Skele bounded forward, its bones rattling with a hollow snarl. From the gaps in its ribcage, black mist poured out in heavy coils, swallowing the rain-soaked road. The downpour thickened the haze, spreading it fast until the battlefield became a blur of white smoke and dripping shadows.
Arven lifted his hand, mana trembling at his fingertips.
"Veylith—now."
The shade peeled itself from his shadow, its translucent body unfolding like a curtain of smoke. Runes burned across its frame, drinking down his mana with merciless hunger. The pull was immediate, wrenching, like molten metal being poured out of his chest.
Twelve seconds. That was all the time he had.
Green fire lit the fog. Veylith raised a clawed hand, and the world buckled around Morgan.
The bandit king staggered. His axe whipped through empty space, cleaving illusions that bent away like warped glass. Rain became spears in his vision, branches where there were none, enemies lunging from angles that didn't exist. His snarl shook the mist, but his footing faltered.
Ten seconds.
Darius pressed in hard, his blade hissing with runes. Steel rang out, bright and sharp, cutting through the storm. Every step drove Morgan backward, every clash masking the subtle tug that pulled him closer to the trees.
Arven's breath caught. Sweat ran down his temples, vanishing into the rain. The mana drain hollowed him out like a cracked vessel. He fumbled at his belt, tore a cork loose with his teeth, and forced the high-grade potion down his throat.
The burn scalded his insides. His fingers shook around the glass.
That's it. After this, I've got strength for one attack. Just one.
Eight seconds.
Joy darted above the mist, her silhouette cutting across the clouds. Her wing dipped twice—sharp, deliberate. A signal.
Darius shifted accordingly, blade slashing left. Morgan reeled against the wrong angle, his parry scraping sparks into the fog.
Seven seconds.
A screech answered from the opposite side—Happy. The harpy's cry cut thin and piercing, a thread in the storm. Darius twisted with it, repositioning again. The rhythm looked like instinct, but it wasn't. They were guiding him. Herding him.
Five seconds.
Morgan's snarl deepened. Lightning burst from his axe, sizzling through the fog. Illusions warped with the light, scattering, multiplying. He swung hard, cleaving three phantoms at once, but his boots sank deeper into wet soil. The road was gone.
He didn't notice.
Three seconds.
The forest pressed closer—dark trunks swallowing the storm, branches rising where there should've been sky. The ground sloped uneven beneath his feet, slick with moss, not cobblestone. And still he fought shadows, blind to the shift.
Arven's knees buckled. His vision shook. He dug his nails into his palm, forcing the focus to hold. His lungs clawed for air, potion stinging on his lips.
Two seconds.
Veylith's form rippled. The wraith's claws curled inward, illusions twisting tighter, bending space like glass under a hammer. Morgan's eyes burned red against the strain, his rage cutting through the haze.
One.
The world snapped.
The fog thinned into stillness. The road was gone. The storm howled through forest now, ancient trunks rising where there should have been fields.
Morgan froze. His eyes widened, then twisted with fury as realization struck. His axe lifted, veins bulging down his arm.
"DAMN BRAT!" His roar ripped through the mist, raw and thunderous, shaking the trees as if the forest itself recoiled.
Arven stood at the edge of the haze, chest heaving, lips stained with potion. His hand trembled around the bottle as he forced another swallow down. The glow of Veylith's runes sputtered in the corner of his vision, guttering like a dying flame.
Breath ragged. Mana drained to the bone. And yet, green eyes still glowed faint in the shadows.
* * *
Morgan's bellow still rang in the trees when he lunged. His boots tore the mud apart, axe dragging a scar through the ground as he cut a straight path to Arven. His eyes burned with savage delight.
One arm lashed forward, not with his weapon, but bare-handed—ready to snatch the boy up by the throat. The storm itself seemed to reel around the weight of his presence, the moment pressing heavy and suffocating.
Arven staggered back, his chest screaming for air, his fingers slipping on the potion glass. He had nothing left—no shield, no strength to even raise his arm.
The bandit king's grip closed—
—and met air.
A sharp cry split the rain.
KEEER!
Morgan's vision blurred, his body jarred sideways as a winged shadow slammed into him. Talons raked, not to pierce, but to shove, driving his bulk three steps back.
Happy wheeled once in the stormlight, then landed with a heavy beat of wings. His beak parted, not with a cry this time, but a grin—mocking, deliberate. He hopped once, talons digging into the earth, then snapped forward with a vicious kick. The blow landed square against Morgan's chest, throwing him back again.
The bandit king's laugh boomed even as he steadied himself, mud spraying under his boots.
"Ha! Birds with teeth!" His axe spun once in his grip, dripping rain. "You should've stayed in the sky, little chick. Snapping at me just makes you mine sooner."
His hand lifted, and a flare of dark red etched across his skin. The rain thickened, and from the treeline came beating wings not his own.
Crows—dozens, their eyes glowing like coals in the downpour. Each cry cut like a blade, each movement sharp as wire. One landed on Morgan's shoulder, head cocked unnaturally. Its gaze locked with his, and when its wings spread, his own eyes glowed in eerie mirror.
Red Eyes Crow.
Arven's gut tightened. That wasn't just a summon—Morgan was seeing through them. Every angle, every blind spot, fed into his strike.
The bandit king raised his chin toward the harpies, his grin wide and merciless.
"You two…" His voice rolled with mocking warmth, as though speaking to children. "You had food. Shelter. A place under my roof. All I asked was loyalty. To be mine."
The crows cawed in unison, their wings flaring.
"And how did you repay me?" His laugh rumbled, teeth flashing white through the storm. "You ran. You ran like dogs. And still—still!—you flap back here to get in my way?"
Happy screeched, feathers bristling. Joy's cry followed above, sharper, angrier, a denial wrapped in sound.
Morgan's expression hardened. "Ingrates." His axe gleamed as he leveled it at them. "I gave you everything. And you'll crawl back to me before this ends."
Happy's wings flared, scattering sheets of rain as he stepped between Arven and the bandit king. His grin sharpened, but his voice carried, clear over the storm.
"How can you call that a shelter?" he spat. "You chained us down, treated us like lackeys—and worse, you wanted us to hurt others for you!"
The grin dropped into something closer to a snarl. His talons dug into the mud, daring Morgan to step closer.
Above, Joy swooped low, her feathers cutting through the rain like knives. She circled once before crying out, her voice slicing sharper than the wind.
"Wake up, Red!" Her eyes fixed on the crow perched at Morgan's shoulder, its glow pulsing like a wound. "That isn't freedom! Can't you see what he's done to you?"
The crow blinked once, but its head twisted back toward Morgan's command. Its red gaze flickered in time with his.
Morgan's laughter broke the moment, loud and unrestrained. "Freedom?" He threw the word like a curse. "Don't talk to me about freedom, you ungrateful pests! Shelter, food, strength—I gave you all of it! And you dare bare your claws at me?"
He stepped forward, axe dragging a furrow through the earth, his crows rising into a spiral above him. His voice lowered, venom seeping through the grin.
"You'll learn. Whether by claw, by chain, or by your friend Red tearing your wings off—you'll crawl back to me."
Morgan's grin widened as he turned on the harpy pair. "Two cheeky birds," he muttered, voice thick with scorn. Then his body blurred, darting forward like a predator unleashed. His bandit troupe surged at his heels, weapons drawn, trying to pin the duo's wings and cut off their flight.
Happy twisted midair, shoving a blade aside with his talon, but Morgan was already there—axe swinging. The edge carved a shockwave through the rain, forcing the harpy back.
"Lying on the floor," Morgan snarled, driving his fist into Happy's chest. The boy staggered, coughing blood, feathers scattering in the mud.
He wheeled toward the sister. "One named Happy…" Another savage swing, grazing Joy's shoulder as she screamed and backflapped hard, barely dodging the killing arc.
Morgan's eyes gleamed red beneath the storm. "…One named Joy."
His boot lashed out, catching them both in a sweeping kick. Their cries tore through the air as they were flung like broken dolls.
"Fly away, bird shit duo!" His roar cracked through the rain, thunder answering as if mocking the cruelty.
Arven froze where he stood, every muscle wound tight. Watching the siblings tumble, battered by strikes too heavy for their small frames, his chest burned with something hotter than fear.
"What kind of grown man feels proud beating children?" The words ripped out of him before he even thought, his voice raw.
He didn't wait. He slammed his palm down, aura sparking as Skele launched ahead of him. The skeleton hound darted under the falling siblings, bones glowing faintly, its body bracing against the force of their fall. Arven's arms followed through, cushioning the impact as best he could. The collision rattled his bones, but the siblings didn't break against the earth.
"Come back, Happy. Come back, Joy," Arven said, breathless but firm. His grip steadied them even as his vision blurred with rage.
The two harpies coughed and blinked, battered but alive, wings twitching weakly under the downpour.