Chapter 23

A blast of fire grazed Mark’s arm, the heat searing his skin. He rolled, narrowly avoiding a follow-up attack from a mage wielding fire magic. Shit.

He summoned a barrier, deflecting a blast of concussive force that sent tremors through the floor. Who the hell are these guys? He glanced around, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene.

The corridor’s once-elegant décor now lay scattered—splintered wood, toppled tables, smoking scorch marks on the polished floor.

Elia materialized beside him, with that smug grin on his face. “Let’s dance, Sparky.”

Mark snarled and slashed his blade—quick, lethal, aimed at Elia’s throat. But Elia shimmered away, leaving the blade slicing empty air. He reappeared behind Mark, who felt the shift in the air and rolled desperately, barely dodging a spine-shattering blow.

He scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding, his senses on high alert.

Ducking low, he darted towards a nearby pillar, deflecting a blast of solidified light that shattered against the stone. Seriously? He summoned another blade and hurled it towards Elia, who shimmered away just as it was about to connect. The blade embedded itself in the wall, its blue glow a stark contrast to the ornate wallpaper.

As Mark tried to gain a better vantage point, two more figures emerged from the swirling chaos. A tall, muscular woman with fiery red hair. A short, wiry man, his shaved head gleaming in the flickering light.

Great. Just what I needed. More assholes.

The woman raised her hands, and a torrent of fire erupted, engulfing the spot where Mark had been standing a heartbeat before. He rolled, the heat searing his skin, the smell of burning fabric filling his nostrils. Too close. He threw up a barrier, deflecting a volley of energy blasts from the wiry man. The impact rattled his bones. Fuck.

He had to keep moving. He couldn’t let them surround him. He sprinted towards an overturned table, using it as cover. He hurled one of the blades towards the woman.

Her response was swift—hands glowing, a fiery shield flared into being, snuffing the void blade out in a hiss of extinguished energy.

But as her flame shield flickered, Mark sprinted forward closing the distance, his enhanced speed making him a blur. Before she could re-ignite her defenses, he slammed his fist into her stomach. She doubled over, gasping. The mask of aggression slipped into pain as her shield vanished with a pop of dying embers.

Mark ducked low, avoiding the arcing swing of a staff from an advancing enemy. A void blade snapped into his hand. He slashed upward, catching the staff mid-swing and slicing clean through it. The wielder fell back with a startled cry.

His chest was on fire, and his arm felt like it was about to fall off, but he couldn’t stop moving. He dashed toward the staircase at the end of the corridor—maybe he could get a better position, or at least keep these maniacs from flanking him.

He vaulted the banister in a fluid jump, heart pounding in his ears.

Elia flashed back into existence above him. The hunter’s blade sliced through the space where Mark’s head had been an instant before.

He twisted mid-air, catching a glimpse of bastard’s frustrated sneer. Damn. He’s faster than before.

Reaching the lower floor, Mark landed with a thump, knees bending to absorb the impact. He looked up, eyes scanning for any sign of allies or a way to turn the tide.

The environment came into sharper focus now: bits of stone, charred upholstery, and drifting smoke. The high ceiling amplified every shout and clash, making it feel like a war zone.

He kept moving, boots skidding over broken shards of wood and marble dust. He threw himself into a side corridor narrowly avoiding a fireball thrown—not by a mage but from a grenade-like contraption. The explosion rattled the walls and sent a hail of splinters across the floor.

Mark dropped into a forward roll as the hallway behind him erupted in flame, the blast pelting his back with splinters. He pressed on, weaving through the chaos past a Crescent mage—now stripped of power—wrestling desperately with an attacker. Mark wanted to help but he barely had a moment to breathe.

A shimmer in the corner of his eye: Elia. Of course. Mark jerked aside, barely blocking a stab meant for his spine.

Elia vanished again, laughing as he flickered to the far end of the corridor. “You won’t outrun me, Sparky!”

Mark ignored the taunt, throat tight with worry and rage. He tore into a large sitting room, the chandelier above precariously swinging. Chairs, tables, and glass shards formed a deadly obstacle course. He needed a strategy—something to slow these bastards down. If Ria didn’t disable those runes soon, they’d be torn apart.

He spotted two enforcers closing in and, without hesitation, sliced the chandelier chain. It crashed down, crystal fragments scattering across the enforcers, forcing them back.

Above a ruined piano, Elia reappeared, tossing a dagger with casual precision. Mark raised a barrier, the blade clanging off and skittering into darkness. Elia vanished again before Mark could retaliate. Slippery bastard.

Need a better plan.

He used the momentary lull to shove a bookcase over, creating a makeshift barricade. He crouched behind it, catching his breath. Void thrummed at his fingertips, and his mind worked furiously. Think ... he’s fast but predictable. The others aren’t as skilled—focus on isolating him.

The sound of boots on shattered glass snapped him out of his thoughts. A Crescent mage tackled an intruder into the room, fists flying in desperation.

Elia chose that moment to appear, dagger poised for throat.

He barely managed to parry, blade grinding against his void construct in a shower of sparks.

Elia’s smirk faltered as Mark lunged. He teleported mid-slash, reappearing near the doorway, but Mark was ready. He hurled a void blade—not at him but at a cracked wooden beam above. The impact sent it crashing down, forcing Elia to teleport again, this time to a higher vantage point on the mezzanine.

Mark bolted for the stairwell, two more figures hot on his heels. He let his barrier absorb the impact of an energy blast, then dropped low, sweeping one intruder’s legs out from under him.

The other slashed wildly with a short sword, but Mark sidestepped, driving his blade through the man’s ribs. He grimaced at the feel—he’d never grow comfortable with this violence.

But he had to survive. Ria needed him. Lida, too, would expect him to handle himself. Focus on the bigger picture, he reminded himself, shoving down a swirl of guilt and fear. He yanked his blade free just as Elia descended again, movements precise and deadly.

Their blades clashed in a flurry of brutal strikes. Mark’s void edges negated his teleportation mid-swing, forcing Elia into an actual duel.

Mark dug deep, funneling his dread and determination into every block and thrust. He tried to maneuver Elia toward a damaged section of the mezzanine, hoping to trip him up.

“You can’t win this,” Elia sneered, dodging debris. The floor groaned under their shifting weight. Elia vanished as a chunk of wood gave way, reappearing overhead, blade raised high.

Mark raised a barrier. The force of Elia’s blow scraped across it with a grating screech. Then a Crescent mage stumbled into the melee, wielding a broken chair leg like a club. Mark seized the distraction, driving his shoulder into Elia and sending him sprawling backward.

“Get out of here!” Mark barked at the mage, who nodded, eyes wide with terror, before fleeing into the chaos.

He could feel bruises blooming under his clothes, smell the sweat and fear in the air.

Think, Mark. He recalled Julian’s words: ‘Observe. Read their movements. Make them respond to you.’

Right now, Elia’s teleportation was the biggest problem. Each blink of movement had to cost him energy. If I could keep him moving, keep him reacting instead of attacking, maybe I could wear him down.

He decided to switch things up and bolted in the opposite direction.

Mark ran through the chaos, vaulting over splintered chairs and fractured railings.

The mansion was a labyrinth of chaos. Crescent fought with whatever they could find—makeshift weapons, broken furniture—but it was clear they were losing ground. Mark sprinted up a grand staircase, weaving through fleeing allies and advancing enemies.

“Ria, hurry the fuck up,” he muttered, sliding behind an overturned cabinet as a blast of energy scorched the wall beside him.

Crackle. The wiry mage stepped into the corridor ahead, his hands glowing an eerie green, a ball of crackling energy forming between his palms.

Mark instinctively ducked as the orb of crackling power burst against the plaster, showering him with dust. He grimaced, lungs aching from the dusty air and the lingering burn of smoke.

He zigzagged forward, his boots scuffing over debris, dodging sizzling energy bolts. The wiry mage’s cocky grin faltered when Mark’s void blade punched into his gut, severing the flow of energy, snuffing it out like a flame under glass. The man gasped, spark-hands flying to the wound, green arcs sputtering out.