It's a wreck.

  Earth torn open like an old

  wound. Craters everywhere. Trees snapped in half, stone broken to

  chunks, grass scorched into clawing black fingers.

  The last of the

  Blood Raiders hang in the air, strung up like twisted

  marionettes—wrists, ankles, even their torsos tangled in pulsing,

  root-like vines. Spud’s handiwork. Efficient, if dramatic.

  Speaking of

  Spud... where is that little gremlin?

  No clue. I’ll

  deal with that later.

  The Raiders?

  Yeah, they’re wide-eyed and shaking, mouths open like they’re

  still trying to figure out how we turned the tide.

  Honestly?

  Same.

  I breathe in

  deep.

  The air tastes like burning metal, with that bitter edge

  of overused magic. It scratches down my throat, thick as smoke. My

  hands won’t stop shaking—not fear. Not exactly. More like… the

  aftermath. That wired, twitchy buzz after the fight ends but your

  body hasn’t gotten the memo.

  Stay sharp. Don’t

  slip.

  Of

  course.

  A System prompt

  blinks into my vision like a mosquito I want to swat.

  [Would

  you like to name your weapons?

  Really? Now?

  We’re ankle-deep in chaos and the damn thing’s trying to play

  name-that-sword.

  Whatever. I sigh,

  tap Yes, then mutter, “Randomize.”

  The

  screen shifts.

  [Left

  Hand]

  

  Soulfire

  Hot, wild, thrumming with

  defiance—raw Aether dancing like it's got something to prove.

  [Right

  Hand]

  

  Shadowsteel

  Cold. Clean. Arcane

  power in whisper-form. A blade that doesn’t roar. It stalks.

  Huh. Not

  bad.

  “Later, Calloway,” I mutter under my breath.

  I lower the

  weapons, and that’s when I notice Elara.

  She’s already

  steady. Feet planted like roots. Staff sunk deep into the torn

  ground. Her hair’s catching the sunrise—copper and flame in the

  light, like the old maple tree back home. Autumn. Wind in the leaves.

  The smell of soil after rain.

  She doesn’t

  look like a fighter.

  She looks like memory.

  Like something

  I lost and didn’t know how badly until just now.

  Something

  real.

  But I can’t let

  myself get pulled under. Not yet.

  Because that’s

  when the Broker starts laughing.

  Wet. Broken. The sound crawls

  up my spine like mold on old bread.

  He’s still

  standing.

  Wounds sealed. Skin patched up like a bad paint

  job.

  But his eyes—

  That fire’s still there. Still

  burning hot with obsession.

  He starts

  muttering. Something about fate. Power. Destiny written in blood and

  madness.

  I don’t hear

  most of it.

  Because I’m already moving.

  This bastard

  doesn’t get a second wind.

  Not today.

  Nobody

  breathes.

  Not even the wind dares.

  The air sticks to

  my skin—thick, electric—like the whole world’s holding its

  breath, waiting for the next crack of lightning. Sweat slides down my

  back, slow and sticky. My muscles stay coiled. Ready.

  Even the trees at

  the edge of the clearing lean in, like they’re trying to see how

  this ends. Leaves hang still. No rustle, no whisper. Just silence.

  Dust floats

  between us, catching the low sunlight like flecks of gold trapped in

  amber. It’s the kind of beauty you only see before something goes

  horribly wrong.

  My heartbeat? A war drum. Loud enough I swear

  the others can hear it. Louder than the Broker, even.

  And he’s still

  going.

  Spewing poison like it’ll make a difference.

  Ranting

  about Elara’s bloodline, her hair, some nonsense involving a goat

  with royal ambition—don’t ask.

  Classic Broker.

  Equal parts crazy and creepy.

  Elara doesn’t

  flinch. Not a blink. She’s rooted—calm, steady. Her staff glows,

  faint and pulsing, like it’s breathing. Like it’s waiting too.

  “Surrender

  and face judgment,” she says, voice like drawn steel. “I’d

  rather not kill you.”

  No threat. No

  drama. Just cold, clean truth.

  The Broker

  laughs. A sharp, broken sound—like dry leaves crumbling underfoot.

  His shoulders twitch. Eyes dart, too quick, too wild.

  That’s not

  confidence.

  That’s the look of someone who’s finally figured

  out there’s no way out.

  I don’t wait.

  Soul-Stride:

  Active.

  The world

  lurches.

  Color smears, sound bends, everything warps like bad

  glass—then snap.

  I’m behind him.

  Knees bent.

  Breathing shallow. The stink of sweat, charred leather, and spent

  magic hits hard.

  Shadowsteel hums

  in my grip—cold, focused, patient. Like it’s part of me now. It

  wants blood. So do I.

  I swing clean and

  wide, aiming for that soft spot just above the collarbone—

  But

  he moves.

  Too fast. Too aware.

  The blade kisses

  his cheek instead—thin line, quick flash of red. Blood trickles

  down his jaw. Close. But not enough.

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  Then the ground

  rumbles.

  Elara

  moves.

  Fast. Fierce. Fire dancing in her wake.

  She tears her

  staff from the dirt, spins it around like she’s done this a

  thousand times. Each rotation burns brighter—sunset and wildfire

  mixed together. And then—

  Boom.

  She releases it.

  A blast of

  golden-orange flame roars out, hot enough to melt the breath from my

  lungs. The edges of my clothing curl and crisp.

  I don’t stop.

  I dive through

  the heat, cloak flaring behind me.

  Soulfire flares in my left

  hand, flinging rounds like comets—hot, bright, screaming through

  smoke.

  Shadowsteel

  carves again. Fast. Sharp. Sparks fly.

  The Broker

  stumbles. Breathing ragged now. Slower. Not sloppy yet—but close.

  Elara’s magic

  wraps around me. Cool ribbons of green light. Every cut that opens,

  her healing seals. We move in rhythm. Fire. Steel. Grit.

  No time for

  talk.

  No clever quips.

  Just the fight.

  The fight’s

  found its rhythm—a brutal, bone-rattling waltz played loud and

  fast.

  Shadowsteel sings in my grip, cold and clean, every slash

  ringing like metal on metal as it crashes into the Broker’s jagged

  claws. Sparks fly—hot, sharp, burning little kisses across my face.

  Soulfire kicks in

  my other hand, each shot barking with that deep Aether rumble.

  Glowing rounds cut through the haze, trailing smoke and light like

  falling stars.

  And Elara—

  She’s

  something else.

  Boots barely

  touching the broken stone, staff spinning around her like it’s

  tethered to her heart. Every motion’s smooth, exact, like she’s

  dancing through fire and making it look easy.

  Magic pours from

  her fingers in ribbons of flame—gold and violet, snapping through

  the air and lighting up her face in quick flashes. Her red hair fans

  around her like living fire. For a second, she's not just casting

  spells—

  She is the storm.

  I blink. Just

  once.

  Big mistake.

  And in that

  heartbeat, I see home—

  Scarlet leaves blowing across the

  porch, the way they rustled in the wind. The old maple. My daughter’s

  laugh as she chased them, arms wide, face bright—

  Gone.

  Pain brings me

  back.

  The Broker

  shifts. Slams his boot straight into my gut.

  Something pops.

  Air explodes from

  my lungs in a sharp, ugly wheeze. I double over, ribs screaming,

  vision swimming at the edges.

  “Focus,

  Calloway,” I grunt, voice raw, clutching my side. Each breath burns

  like I’ve swallowed glass.

  The world crashes

  back in.

  Steel ringing.

  Magic hissing. The Broker’s breath, hot and sour, right up in my

  face.

  Blood. Sweat. Burnt ozone.

  No more

  daydreams.

  No more damn leaves.

  I grit my teeth,

  straighten up, and lock back in.

  The dance isn’t done.

  And if I fall

  behind again—

  I won’t get a next step.

  Okay—slow dance

  is over.

  The Broker’s finally catching on—he’s not running

  the show anymore. Two-on-one, and the tune’s ours now. No more

  rhythm. No more grace. Just noise. Just chaos.

  He’s a blur,

  bouncing off busted trees and cracked stone like some nightmare

  pinball. His claws flash wild in the smoke, serrated metal swinging

  too close, too fast.

  I move before I

  think—boots sliding through dust, blood, bits of ash that stick in

  my teeth. Every breath tastes like copper and burnt air.

  And then—

  He

  starts throwing bombs.

  Yeah. Actual

  bombs.

  Little black orbs, nasty-looking things, yanked from a

  pouch like party favors at a murder clown convention. They hit the

  ground, roll, hiss—

  Then boom.

  Heat slams into

  me. Shrapnel sings past my ear.

  “Seriously?”

  I mutter, ducking behind a chunk of stone. “Bombs? Classy.”

  But that’s not

  the worst of it.

  He grabs what’s

  left of the Blood Raiders—wounded, barely breathing—and starts

  lobbing them forward like they’re furniture. Meat shields. One poor

  bastard’s got a blade still jammed in his thigh. Glassy eyes. Can’t

  even scream.

  The Broker throws

  him straight into Elara’s path.

  She doesn’t

  hesitate.

  Light

  flashes—clean, sharp, fast. Wards snap into place mid-air like

  puzzle pieces locking in. A golden dome catches around the prisoners

  right before the next blast hits.

  Boom.

  Shield holds.

  She doesn’t

  blink. Doesn’t even twitch. Just pivots.

  Staff blazing,

  she fires back—tight arcs of flame, deliberate, no wasted motion.

  Each spell lands close, pushing him back, keeping him off balance.

  And the whole

  time, she’s building new barriers between us. Layers. Walls. A

  moving fortress.

  She’s not just

  reacting.

  She’s reading him. Predicting him.

  Cutting him

  off before he gets a chance to be clever.

  And me?

  I’m barely

  keeping up.

  The staff isn’t

  in Elara’s hands anymore.

  It’s floating.

  Spinning.

  Moving like it’s alive—circling her like a loyal

  guard dog, spitting fireballs with sniper focus. Every burst screams

  past me and slams into the Broker’s space like it’s got a

  personal vendetta.

  Her hair’s

  whipping in the heatwave, eyes glowing like twin suns. She’s not

  casting spells—she is the spell. A storm in mage-form.

  Honestly?

  If

  I could strap one of those to Nike’Demus, I might actually

  get five minutes of peace for once.

  But that thought

  dies fast.

  Because Elara

  pulls something else—something new.

  Daggers.

  Not

  the kind you keep on your belt. These things are nightmares with

  edges. Twin blades, dark as oil slicks, jagged like frozen lightning.

  They shimmer with a light that feels... wrong. It hums in my teeth.

  Makes my skin crawl.

  And the

  Broker?

  He knows them.

  His eyes lock on,

  and everything shifts. First pale, then flushed with rage. Like some

  ancient part of him just got punched awake.

  He backs up.

  She

  moves forward.

  No words. No

  threats. Just motion.

  Each step is silent. Smooth. Controlled.

  Her orbiting staff throws fire overhead like a comet caught in a

  warpath. The daggers slice the air with a low whine, and for a split

  second, I think—This is it. She’s got him.

  He’s boxed in.

  No tricks left.

  But then he

  smiles.

  And I hate that smile.

  He slams a hand

  down.

  Thunk.

  Another.

  Thunk.

  The ground

  answers him.

  It’s not that

  he’s out of bombs. It’s that he already planted

  them.

  A chain of

  explosions tears through the field.

  Light. Heat.

  Sound.

  Everything goes white.

  My ears ring so

  loud it’s like the world’s underwater. The blast punches me

  straight in the chest. I fly—hit stone, maybe. I can’t tell.

  Smoke floods my

  lungs. My eyes sting. My head’s screaming.

  Elara’s gone.

  The Broker’s gone. Everything’s gone.

  The ground’s

  still shaking. My blade hums in my hand—sharp and nervous. Even

  it’s freaked out.

  I cough, hard.

  Taste blood. Dirt. Magic-burn.

  And just like that, I get it.

  The bombs weren’t

  meant to kill.

  They were meant to blind.

  To scatter.

  Distract. Split us up.

  He played us like

  a damn fiddle.