The magic swirled in her mind in an unpredictable maelstrom, she struggled to hold onto the strands of power, certain that if they slipped away the best she could hope for was a sudden and violent death. The Codex had come into her possession when she had murdered the previous Tyrant and taken control of the city. The spells in were poorly understood, even by more experienced wizards and scholars. Mostly the book seemed to be a kind of arcane gibberish or else extremely complicated ways to do things much more easily accomplished with far simpler incantations. Weather magic was extremely rare and notoriously unpredictable. This spell was the only one she had ever seen that wasn’t locked up in some aging arch-mages grimoire. It was far more complicated than anything she had attempted, it felt like trying to mould dry sand in a hurricane. Her hands continued to weave the pattern prescribed, though her mind was disengaged from the process. The world seemed to have shaowed into a gray blur and things moved in the darkened mist. One of them was Markus swinging a sword but there were other things that she was sure she didn’t want to see.

It wasn’t going to work, there was nothing for her to hold onto the spell was on the verge of unravelling. With the suddenness of a lightning strike there was a flash of scarlet. It was blood, fountaining from a sword wound, dripping from Markus’ blade. She wasn’t sure how she did it but she reached for the blood it streamed towards her in concentric sanguine contrails. Magic poured from her in a surge that she felt like a tidal wave. It was like shaping clay with her finger tips and if only she knew how to sculpt it who knew what she might accomplish. Something tore and there was a sound like shattering glass. Calliope's eyes snapped open and from behind her came a monstrous gale. Air as cold as ice tore past her, stinging her skin. The rigging snapped taught with a thunderclap and the ship seemed to jump forward like a dolphin leaping from the spray. The howling of the wind was deafening, so strong that the water furrowed ahead of the gale. Calliope risked a quick glance over her shoulder. Snow mist were pouring through an odd distortion in in the air.

With a shout of victory she threw the wheel over and the ship lurched towards the guardship, then at the last second she hauled it back. The Weather Witch slammed into the side of the guardship, smashing the bank of oars on the starboard side like so many match stick. Even over the wind the screams of the oarsmen were audible as the were smashed against their benches or peppered with flying splinters. There was a grinding of timbers for a moment and then the Witch recoiled away, the pressure on her sails driving her like a racehorse towards the Sea Gate.

Calliopie stood up and did her best to look nonchalant, tucking the book back into her satchel as she did so. Glancing down at her arms she noticed strange patterns covering her arms, they seemed to be drawn in a pale crimson fire though it did not burn. After a moment the designs began to fade and then they were gone as though they had never been.

“As it happens,” she said modestly, “I do know a little weather magic.”