... you're right. I hadn't thought of that. I was blind." He looked at Krist, guilt in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Kris snorted, but not unkindly. "You'd better apologize to Susie. Unless she burns you at the stake when we find her."

He glanced to the side, scanning the intersection. His gaze swept across the dark, narrow passage between two dilapidated buildings. And there, in the depths, where even the daylight struggled to penetrate through the web of ropes and old debris, something glimmered.

Two points of light. Red. Not reflections—they glowed from within, a steady, unfriendly radiance, like smoldering embers. They were at human height and they were looking straight at him.

Kris felt a chill run down his back. They weren't animal eyes. They had a sense of awareness. Of observation.

He took a step towards the alley, trying not to make a sudden movement. The eyes didn't blink. They just hung there in the darkness, unmoving. Kris narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the shape of the figure, but there was nothing but those two blood-red dots. Just a dense, almost tangible shadow.

And in the next moment, they were just... gone. Not retreating, not hiding—disappearing as if they had never been there. The dark passage was just a dark passage again.

“Are you all right?” Ralsei asked worriedly, noticing that Kris had gone still. He moved closer, following his gaze.

Kris slowly let out a breath, forcing his muscles to relax. He didn’t know what it was. A spirit? No, the Mock had a different, more chaotic energy. One of the King's men? Perhaps. But those eyes... There was something inhuman about them. Something old.

He turned to Ralsei, hoping his face didn't give anything away.
"Yes," he said, too quickly. "Let's keep moving. Everything's fine. It was just a feeling."

But he took one last, quick look down that alley before he set off. "Normal" was far from the truth. In addition to the spirit, the angry Susie, the vengeful guards, and the mysterious King, there seemed to be something else in the area. Something that was just watching. And that "something" had just noticed them.

He gripped the map in his hand tighter. Their goal was no longer just to catch up with Susie. It had to be done quickly, before the shadows in the alleyways decided to take a more active interest.

(To be continued...)

Chapter 9: Book 1 "Earth"; Chapter 9: The Wrong Gesture

Summary:

What was Susie doing?

Notes:

You know, it's very important for Susie to keep a rough edge to her character. The fact is that I write this fanfiction first in my native language, and then translate it through a translator. And quite often the meaning of my rude words changes a lot. Suggest rude name-calling in English.

Once upon a time, an Avatar named Korra broke the connection with Raava's past incarnations and started a new cycle of Avatars. Korra was the first to open a portal between the human and spirit worlds. Since then, much has happened... Many things have changed, but sooner or later, the balance is lost, and the world awaits the next Avatar. However, what if the Avatar... is never found?

Running across rooftops with a ten-year-old "prince of darkness" under my arm was surprisingly easy. Lancer barely moved, just dangled his legs in the air and chattered nonstop like a loose rattle.

"Do you like axes?"
"Yes."
"And axes?"
"Yes."
"And swords?"
"Yes."
"And bows?"
"Yes."
"And spears? Like mine!"
"Yes."
"And maces?"
"Yes, damn it, yes!" Susie finally snapped, her patience gone. "I like anything I can hit! Got it?"

Lancer thought for a moment, then smiled brightly.
"Cool! Me too!"

Susie rolled her eyes and continued walking, her gaze scanning the horizon for any sign of a castle. But all she could see was an endless sea of identical tiled roofs, chimneys, and dreary courtyards. The map was still in the hands of the two men below, and her internal compass, which was mostly focused on anger and hunger, was useless for architectural navigation.

She stopped, put Lancer on his feet, and then, before he could say anything, grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up so that they were face to face. Her yellow eyes narrowed.

"Okay, punk. Be honest. Are we going there? To the castle?"

Lancer, his legs dangling in the air, slowly looked around, as if trying to absorb every detail of the place. His gaze swept over the dilapidated walls of the old houses, which were covered in moss and cracks. He noticed that some of the windows were empty, and the doors were hanging on broken hinges. The air was filled with the smell of dampness and dust, mixed with the scent of long-withered flowers.

He squinted, trying to see something in the distance, and rubbed his chin, frowning in thought. His face remained serious, but there were glimpses of amusement in his eyes. Lancer was clearly enjoying the moment, despite the destruction around him.

"I have absolutely no idea!" he declared cheerfully. "I thought you knew where we were going!"

Susie froze. Then her free hand slowly came up and she slapped it over her face with a dull thud, running her palm down from her forehead to her chin, as if wiping away the last of her hope and common sense. A long, groaning sound came from her chest.

"Why me?" she muttered under her breath. "All right. We'll think of something. Let's go down and ask someone..." less useless.

She walked to the edge of the roof and looked down. A squad of guards was patrolling the street below—three of them, wearing the same stone armor, but their breastplates bore not just a relief, but a clear, embossed crest: a black spade, like a playing card. It looked more substantial than the regular guards. Perfect candidates.

Susie whistled, still holding Lancer under her arm. Briefly, abruptly, what is the name of the taxi.

One of the guards, the largest, stopped and raised his head. His gaze, hidden by the helmet, stared at a strange couple on the roof: a tall purple monster girl and a boy in a tin helmet dangling under her arm.

Susie rested her elbow on her knee, adopting a relaxed but confident pose.
"Hey, big guy!" She shouted from above. "Can you tell me where the castle is? We're going to visit Daddy."

Lancer perked up when he heard about "daddy." He began to wave his hand vigorously towards the guards. His gesture was quick and sweeping, out of delight, not fear. He was just happy to see his friends! But in the twilight, from below, that sharp wave of his hand could have passed for anything. For trying to escape. For sending a desperate cry for help.

The guards froze for a split second. Then their commander, the one who was looking at them, made a low, hoarse sound, more like a growl than a word.

"She is.".. — his voice rumbled, gaining volume, — KIDNAPPED THE PRINCE!

It was like flipping a switch. All three guards looked up in unison. Their poses went from relaxed-patrolling to ready for battle in an instant. They didn't even bother to look for a way around. Two of them stomped their feet on the ground with force.

The ground beneath their feet didn't just tremble. It bucked. The stone slabs of the pavement began to break and rise with a rumbling sound, forming a rough, wide staircase, or rather, an inclined ramp that creaked and groaned as it climbed up the wall, straight towards the roof where Susie and Lancer were standing. The third guard was already climbing up the makeshift ramp, his stone armor scraping against the ground.

Susie's eyes widened. Not out of fear. Out of pure, unadulterated rage at the idiocy of the situation.
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" She growled, bouncing off the edge. She threw Lancer behind her to a safer part of the roof. "Stay here and don't move!"

She turned towards the advancing guards, and her fists were already engulfed in the familiar, fierce flames. The "polite way of asking for directions" plan had officially failed. Again.

The fight didn't start with a rush, but with preparation. Susie, driven by instinctual fury, charged forward like a typhoon. Her style was a pure, unadulterated assault, a legacy of her people stripped of its centuries-old philosophy and reduced to a simple formula: strike first, strike harder. She hurled a ball of flame from her clenched fist, resembling a broken brick, at the nearest guard. Instead of dodging, the man took the blow on the stone plate of his shoulder guard. The flames broke and scattered, leaving only black scorch marks. The guard didn't even flinch.

Their response was not aggression, but methodical. They did not charge at her in a mob. The two who had created the ramp lowered themselves in unison into low, incredibly stable stances, their knees deeply bent and their center of gravity pressed against the ground, as if they were growing into the roof itself. This was the foundation of the mantis style: absolute stability, the patience of a predator waiting for the right moment. Their movements were economical and powerful, originating from their hips and feet, which were firmly rooted in the ground.

The one closest didn't throw the stones. He slapped the roof tiles in front of him with the edge of his hand. The roof reared up, and a sharp ridge of stone, like the jaw of a mantis, erupted right at Susie's feet. She barely jumped back, her movement abrupt and energy-draining. At that moment, the second guard made a wide, sweeping circular gesture with his hand. The fragments of brick and rubble from the ramp flew up and towards her, not just in a hail, but in a clear, cross-shaped trajectory, cutting off her escape route.

Susie responded with a whirlwind of fire. She spun, punching and kicking, unleashing flames in short, furious bursts. Each strike was meant to shatter, burn, and repel. But the guards did not retreat. They accepted. Their stone armor cracked and darkened, but they held firm. They did not attack her flames; they attacked her, her space, and her stability. Each of their blows on the roof caused local tremors that made Susie stagger, break the rhythm. She was a whirlwind, and they were the rock that the whirlwind was crashing against.

Her mistake was fundamental. She watched the fist of the first guardian raise its arm to strike, and prepared to parry with a flurry of fire. She did not see how the second one, hardly moving, only slightly pressed his heel on the tiles behind her.

Two stone grips grew up from under her own feet, silently and swiftly. They wrapped around her ankles, not with brute force, but with the precision of a surgeon, and instantly hardened, pinning her in place. Susie cried out in surprise and fury, and tried to struggle, but her weight worked against her. She was chained.

The first guard, seeing this, raised his hand slowly, almost ceremoniously. A massive boulder gathered and spun above his stone palm, aiming directly at its body. The captured Susie no longer had the power to create a wall of fire.

"Okay, stop!" A clear voice rang out. Lancer, who had been forgotten by everyone, jumped to his feet. His face under the helmet was distorted not by fear, but by resentment. "Stop hitting my friend!"

But the guards, disciplined and focused on the threat, ignored him. To them, he was just a background character. The stone in the guard's hand was already trembling, ready to be fired.

Suddenly, something elegant and swift intervened. With a whistle that cut through the air, a stick was thrown at the guard holding the stone. Rather, it was not a stick but a cane made of light, almost bright green, polished wood with a silver knob. The blow was precise and strong, hitting exactly the gap between the helmet and the shoulder pad. The guard gasped, his head jerked back, and control of the stone collapsed. The cobblestone fell heavily onto the tiles, rolling to the side.

But the cane didn't fall. As if she were alive, she bounced off the blow in an arc and, having described an elegant circle in the air, returned to slash the same guard's knee with an edge from the back. There was a dry click, not of the stone armor, but perhaps of something inside. The guard collapsed to one knee with a dull groan, losing his balance.

The other two guards spun around from Susie, their stone masks now showing shock and fury. Their eyes fell on the source of the attack.

On the edge of a nearby, slightly higher roof, leaning on a cane that had returned to his hand, stood a monster. He was short, his silhouette resembling that of a polite, somewhat old-fashioned turtle. He wore a well-fitting, albeit worn, tuxedo and a small bowler hat. His right eye was closed, and two long, carefully curled pink eyebrows hung from beneath the brim of his hat. A matching small, pointed pink beard adorned his chin. He looked as if he had just stepped out of some underground gentleman's club, rather than engaging in a street brawl.

"Oh, what a generation," he said, his voice husky and full of familiar, weary humor. He shook his head, and his pink eyebrows wiggled. "They don't respect the old at all, and they don't respect the young either. They're our future, and you're turning them into stone. It's not right."

He leapt lightly onto the roof where the battle was taking place, and his cane made a light tap on the tiles beside Susie's fettered feet. The stone grips gave a thin crack and crumbled into dust.

Susie, staggering from her sudden freedom, recoiled, but her eyes were no longer fixed on the guards, but on this incredible old man. There was not a trace of fear in his single open eye, wise and mocking, as he faced the two remaining giants. There was only mild annoyance and... interest.

There was a moment of tense silence, broken only by Susie's heavy breathing and the soft whistle of the wind in the tin pipes. Susie, still in shock, looked from the unperturbed old man to the bristling guards. Lancer's gaze darted between them, his mouth slightly open in silent awe at the sudden turn of events.

The guards recovered from the unexpected attack. Their movements became even more synchronized, as if they were parts of the same mechanism. The first one, the one who was standing closer, slowly raised his right hand, palm up. His fingers were slightly bent, as if he were holding an invisible ball, a classic preparation for a powerful directional release.

The second guard, standing slightly behind and to the side, assumed a mirrored stance. He brought his left foot back far, rooting himself, and extended his right hand forward, palm down, making a pushing motion toward the ground, as if pushing an invisible piston.

The effect was immediate and eerily quiet. A small crater formed directly beneath them, on the street, with a dull crunch. The stone slab of the pavement split into dozens of sharp, jagged fragments the size of a fist. They hung in the air like shards of a broken mirror.

The first guard now raised his left hand. Both of his palms, facing the pile of debris, made a smooth, lifting motion. The fragments of stone obediently soared upward, forming a chaotic but deadly cloud between the rooftops and the sky. The goal was clear: a volley that could not be dodged.

The old man, watching this display of power, did not even flinch. His single open eye looked on with lazy interest, and his lips were still curved in that same grin, as if he were watching puppies play. The air, which smelled of dust and danger, seemed to be the scent of freedom for him—the freedom of action.

Susie, on the other hand, felt the ground shifting beneath her feet, figuratively speaking. Her breath was coming in short bursts, from the combination of excitement, exhaustion, and impotent anger. She squatted down, resting her hand on the rough shingles to keep her balance in this swaying world.

"Don't panic, girl," the old man chuckled, not looking at her. — Take your time. Wait. Let them make their move first. Stop mindlessly darting around like a moth on fire.

"Don't tell me what to do," Susie breathed through clenched teeth, rolling her eyes. Her pride was hurt more than her body.

"I wasn't going to," chuckled the grandfather, and there was a genuine, almost paternalistic chuckle in his voice. It made Susie look up from the cloud of stones for a moment and look at him. "Just a piece of advice from someone who's seen more fights than you've got hair on your head. Since you've got everything under control here..." He turned around, pretending to leave. "...I'll be on my way."

This movement was the trigger.

The first guard pulled his right arm to the side, and with his left hand, clenched into a fist, he lunged as if striking the air. The cloud of stones began to move. But not all at once. Two of the largest, sharpened fragments, as if driven by a separate will, roared out of the general cloud and rushed not at Susie, but at the back of the retreating old man. It was a precise, treacherous shot, designed to take out an unpredictable opponent.

Susie didn't think. Her body reacted faster than her mind, obeying some deep-seated sense of justice. She lunged forward and pushed the old man out of the way. She managed to dodge the first stone that was flying straight at her by sharply turning her body. The stone passed within a centimeter of her shoulder.

The second stone, which was supposed to hit the old man, was now flying straight at her. And she didn't have time to dodge.

The impact would be on her right cheekbone. It wasn't a dull thud, but a resounding, bone-jarring CLACK that made her skull ring and the world explode with white sparks. The pain was blinding and instantaneous. She was thrown backward like a ragdoll. She flipped in the air and fell off the edge of the roof.

But the survival instinct honed in the heat of the forge and the street brawls kicked in on autopilot. As she fell, her free hand managed to grab hold of an old, rusted ledge. Her body jerked violently, and a sharp pain pierced her shoulder, but she hung on, not falling.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push away the nausea and the spots that swam before her eyes. Her ears were ringing. "No. Not now." Gathering her will into a fist, she exhaled, and two short, controlled jets of flame erupted from the soles of her boots. They didn't explode, but pushed. Still holding on to the ledge, she rose vertically three feet into the air, hovered there for a moment, and then, under the force of gravity, landed on the shingles of the same roof from which she had almost fallen.

She stood up, swaying. Her vision was blurred, and her temples throbbed. She closed her eyes again, rubbing her swelling cheek with her palm.
"You're a bastard," she hissed through her teeth, addressing both the guard and the situation, and perhaps a little bit of herself.

A calm, velvet-like chuckle sounded nearby.
"Not bad for a self-taught one," the old man's voice said. Susie opened her eyes slightly. He was standing in the same spot where she had pushed him, watching as the third and largest stone from the cloud arced down to land on top of them.

The old man didn't even change his posture. He just flicked his cane with a slight gesture. The dark wood with its silver knob slipped from his fingers and flew towards the flying rock. Instead of hitting the rock head-on, it struck the side of the rock at a perfect angle. Instead of a loud crash, there was a dry, clean sound, like an overripe nut cracking. The rock shattered into dozens of small, harmless fragments before it even reached half its intended distance.

And then the cane, describing a graceful, wide loop in the air, like a dutiful boomerang, smoothly returned and, with a soft thud, rested again in the old man's waiting palm.

He turned his head to Susie, his single eye narrowing.
"You see? Sometimes it's enough just to... take the initiative. At the right point.

(To be continued...)