AC: Round 3 - Christoph

[Revenant]

This thread is reserved for Christoph. The thread will open September 30th and will be closed after two weeks.

Good Luck!

[Christoph]

ACT I

“Longer than the path before you is the path within you.”

~Silas Rotero, Coronian philosopher

*

A half moon rose and a deathly chill gripped the air. Clouds shifted urgently in the sky, casting writhing shadows between leafless trees; a dance of lost souls, given voice by the whisper of foul wind. This bleak wasteland named Lynestev festered like an open wound in western Salvar. It was a cursed place, plagued by famine and disease. At its heart stood the Obsidian Tower, a shard of oblivion that cast a long shadow. Here, darkness not only ruled the land, but infected it.

Three miles south, renowned sorcerer Elijah Belov lay sprawled unconscious and helpless in the fresh snow beside the road. Ice coated his wavy brown hair and his slender face was blue from the cold. He twitched nervously and muttered in his sleep. Strange shapes shifted in the surrounding gloom. Eyes watched, waited. The shadowy forms retreated at the sound of footsteps. Strong arms lifted him off the ground. He shifted and groaned in the stranger's grip, lost in a dream.

* * * * *

Shadow swirled around him like a gossamer mist. Thunder rumbled angrily in the sky and screams echoed in the distance. He ran over blood-soaked ground and between burning buildings. He recognized this place, these sights, but his slumbering awareness could not remember why. Everything felt blurry; even his pounding feet sounded muffled, far-off. His breath came in ragged gasps. His legs burned, but no matter how hard he sprinted, he knew he could not escape.

What am I running from?

A great stone wall appeared before him, cutting off his retreat. He skidded to a halt and cursed, pounding on the cold masonry. Trapped. With a deep breath, he dared to turn around and face the growing darkness behind him. A silhouette took shape, steadily approaching. A shadow within a shadow. Caught between an impassable barrier and... something, he could no longer run. It was time to fight.

Sudden lightning flashed; he came face-to-face with a leering devil covered in boils and black thorns. Its flesh was slick and red like raw meat. It smelled of sulfur and molten iron. Eli reached for his sword, his one weapon mighty enough to vanquish such a beast. Yet, as he reached for the hilt at his shoulder, he found it gone.

“Looking for something?” asked the dark being, its guttural laugh grinding like stone from behind hellish yellow eyes. The sword appeared in its hand, familiar glyphs blazing across the blue metal blade. As the demon spoke, bile spewed from its blistered lips. “This, perhaps?”

The sorcerer recoiled, pressing his back against the wall. “Get back!” Fire surged from his hands, washing over his foul enemy. It chortled maliciously as Eli desperately intensified his assault. Flesh sizzled like hot grease as smoke and dust choked the air; still, it laughed. The unnatural sound chilled him to his core, inflaming both his rage and fear and grating like rusty nails in his skull.

“Foolish child. You cannot destroy me. You cannot fight me here any more than you could run from me.” Darkness consumed him. Reality itself cracked, shattered. The horrid scene faded, but the laughter remained.

[Christoph]

Elijah woke with a gasp. His trembling hand searched for his sword and sighed with relief as he grasped its hilt. For four years, since he pulled it from a dying vampire's grip, the sword had served him well. Forged from ancient prevalida and covered in potent runes, it was his most valuable possession and most powerful arcane tool. He felt incomplete without it.

Slowly, the world came into focus. A huge warm bearskin covered his wiry frame; wagon wheels creaked beneath him. The sky was dark, the air cold and clear with the lingering scent of fresh water and pine. It smelled familiar, somehow. It smelled like... home.

“Ah, he awakes,” boomed a deep voice.

“W-what?” Elijah sat up with a groan, shaking off a rush of dizziness. He rode in the back of a horse-drawn wagon. "Where am I?" At the reins sat a bald ox of a man wearing a dull breastplate and brown fur cloak, with a spiked mace at his waist. A hanging lantern cast a dim orange glow over his scarred, weathered face.

“Not dead in snow, for one thing.” The stranger laughed. “You are in my wagon, on road to Lynestev.” The stranger spoke with the rolled R's, thick vowels, and strange, slow syntax of Old Salvic. Eli recognized the dialect, and the region's name. His eyes widened.

This is Salvar. I'm back in Salvar! After three years, he could taste the air of his homeland again.

“To answer obvious next question,” continued the huge man. “I do not know how you end up on side of road. I find you half-frozen and now you are here.” He paused and raised a bushy eyebrow. “Chef coat not practical clothing for winter, you know. And no tavern nearby, either. Very odd, yes?” Elijah could not answer the question either, but he could guess.

Barely a week ago, he had entered the mysterious Adventurer's Crown, a series of ordeals to test the mettle of the world's greatest champions. He last remembered lying on a cold marble slab, tasting the minty kiss of healing magic as he recovered from his second challenge. That one had brought him to Ettermire, capital of Alerar and his first home after he fled war-torn Salvar so long ago. He could almost feel unseen forces tugging at his strings. His arrival here in the final leg of the Adventurer's Crown could not have been an accident. Especially after the vision he received in his first ordeal. Fading images from his dream flashed through his mind as the lamplight washed over him. Death and flames and distant screams; a future Salvar in ruins. He had seen them first in that vision.

Elijah shook his head and sighed, pushing such dark thoughts from his mind. He sized up his apparent rescuer. Something about the stranger intimidated him, something beyond the man's immense physical bulk and powerful voice.

Eli sat up straight. “Thank you. But... who are you?”

“I am Grigor!” he replied with enthusiasm, puffing out his massive chest. “Ordained holy paladin, here to cleanse darkness from this land!” Elijah swallowed a curse. Of course, of course the first person he met upon returning to Salvar was a servant of a church that wanted him burned at the stake. To them, he was a heretic and a warlock, everything they despised. His history with their agents was long, bitter, and bloody. Grigor's brow creased as he frowned. “Are you well? You look pale, my friend.”

“I'm fine. Just cold and tired.” He looked away, suddenly afraid that the paladin would see the lie in his eyes. When did I get so jumpy? He needed only hide his true nature until he could escape the Sway agent's company. Unfortunately, the devout stranger was Eli's only clue.

“I hope you find your fire soon. You may need it where we are going.”

“Where are we going?”

The paladin waved his huge hand in the direction they traveled. The moonlit road stretched northward like the stray mark of a pen, cutting across a wild canvas of dark forests and rugged hills. A town sat at the road's end, perhaps two miles ahead. A hundred lights glowed in the windows of shops and homes, so that from a distance, the town burned like a fistful of embers scattered across the horizon. Then, those embers flickered out as night engulfed the town, leaving a cold emptiness in their place.

The paladin scratched his squared chin. “Very odd. Sun sets barely one hour ago. Then, we approach and all goes dark.”

“Could it be coincidence?”

“Ah, of course. Coincidence.” Grigor chuckled, sarcasm flooding his thick voice. “Just as your face shatters by coincidence if I strike mace.” He pattered his weapon for emphasis. Elijah cringed. “No, my young friend. No coincidence. I pray you know how to use sword. Evil lurks here, and we shall set it right.”

[Christoph]

The wagon creaked onward toward the darkened town as the moon slowly climbed in the heavens. The wind ceased as they reached the settlement's edge. Silence fell over them, but not the peaceful quiet of solitude or rest. No, silence gripped the air, cold and deathly as a crypt.

“You said there was evil here.” Elijah's whisper felt like a shout. “What did you mean?”

“Just look around,” Grigor replied, his once boisterous voice subdued. “Can you not see touch of evil?”

The paladin was right; the countryside itself felt... wrong. The clean winter air became thick and heavy as they approached the town. It smelled of decay and something fouler he could not identify. Shadows deepened and darkened; even the surrounding forests felt menacing. Gnarled skeletal trees clawed at the sky as sinister pines towered over them like slave masters. Even on the supernatural level, Elijah could sense a wrongness, a sickly murmur in the winds of magic. What happened here?

“What do you know about this place?” Eli quietly asked, his breath freezing in the chill air.

“Town is named Lynestev, same as entire province. Is old town, but not as old as tower.”

“Tower?” Eli leaned forward to better hear his companion.

“Yes. Is called 'Obsidian Tower',” the man explained, emphasizing his words with broad hand motions. “Ancient relic of forgotten age hidden deep in forest. Some of paladin order vanished before civil war while investigating it.”

“Could it be the source of the... evil around this place?” Could it be my objective here?

“That, friend, is what we find out.” Grigor halted the wagon. “Shall we?” He grabbed the lantern and jumped down. Eli hesitated; the paladin shrugged. “I know you not choose this, but is better than freezing in snow, yes? You may wait in wagon if you wish. Or you may follow me. Is your choice.”

The sorcerer sighed. “I've come this far.” He strapped his sword to his waist and climbed off the wagon, thin snow crunching beneath his feet. As much as the Sway agent's company made him uneasy, waiting alone in the wagon sounded no better. Besides, he had been sent here for a reason; he needed to find out why. “I may as well see it through.”

“Good man!” Grigor replied, patting him firmly on the shoulder. “Let us find truth of this place.” They left the horse and wagon behind and entered the town.

Impossibly, the place looked even gloomier from within. With every light extinguished, dark windows seemed to stare like sunken eyes. Clouds thickened, smothering the moon an intensifying the shadows. The temperature dropped; Elijah's teeth chattered painfully. The two walked slowly forward, clinging to the lantern's flickering island of light. It made no sense. What makes an entire town put out its lights so soon after nightfall? Surely the working men would seek fellowship and relaxation at the tavern; he would know, since he once worked in one. Did someone spot the wagon approach and rush everyone inside? Why? Why would the townsfolk fear them?

Something moved, shadows shifting in the corner of his eye. He glanced about anxiously. Darkness pooled like ink between houses and an oppressive thickness choked the air. Grigor's lamp dimmed; whispers echoed from unseen places. A frightened whinny came from the wagon. Then, a ragged, tortured screech!

“My horse!” The holy warrior pulled the mace from his belt. Eli looked back to the wagon; twisted shapes enveloped the helpless horse in a black tide, smothering its dying gasps. The lantern went out and Grigor gave a sudden shout. Eli turned; spindly black arms reached from the encroaching darkness and grabbed the huge man, dragging his struggling bulk into the gloom.

“Grigor!” Elijah cried, lunging forward as his companion slid into the void. Cold shadowy tendrils quickly ensnared him too, strangling him. The paladin's struggling grunts grew muffled and distant. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Unseen claws dug into his flesh. Terror pounded in his chest. He grappled with the abyssal arms, pulling one from his throat for a split second. He gasped a single breath, spoke a single word. Ancient arcane power welled up within him.

The night erupted with fire. It swept through the street in a blinding wave, shining upon a swarm of twisted, shadowy creatures. They let out a chorus of high-pitched screams and disintegrated into foul-smelling smoke. The sorcerer climbed to his feet and drew his sword. Power surged from its hilt and rushed through him in an invigorating wave. He let out an elated cry as tongues of flame danced about his feet and coiled around his arms. He raised his weapon; light and heat radiated from the blade, driving back the darkness. Chattering whispers faded as the strange creatures fled. Elijah spotted Grigor on one knee ten feet away, glaring at him with fear and rage.

“Warlock!” he roared, rising to his feet and brandishing his mace. “Blasphemer! I shall not allow you to defile voice of Gods!” The ox-like paladin shook with righteous anger.

Eli stepped forward, an angry spark in his eyes. “This 'warlock' just saved your life, you...” A door flew open behind Grigor. A fat man in night robes waddled outside holding a candle.

“Get inside, you fools!” he said in a harsh, low voice. “More of them will come soon!”

“Truce?” asked the sorcerer, locking gazes with the paladin. The sway agent scowled, but nodded. The three hurried indoors.

[Christoph]

ACT II

“The truth is like the sun and moon; you can neither hide it nor hide from it forever.”

~Alekei Talinov, first High Priest of the Ethereal Sway

*

Candlelight flickered across a large, open room, dimly illuminating several chairs and rectangular tables scattered about the floor. Eli spotted the outline of a counter at the far side and smelled the subtle tang of alcohol. As a former chef, he recognized the place immediately.

“You're the innkeeper,” he said with a smile. After everything else that had happened that night, finding sanctuary in a real tavern was a lucky boon.

“The innkeeper and mayor,” the fat man proudly replied. He set the candle on a table. “Please, sit. Forgive the meager light. It attracts those things.”

“What are these 'things'?” Grigor asked as he and Elijah sat on opposite ends of the table, as far from each other as possible. “They look like... living shadows.”

Their host rummaged behind the counter. “And so they are. The other townsfolk simply call them 'Shadows'. Not terribly inventive, but it works.” He returned with some bread and two full tankards. “It is the least I can do after what you went through tonight, even if it is just stale bread and thin ale.” He pulled up a chair of his own, between his two guests. “I am Moriz, by the way.”

“And I am Grigor, ordained paladin of Ethereal Sway--”

Eli cut in, mimicking the holy warrior's accent. “...here to cleanse darkness from this land?” He smirked as his now-hostile companion glared across the table. “Do you rehearse that?”

“Do not mock me, warlock!” Grigor slammed his fist on the table, splashing some ale. “Your very existence is mockery enough.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Moriz held up his hands to calm them, but his voice was firm. “If you wish to fight, go outside. Maybe you can kill each other before the Shadows do.”

“He's right, Grigor,” said the sorcerer. “We're under truce and his hospitality. So, if you don't try to bash my skull in with that mace, I won't try to incinerate you.”

Their host clapped his hands together, making his jowls jiggle in the candlelight. “It is settled, then! Now, eat and relax. Things will look better in the morning.”

Eli took a sip from his mug. “You seem cheerful enough Moriz, given the circumstances. What with your town under siege by evil forces and all.”

“Ah... well, moping will do little to help with that, now will it?” Moriz shrugged. “We just do our best.”

“When did this start?” Grigor asked, now calm after his previous outburst. “Tell me what happened here.” Their host sighed reluctantly. He leaned forward, his chair creaking under his weight.

“It started three years ago,” Moriz began in a hushed tone. “If you have come this far, I am sure you know about the tower.”

Belov tore off a piece of bread. “The 'Obsidian Tower'?”

“Well, yes. But it was not always black. For many years, it was gray granite. And few people know this, but older documents from over two hundred years ago said it was pure, pearly white. Our oldest records mention some benevolent spirit that lived there, but we have not seen any signs of benevolence from that place in many, many years.”

“Very odd,” said Grigor, stating the obvious. “Could something have happened to this spirit?”

“I do not know, but something far more sinister took its place,” the mayor replied, fidgeting nervously. “And it gets odder still. As I said, the tower turned black three years ago, and that is when the trouble started. It was subtle at first. Our crops became sickly and our harvest suffered. Wild game all but vanished at the same time. It was a difficult year, but it only got worse. The next year, ten women gave birth here. Each infant was born still. Each one.” Grigor cursed under his breath. “Our days grew shorter, as though the sun itself fled from our town.

“Folk started disappearing a year ago. Cutters gathering wood, farmers out too late in their fields. Children playing after dark. Even our town priest. We would find their bodies in the forest days later, little more than withered husks. Only months later did anyone catch a glimpse of these... Shadows. I saw Brody, the blacksmith's apprentice, get dragged off by those things.”

"Why stay here?" Grigor's brow wrestled itself into a frown. "Why live under shadow of evil?"

"With respect, this is our home," Moriz replied. "We have lived here our entire lives. We cannot just up and leave! Where could we go?"

"A fair answer."

“How has your town survived for so long like this, though?” asked Elijah.

“By being careful and learning as much as we could, I suppose. We conserve food and help each other. And once we found out that light attracts those things like moths, I began ordering everyone inside and all lights out at sunset.”

“So that's why!” Eli laughed. “We saw your town go dark as we approached, and I knew it was just a coincidence and nothing to do with us. The holy man here didn't believe me.”

Grigor grunted and looked to their host. “You were late tonight.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your lights. Tonight they go out an hour late, not at sunset. Why?”

“Oh, well...” Moriz tapped his fingers on the table. “It is not easy keeping an entire town on schedule every night. We just ran behind, but luckily everyone was safe.

“Except for us, anyway,” said Eli with a chuckle. He tried to enjoy the last of his watery ale

“True enough," replied the mayor after a pause. He rubbed his eyes wearily. “As you can imagine, we do not get many visitors these days. Still, you are welcome to stay here for the night. Things will look better in the morning.”

* * * * *

Everyone retired for the night soon after. Mariz showed them to a pair of sparse, single-bed rooms upstairs. Elijah ran his hand over the straw mattress; he had certainly slept on worse. He paced back and forth on the creaky wooden floor, too anxious to sleep. In the silence, he heard Grigor's voice from the next room. Eli wandered over and stood in the paladin's open doorway. A small, dim candle rested on a nightstand. Closed shutters kept the light from escaping the window. The holy man knelt on the floor beside his bed and prayed. His deep voice rumbled quietly, like distant thunder.

“Most just Ethereal Sway, cleanse my thoughts and purify my soul. Guide my hand in your service. Give me courage to face darkness. Grant me wisdom to find evil and strength to destroy it.” Elijah shifted his feet, making the floorboards creak. Grigor stopped praying and looked up with a glare.“What do you want, heretic?”

“You know, I liked you better when I could ignore that you're a zealot.” Elijah spat out the last word like bile.

“And I liked you better before I learn you are anathema to all I believe in.” Of course, the only fancy words he knows are used to condemn.

“I am what I am, Grigor. You choose what you believe.”

The paladin clenched his massive fists. “Enough blasphemy!” he warned with a snarl. “I believe truth! Now, leave me be. I will honor truce until tomorrow. Then, I find tower and purge this evil myself. You go own way, and we never see each other again.”

“Do you honestly think you can fight the evil in this place by yourself?” The sorcerer scoffed. “Succeed where others of your order have already failed? Let me help you.”

“I will never accept aid from likes of you, warlock!”

“You foolish, pig-headed...” Belov threw up his hands in frustration. “I don't understand why you hate my kind so much. What made you join an entire brotherhood of witch hunters and zealots?”

“Do you really want to know?” Grigor asked, standing up off the floor and sitting on his bed. Elijah nodded and the paladin sighed. “Very well. As young boy, I live in far north, in small village named Amurks. Back then, we have old medicine woman living in village. She is shaman and practices Old Ways, but no one stops her. We all think she helps us, tending to sick and injured and helping crops grow.”

Eli scoffed. “How sinister.”

Grigor ignored him. “Livestock disappears one day. Week later, strange lights come from her hut.” His gaze turned distant, as though he looked at something far-off. “I go look in window. I hear horrible laughing. I see blood and smoke, and shapes moving in darkness. I smell terrible stench. I hear new voice, deep and terrible. Suddenly, things burst through door, terrible black demons with horns and claws. I run as fast as I can. I hear screams. I smell burning. Entire village is in flames.

“I go to village chapel, only building made from stone. Priest is old man, but he prays throughout night to keep evil beasts at bay. We stay safe, but by morning, entire village is ash and bone. My parents and my brothers are dead, and everyone else. I leave with priest and begin new life in church. Now, I fight so what happened to me will never happen to anyone else.” He narrowed his eyes, looking straight at Elijah. “I devote my life to hunting demons and their servants.”

“Always with the demons.” Eli groaned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don't know who you think I am, but I don't serve demons.”

“I think I do know who you are.” The holy warrior rubbed his smooth head, eyeing Elijah intently. “Elijah Belov. I have heard that name spoken many times by brothers in the order. You look as they described, and few others could do what you did outside.” A heavy pause passed between them. Then, in spite of everything, Eli laughed, heartily from his gut. Grigor growled. “What is funny?”

“For three years since I left this country, I traveled the world, struggling to forge a reputation.” He stopped to breathe and wipe a tear from his eye. “Yet, I needed only return here!” He laughed again, heaving and gasping. “Oh gods... I was famous here all along!”

“'Famous' is not right word, I think.” The holy warrior sighed and shook his head. “After all you have done, we do not sing your praises.”

“Well, I always said that I'd settle for 'infamous'.”

Grigor snorted. “Was that reason for everything? Fame?”

“There's no shame in a man wanting to make a mark on the world. That's why I studied sorcery. I was an innkeeper's son in a small town; I wanted to achieve more than the life I was born to.” He never imagined that he would actually miss that old life. “It wasn't my reason for everything, though.”

“Why then?” The paladin's brow creased in the faint candlelight, conflicting emotions flashing across his weathered face. Anger and disgust clashed with an apparent earnest desire to know. “Why make war against Ethereal Sway? Why murder four of my order?”

“Is that what they say about me? I only remember three.” Eli rolled his eyes. “And of course I killed them. They were trying to kill me. I suppose you think it was my duty to the kingdom to roll over and let them stick daggers in my throat.”

“But what of Marcus Salbrecht?” Grigor asked in a low, severe voice. “They say you murdered him in cold blood.”

That name hit Elijah like cold water, calling forth a flurry of painful memories and emotions. Marcus Salbrecht, warrior priest and witch hunter: the first one to die at his hand. So much tragedy in the sorcerer's life had revolved around that name. And how much of it was my own fault? He pulled over a wooden chair and sat down.

“It was five years ago; I had just returned to Salvar from Corone. I met Marcus near Hanslev, a town much like this one.” He put his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his clasped hands. “A powerful vampire terrorized the people there and infested the forests with undead. Marcus came there to set things right.” He smiled sadly. “I thought him a good man, you know. He even found out that I practiced sorcery.”

“And he did not arrest you?” asked Grigor, aghast.

“No, though he did all but conscript me into his fight against the vampire.” Eli chuckled softly, looking down. “We defeated the beast together and went our separate ways.” It was the night he found his sword that night, the very weapon the vampire had wielded against them. Marcus had declared it an evil artifact and buried in beneath the ruins of the vampire's castle. Never one to trust the word of even a well-intentioned zealot, the sorcerer had waited until the witch hunter moved on and retrieved it.

“That all happened just before the civil war began,” Eli continued. “I had no idea, of course. I thought my troubles were over. I continued my journey and finally made it to my home town three weeks later. Unfortunately, Marcus had gotten there first.”

“He waited for you there?”

“No, he had already left. He probably didn't even know I had lived there.” The sorcerer closed his eyes, calling up long-subdued memories. “As I'm sure you remember, when the war started, the Church sent its agents out to reinforce its grip on the outer provinces. My home sat on a crossroads in one such region. Marcus Salbrecht and his subordinates moved through and subdued any resistance to the Ethereal Sway's dominance. They executed dozens of potential troublemakers, including several of my old friends and... and my mother, my only family.” He told most of the truth.

“I cannot condone every action our agents have taken,” said Grigor, a faint shimmer of sympathy in his eyes. “They were dark times. It does not excuse your crimes, though.”

“Doesn't it?” Eli curled his lips into sneer. “I hunted down Marcus Salbrecht and killed him to avenge my mother and everyone else. I fought so that what happened to me would never happen to anyone else.” A new wave of silence followed Eli's echoing of Grigor's words. He stood and walked to the door. “Good night.”

[Christoph]

Dense dark clouds billowed overhead like volcanic smog as lightning slashed phantom wounds across the sky. Wind howled like wraiths, tormenting a foreign wasteland of ash and bone. Caustic fumes and soot poisoned the air, stinging Elijah’s eyes and burning his lungs. The stench of sulfur and rot strangled him. Where am I? It was a dream. The realization dawned as distant thunder roared. He now walked through some construct of his own mind, yet he had never visited such a hellish place in his waking life. His sleeping imagination had spawned it all.

In the distance, the sky rumbled and churned, gathering into a mass of black and red. Veined with lightning and throbbing like a malignant eye, it gazed down upon a ring of jagged monoliths. They rested atop an imposing far-off hill like a black iron crown. Its ominous silhouette loomed like a tyrant over the scorched plains. Elijah's skin crawled at the sight of it. Somehow he knew he must go there. If only I had a road.

Suddenly, the ground shifted and changed. A long, straight path appeared before him. Without even a pause to question what just happened, he pulled his chef coat's collar over his face and took his first step forward. The trek seemed drag on for hours, though time had lost meaning. Reality bent and warped around him. One moment, his destination would look to drift further away no matter how fast he walked toward it. Other times, it seemed just barely out of reach. He pressed on, his legs moving on their own accord, until he reached the base of the menacing hill.

The wind intensified as he climbed, kicking up a foul ashen whirlwind that enveloped circle of spires. He counted eleven of them, each wrought from solid iron. Strangely familiar symbols were carved into them. As he reached the hilltop and stepped inside the ring, the air went still. At the center, atop a throne of barbed steel and burnished brass, sat the demon. He realized instantly that this was no product of his own mind, but rather some foreign agent. It did not belong here.

Though only seven feet from horned head to black, scaly feet, its aura of malice felt like a sea at storm. A hideous grin slashed across its red face. It held the sword on its lap. My sword. Elijah swallowed his fear, forced his lips into a smirk, and approached the foul entity.

“I'll admit, after all this I expected something... more.” He held strong his confident mask, becoming one with it. He felt calm, still, even in the face of such a horror. “A throne of skulls, for instance.”

“At last you find me here.” The demon's deep, bestial voice grated like rusty hooks in Eli's skull. “I had begun to wonder how much longer you would take.”

“That's all very interesting, but who are you?” His words carried a defiant spark; he would show no weakness in front of this... intruder. “And what are you doing with my sword?”

“I am Xalleius.” As the name reached reached his ears, a different sound echoed in his mind – a foul fusion of searing fat, grinding metal, and tormented wails. “And this ancient blade is no possession of yours.” It glared at the sleeping sorcerer, its eyes like pits of oblivion. Its flesh twitched and writhed, as though something horrible crawled beneath its skin, trying to get out.

“The sword is mine, by right of plunder.” Eli stepped forward boldly.

“Of course you would think that.” Xalleius laughed derisively, leaning forward in his throne. The stench of rotten meat washed through the air. “Because you are but a child who knows no better.”

“And you think it's yours, right?”

“In a sense. This weapon possesses me as much as I possess it. Come closer and listen; I shall enlighten you.” The infernal creature folded its long, clawed fingers. “The first mortal to wield it was Zachariah, champion of Denebriel, during the War of the Tap so long ago. I bestowed it and its power upon him in exchange for releasing my trapped essence from its ancient prison.

“For a decade, I resided within him, and together we saw entire armies routed before us. Then, in his arrogance, he grew to scorn me and my gifts. With the aid of his treacherous, thrice-cursed mistress, they trapped me within this weapon. The sword you see here only exists because that is how you know it. For me...” Anger flashed across Xalleius's face as he gestured to the ring of spires. The markings carved into them burned a molten orange; they matched the runes on the sword. “It is this foul prison.”

“A heart-rending story, certainly.” Elijah sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I would contend that you deserved it.”

“Oh, that may be,” the demon replied, its grin returning. “I did not bring you here to seek your...” The unholy thing tightened its black, blistered lips as though tasting something bitter. “..sympathy.”

“Very well. Why did you bring me to... wherever this is?” He glanced around. “I assume this is some part of my dreaming mind.”

“You are correct to an extent. This wasteland you see around us is where your mind touches my prison. It was born the moment you took up my sword and has spread like a cancer within you since that night. It binds you to the sword.” Xalleius smile grew impossibly wide, filling his face with rows of jagged teeth. “Does that frighten you, child?”

In truth, it terrified him, but he would not show such weakness. He squared his shoulders and spoke with a calm conviction that surprised him.

“Now that I know of your presence, why should I fear it? You are but an unwelcome guest within my mind, one that I will sooner or later evict.” He idly scratched his chin. “I do wonder why you have chosen now to reveal yourself, and not sooner.”

“You have returned to Salvar,” it answered, as though it should have been obvious. “Ancient magic flows here, giving me strength and vigor so that I may manifest more strongly in your mind.”

“But why?” He narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Quite simple. I would like to make you an offer.”

“The answer is no. I will not bargain with one of your kind.”

“Come now, Elijah. You begin to sound like your paladin friend.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “Unlike him, I know the difference between real and imaginary demons. I want nothing you offer.”

“Is that so?” The unholy creature laughed, a sound that called forth thoughts dying birds and rivers flowing uphill. “I could give you the power to utterly destroy the Ethereal Sway. You could restore this kingdom, even rule this kingdom.”

“Nothing is worth trading my soul.”

“What about Alexandria?” it asked. Belov's chest tightened. “With my help, you could finally find her. You could undo everything that happened to her. She could be... yours, again.”

The sound of her name leaving the demon's black, blistered lips struck a nerve he had long thought dead. Hot rage bubbled up from his gut; he wanted to scream at the creature for defiling her name with its blasphemous tongue! He forced the emotions down, letting a cold, hard numbness take its place. His eyes became shards of ice.

“Some things cannot be undone.” The dreaming sorcerer turned and walked away, leaving the circle of spires.

“You would dare turn your back to me, mortal?” the demon snarled. It lunged from its throne, but struck an invisible wall between two spires. He snarled obscenities and slashed against the barrier with his claws.

“As you said, this is your prison,” said Elijah, his face as icy and lifeless as a glacier. “And so it will remain.”

“For now.” The world around him shattered like a sheet of glass and fell into darkness.

* * * * *

Elijah awoke to a creaking floorboard. A shout and a crash came from Grigor's room. He sat up in his bed. Something moved. Strong hands grabbed him, slamming him onto the floor. A canvas sack was pulled over his face and something hard struck the back of his head. All went dark.

[Christoph]

ACT III

“You who fear the darkness shall forever live in darkness!”

~Arch-warlock Tybern Graves, at his execution

*

Thumping feet and crunching snow echoed through a void of unconsciousness. Elijah's world slowly rose from a throbbing abyss into the even more oppressive darkness of the sack over his head. Sharp pain in his skull cut through the numbing cold. Then, more feelings returned to his leaden limbs. Chains bound his wrists and ankles and two pairs of hands gripped his arms, dragging him across bumpy ground. Melted snow soaked his pant legs and shoes. He shivered in the frigid air.

“I hope this is worth it, Moriz,” said a rough, scratchy voice that likely belonged to a man who smoked too much pipe. “Bori is dead. That paladin smashed his head 'gainst the wall like a squash 'fore we brought the bastard down.”

“And he will be remembered, ” the mayor replied coolly. “Sacrifices must be made if we are to survive.”

“Isn't that why we're bringing these two out here to begin with?” asked a third voice that sounded young and scared. “We sacrifice them to the Shadows and they leave us alone, right?”

“Yes, and with any luck, their deaths should buy us a harvest next summer.”

“This cannot go on forever, you old fool,” growled the smoker's voice. “Sooner or later the Church will figure it out!”

“And what?” Moriz scoffed. “Come in force? They cannot defeat the darkness here any more than we could. They can only feed it, keep it content. It worked with other travelers in the past, even other Sway agents. It will work this time as well.”

“Do not pretend you understand these creatures, Moriz.”

“I think the sorcerer's awake,” said the young one.

“No need to fear,” assured the mayor. He spoke again, his voice coming from right above Eli's head. “It is nothing personal, young man. This is how we survive. I had wanted to avoid getting my hands dirty; that is why I waited so long to put out the town lights. I hoped to lure the Shadows there, just in time to greet you. You spoiled that, of course.” He chuckled. “And don't worry about escaping. The town church kept those old chains, forged specifically to bind witches. That old place was good for one thing, at least. You will not be causing us any trouble.”

Elijah noticed it then, the subtle pressure against his temples. It felt similar to the magic-subduing binds used on him in a fight club in Ettermire, during the previous challenge of the Adventurer's Crown. The wards on these chains were far older and more potent, though. He cursed silently; again he found himself rendered helpless by trickery.

“Quickly, get these two on that flat stone,” ordered Moriz, his voice quavering nervously. Eli's captors threw him onto the hard, cold surface. “Now light the lanterns and let us leave this place before the Shadows get here.” Tiny specks of orange light pierced the canvas sack covering his head. He had to do something, but what? He couldn't move his arms or legs and the thrice-cursed wards sealed his magic tighter than a miser's purse.

He heard a muffled growl from a few meters away, followed by the sounds of struggle. Grigor had woken up. Someone fell onto the ground with a thump. A bone snapped; a man screamed.

“He is loose!” yelled the mayor. “Restrain him! Do not let him have his weapon!” A pained grunt; a wet thunk. Shouts of alarm; cries of pain. It all happened in seconds, a swift storm of violence. Then, only the mayor's whimpering and the paladin's heavy footsteps reached Eli's ears.

“You now pay for betrayal.” Grigor's voice was like stone, calm and unyielding.

“N-n-no! Please!” begged Moriz. “I had no choice! I had no-” A sickening crunch ended his pleas. Grigor spat and walked over to Elijah. A strong hand turned him onto his stomach and he heard clicks coming from the chains binding his ankles and wrists. The paladin pulled them off and removed Eli's hood. A rush of cold, fresh air hit his faith like an angel's breath. He opened his eyes; Grigor stood before him, covered in blood that gleamed in the lantern's light. He held a ring of gore-soaked keys in his fist.

“Up, boy.” He pulled up the wiry Elijah effortlessly. “I need you on your feet.” They stood in a clearing with a large stone slab in the center. Ten corpses littered the frozen earth; Grigor had spared no one. No one but him.

“How did you escape?” Eli asked, shaking life into his tingling arms.

“Gods give me strength,” replied the paladin, as though revealing what he had eaten for breakfast. “Quickly, find your sword.” The sorcerer glanced around, finding the weapon in its sheath on the ground beside the dead mayor. “We must move, before those... 'Shadows' arrive.” As though on cue, strange voices whispered from unseen places. Shapes moved in the darkness.

Elijah cursed. “It's too late.” Shadowy shapes circled around them. Without thinking, he dove for his sword. Icy tendrils surged from the hilt as he grabbed it. Where once he found the sensation soothing, it now filled him with nausea, like moist worms slithering under his skin. He almost dropped it, but forced himself to keep his grip. It was time to fight.

The first wave of creatures lunged at them. Shadowy arms ensnared Grigor, dragging him toward the gloom Elijah lashed out with his sword, slicing through their barely-tangible forms like paper. A shower of sparks flew from his blade.

“In the name of our Lords, begone!” Grigor raised a large medallion into the air; the silver Eye and Spear of the Ethereal Sway. Pure white light radiated from it, drawing a chorus of hisses from the Shadows. They rushed at him with renewed anger, claws slashing. He swung his mace, but the mundane weapon merely passed through the immaterial creatures. More and more overcame the light of his holy symbol, swarming around him like a pack of rabid dogs. He roared in rage and pain. The smell of blood filled the air.

Words of power spilled from Elijah's lips and flames swept through the darkness like a scalding wind. The nightmarish creatures screamed and disintegrated in plumes of smoke. When the dust settled, he found Grigor on the ground, blooded from head to toe, covered in vicious claw marks. The paladin tried to rise, but fell to his knees, clutching a deep gash beneath his ribs.

“Little... bastards...” he coughed. The sorcerer looked on helplessly; he was no healer. The wounded man looked to Elijah. “Listen to me. I can do little more good like this.” Distant whispers floated through the darkness. “Evil in this place is... beyond me. You must find it and destroy it for good. If your heart is good, as you would claim, then you must do this thing.”

“You may be a zealot, but you're still a person. I can't leave you behind. Enough have died because me, without adding you do that list.”

“Ha! My death is already certain, I think.” New shapes stirred between the trees. The paladin smiled -- a slight, subtle thing with far more power than his jovial grins and booming laughter. “This is my choice. I am putting my trust in you, Sorcerer. Do not make me regret it. Now go!” The holy warrior bellowed a challenge to the shadowy swarm, holding his blazing holy symbol high. “Go!”

What else could he do? At the holy man's plea, he ran deeper into the woods.

[Christoph]

For what felt like hours, Elijah navigated the withered woods. At first, he ran until his lungs burned and legs ached. Then he walked, creeping between leafless trees and snow-covered rocks. The frozen forest grew increasingly sinister with each step, washed in sickly pale moonlight. What time was it? Surely the sun should have risen already. Unsettling stillness gripped the night; he walked not through a forest sleeping through winter, but a forest's rotting corpse.

In the night's oppressive silence and loneliness, Elijah found himself uncomfortably alone with his thoughts. In his younger days, he might have burned with shock and anger from the mayor's betrayal and his current situation. Recent years had toughened him against loss and hardship. Sold out by a friendly face, plunged into darkness, and hunted by nightmares? I've been down this road before. What troubled him more was that dream.

The chaos and confusion of his capture and escape had allowed him little chance to reflect on the dream's grim portents. He could remember every detail: the scorched wasteland, the ring of iron monoliths, and the demon upon its throne. The foul creature's words filled him with a sinking feeling of dread. If its words were true, then for four years since he took up the sword, its malignant influence had seeped into him. Four years of choices and actions now fell into doubt. How many decisions did this evil force affect? What remained if he could no longer trust his own thoughts?

And now, 'Xalleius' sought to bind him even further, to own his soul entirely. The ancient demon had surely done so to others many times over the centuries. Everyone says no at first; the beast would bide its time, wait until despair, anger, or desperation made the mortal more receptive to its offer. And why wait until now to reveal itself? Nothing felt right anymore. How much he could or should rely on his sword? As little as possible. He couldn't know how much the demon could control the sword's power, or how many scars it left upon the sorcerer's soul. Until he completed the Adventurer's Crown and took time to intensely study the weapon and the spirit within, he could not risk tainting himself further.

Eyes forward, not inward. His first fencing instructor, a grizzled veteran of the Orc Wars, had told him that. Events had hurled him deep into this haunted forest, where his final objective waited. Stern, the master of the tournament, had sent him here for a purpose, not to waste time in soul-searching self-reflection. If Eli wanted answers, he needed the Book of Fate. To get that, he must triumph over this trial. The tower is my final goal. I must find it.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Elijah scaled a final rocky hill and found the tower looming before him.

[Christoph]

There it stood, like a demon's shadow in the moonlight: the Obsidian Tower. At over fifty meters tall and meters wide, it was larger than even the mage's towers in Radasanth. Its smooth and utterly black surface made it look like a slice of oblivion, hungrily devouring any light that touched it. The more Elijah looked at it, the more it seemed to... look back at him. Its foul influence even spread to the land around it, draining away its life. Dead trees had decayed to hollow branchless husks, as though the forest itself slowly crumbled to dust at the tower's touch.

At its base, a great gate opened and a cloud of blackness bubbled up from it. Something took shape in the gloom. Elijah could have expected many things to emerge from the tower. Foul devils, undead abominations, writhing primal horrors, but never... an old man. Gray and wrinkled, he looked feeble enough to be crushed under the weight of his billowing black robes. After the dragon he had faced in his first trial, Belov felt a little disappointed, but only for a moment. Despite the strange man's apparent frailness, power and malice radiated from him like heat from a forge; a warlock. It all made sense, the shadow creatures, the town's troubles, and the dying forest. Where sorcerers like Elijah channeled magic through force of will, true warlocks were parasitic, consuming life force from the natural world to fuel their abilities.

“Don't tell me,” Eli said, stepping forward with a casual gait. “You were expecting me.”

“No.” The warlock's face twisted into a glower, as though he had just stepped in something foul. “In fact, I am quite curious how you made it this far.” His voice sounded like the crinkling of old, dry parchment. “Once you have revealed your secrets, you shall make an excellent test subject.”

He raised a claw-like hand and uttered strange words, like normal speech turned inside-out. Darkness shifted between rotted trees, deepening and pooling like ink. Like abyssal wombs, these wells of shadow birthed twisted, blackened forms. Their whispers filled the air. The creatures slithered from all sides, a tide of writhing black and gleaming eyes. With calm and poise, Elijah traced a series of glyphs into the air, smoke trailing from his fingertips. The threads of magic stirred at his touch. Fire spawned in the air and surged out in all directions. The Shadows' whispers became screams as flames consumed them.

The warlock growled and swept his arms wide, power surging from his feeble form. Green lightning streaked from his hands. Eli replied with a muttered cant and a flick of his wrist. Sickly light smashed against an invisible barrier, sending ripples through the air.

The sorcerer tsked. “And here I'd hoped that we could have a civilized conversation.”

“You're good, boy,” rasped the warlock. “But don't think yourself my equal or my peer. You are a trespasser, nothing more. I haven't lived this long by allowing interlopers to meddle in my affairs.”

“Over two hundred years, if I've figured things correctly,” Elijah replied, pieces clicking together in his mind. “Honestly, I should have figured it out sooner. Failed crops and still births in the town and the decaying forest. Vital essence doesn't simply vanish from an entire region. You've been living on it this entire time, keeping yourself alive. The forest's life lasted you for a long time, but now that it's dead, you extended your parasitic influence to the townsfolk.”

This time, the withered old man laughed. “Astute and full of vigor” He licked his dry, cracked lips. “Oh yes, your life will sustain me for quite some time.”

“You may be overplaying the 'villain' role a little bit.” Eli rolled his eyes. He rarely engaged in such pre-fight banter, but he indulged himself this time. The more he could get the warlock talking, the more information his foe would inadvertently reveal. “Next, you'll tell me that you're 'going to enjoy this.' I've been down this road before against evil wizards wittier and... prettier than you.”

The warlock narrowed his eyes. “Do not think to mock me, boy. I am not some simple magician peddling parlor tricks. By my power alone, I struck down the spirit that dwelled within this tower and claimed it as my own. Soon, all the secrets of the Old Night, even death itself, will reveal themselves to me. I am the arch-warlock Armin Kortig, and I will not be mocked by the likes of you!”

“Save your dramatics.” The sorcerer sighed outwardly, though inwardly processed the information the manic warlock gave away. Not only did Armin Kortig move into the tower and corrupt it, he had invaded it, wresting it from the benevolent spirit that once lived there. “I have never heard of you, but since we're doing introductions... I am the sorcerer Elijah Belov. I left such a mark on this kingdom that servants of the Ethereal Sway still curse my name in hushed tones. You, on the other hand, are just a withered old man and a parasite who feeds on innocent people from the shadows. You will die as you lived: in obscurity.”

“I wonder...” Armin pulled a dagger from his voluminous sleeve. “Are you as confident with your spells as you are with your boasts?” He dragged the dagger across his palm. Blood trickled, each drop hitting the ground with a puff of black smoke. The smoke coalesced into a dozen twisted forms with long arms and tendrils of shadow. These Shadows were larger and more substantial than the previous ones. The warlock snarled a command and his new minions turned their blank faces toward Elijah.

“I have a rebuttal.” The sorcerer's grin widened. He pressed his hands together and uttered an ancient Raiaeran phrase, the elvish words flowing like music from his lips. “Fire is the mirror of the soul.” The earth cracked beneath his feet. Heat and light flooded from the fissures, flames swirling into humanoid shape. Flickering and contorting at obscene angles, the fiery creatures finally stood straight, brandishing claws of molten rock. The children of fire and earth lunged forward to face the spawns of air and darkness. Light and shadow clashed in a swirling melee of hissing steam and noxious smoke.

Elijah threw off his tattered chef coat. Flowing scars webbed across his arms and torso, glowing a dull orange like molten streams. Arcane power radiated from him as he gripped the primordial strands of creation. With a thrust of his hands, Belov released his spell. Flame washed up from the earth, crashing into his foe like hellish ocean waves. A shrill cry echoed above the roaring inferno. A great mass of darkness opened up, a black maw that consumed the fire and light. The warlock stood untouched, cloaked in bubbling shadow.

Armin launched an assault of his own. Freezing wind rushed from the sky, buffeting the sorcerer like a typhoon-battered ship. The warlock's voice cut through the night like a wailing wraith. Elijah braced himself against the assault, his own shout the sound of a stormy sea. The rest of the world seemed to fade away as they fought. Blinding flame battled icy shadow, sweeping up gusts of wretched smoke. The sky rumbled in protest. Flame swirled into a burning vortex, sucked into an endless abyss. The warlock flailed his withered arms and cried out a word. That single word, charged with the choking finality of a dying star, snuffed out the raging flames like a guttering candle.

“Are you quite finished?” The warlock looked merely... annoyed. “How long have you practiced the Arts? Five or six years? How can you hope to challenge a man with centuries of skill and experience?”

“Brute force?” Raw power erupted from Elijah's fingertips in a blast of heat and shattered earth. Armin raised walls of shadow to ward off the onslaught, but Belov pushed even harder. Flame swept through forest, melting snow and consuming dying trees. The sorcerer raised his arms into the air as though conducting a fiery symphony. The flames rose with his hands, growing and intensifying into a massive, continuous explosion. The ground and tower shook from its force.

The warlock pushed back desperately, wreathing himself in thick shadow, struggling in vain to withstand the burning tide. The sorcerer felt exhilarated in spite of himself. What the Church feared was one thing that Elijah and Armin had in common; power that the Ethereal Sway restricted and condemned, Sorcerer and Warlock took at will.

Searing wind singed his face, but he did not relent until the very ground crumbled beneath his feet. The stench of sulfur and molten metal stung his nostrils. He could taste blood on his tongue. The clearing dust and ash revealed the warlock kneeling, battered and burned, in a bowl of jagged glass. Streaks of green lightning swirled about him as he coughed out spell after spell. Elijah snarled between gasps. The stubborn bastard refused to die. Instead, he let out a harsh, croaking laughter.

The dying screams of his flame minions echoed through the night; he felt their deaths like a rending in his soul. The Shadow horde, now numbering in the scores, closed in from all sides as their warlock master rose shakily to his feet. The old man chanted, his words falling from the heavens and rising from the depths. Blades of focused darkness cut through the air. The first attack struck Elijah's invisible barrier like a lance. His arcane defenses buckled under the second. The third and fourth broke his wards, slashing across his arms like icy daggers. The shadow spawn charged in for the kill.

I have no choice. He drew his sword. Cold rushed from its hilt, followed by a burning in his gut. Power poured into him; flames burst from him, shifting from orange and white to sickly purple. His renewed assault scoured away the Shadows and staggered the warlock. Eli darted forward with shocking speed, cutting through tendrils of tangible darkness. He slashed at Armin, cutting deep into his withered flesh. Flames erupted from the wound, burning the once mighty warlock alive. When the screams abated, only a smoldering mound remained.

Elijah spat upon the charred corpse and, sword still in hand, entered the tower.

[Christoph]

ACT IV

“Those who try to forget will never escape; only remembrance brings redemption.”

~Malena Zoma, priestess of Khal'jaren

*

The air felt lighter and the oppressive darkness lessened as Elijah left the dead warlock behind him and entered the tower. As he passed beneath the gate, he realized that the structure had no gaps or seems; its ancient builders had carved it from a single, massive piece of stone. He could feel ancient magic humming in its walls, though it felt somehow wrong, corrupted, like a song played out of tune.

He stepped into a vast antechamber. Surrounded by a staircase that wrapped around the outer walls, it was empty save for a ring of burning braziers and a large chunk of black basalt at the center. His eyes immediately locked on the huge jagged stone, which stood three meters tall and two meters wide at the base. A presence stirred within it, straining against a powerful binding spell. All of his trials came to this, the end of his adventure. Something important hid within this strange stone. Or rather, someone.

Eli gripped his sword with both hands. Power coursed through him, filling his muscles with enhanced strength. He thrust his sword into the rock, sending cracks webbing across its surface. White light burst from the cracks. He dove backwards just as the stone exploded in a blinding flash. As the dust settled, an angel stood before him. Wreathed in a shimmering silver aura and wrapped in flowing white silk, she hovered barely above the floor, her large feathery wings unmoving.

“You...” Elijah rose to his feet. “This was your tower.” She was the benevolent spirit recorded in Lynestev's history.

“And it is again.” Her voice floated through the air like a soft harp. She looked tired and confused, like someone waking up in a strange and unfamiliar place. It only made sense, he supposed. Suddenly, she jumped into the air, flying toward the top of the tower in a streak of light.

“Wait!” Eli cried as she vanished high above him. He sprinted up the stairs, chasing his last remaining source of answers. He quickly wove another spell, filling his legs with speed and vigor. He took steps four at a time, swiftly reaching the top.

He passed through a wide doorway. A rush of cold wind hit him as he stepped onto the roof, a great open platform surrounded by jagged crenelations and carved with depictions of the moon and stars. He found the angel at the far edge. She gazed solemnly out upon the ravaged countryside with empty eyes and silent tears. Elijah understood her pain and regret; others had suffered because of his past failures, too. He walked up behind her, but not too close. His sword remained in his hand, though it merely hung at it side.

“It isn't your fault.” The words felt silly on his lips. Who was he to comfort an ancient spirit of life and light?

“Why are you here, child?” she asked, still facing away from him.

“I was hoping you could tell me.” He sighed, the night's accumulated weariness weighing upon him. “What is this place?”

“It was my home,” she said simply. “The place from where I watched over this land. And now it is again. For that, I thank you.” She paused to wipe a final tear from her cheek. “This is where your journey must end. You may go no further.”

Elijah blinked. “But I don't even know why I'm here. I want answers. I can't leave empty-handed.” The angel paused and sniffed the air. She finally turned to face Elijah, deep gray eyes drilling into him. A trace of anger infected her pristine face. He instinctively stepped back.

“Evil dwells within you. I will not tolerate its presence. Be gone.”

“What?” A sudden surge of anger tightened in his chest. “I didn't come this far to turn back.”

“You will leave this place.” Light radiated from her as she advanced toward him. “Or I shall cleanse the darkness from you.”

“I have been threatened with 'cleansing' by enough zealots tonight.”

Elijah stood strong and defiant, a smoldering shadow in her blinding aura. Magic swirled about him, responding to his churning emotions. The angel raised her slender arm; a spear of light appeared in her hand. The sorcerer cursed under his breath. Why must every friendly face turn hostile? Flame oozed from his very pores, enveloping his hands. Lances of fire shot from his palms. The angel batted them aside with her wing and charged across the roof.

Their weapons blurred though the air, his a streak of molten earth and hers a flash of celestial white. Each clash struck like a clap of thunder. Elijah took the offensive. He lashed out with all the unpredictable fury of a wildfire, but he may as well have tried to beat back the ocean tide. Arcane energy surged through his body, giving him superhuman speed. The angel moved with supernatural grace and control, ever motion flowed efficiently and effortlessly like water, against the sorcerer's flickering, sputtering flame.

Then Elijah got sloppy. He thrust too far. The angel grabbed his sword arm and stabbed her glowing spear into his chest. It felt like a shard of ice through his heart. Pain clashed with numbing cold. He fell. His vision went black.