Mitra’s grip tightened around the device, her knuckles whitening. The air itself seed to thicken, heavy with dread.
Torran: “Was that—” one of her disciples began, but his words were swallowed by a deep, resonant boom that rolled across the landscape like thunder. Distant, yet powerful enough to tremble through the earth beneath their feet.
Every head snapped toward the horizon, where the fading echo had co from. The skyline remained unchanged, but the unseen threat lood larger in their minds. Faces paled; jaws clenched. Fear, confusion, and grim determination warred in their expressions.
Mitra’s gaze snapped to Cid.
Mitra: “What did you do?” she demanded, her voice sharp as a blade.
The bound student offered no answer. His body sagged against the gnarled roots that held him, his breathing shallow. The unnatural petrification creeping up his limbs had worsened—his fingers were already stiff, gray tendrils spiderwebbing toward his wrists.
Frustration flared in Mitra’s chest. She turned back to her disciples, her mind racing.
Mitra: “I don’t know what this is about,” she said, forcing calm into her voice, “but we’re not waiting for answers. If the teams I sent are calling for backup, then whatever’s out there has already overwheld them. We’re not safe here.” Her eyes flicked to Cid again. “We take him back to Graheel. Now.”
Fuse, her most level-headed disciple, stepped forward.
Fuse: “I agree,” he said, his voice steady, “but look at him.” He gestured to Cid’s deteriorating form. “The petrification is spreading. If we move him carelessly, we might speed it up. And if it reaches his heart or lungs before we get help…” He didn’t need to finish.
A murmur rippled through the group. Ti was against them—both from whatever disaster had befallen their allies and from the curse consuming their prisoner.
Mitra: “We’re just going to have to hope that so first-aid magic will slow this petrification long enough for a proper healer to do sothing about it.” Mitra’s voice was taut, her eyes flicking to the creeping stone that now encased Cid’s forearm. She turned to Torran, the strongest among them. “I need you to carry Cid on your—”
Her words died in her throat.
A sound—hissing—ripped through the air. The aether around them warped, a suffocating pressure swelling like a stormfront. Mitra’s instincts scread before her mind could process it: sothing massive, sothing fast, was coming.
Alan, the rookie, stiffened beside her, his face draining of color. His sensitivity to aether had always been his one true gift, and right now, it was screaming at him too.
Alan: “Mitra—!”
She didn’t hesitate.
With a snap of her will, roots erupted from the earth a hundred feet away—thick, whip-like tendrils that lashed around her and her disciples in an instant.
Mitra: “Hold on!” she barked, and the roots yanked.
The world blurred as they were ripped through the air, the ground vanishing beneath them. Heat seared the back of Mitra’s neck a heartbeat before the explosion hit.
She twisted mid-flight, just in ti to see it.
A fireball—gigantic, the size of a truck, maybe larger—barreled through the trees like a cot. The forest in its path didn’t just burn; it vaporized, trunks exploding into splinters before they could even blacken. The air itself shimred, warping under the heat.
This all happened so rapidly that Mitra didn’t have ti to pull Cid along with everyone, so he was left directly in the fireball's attack.
Boom!
The mont the fireball collided with Cid, it erupted in a cataclysmic explosion, flas bursting outward in a fifty-foot radius. The shockwave hurled Mitra and her disciples harder, their bodies crashing through foliage as the roots absorbed the worst of the impact. She hit the dirt rolling, her vision swimming, ears ringing. When she forced herself up, the sight stole her breath.
Where Cid had been was now a raging inferno, flas roaring fifty feet high. The trees nearby were skeletal, blackened fingers clawing at the sky.
Torran staggered to his feet beside her.
Torran: “Mitra—what in the world was that?!”
Mitra: "That was Yasters Roiling Fla Ball," she said, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. She was all too familiar with the spell.
Fuse: "Yasters!?! That attack spell should be tiny! That was way too massive!" he exclaid, his brow furrowed in confusion. He had a solid grasp of magic, but the scale of the spell he had just witnessed was beyond anything he had ever encountered.
Mitra nodded, her mind racing. There was no doubt in her mind that what they had just witnessed was indeed Yasters Roiling Fla Ball. The way the aether had coalesced and surged, the distinct heat and energy—it all pointed to that particular spell. But Fuse was right; it was far too large for a normal casting.
As she peered into the heart of the burning inferno, a grim acceptance settled over her. Accepting the harsh reality of Cid’s imdiate demise from such a devastating attack. But then, sothing caught her eye—a silhouette amidst the flas, sitting eerily still at the center of the inferno.
Mitra squinted, her heart racing as she concentrated. It was Cid, unconscious but seemingly unhard, surrounded by a swirling vortex of fire that burned everything else around him. The roots that had bound him were gone, reduced to wisps of ash, yet his clothes weren’t even singed. The fire had carved a perfect circle around him, as if so invisible hand had sculpted the destruction to spare him.
“That is impossible,” Mitra thought, disbelief coursing through her.
Yasters Roiling Fla Ball incinerates anything that gets in its path, especially one of that magnitude. The only way Cid could remain unscathed in this inferno was if soone had exerted an extraordinary level of control over the aether, manipulating the flas to spare him while consuming everything else.
Her mind raced as she considered the implications. Manipulating fire in such a precise manner was no small feat; it required a mastery of aether control at a very high level. Fire was notoriously unstable, and to bend it to one’s will, especially on such a grand scale, was a skill reserved for the most powerful mages.
As the realization dawned on her, a na echoed in her mind, one that sent a chill down her spine. There was only one person she could think of on the continent who possessed the level of aether control necessary to perform such a feat.
Mitra: “Scarlett! Show yourself!” Mitra yelled, her voice cutting through the roar of the flas.
The air crackled with tension as she waited, her heart pounding in her chest. The inferno flickered and danced, and for a mont, it seed as if the flas themselves were listening.
With a single, sharp snap of fingers, the inferno died.
Not a gradual fade, not a smothered smolder—annihilation. One mont, the world burned; the next, the flas simply ceased to exist, as though plucked from reality by an unseen hand. The air trembled in the sudden absence of heat, leaving behind only the skeletal remains of trees and the acrid scent of charred earth.
Striding casually down this ashen trail Yasters Roiling Fla Ball had carved was a striking figure clad in a long red taffeta skirt adorned with black lace underlay, sh frills, and a side zip fastening. Her long, flowing red hair cascaded down her back, and a wide-brimd hat perched atop her head, casting a shadow over her face. The red lipstick she wore accentuated her condescending smirk, a look that seed to mock the devastation around her.
It was Scarlett, and she was walking directly toward Cid.
Trailing behind her was a figure cloaked in a black leather jacket studded with tal spikes. The hood of his jacket was pulled low, obscuring his face in a shroud of shadow, enhanced by so sort of enchantnt that made it impossible to discern his features. He moved with a quiet intensity, his presence adding an air of nace to the already charged atmosphere.
As they approached Cid, the man in the leather jacket bent down, producing an expensive-looking potion from within his jacket. Carefully, he began to feed it into Cid’s mouth, the liquid shimring with a red glow. anwhile, Scarlett walked past them, positioning herself deliberately between Mitra and Cid, her posture exuding confidence and control.
Scarlett: “Mitra,” she said, her voice smooth and lodic, yet laced with an undercurrent of mockery, “it’s been so long. Have you been keeping up with the practice quartz I gave you?”
Mitra: “What have you done, Scarlett? Why are you here?” she yelled, her voice barely containing the rage that surged within her.
Her three senior disciples exchanged surprised glances, taken aback by the intensity of Mitra's outburst. She was normally known for her composure, her ability to maintain a calm facade even in the most dire situations. But now, her unchecked fury was palpable, a stark contrast to her usual deanor.
Scarlett shrugged, her expression nonchalant, as if the destruction surrounding them was rely an afterthought.
Scarlett: “I’m here to test so new undead constructs I’ve made. And… I’m here to pick up my disciple.”
Mitra: “Disciple?” she echoed, incredulity lacing her voice. “You’re going to perform another sacrificial ritual! Again! Like you did with your last disciples when you went to the Wildlands!”
Scarlett’s smirk widened, her eyes glinting with amusent.
Scarlett: "Oh, Mitra," she sighed, rolling her eyes with theatrical disappointnt. "We've already had this conversation, and you chose your side. You threw your lot in with Lazarus and those traitors." She adjusted her wide-brimd hat with a gloved hand, the motion dripping with casual malice. "The lines were drawn years ago, darling. And you? You're on the list—just not very high up."
A humorless laugh escaped her painted lips.
Scarlett: "I know you won't believe a word I say. Lazarus and Rana saw to that, poisoning your mind with their pretty little lies." Her smile sharpened into sothing predatory. "But here's a truth you'd be wise to heed: walk away. Right now. I've incinerated people for far less than this."
Mitra's jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. Every muscle in her body scread to attack, to unleash every spell she'd spent years perfecting against the woman who'd robbed her of her dear friend since the Wildlands expedition. The mory of Chelsie's laughter—bright and warm during their academy days—flashed through her mind, followed by the anguish of the funeral ceremony they held for her and tears rolling down her face.
Murderer. The word burned in Mitra's throat, but she swallowed it.
Because as much as she wanted vengeance, she wasn't a fool.
Even a standard Archmage would be a deadly threat, but Scarlett? Scarlett was sothing else entirely. The way the air itself seed to warp around her, the unnatural stillness of the scorched earth at her feet—it all scread of power beyond normal limits. And with Mitra’s disciples here, their lives hanging in the balance...
No. She couldn't risk them.
If she were alone? Maybe. Maybe she'd have let rage override reason. But not now. Not with their blood on her hands.
Alan's breath ca in shallow, uneven gasps as he watched the confrontation unfold. His high aether sensitivity, usually a gift, had beco a curse in Scarlett's presence.
To his senses, she wasn't just a woman—she was a supernova contained in human skin. The aether radiating from her pressed down on him like a physical weight, thick and suffocating. It coiled around his ribs, making each inhale a struggle. His fingers trembled at his sides, his instincts screaming at him to run, to put as much distance between himself and this walking cataclysm as possible.
“No human should have this much power.” The thought slithered through Alan’s mind, icy and certain.
He tore his gaze away, scanning his fellow disciples for any sign of a plan. Torran, usually unshakable, had gone pale beneath his tan, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. Fuse's lips moved silently—praying, maybe, or reciting spell components under his breath. Neither looked ready to fight. Neither looked like they wanted to.
He then shifted his focus to Cid, who lay unconscious, being treated by the hooded figure. A wave of frustration washed over him. He was fully expecting Mitra to retreat and leave Cid behind. Cid was likely not going to be able to face justice for what he did to his friend Jafar, nor would he free Johannes from whatever spell had ensnared him. The weight of their collective burdens pressed heavily on Alan’s shoulders.
His nails bit into his palms.
“Wait.”
A cold realization trickled down his spine.
“Henry's gone.”
At so point during the tense conversation between Mitra and Scarlett, the quietest mber of their group, Henry, had vanished. Alan’s head snapped up, his eyes darting across the ruined landscape, searching for any sign of his fellow disciple. There was nothing—no rustle of movent, no flicker of shadow—just the scorched earth stretching out before him.
Just as Alan began to feel a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach, Henry suddenly appeared behind Scarlett. He had used invisibility magic to sneak up on her, and now, with a blade glinting in his hand, he looked poised to strike.
Torran's lips parted in what might have beco a cheer, while Fuse's eyes widened with sudden hope.
Mitra's blood turned to ice.
She saw what her disciples didn't - the way Scarlett's shadow stretched unnaturally long despite the absence of flas, how the air around her shimred with contained power. Before Henry's blade could descend, Mitra's voice tore through the air.
Mitra: "GET AWAY FROM HER!"
The warning ca a heartbeat too late.
Scarlett didn't turn. Didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
Henry simply... combusted.
One mont a living man, the next a human torch. His scream wasn't human - it was the sound of flesh boiling, of lungs filling with fire. The stench of burning hair and at filled the air as he swung wildly, his dying reflex sending the dagger slicing towards Scarlett's neck, but she rely craned her neck to the side, avoiding the attack with an effortless grace, as if it were nothing more than a botherso fly.
Mitra's stomach revolted as Henry collapsed, his body convulsing in the dirt. The flas didn't behave like natural fire - they clung like liquid, burning blue at the core despite the lack of fuel. Henry's desperate rolling only seed to spread the inferno consuming him.
Torran: "Henry!" he surged forward instinctively, but Fuse grabbed his arm with bruising force.
Fuse: "Don't!" he hissed, his face ashen. "She’ll burn you too!"
Within seconds, Henry's thrashing ceased. His blackened form lay twisted in the dirt, one skeletal hand still clutching the dagger that had never stood a chance.
Scarlett finally turned her head, regarding the corpse with the mild interest one might show a squashed insect. With a careless flick of her fingers, the flas winked out, leaving only wisps of greasy smoke
Scarlett: "I suppose that's a 'no' to walking away," she mused, examining her polished nails with theatrical boredom. "Well then, let give you one final lesson—for old ti's sake." Her voice dropped to a venomous purr. "In a master-disciple relationship, the teacher leads the way forward, carving a path for others to follow. Not the student." She gestured lazily at Henry's smoldering remains. "Next ti, charge in yourself instead of sending your disciples to die."
Mitra's jaw clenched until her teeth threatened to crack. The tallic tang of blood filled her mouth—she'd bitten through her cheek. Rage, guilt, and grief warred within her like caged beasts: rage at Henry's foolish bravery, at Scarlett's casual cruelty, but most of all at her own failure.
“I should have seen this coming. Should have stopped him.”
She forced herself to look at Henry's charred form just long enough to whisper a silent vow: “I will mourn you properly. But, not right now.”
At the mont, survival was the only prayer that mattered.
With a roar, Mitra slamd her palms into the scorched earth. The ground heaved as aetheric energies surged through her fingertips. The forest awoke in a frenzy of growth—oak trunks thicker than siege towers erupted skyward, their bark blackened by Scarlett's flas but unbroken. Thorns wove between them like barbed wire, while roots knotted into a living bulwark fifty feet high and a hundred feet wide. The air filled with the deafening crack of splitting wood and the wet snap of vines coiling like serpents.
Mitra: "RUN!"
Her disciples moved. Torran grabbed Alan's arm, yanking him forward as the younger mage stared numbly at Henry's remains. Fuse took point, his hands already weaving detection spells to scout their path. Mitra didn't follow—not yet. She remained kneeling, sweat pouring down her face as she poured every ounce of her power into the barrier. The roots thickened, the thorns grew razor-sharp, and the very leaves hardened into erald-edged blades.
It wouldn't hold Scarlett. Nothing could. But it might buy them seconds.
Mitra’s singular focus in that mont was to do everything within her power to ensure the survival of herself and her disciples against Scarlett, an archmage in power and one of only nine five-star mages on the continent.
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