The air was thick with tension, clinging to the dark forest like a shroud. Mist slithered through the clearing, curling low about the roots and the hooves of those who stood there, creeping like some pale and ghostly serpent. Three Virtusians alicorns encircled their quarry—a mother and her child—like predators scenting a wounded prey. They had come with certainty, assured in their numbers, in their strength. Yet now, as the mist rolled in, the confidence that once gleamed in their eyes dimmed, if only by the smallest fraction.
But nothing came. No ambush, no sudden strike, only silence. It stretched taut between them, thin as a blade's edge. Slowly, their fear gave way to scorn, their certainty returning like a tide. The leader of the Virtusians allowed himself a smirk as he watched his underlings advance, their steps slow, deliberate. The chased was cornered. The hunt was all but over.
Then came the crackle.
It was not the mother who conjured it; her magic had long since formed a barrier, an invisible shield cast around herself and her daughter. No, this was something else—something new. It came from the shadows at the clearing's edge, a sharp and sudden sound like laughter turned to malice. The leader had almost no time to call out before one of his own reeled back, struck.
Feyn stepped forward, his breath unsteady, his resolve thin as glass. His gaze flickered to the Virtusian he had hit, watching as the alicorn staggered, then turned. The wound was not enough. A growl rumbled low in its throat, and already, its sandy-brown coat was shifting, giving way to something darker, something harder. Scales.
Feyn swallowed. The rogue's eyes locked onto him, and fear wrapped cold fingers around his throat. He had struck the first blow, but now he had to see it through. His gaze flicked to the Fulmenian mother and her child. She was watching him. Surprise gleamed in her eyes—surprise, and something else.
Hope.
The Virtusian leader's smirk was gone. "You didn't tell us you had another one with you," he said, before tilting his head slightly, a silent command. His remaining warriors understood. With a swift nod, they moved as one.
The sandy-hued Virtusian turned his gaze upon Feyn, breaking from his pack with a predator's swiftness. He moved like a shadow given form, closing the distance in a blur of motion. Feyn saw him coming, braced himself. He knew how to fight fire—how to dance between the flames without getting burned. But he did not expect the ground itself to betray him.
A stone, sharp and sudden, struck from below, hurling him into the air like a leaf caught in a storm's breath. He barely had time to gasp before he realized his mistake. This was no Child of Fafnyr he faced. No mere flame-breather. This was a Child of Gurael. Earth-shaker. Stone-bender. An alicorn as much of rock and soil as of flesh and bone.
Feyn twisted midair, his wings snapping open just in time to steady himself. His landing was not graceful, but it was solid, and that was enough. He had done this before—countless times, thrown through the air by his sister's wild training methods, forced to find his paws before the earth found him first. He had cursed her for it then. He thanked her for it now.
Lightning crackled in his veins as his magic surged anew. No hesitation. No fear. He struck fast, lashing out with precision, forcing the Virtusian to move as he willed.
The alicorn dodged and countered, but Feyn was relentless, weaving his spells with calculated intent.
On the other side of the clearing, the remaining two Virtusians advanced upon the mother and her child.
The child whimpered, pressing closer to her mother's side, her cries a fragile sound against the night's violence. The mother bared her teeth, her voice sharp as a blade's edge.
"Stay back."
She did not know this other Fulmenian who had thrown himself into battle for her sake. Did not know his name, nor why he had come. But she knew this much—she could not let him fight alone. And yet…her child. Her shield shimmered around them, fragile but unbroken. If she let it fall, even for an instant, the Virtusians would seize their chance. She could not afford recklessness.
The younger of the two alicorns smirked, tilting his head in amusement.
"And who's going to stop us? That little friend of yours?" His voice dripped with mockery. "He can barely—"
The words died on his tongue.
A chain—dark, coiling, relentless—snaked around his mouth, silencing him in an instant. Confusion flickered in his eyes as his wing jerked, struggling to pry it loose. He had no chance. A sharp yank tore him sideways, sending him sprawling to the ground in an ungainly heap.
Now, at last, he saw the one at the other end of the chain. Another Virtusian stepped into view, but she was unlike the others, who had already tainted the clearing with their presence. Her hide gleamed silver in the mist, her blue mane the cold shimmer of tempered steel, but it was not her colors that held him rigid. It was her wings. Her tail.
The chain still clamped his muzzle shut, but his leader gave voice to the thought that thundered through his mind.
"A Nanlean…?"
There was wariness in that voice, a rare thing for one of his kind. The Fulmenians were one thing—predictable, manageable. But this one was something else. This one was seasoned. Battle-worn.
Lightning split the air once more.
Feyn moved like the storm itself, his steps quicksilver, slipping past every strike that sought to end him. The Virtusian he faced lashed out, but the young Fulmenian was always a breath too fast, a shadow too quick to grasp. He led his foe exactly where he wanted him—step by step, inch by inch, toward the clearing's edge.
And then the trap was sprung.
The ground dipped, the earth sloping just enough to let the past night's rain and morning's breath of dew gather in a shallow pool. The Virtusian never saw it. Never thought of it. But Feyn had.
The moment his opponent's hooves splashed into the water, Feyn struck.
The lightning surged, arcing through the air, hissing as it kissed the water's surface. The Virtusian had been so certain of his victory, so assured in his strength, that he had not even considered his surroundings. A mistake. His mistake.
For a breath, his body seized, his muscles betraying him. And then, like a great tree felled in a storm, he crumpled.
The sound of his fall echoed through the clearing.
Feyn stood over him, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling with the effort of battle. His paws trembled, his limbs felt like lead, but he remained standing. He had won.
Slowly, he turned his gaze across the battlefield, searching. There, where the silver light met the shadows, she fought. Velzael.
Her movements were fluid, controlled. A dance, but one meant for death. There was a clarity in her strikes, a quiet certainty, like still water hiding unfathomable depths beneath its surface. The others might have seen a warrior.
Feyn saw a tempest waiting to be unleashed.
He watched as Velzael and the Virtusian leader faced each other, a battlefield shrinking to the space between them. The underling she had been fighting lay bound at her hooves—it had taken her far less time to dispatch him than Feyn had needed for his own opponent. Efficiency born of experience.
His breath was still unsteady, but he forced his legs to move. He had to reach the mother and child, had to get them away from this place. But as he neared, the leader's voice cut through the night like the scrape of steel against stone.
"It seems fortune has turned against me," the Virtusian muttered, his tone laced with the bitter edge of hatred. "The Dragon Slayer has found us."
There was venom in his gaze, but something else too—wary recognition. Yet, after a beat, his eyes flicked to Feyn, and his sneer deepened.
"But I've never heard of you siding with Fulmenian filth." The last word left his mouth like a curse, thick with disdain.
Then, without warning, he moved.
Feyn barely had time to react before the Virtusian leader dashed past Velzael, his path aimed not at her but at him. The young Fulmenian braced himself, but the attack never came. Instead, in a blur of motion, the alicorn struck the mother, sending her sprawling from the protective barrier she had fought so hard to maintain. She crumpled to the ground, unconscious before she even landed.
And in his wings, the child.
She trembled in his grasp, his blade resting at her throat, crying after her unresponsive mother.
Velzael's expression hardened as she took a step forward, but the leader only smiled. It was not a pleasant thing.
"What now, Protectors?" he mocked, his voice silk-thin and sharpened like a dagger's edge. "Shall we see if your oaths outweigh your wrath? You would not risk the kid, would you?"
Then, a sound.
Low. Dangerous. A growl, rising from the depths of the storm itself.
The sky split open. A bolt of lightning came crashing down, searing the air, illuminating the clearing in a blinding flash. Before the afterimage had even faded from her vision, Feyn was moving.
Velzael tensed, startled by the sudden fury radiating from the young warrior. This was no calculated strike, no measured assault. This was wrath. A tempest unbound.
She hesitated only for a breath before following. But as she moved, her eyes widened.
Something had materialized at Feyn's side, coalescing from the crackling storm. A cane of peculiar shape, its form wreathed in lightning, humming with power.
His Soul-weapon.
Feyn called upon his magic once more, the air crackling with power as his eye burned with the unnatural glow only he bore as a Fulmenian. He did not blink. Did not waver. He saw the Virtusian clearly now, saw every flaw in his stance, every gap in his defense. He knew where to strike.
The leader let out a low, guttural growl, his wings tightening around the trembling child, holding her between himself and the Fulmenian like a living shield. He thought himself clever. Any strike aimed at him would harm the child first. But if she perished—if that shield was stripped from him—then he would be left with nothing.
His grip faltered for only a moment. And in that moment, pain lanced through his side.
He hissed, his head snapping downward. A thin line of crimson seeped from a wound no larger than a pinprick, but the sight of it sent a flash of fury through him. Where had the strike come from? Velzael stood still, watching from the side, unmoved. And the Fulmenian? This whelp had almost survived his underling—he was no threat.
Another impact. Then another.
The Virtusian staggered, his growl twisting into something raw and ragged. His gaze darted frantically through the clearing, searching for the unseen assailant, until, at last, realization struck.
It was him. The young Fulmenian.
Feyn moved like the wind itself, his form a blur as he dashed across the battlefield, his Soul-weapon glowing in his grasp. The cane crackled with raw energy, each strike unleashing a bullet of pure thunder, each shot finding its mark. The Virtusian twisted, trying to dodge, but he was too slow. Too late. The storm had already claimed him.
Every shot struck with purpose, disrupting the currents of magic within him. His mana faltered, the spellwork unraveling thread by thread. His grip on his weapon weakened, the levitation that held it aloft flickering, failing. His body sagged under the weight of his wounds, each one a testament to his arrogance.
Another shot. Then another.
The leader of the Rogues let out one last, strangled breath before his body collapsed, his strength spent, his ambition shattered.
And at last, the storm settled.