The silver spires of Varethin gleamed above the battlefield, mocking Elira as she pressed her back against a fallen oak. Her hands trembled around the rune-carved staff. The wardlight flickered at her command, barely keeping the shadowbeasts at bay.
Across the field, General Kaevan raised his warhammer. If he fell, the city was lost.
Elira closed her eyes and whispered the incantation she was forbidden to use. Magic lanced through her veins, her breath turning to mist. The staff burned, ancient sigils flaring as spectral vines erupted from the ground, tangling the shadowbeasts in luminous thorns.
Kaevan’s hammer struck true, shattering their leader. The others dissipated with a screech.
Elira gasped, her grip slackening. The staff crumbled to dust. Her master’s voice would be wrathful, but Varethin stood. And as her heartbeat steadied, she realized—so did she.
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