"How do I go about this?" I asked Aiona again, uncertainty threading through my voice. Teleportation had come naturally before—almost effortless in those quiet moments when I'd practiced it leisurely, with nothing at stake but my own curiosity. Now, standing here with lives depending on me, with the weight of their survival pressing down on my shoulders, it felt impossibly complex, like trying to capture smoke with bare hands. The self-consciousness of knowing that one mistake could doom these people made every detail seem overwhelming, every step fraught with potential catastrophe.
"Ask them to hold each other. You hold one beside you," Aiona's voice came steady and reassuring in my mind. "Draw your thoughts to the safe place in camp where the Imperial army waits. Then just do it. Don't overthink. That will only make it harder."
I drew a deep breath, centering myself. "Hold each other and hold onto me," I instructed the merchants, keeping my voice as calm and authoritative as I could manage. My hands trembled slightly, but I forced them still. The merchants obeyed without question, their faces pale with exhaustion and fear, yet trusting. Their hands clasped together, and one gripped my arm tightly, his fingers cold and clammy against my skin.
I closed my eyes and pictured our chosen campsite. The familiar circle of carriages arranged in protective formation materialized in my mind's eye. I selected a spot near the camp—not so far that we'd be vulnerable, but not close enough to materialize on top of someone. That would be disastrous. With the anchor firmly placed in my thoughts, I felt magic gathering around us like a cocoon. Then, in a heartbeat that somehow felt both instantaneous and eternal, we teleported.
The scorching desert heat struck me first, replacing the cooler air we'd left behind. The moment we materialized on the sand near camp, I acted. "This way, quickly!" I urged the merchants forward, half-guiding, half-pushing them toward safety. A patrolling soldier spotted us immediately and came running, his expression shifting from surprise to concern as he took in the merchants' condition. He called for assistance, helping guide them into camp.
After settling the merchants with food and water, ensuring their comfort as much as circumstances allowed, I went to find the army's second in command. General Rohan was currently away with Arvid, which meant speaking with his deputy. I'd seen the burly man often during our journey—an imposing figure with a stern face and calculating eyes. He wasn't much of a talker. Neither was General Rohan, honestly. The only soldier I'd conversed with regularly was Gautham, my former instructor from Gorei who'd also served as my private guard. We'd developed something of a rapport. But this second in command? This would be our first real conversation. Unfortunately, I had no time for pleasantries or rapport-building.
I approached him holding up the medal, the metal catching torchlight. Arvid's personal seal should command instant obedience from any Imperial soldier. The second in command looked up from his map, surprise flashing across his weathered face, followed quickly by suspicion.
"His Majesty requests an army of fifty men," I stated, keeping my voice direct. No time for elaborate explanations or diplomatic niceties. Lives hung in the balance.
He snorted—a harsh sound conveying contempt more clearly than words. My stomach sank.
"How would I know you didn't harm His Majesty and steal that medal?" he asked, skepticism dripping from every syllable. His eyes raked over me dismissively. This wasn't going as planned.
"You don't even know my name, do you?" he continued, his tone growing aggressive. "What makes you think you can order me around? I only take orders from His Majesty himself."
"Northern bitch," he muttered under his breath, though loud enough for me to hear clearly. The slur cut through me like a blade.
I laughed—a bitter, humorless sound at the sheer absurdity. I should have known. They'd seen me fight, seen my magic, seen me at Arvid's side. But seeing and respecting were entirely different. They might fear my power, might stand in awe of my abilities, but they didn't want to obey me. To them, I would always be a northern bitch, an outsider who didn't belong in their carefully ordered world. Well, it wasn't as if I needed their help anyway.
"You're going to regret this," I told him, my voice cold and flat. I turned and strode away before my anger could boil over into something more destructive. Returning to our section of camp, I quickly filled a bag with the medicine bottles I'd bought from the merchant and enhanced with spells. My hands moved with practiced efficiency, checking each seal.
Then I teleported again, this time to where we'd left our horses before splitting up.
The moment I materialized, something felt wrong. The smell of blood overwhelmed me—thick and cloying in the desert air. My stomach churned as cold dread settled in my chest like a stone.
I followed the scent to where Arvid and the others should have been, but all I heard was chaos—metal clashing against metal, screams of pain and rage, arrows whistling through air. They weren't where I'd left them. They'd been discovered and had started slaying the Dergu in earnest. When I finally gained visual, my breath caught. Absolute chaos. Arvid and the others fought impressively, cutting down Dergu left and right, but the enemy's numbers far exceeded our estimates. For every Dergu that fell, two more seemed to appear.
I needed to help them, quickly. My mind raced, brainstorming a spell powerful enough to turn the tide. Then it came—the pillar of fire spell Arandial, Arvid's teacher, had used back in Gorei. I'd been so impressed by its devastating power that I'd sought it in the ancient tome I'd been studying. It wasn't Arandial's creation but a much older spell, so ancient it had been preserved in historical magical texts for generations to study and fear.
I left the flying to Aiona, trusting her completely. We levitated together, rising above the battlefield for a better view. From this vantage point, I could see everything—the swirling melee where Arvid and our soldiers fought desperately, and more importantly, the targets whose elimination would inflict maximum damage: the Dergu archers positioned in the back, raining arrows on our forces.
I drew a deep breath, gathering my magic, feeling it build and condense within me. "Siyenradarth!" I spoke the spell, my voice ringing with power and authority. A magic circle manifested before me, intricate runes glowing with intense, almost blinding light. From its center erupted a pillar of fire as hot as the world's core itself—a column of pure destruction shooting toward the earth.
It found its targets with unerring accuracy. The Dergu archers were consumed utterly, without time to scream. Everything around them scorched to ash in seconds. The fire pillar proved much larger and more devastating than anticipated—so hot it melted metal weapons and armor into pools of glowing lava that hissed and bubbled on sand.
I repeated the spell several times, each invocation draining more energy but yielding the same catastrophic results. With each pillar of fire, Dergu numbers dwindled rapidly. Soon their formations broke entirely, morale shattered by devastating magical assault from above. Arvid and the other soldiers cut through the disorganized, demoralized enemy forces with relative ease.
I descended slowly, my legs shaky from magical exertion. The elven spells were formidable—I understood that now more than ever. They converted raw magic into absolute maximum output with virtually no waste, but at tremendous cost to the caster. I felt drained, hollow. But there was no time to rest.
All the Dergu lay dead, their bodies littering the battlefield. But victory had come at a price. Several of our soldiers bore wounds, mostly from arrows that had found their marks before I could eliminate the archers. The arrows appeared poisoned—the wounded men's skin had already begun taking on a grayish tinge around entry wounds, and they sweated profusely despite the desert heat.
Gautham was among the injured, an arrow embedded deep in his arm. Seeing my former instructor wounded sent a pang through my chest. I quickly knelt beside him and opened one of the herbal detoxifying medicines, carefully pouring the liquid into his mouth. "Swallow," I urged him gently. I repeated the process with the other three arrow-struck soldiers, moving quickly but carefully, ensuring each received the antidote.
"Where's the backup?" Arvid's voice cut through my concentration. I looked up to see him standing over me, his armor splattered with blood—whether his own or the enemy's, I couldn't tell. He looked angry, his jaw clenched tight, eyes blazing with an emotion I couldn't quite read.
"I'm sorry. I failed to convince them," I told him honestly, my voice small. I reached into my pouch and handed the medal back, feeling the weight of failure settling on my shoulders like a physical burden. I felt severely lacking in so many ways, and his tone made me feel as though he were scolding me—a teacher disappointed in a student who hadn't lived up to their potential.
"I wasn't blaming you," Arvid replied, his voice softening slightly as he seemed to register my expression. He took the medal and clenched it tightly in his palm, knuckles whitening. The muscle in his jaw ticked, and I could see he was holding back a storm of anger—but not at me, I realized. At the situation. At his own soldier's insubordination.
The desert wind blew across the battlefield, carrying the acrid smell of burnt flesh and melted metal—a grim reminder of the price of this small victory.