Eldritch Guidance

Fuse and Torran stepped forward without hesitation, their movements synchronized from years of training. The air hummed with tension as Mitra knelt, pressing her palms flat against the scorched earth. Aether coiled around her fingers like liquid silver, seeping into the ground as she gathered power for something unseen.

The two disciples split apart, circling Scarlett like wolves closing in on an enemy. Fuse moved to her left, his muscles coiled tight, while Torran flanked her right, his grip tightening around the hilt of his blade. Yet Scarlett didn't so much as twitch. Her crimson gaze remained fixed ahead, her lips curled in a lazy, mocking smile. She didn't bother tracking them—didn't even acknowledge them.

Alan lingered at a safe distance behind Mitra, his breaths shallow, body tense. He knew better than to interfere. This was a battle beyond him.

Mitra's disciples followed their master's orders, keeping a safe distance while Alan stood behind Mitra, his heart racing. He watched the scene unfold with a mix of frustration and guilt swirling within him. Frustration at his own inability to help fight, to contribute to the defense of their group, and guilt at the relief he felt for not having to face the danger head-on.

Even now, he struggled to stop his hand from shaking, the tremors betraying his inner fear.

The massive amount of aether he sensed emanating from Scarlett was overwhelming, a palpable force that made his stomach churn and his heart race. It was terrifying, the raw power she wielded and the potential for destruction that lay within her grasp. He could feel the energy crackling in the air, a storm waiting to be unleashed, and it filled him with a sense of dread.

Torran was the first to strike, his determination igniting a fierce resolve within him

His blade flashed in a wide arc, its edge blazing with condensed aether before releasing a crescent of blue energy. It tore through the air, screaming toward Scarlett with lethal precision.

Yet it never reached her.

Fifty feet away, the attack detonated midair—not deflected, not blocked, but ignited in a violent burst of flame. The blue energy turned to ash before it could cross some invisible boundary, as if Scarlett had woven an unseen web of fire around herself, waiting to consume anything that dared approach.

Torran took a moment to process this revelation, his mind racing. He had hoped to gauge the safe distance from her, to determine where the exact kill zone was where she could instantly ignite him. Before he could regroup, an orb of fire materialized in front of him, swirling with malevolent energy. It shot a stream of flames directly toward him, and instinct kicked in. He rolled to the right, narrowly avoiding the blast, only to find himself tumbling into the path of another fire orb that had been conjured in the blink of an eye. This time, he couldn't dodge it.

Thick roots erupted from the earth, intercepting the blast in a shower of sparks and charred wood. Torran whipped his head toward Mitra. She hadn't moved an inch, still kneeling, still channeling—but her fingers twitched, her aether responding instinctively to protect her disciple.

Despite her focus, she was supporting them, just as she had promised.

Fuse saw his opening.

He shot his stone gauntlets off his hands, sending them hurtling toward Scarlett like rockets. The gauntlets whistled through the air, getting slightly closer to Scarlett. But, just like Torran's attack, they burst into flames before they could reach her, the heat radiating outward in a wave that made Fuse flinch.

Scarlett retaliated with another fire orb. Fuse anticipated the attack, sidestepping the first stream of fire. He quickly conjured a pillar of stone, raising it just in time to block the second stream of flames that shot toward him. The impact rattled him, but he held firm, the stone absorbing the brunt of the attack.

Mitra: "Stay on your toes!" she called out, her voice cutting through the chaos.

Torran moved like a storm—swift, relentless, unpredictable. He darted in a wide arc around Scarlett, his sword flashing as he unleashed a flurry of water-infused slashes mid-stride. Each strike sent razor-sharp arcs of pressurized water screaming toward her, only to burst into steam the moment they crossed that invisible fifty-foot threshold.

Scarlett didn't even turn her head.

Instead, fire orbs bloomed around Torran like hellish flowers, each one spitting jets of flame in his path. He rolled, slid, twisted—his body moving on pure instinct as searing heat licked at his back. One misstep, one fraction of a second too slow, and he'd be reduced to cinders.

Then, without warning, the ground beneath him surged.

Mitra's roots erupted beneath his feet, catapulting him skyward just as a ring of fire orbs detonated where he'd stood. The blast wave singed his clothes as he arced through the air, landing hard but alive. His chest heaved—too close.

Meanwhile, Fuse wasn't darting around like Torran; instead, he focused on creating a makeshift mini fortification made of stone, determined to attack Scarlett from behind. He concentrated, shaping the earth into a sturdy barrier that would provide him with cover. But just as he finished, one of Scarlett's fire orbs shot a particularly powerful burst of flame toward him. The heat was intense, and his defense buckled under the force, nearly collapsing. Just in time, a lattice of roots emerged from the ground, reinforcing his makeshift wall and saving him from being engulfed in flames.

Scarlett's retaliations were instantaneous, her movements fluid and precise.

Mitra's disciples would launch their attacks, but each time, the strikes burned up around the fifty-foot mark, the flames consuming their magic before it could reach her. Occasionally, their efforts would get slightly closer, but never close enough to pose any real danger to Scarlett. After each failed attempt, she would counter with her own barrage of fire orbs, shooting streams of flames that appeared seemingly at random, without so much as a gesture.

The fight had turned into a dangerous dance of life and death, with Mitra's disciples' lives hanging in the balance. Each misstep could lead to disaster; one wrong move could mean being burned alive. The stakes were higher than ever, and the pressure weighed heavily on them.

Back and forth they went, the rhythm of the battle relentless. Torran and Fuse coordinated their movements, trying to create openings for each other, but Scarlett showed no signs of fatigue. Her energy seemed boundless, and as the fight wore on, she began to slowly increase the speed and intensity of her attacks. The fire orbs whirled around her like a tempest, each one a deadly projectile aimed at her opponents.

Torran felt the strain in his muscles, the fatigue creeping in as he dodged and rolled, narrowly avoiding the flames that licked at his heels. He could see Fuse behind his stone fortification, sweat glistening on his brow as he prepared for another strike. But the relentless onslaught from Scarlett was taking its toll. The disciples were starting to look ragged, their movements becoming less fluid, their breaths more labored.

With a shared understanding, they moved in tandem. Torran charged forward, feigning an attack to draw Scarlett's attention, while Fuse summoned a barrage of stone projectiles, hurling them toward her from behind the cover of his fortification. The stones flew through the air, but as expected, they ignited before they could reach her, bursting into flames.

Scarlett's yawned, and in that moment, Torran saw an opening. He lunged forward, channeling all his energy into a powerful slash aimed directly at her. But just as he appeared to launch his attack, a fire orb erupted in front of him, forcing him to dodge once more.

The fight continued, a brutal exchange of magic and fire, each side pushing against the other. Mitra's disciples were growing weary, but they refused to back down. As the battle raged on, the forest around them bore witness to their struggle, the trees swaying in the heat of the flames, the ground trembling beneath the weight of their magic.

Behind Mitra, Alan stood frozen, his mouth as dry as the scorched earth beneath his feet. His fingers trembled—not just from fear, but from the sheer, suffocating pressure of Scarlett's presence.

"She's not even trying." Alan thought.

The realization settled over him like a death shroud. Compared to the cataclysmic arcane storm she had unleashed earlier—the one that had nearly turned them all to ash in an instant—this was nothing. A game. A joke. She could have ended them at any moment. The only reason they were still breathing was because Scarlett wanted them to.

Scarlett's lips curled into a slow, venomous smile as she watched the cracks form in Mitra's disciples—the way Torran's strikes came a fraction slower, the way Fuse's stone barriers trembled before they were fully raised.

She sensed doubt.

Scarlett: "Well, this is getting boring," she mused, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "You know, if you three run away right now, I won't give chase. You're not on my list—just Mitra."

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The words hung in the air like a guillotine's pause. A test. A temptation.

Fuse and Torran didn't dignify her with a response. No hesitation, no glance toward their master—just another desperate attack, another futile slash of water and stone that dissolved into steam and embers before it could reach her.

Scarlett chuckled.

Scarlett: "I see you've made at least two loyal disciples, Mitra."

Then, with deliberate slowness, she turned her gaze—finally—toward Alan.

Scarlett: "But I'm not so sure about one of them."

Alan's breath hitched.

That gaze—those red staring at him like they stared into his soul—locked onto him, and suddenly, he couldn't move. Couldn't think. The weight of her attention was a physical force, pressing down on his chest, stealing the air from his lungs.

"She knows." Alan thought.

She knew he was the weakest. Knew he hadn't attacked. Knew the shameful relief that had coiled in his gut when the others had charged forward while he stayed behind, useless, cowardly—

Mitra's voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade.

Mitra: "Ignore her, Alan."

But it was too late.

Scarlett's smile widened.

Scarlett: "Oh, Alan," she purred, savoring his name like a curse. "Tell me—do you really want to die for her?"

Scarlett could see the fear in Alan's eyes, a flicker of uncertainty that she relished. She knew that while he would not publicly admit it, he honestly considered her proposal of running away. The temptation was palpable, a siren's call that promised safety from the chaos surrounding them. But deep within him, a storm of conflicting emotions raged.

The memory of his sister haunted him, a specter that loomed large in his mind. He recalled the day their family had been forced to flee their home, the chaos and destruction that had shattered their lives. They had been separated in the chaos, and he had never seen her again. He knew their house had been bombarded, that she was almost certainly dead, but a part of him clung to the fragile hope that she was alive somehow at the time.

That guilt had eaten at him his whole life, a relentless weight that pressed down on his heart. He had made a promise to himself, a vow forged in the fires of loss: he would never abandon his friends and family again, no matter the cost.

So, even as every cell in his body screamed at him to run, to escape the inferno that was Scarlett, he continued to stand there, trembling but resolute. He refused to flee, to give in to the fear that threatened to consume him.

Mitra: "Torran, Fuse—get back to me NOW!" her voice cut through the chaos, raw with urgency.

Whatever grand spell she had been weaving, it was finally ready. Fuse and Torran, battered but unbroken, snapped their attention toward her, already pivoting to retreat—

—when the earth beneath Mitra split open.

A searing, molten light bled through the cracks, glowing like the heart of a forge. Mitra barely had time to register the heat before fire erupted beneath her palms, licking up her arms in a vicious surge.

Mitra: "AUGH!"

She recoiled, stumbling back as the skin on her hands blistered, the scent of burnt flesh thick in the air. Instinct drove her toward Alan, just as a monstrous pillar of flame exploded from the ground where she had knelt moments before—a roaring inferno that swallowed the space she had occupied.

Mitra stared at the flames, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Her last hope.

Gone.

Scarlett: "Mitra," she sighed, shaking her head with mock disappointment. "Did you really think you could fool me?"

She stepped forward, her boots clicking against the scorched earth, her voice dripping with amusement.

Scarlett: "All that time, pretending to gather power for some grand offensive... when really, you were preparing Tanva's Melding Roots."

Scarlett gestured lazily, and the ground trembled—not with growth, but with destruction. The remnants of Mitra's hidden root system blackened and crumbled, reduced to ash beneath the earth.

Scarlett: "A clever trick," she mused. "Grow a vast network of roots, then meld yourself and little disciples into them, and let the earth itself carry you to safety. But—" Her smile turned razor-sharp. "I've set explosives in those roots from the moment you started. Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?"

Mitra's jaw clenched.

She had played her hand.

It was as Scarlet just said. Mitra had spent the entire fight secretly growing her roots through the soil, away from their currency location. The plan had been simple: once the roots extended far enough, she would use Tanva's Melding Roots—an advanced dendromancy spell—to dissolve their physical forms and merge with the root system, traveling through them quickly to safety.

And Scarlett had set explosive magic into the roots and denoted at the last second, setting it on fire.

Fuse and Torran stood frozen, their retreat cut short, their escape route annihilated. Alan's breath hitched—there was no way out.

Scarlett exhaled, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off a minor inconvenience.

Scarlett: "Enough games," she said, her voice dropping into something darker.

Scarlett snapped her fingers, and in an instant, dozens of glowing red runes erupted across the bodies of Fuse and Torran. The air crackled with energy as the runes pulsed ominously, casting an eerie light that illuminated their shocked faces. Both men stood frozen, their eyes wide with disbelief as they recognized the markings for what they were: a form of trap magic, a sinister brand that signaled their impending doom.

Fuse: "How—how did we get marked?" he stammered, the realization dawning on him like a cold wave.

They had been careful. They had watched for spells, for projectiles, for any visible threat. Yet somehow, Scarlett had marked them without their notice.

The truth was far more insidious than they could have imagined. From the moment they had stepped forward to confront Scarlett, she had weaved her trap magic on embers that danced in the air around her. With a deft flick of her wrist, she had manipulated those embers, allowing them to float silently through the chaos of the battlefield, landing on Fuse and Torran without their notice. The ambient aether swirled around them, thick with energy, masking her actions and ensuring that no one could detect the deadly setup.

Torran: "Mitra—" he choked out, his voice raw with realization.

That was all he had time to say. The runes detonated.

A series of concussive blasts ripped through them, each explosion no larger than a fist, but precise, methodical—targeting joints, ribs, the backs of their knees. Bones cracked. Skin blackened. The force hurled them backward, their bodies crumpling like broken puppets as smoke curled from their wounds.

They hit the ground.

And did not move.

Mitra: "NO!"

Mitra's scream tore through the air, a sound of pure, animal agony. Her body lurched forward on instinct—she had to reach them, had to heal them, had to know if they were still breathing—

But she stopped.

Because Scarlett was still smiling.

Because this was exactly what she wanted.

Mitra's hands shook, her burned palms screaming in protest as she clenched them into fists. Every fiber of her being demanded she run to her disciples, but the cold, tactical part of her mind—the part that had kept her alive this long—whispered the truth:

If you move, you die. And then they die for nothing.

Scarlett tilted her head, her lips curling into a smile as she drank in Mitra's anguish like a connoisseur savoring a rare vintage.

Scarlett: "Oh, don't look so heartbroken," she purred, her voice a velvet blade. "They might still be alive. For now."

A step forward. The earth beneath her feet blackened, steam rising as if the very ground recoiled from her presence.

Scarlett: "But you?" Her red eyes gleamed with something colder than hatred. "You wasted your opportunity. All of you. You had a chance to flee at the start—to live another day—and you threw it away. Your disciples? They could have abandoned you. Could have left you to die and saved themselves. But they didn't."

A humorless chuckle escaped her lips.

Scarlett: "And you, Mitra... You still didn't take my lesson to heart. The teacher leads. Yet here you are, sending your students to die in your place." She shook her head slowly, a mockery of disappointment. "Heh. And here I thought I was the terrible teacher. But maybe I still am. Maybe... you just take after me. After all, I did help you perfect your dendromancy all those years ago."

The words hung in the air, devoid of mockery now. No condescension. Just cold, brutal truth.

Scarlett raised her hand, fingers poised to snap—

Scarlett: "Goodbye, Mitra."

A final, cataclysmic inferno gathered in her overhead, the air itself screaming as it was torn apart by raw, devouring heat.

But—

HISSSSSSS.

A whistling cut through the battlefield—sharp, sudden, unexpected.

Something streaked through the air—