Back in Sylvathar's sanctuary, the flickering dome of green spatial energy pulsed violently, warping the very air as if reality were being pulled through an invisible drain. A high-pitched hum—unnatural, shrill—rang across the battlefield, distorting vision and sound. Liam and Mabel stood at its edge, tension humming in their bodies.
"She's destabilizing the space. We can't let her finish," Mabel said, her voice steady but sharp as her blade shimmering with a pressurized coating of water as she prepared to warp.
"Just follow my lead."
In a blink, they both lunged forward—one from the ground, the other from the air.
Liam's feet hammered across fractured earth, each stride pushing a black pulse of shadow across the terrain, anchoring his path. Mabel blinked from point to point, her movements clean and sharp, like slicing through cloth. Their target: Morenelle, who stood at the center of the spatial veil, her hand raised, her eyes glowing with a brilliant green flame.
But just as they crossed the veil's threshold, Mabel's instincts screamed.
The entire dome shattered—not inward, but outward—in a burst of harmless green particles that scattered like fireflies. It wasn't a veil. It wasn't a collapse.
Morenelle hadn't tried to destroy the sanctuary's space. She had baited them into overcommitting—and they had taken the bait.
A second later, the earth around them exploded.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of root projectiles burst forth from every angle of the battlefield. They didn't just rise vertically—they curved, twisted, lunged, darted through portals, and even erupted from the fractured sky above, turned upside down by residual spatial magic.
The first wave struck Mabel in mid-warp.
A root tore through her thigh, the hardened bark spearing clean through muscle and armor alike. She reappeared midair, screaming as blood sprayed in an arc behind her. Another root slammed into her side, cracking two of her ribs with brutal force and throwing her across the battlefield like a broken doll. She hit the ground hard, sliding along the mossy surface and carving a furrow into the soil.
Liam fared no better.
He had just enough time to raise a partial shadow barrier before one of the roots tore through his left arm. It didn't sever the limb, but it pierced it—plunging through his forearm just above the wrist and twisting violently. Blood gushed from the wound as the root snapped off, leaving a jagged splinter inside him. He grunted in pain, staggering back.
Another root came from below.
It stabbed straight through his abdomen, just under his ribs—its jagged tip bursting out his lower back. The pain was instant, raw, and white-hot. His knees buckled, the javelin in his right hand falling from his grip and flickered out of existence. He dropped to one knee, blood pouring from the corner of his mouth, his breathing shallow.
Mabel tried to rise, one hand pressed against her ribs as she dragged herself upright—but another root coiled around her waist, lifted her briefly, and slammed her into the ground like a ragdoll. A spray of dust and blood marked the impact.
Morenelle walked forward slowly, calmly, as her serpentine root projectiles retracted into the earth.
"Predictable," she said softly, her voice calm as ever, her eyes glowing with serene cruelty. "You both thought I was desperate. You thought this space mattered to me more than the opportunity to see you bleed."
Liam coughed, blood staining his teeth, and his vision swam beneath the crimson veil pouring down his brow, turning the world into a haze of red and shadow. His mind buzzed with static—pain overriding every nerve—but even in that fog, he could feel her.
That quiet malice. That smug, unwavering calm.
The sound of her boots barely kissing the mossy earth as she advanced slowly through the settling dust.
Soon, he collapsed to both knees, hacking blood violently into the grass as it mixed with the black mist coiling faintly around him. His limbs trembled beneath the weight of his wounds—the root still embedded through his abdomen a searing reminder that death hovered close.
Morenelle tilted her head, her emerald hair swaying like seaweed in a slow current.
"I'd love to kill you both," she mused, her tone tender with a mocking lilt. "But Lord Sylvathar wants you alive. So I suppose I'll settle for watching you crawl. Watching you break. That is... far more satisfying."
She looked toward the crumpled form of Mabel lying amid the shattered remains of the tree she had collided with. Her gaze sharpened.
"And I'll kill your little protector."
She raised her hand again. The ground rumbled in response. A low, reverberating growl rolled beneath the battlefield like a beast awakening from slumber. Then, the soil ruptured—a mass of roots surged upward, spiraling like hydra heads—long, barbed, and venomously fast. They reached skyward before curving sharply, poised to descend with fatal precision on the broken body of Mabel.
Liam's head jerked weakly toward her. His hand twitched.
He couldn't even hold a weapon.
The pain was everywhere.
But through blurred vision and blood-filled lungs, he focused on her.
The young woman who fought beside him like a phantom in water and wind. The woman who warped reality to save his life without hesitation. The one who risked her life and still stood—even if barely.
"M...Mabel," Liam croaked. His voice was dry, broken—barely a breath—but it crawled out of his throat like a dying flame refusing to be snuffed out. "You… need to… move."
Half buried in leaves and blood, her body was twisted awkwardly near the base of a shattered tree. The remnants of her mask lay beside her, broken into jagged porcelain fragments.
And beneath the grime, the bruises, the cuts—her face remained hauntingly serene.
She blinked once. Blood dripped from a gash at her temple, trickling past her lip and over her chin. Her dislocated arm twitched, her right leg was clearly fractured—throbbing and useless—but her right hand…
Still gripped her blade.
Her fingers were white from how tightly she held it, muscles spasming with pain, but she wouldn't let it go.
Her hazel eyes lifted, glassy yet alight, and locked onto Morenelle.
And then, in a voice that was less of a shout and more of a dying whisper clawed straight from her core—
"Come… at me… you bitch."
Blood spewed from her mouth with the words, but the defiance in them cut through the battlefield sharper than steel.
And the roots above her began their descent.
Before the roots could strike, a single, broken word tore itself from Liam's battered throat.
It wasn't a command but rather... a plea.
From the torn shadow pooling beneath Liam's knees, darkness churned and exploded outward. A blur of obsidian and violet slithered across the blood-streaked earth with a speed that bent the eye. Nyxie, the adolescent Nyxarion, burst forth like a beast unleashed, her serpentine form streaking between Mabel and the incoming attack.
With a guttural snarl that cracked the air, Nyxie's claws shredded through the converging roots like blades through silk. The force of her charge stirred a storm of leaves and debris, and as she skidded to a halt in front of Mabel, her wings flared wide in a protective arc, shadows rolling off her in waves.
Her eyes—twin orbs of icy blue—lit up with primal rage as she let out a deafening roar that echoed through the sanctuary like a thunderclap laced with darkness.
Morenelle, genuinely caught off guard, stepped back half a pace. "A… a dragon?"
The word trembled on her lips. Her gaze narrowed as she watched Nyxie, a rare flicker of uncertainty flashing across her otherwise calm face.
Mabel, still dazed and struggling to breathe, blinked through the haze and blood. It wasn't shock at Nyxie's presence that widened her eyes—it was what it meant.
She knew Nyxie. She knew what it cost Liam to summon her.
During the five days they'd trained and talked together, Mabel had learned one core truth about Liam—he will never call forth his shadow beasts in battles . Not when they'd be easy targets and their destruction would punish him instead.
His creatures were forged from myst and shadow. They could regenerate, yes—but that regeneration would drained Liam's myst. And in a fight —one where he was already deep in the trenches, fighting with everything he had—every drain was a nail in his coffin.
From his repeated creation of the hybrid javelin—blending shadow solidification and fire magic—to the ruthless volley of Umbra Stars, Liam had already bled more than half his myst reserves.
This wasn't strategy.
This was desperation.
Mabel's eyes scanned the battlefield until she found him—Liam's pale form slumped against a shattered root, blood soaking his abdomen, his arms limp at his sides. He looked barely conscious, his breaths shallow, each one like it took more than he had left to give.
Her stomach twisted. He was throwing everything in.
Morenelle, watching it all unfold, tilted her head with a slow, sinister smile.
"How precious," she said. "Summoning a dragon in your final hour. So gallant, so foolish. As if shielding the girl will save her." She gestured lazily, her eyes never leaving Nyxie. "You forget… this land obeys me."
Before the words had fully left her lips, pain erupted through Mabel's body.
She gasped—but it was silent.
Her eyes dropped, slow… disbelieving.
A thick, jagged root had torn through her back and exited her chest, its bark wet with blood, its tip gleaming crimson in the dim light. The force of it lifted her slightly off the ground before her body slid down the length of it like a puppet with severed strings.
Blood poured from her mouth, hot and metallic, spilling over her lips in thick streams. Her blade fell from her hand with a dull clang.
Nyxie turned at once, letting out a guttural snarl, but too late.
Mabel's vision blurred, the edges of her sight darkening like a tunnel slowly closing in. But her eyes remained locked on Liam—his broken form, his stillness.
Her lips parted in a whisper—one not meant for anyone else.
Then her body went limp, held up only by the root speared through her chest, as the battlefield fell into a chilling stillness once again.