The mist was thickening.

  It didn’t rise from the ground nor drift from extinguished flames — it seemed to breathe from the air itself, as though the world exhaled living smoke. It moved in slow spirals, taking on subtle forms: a faint silhouette, a blurred face, trembling hands that dissolved before touching the earth.

  At the heart of that desolation, Celina Kelanor stood firm.

  Her scarlet mana cloak rippled with the residual heat of flames still flickering between broken stones. Her stance was tall, gaze sharp — like a blade held aloft by sheer will. She did not falter.

  Then came the voice. It rose from every direction at once — deep, dry, laced with calm scorn.

  "I'm impressed, Princess…

  You don’t seem too concerned about destroying the very city you claim to protect. Nor about the lives lost.

  I’d say you’ve done more damage here than our troops.

  Don’t you fear the people’s judgment?"

  Celina twisted midair, narrowly avoiding a falling shard of rooftop. The city around her was a graveyard of ruin and smoke. Yet she didn’t waver.

  “Fear?” she answered, steady. “You attacked my kingdom in the dead of night. You murdered my people and turned Bryngal to ash.

  Everything I do is to protect what’s left.”

  The mist laughed. A coarse sound, almost rotten — like wind splintering rotted wood.

  “So much hypocrisy…”

  A spear of ice burst from the fog, slicing through the air like an arrow. Celina spun midair, dodging with lethal grace. The spear buried itself in a wall behind her, cracking the stone on impact.

  “Why don’t you show yourself?” she challenged. “I want to see your face. Or are you ashamed of it?”

  The mist, mocking, briefly shaped itself into a man’s visage — soft features, diffuse hair.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness…” the voice replied, feigning courtesy. “I prefer not to be exposed. I wouldn’t want to end up… scorched, like poor Malom.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Celina narrowed her eyes. Malom had been a level-four ranker — killed by a fatal mistake. A slip that had cost far too much.

  On the horizon, a streak of blue lightning tore through the sky, striking distant buildings. The city shook from the blast.

  “Looks like your friend is having trouble,” the mist observed.

  “He is,” Celina replied, eyes fixed on the explosion.

  “We didn’t expect a rank 6, master as a bodyguard,” the voice added.

  On the other side of the city, Kral was retreating.

  His body already showed signs of wear. His clothes were scorched, his breathing heavy, and cuts laced his arms. He was still smiling — but it wasn’t mockery anymore. It was exhaustion, thinly veiled.

  Ahead of him, Ivríniel Hawthorne advanced with the poise of someone who had no need to hurry. Her dark cloak drifted gently, and her cane tapped against the ground with the rhythm of a metronome.

  “Fascinating lineage…” she said, observing Kral with clinical eyes. “But you, boy, are nothing more than a freshly ascended.”

  Kral let out a mocking laugh.

  “You’re no fun, grandma.”

  In a flash of blue lightning, he vanished at absurd speed, rushing toward the gates.

  Ivríniel raised her cane with a quiet sigh, preparing to follow — but then froze. A real chill ran down her spine.

  Beyond the gates, something new was manifesting. A different aura. Heavier. Colder. Another master.

  Rank 6.

  Her brow furrowed. Intuition pulsed in her ears like a muffled drum: “Stop here.”

  Ahead, the mist began to crystallize into ice. A thick, unnatural wall sealed the main gate with surgical precision. The soldiers of Ortrus withdrew, vanishing behind the crystalline barrier.

  Celina stood before the forming ice, its magical crackle clashing with the heat of her flames. The enemy’s voice still echoed — now distant, slipping through the cracks of some unseen veil.

  “Seems it’s time for me to bid farewell.

  It was a pleasure, Princess.”

  Celina raised her hands. Mana surged. White flames wrapped around her fingers — ravenous, furious.

  “You really think this ice can stop me?”

  Ivríniel appeared beside her. Silent, resolute, her gaze locked on the sealed gate.

  Her voice came straight into Celina’s mind, clear as crystal:

  “Let them go.”

  “They have another master, Celina. He revealed himself on purpose. If we push, he’ll intervene. And I can’t take on two masters alone.”

  For a moment, the fire wavered.

  Celina closed her eyes. Breathed. And the flame dissipated.

  The last sparks danced briefly in the air, then vanished into the mist.

  “Did we retreat?” she asked, eyes still on the gate.

  “No,” Ivríniel

  answered. “We just didn’t step into their trap.”