Free Endfall by Colin Ososki

Artimus. The blade fell from his hand. The assassin was shaking now, uncontrollably, and Artimus could see a dark fluid deluging from parts of his face. Artimus took a step back, horrified. The assassin dropped dead in the dark red snow.
                  Artimus was struck, frozen. He looked around him, and found that behind him in the snowy fog, the shape of a girl was coming forth. Soon after the blurred sight revealed Lyrah, standing in the snow beside the lynxes Abraham and Oslo, dressed in their vibrant metal armor.
                  “In need of assistance, Doctor?” Oslo asked, leaping ahead.
                  “Oslo! Abraham!” Artimus cried, dropping the dagger. He stood beside them, looking at the body. Mr. Charlie’s chariot had left. “Who’s this with us?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at this bizarre girl.
                  “This is Lyrah,” Abraham said, “You should thank her. We need you for an important task, Artimus.”
                  “Sorry, I am not prepared for-”Artimus stopped and looked at Lyrah. “Lyrah?” He asked. “Did you write me that letter?”
                  “Yes,” she said, “I am a friend of Milo’s. I’m sorry, but we are in a bit of a rush; we will talk later.” She quickly turned to Abraham, “I will be back. I have to do something.” Abraham nodded and Lyrah started a feverish sprint down the dark road.
                  “Abraham,” said Artimus, “I’m afraid it has begun.”
                  Abraham nodded and looked to the sky. “They will depart on the march towards Havensheil soon.”
                  Oslo strolled up to the dead, bloody body of the assassin. With his large paw, he lifted the side and flipped the body over, stomach-up on the ground. He pulled down the assassin’s cloak, revealing a small set of words imprinted on his neck. Oslo read the words out loud. “ TWENTY TWO .”
                  “I wonder what kind of a man he was before they gave him a number.” Artimus said, breathing heavily in the cold.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    THE BURNING
     
     
    Lyrah reached the Parker house quickly. The sound of his voice sent chills through her. She climbed through the front window of the house, which was broken open already. The smell of blood filled the inside of the house, and the place was disheveled. But Lyrah was only there for one particular interest, Milo’s room.
                  She ran up the old wooden stairs and climbed through the awkwardly built second floor to Milo’s room. When she had reached it, she was stopped by what came to her ears. The sounds outside were frightening; the sounds of people calling in the distance, of screams from inside houses, of a thick wind; but it wasn’t wind. Lyrah stood shaking in the half-torn hallway before Milo’s door, and slowly turned to look out the window. Her stomach squawked.
                  Outside, houses exploded into a fiery blaze, illuminating the neighborhood. They were just down the street from where she was. She looked away and advanced on the door to Milo’s room. She turned the bronze knob, entering with a slow, cautious move. The room was not as she had remembered it; it was torn apart. The lights were broken and various papers and books were scattered about the room on the old wooden floor. She knelt down and picked up a piece of notebook paper that was on the floor near her. The paper was old and somewhat wrinkled, and it was covered in writing from top to bottom.
                  It was a story. Lyrah decided not to read and get what she needed before the house became victim to the burning. But as she began to look away, something on the paper caught her attention. It was her name. Has he written about me? She quickly put the paper into her bag and walked over to the desk in the corner, where she hoped to find the snow