“An inescapable, thrilling destiny,” Malek’s voice echoed, and the violet light pulsed, radiating heat through the raw gouges on my wrist. I ripped my hand from Dragomir’s, scrambling backwards, but the shimmering chain around my wrist stretched, taut as a bowstring, then snapped back, yanking my arm forward with bone-jarring force. Dragomir, still crouched, barely flinched, his gaze dark and unreadable. My stomach churned. This was far worse than simply being assigned to him. This was a magical handcuff, a shared agony, a permanent reminder of the grim reaper I was shackled to. No, *I* was the grim reaper, running from my own shadow. I had to break this. And to break it, I had to get him off my back. Permanently. With literally anyone else. “Commander Malek,” I began, my voice a forced calm, “perhaps a ritual cleansing? A minor unbinding ceremony? I’m sure a veteran Vanguard such as yourself knows the ancient rites for… accidental Soul-Tethers.” Malek merely laughed, a dry, rasping sound that scraped against the stone walls. “Accidental? Ozerov, the Shard of Volgari has not bound two souls in over a century. You truly believe it was an ‘accident’ when you both gripped it at precisely the same moment? The fates have spoken, little monster hunter. Now, off with you. The Northern Pass awaits its demise, and you two are its harbingers.” He gestured dismissively, and the guard detail, looking equally disturbed by the sudden tethering, parted to let us through. Dragomir rose, his height a looming shadow, and turned towards the massive oak doors that led to the outer courtyard. I stumbled, the violet tether pulling at my wrist like an invisible leash. “Wait,” I hissed, but he kept walking, his gait unhurried. “We need a plan!” He spared me a glance over his shoulder. “The plan is to follow orders. The Frost-Wyrm breached the outer wall during the morning drill. We contain, we eliminate.” His voice was low, devoid of inflection, yet somehow managed to convey a mountain of irritation. “But… the tether!” I spluttered, grabbing Borscht from my pack, the ferret chittering indignantly. “We can’t just go charging into a fight like this! What if one of us gets hurt? What if you get hurt? I feel it too!” My stomach tightened at the thought of phantom pain. I needed him intact. Not for his sake, but for mine. He paused at the threshold, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. “Then try not to get hurt, Ozerov.” He stepped out, and I was dragged, stumbling, after him. The courtyard erupted into chaos. Ice shards exploded from a behemoth of blue scales and razor claws, tearing through the fortified stone. The Frost-Wyrm, easily twice the size of a siege engine, thrashed amidst the remains of a training barricade, its guttural roar rattling my teeth. Vanguard hunters, a sea of grey and black, scattered and regrouped, their elemental weapons flaring against the encroaching blizzard. Above the fray, perched on the highest battlement, was Milena Kavolya, her crimson sniper rifle glinting even in the muted light, its long barrel pointed with predatory precision. My mind raced. Milena. Glamorous, deadly, ambitious. Perfect. If I could just get Dragomir to *notice* her, to be distracted by her, to perhaps even… *tether* to her instead… My fate might be salvaged. “Dragomir,” I said, tugging on his sleeve, pulling my face into what I hoped was an innocent, helpful expression. “Look! Milena is already positioned. She’s a master of long-range engagement. Perhaps you should coordinate with her? A close-quarters brawler like yourself, paired with a sniper… it’s a classic, devastating combination!” I subtly tried to angle him towards the battlement where Milena was a stark silhouette against the snow-whipped sky. He merely grunted, his gaze fixed on the Frost-Wyrm, which was now tearing into a squad of novice hunters. “My target is the beast, Ozerov. Not the sniper.” “But she’s perfect for you!” I insisted, my voice rising in a desperate pitch. I spotted Milena descending a side staircase, her movements fluid and deadly graceful. She was heading towards a better vantage point, closer to the action. This was my chance. As she passed by, her dark hair a severe braid, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s, I took a deep breath. “Oh, Milena!” I practically shrieked, then, with a surge of adrenaline, I shoved her, hard, directly into Dragomir’s path. Milena stumbled, her rifle clattering against her armored chest, and collided with Dragomir’s rock-solid back. He turned, a flicker of surprise in his expression, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his massive cleaver. Milena, recovering with lightning speed, glared at me, her mouth a thin, venomous line. “Ozerov, what in the blazes are you playing at?” she snarled, her voice a low growl. “Just… helping you find your mark!” I stammered, already backing away, a triumphant grin spreading across my face. Success! Now to make my escape while they were occupied. I took another step, then another, my eyes fixed on a nearby ruined archway. Fifty feet. That was all I needed to clear. One step too many. The violet chain around my wrist flashed, and then, with a violent, sickening lurch, I was yanked backward through the air. The force ripped a gasp from my lungs, and for a terrifying second, I was airborne, soaring directly into the path of the Frost-Wyrm’s thrashing tail. It was a blur of scaled hide and jagged ice, arcing towards me with lethal speed. “Zivana!” Dragomir’s voice, sharp with alarm, cut through the din. He moved with impossible speed, a dark blur against the swirling snow. He launched himself forward, placing himself between me and the incoming blow. The massive tail, thick as a tree trunk and tipped with shards of frozen dread, slammed into him with a sickening crunch. He grunted, a sound of raw pain, and was thrown back, his armor groaning under the impact. A scream tore from my throat, not from fear, but from the brutal, white-hot agony that exploded in my own ribs. It felt like my bones had shattered, splintering inwards, tearing through muscle and flesh. I collapsed to the icy ground, gasping, every breath a searing torment. The shared pain. It was real. Too real. “Pathetic,” Milena scoffed, her crimson rifle already leveled. She took aim, not at Dragomir, but at a vulnerable point on the wyrm’s neck, a gap in its scales where faint magic pulsed. The crack of her shot was swallowed by the blizzard, but the projectile, a glowing ember of condensed fire, found its mark. The Frost-Wyrm shrieked, a sound of pure agony, and its colossal body began to seize, its movements slowing, then stopping altogether with a thunderous crash. She lowered her rifle, a wisp of smoke curling from its barrel. “Honestly, Ozerov, if you’re trying to set me up, at least do it with someone who matters. Rostova is a brute. I’m only interested in high-tier bounties, not some fumbling romance. I need to make Captain by winter, and associating with you two just got me a middling Frost-Wyrm core.” She flicked her gaze to Dragomir, who was slowly pushing himself up, one hand pressed to his ribs. “Still, a kill is a kill.” The Frost-Wyrm shuddered one last time, a final tremor rippling through its scaled hide. Then, with a soft, ominous *thrum*, its magical core, embedded in its chest, cracked open. A viscous, oily black liquid began to seep from the fissure, heavy as tar and shimmering with malevolent energy. Air froze in my throat. It was the same shadow-magic, the exact same dark, consuming energy, that had twisted into my chest and extinguished my life in the haunting memory of my murder.

The Sniper Solution