[i]When it comes down to it[/i], said Tactics, [i]this is a resource management problem.[/i]

She stepped into the coming blade.

Pain. Blood. Pain. Energy.

In the breaking of scale, the parting of skin, there was power.

[i]Your body is weak,[/i] said Tactics. [i]Your body is unlovely. Your body is clumsy, untouched, unadorned. You hold no allegiance to it. It is but a coin to you.[/i]

She was boiling beneath the blows of knights, of bodyguards, of Varangians. Every turn and rush took her into a different blow. Each blow she internalized. Inside her she felt three points, white hot, as her body strained under the accumulated weight of her mortal coil.

[i]Spend it.[/i]

Solarel closed her eyes.

And she walked the mountain.

*

The Stormlands. Impassable. Unlivable. Inescapable.

They crawled on their bellies. Elbow over elbow, slowly forwards, heads bowed. To raise any higher meant to fight the wind, howling overhead, gale-strong. Trees soared overhead. Some were burning where lightning had struck them. The clan looked at the distant fires and lightning with envy.

Fingernails against the dirt. Scratching, scratching, scratching. Searching for metal. Digging in the earth like animals as they crawled like worms. Searching, searching, searching. A discarded power cell, spat loose from a divine weapon and covered by dust and dirt, would be enough to power the clan for days. So every eye was kept down, watching the torn soil they left in their wake.

But one girl looked up. She saw the Gods.

Pointless, she knew, to look at them in the distance. To see those lights that went up endlessly, those mystic eyes, the radiation crackle when they engaged coolant cycles. To look at their monolithic grace, untroubled by the wind. To see them fight, the wasteful blaze of their engines enough to make and unmake this tribe a thousand times over. She saw it. It loomed in the distance, a colossus from ancient times. It stared directly at her.

Of course she could go. She could cut the line and crawl in that direction for a day and a night on the dim and flickering power left to her. She could get to her feet and embrace the only solid structure across the Stormlands. All for the chance to stand vertical for a moment. For a chance to climb upwards. Of course she could go. All that it would cost her was everything.

*

She stood before the Aeteline. She stood before her God.

Molten blood dripped from her. The floor was dusted with the violet dust of pulverized scales. A sword was still stuck in her body. She pulled it out and dropped it atop the knight who had wielded it. Torn spirits surrounded her, clouds of fading nanites crumbling back to dust.

The first part of the journey. The breath of the gods. The storm of blades and blows. To approach a God was to follow a path of ruin and bodies, the bones of ancient soldiers who had dared the ancient world's guardians. There was a path of ruin and bodies behind her now; knights and varangians scattered and dazed, swords broken, ribs cracked. They had left their mark.

With bloody fingers, Solarel reached out to touch the foot of the Aeteline. Life. Life, power, freedom from all this. She didn't need medical attention, she didn't need rest, she didn't need this body. She needed strength. Strength enough to interact with the people she loved. To be worthy. To be beautiful. If all being better than she was cost was everything she was, it was cheap at the price.

[Marking [b]Insecure [/b]and [b]Hopeless[/b]]