Young Luca froze in the doorway of the ruined cabin.
Steam still rose from soaked, blackened floorboards. The fire was gone, crushed by the oversized water spell he had torn from the sky, but the air remained hot and thick with the smell of ash and burned wood.
Sylvia lay in the center of the room, still and unmoving.
Around her, three cloaked figures stood at the edge of a ritual circle. Its dark, unfamiliar symbols glowed with small light.
Luca did not recognize the runes or the structure, but every instinct screamed that what was happening to Sylvia was bad.
The intruders raised their hands in unison.
Mana poured from them, feeding the circle.
The lines on the floor brightened.
Luca moved before he could think. Water gathered around his arm, twisting into a compressed stream that lashed out at the nearest cloaked figure. It was not his strongest spell. It was fast, sharp, and desperate.
