The silver spire of Varethos towered over the battlefield, pulsing with magic. Elira tightened her grip on the crystal-forged blade. If she failed, the spire would fall to the Shadow Court, and all of Eldrion would follow.
Lightning crackled in her veins as she stepped onto the bridge, facing the obsidian-armored wraithlord. He struck first, a blade of swirling void splitting the air. Elira twisted, her sword meeting his with a ringing clash, sparks of raw magic scattering across the stones.
With each strike, her strength waned. The wraithlord’s laughter echoed as tendrils of shadow wrapped around her wrist. Gritting her teeth, she channeled every ounce of her magic into her blade. Blue fire roared to life, burning through the darkness, severing his form in two.
The wraithlord collapsed, his form dissolving. The spire’s glow shone stronger. The battle was won, but as Elira staggered, she saw the mark of shadow curling over her skin. The wraith’s magic had touched her—and it was not letting go.
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