Twenty-Fourth Entry

The battle opened on a whisper of steel.

Ragar’s arm snapped forward and two of her daggers cut through the air— one biting deep into the undead wizard’s back, the other stolen mid flight by its skeletal hand. That grasped blade screamed as rust bloomed instantly across its length, then uselessly clattered to the ground and crumbled to rot. Ragar recoiled for only a breath before steeling herself once more.

That vulnerable moment at the temple was an exception.

Shock does not slow her. It hardly ever does.

The spirit’s attention still lingered over Raph’æl’s declaration for a brief moment before its hollow regard tilted, then settled… in my direction. Every hair beneath my taut sleeves still managed to stand on end. I had a chance to react that I did not take. Not with my dearest friend purposely forming a stubborn barricade before me. He widened his stance, shield raised in quiet defiance. In his raised hand, I felt the intention of the gesture before it flared with his elven diction.

His spell rang out. A dolorous, resonant chime that shook dust from stone and memory alike.

Toll the Dead.

The sound echoed. The party stilled.

But judgment did not follow.

The spirit’s gaze slid away from me and locked fully onto Raph’æl.

It laughed.

Then its hand closed around his throat.

Ghostly threads of Raph’æl’s very essence were forced from him and onto the wicked, grinning spirit. Just as it had done to Ragar through the door. I knew what I was witnessing, yet dread still hollowed me out. My voice vanished. My body moved without it.

I caught him when the spirit released and pushed him back, my hands keeping him upright as he bent forward, gasping for air that refused to return.

While his posture was low, I reached for his neckline, instinctively seeking blood or torn flesh to mend. But there was nothing.

No wound. No mark. Only a spiritual absence. This wretched spirit took his and Ragar’s breath, strength, something deeper than blood.

And even then, with trembling knees and downcast vision, his shield stayed raised.

In the terrible moment I had reached for him, I saw his face. Fear burned bright in his maroon gaze …then it somehow settled upon my own. For a fleeting, stomach-churning moment, it felt as though he could see past the etched brass and into me.

I knew then what role I had to take.

And I was afraid.

Tears blurred my world, but I refused to let them flow. My voice held steady.

“Raph’æl, trust me.”

His answer came strained and rasping, but without a shred of doubt.

“I do. Implicitly.”

That word opened something in me.

Space folded beneath my hands as I wove it, enveloping and drawing him away from danger and into the nearest refuge I could claim—a cot, scorched but standing at the other end of the room. The spell snapped into place cleanly. Vortex Warp. Instant success. His startled yelp as he landed told me I had taken him by surprise, but he was safe. Safe from its grasp.

“Hehe… I have enough,” the spirit crooned with excitement.

Stolen vitality gathered around the wretched being, shaped into gleaming, ethereal armor. Its grin stretched wider than I thought possible, swollen with obscene confidence.

Afraid.

Move afraid.

I stepped ahead.

All I had endured, yet I was never built for this. I am magic stretched thin, a bow of glass drawn too far back. No armor. No trustworthy steel. Just ceremonial vestments cut and resewn into something passable. A life spent surviving by luck and timing rather than force.

I have always known where I am weakest.

And yet…

I still retrieved my dagger from the ground and placed myself between the spirit and Raph’æl. Not instinct. Choice. Clear and deliberate. This was stupid. I could feel the danger like pressure against my ribs. I could imagine the cost of a single misstep. But I could not move any other way.

Because Jack needed to reload his weapon.

Because Super wasn’t present.

Because Ragar had to reposition herself.

Because Raph’æl was behind me.

Too many times they’ve been forced to be my anchor. Jack’s posture has steadied mine. Super’s trills have kept my steps light. Raph’æl’s voice has pulled me back from brinks in both the waking and dreaming world, when my magic frayed or my fear threatened to swallow me whole. But Raph’æl. He’s been driving me steps. I’ve leaned on him the most without realizing how often. And only now, in this moment, did the balance become visible.

I did not step before that cot thinking I would survive.

I stepped before it knowing that if I did not, he might not.

If this is what it means to choose someone, then I suppose I have already done so—long before I found the words for it.

The Forge of Spells was within reach.

Gundren was finally safe.

Just live for a little longer.

From Jack’s vantage point, I could only imagine how small and ridiculous my wispy svirfneblin frame looked within that space. I imagined his chortles once this was all over, rows of sharp draconic teeth flashing as he’d joke with Super over my foolhardy actions. I would probably hear about it for days.

I looked forward to it.

Jack’s dragonborn shadow swallowed us as he stepped into the room, arms raised behind the vengeful wizard’s spirit. A mighty swing. Hew bit into the wizard’s shoulder, bones snapping as the axe lodged fast. The spirit barely reacted, but Jack used the embedded blade to wrench it around.

In that same breath he drew his rifle.

“Die, bitch.”

Thunder cracked.

Bone burst apart.

The thing endured.

Lightning followed—Jack’s breath unleashed in raw fury—only to be swallowed whole. The armor flared brighter.

Only then did understanding burn through me.

My fireball. The lack of heat.

It hadn’t failed… the creature had been fed.

Ragar saw it too, her rapier slipping uselessly past the armor. “Different approach,” she said aloud, already adjusting. Her gaze flicked toward me, than past me, toward Raph’æl.

I realized later what she had done—threaded a plan directly into his thoughts. Silent. Safe. He would accept it. He was the trusted one.

“Understood,” Raph’æl called from the cot.

From that very spot, he fractured the room with faith and cleverness alike. Mirror Image scattered three versions of himself across the chamber and finally, mercifully, pulled the spirit’s focus away from us.