Dancing with the Order

As Divia and Yvonne charged, the world exploded into violence.

Yvonne struck first, moving impossibly fast. Her wheel blade screamed through the air in a wide arc toward Sylvanie's neck. The dark elf ducked beneath it, the displaced air brushing her scalp. She pivoted and swept her scythe upward in a brutal counterattack, dark energy streaming from the blade like wildfire smoke.

"There's my girl!" Yvonne laughed, catching her returning wheel blade. She knocked aside the scythe with a metallic shriek, scattering sparks across the ground. Using the momentum, she spun into another attack—a low sweep at Sylvanie's legs. "You've gotten faster, Sylvie! But not faster than me!"

Sylvanie vaulted over the sweep, planted a foot on Yvonne's outstretched arm, and launched herself skyward. Twisting midair, she brought her scythe down in a crushing overhead strike. "Shut up and fight!"

The blade struck where Yvonne had stood a heartbeat earlier, cracking the stone and sending a wave of shadow energy outward. She had cartwheeled aside and landed in a crouch, that infuriating grin still on her face.

Sylvanie growled and pressed her palm to the ground. Shadow Tendrils erupted at once, lashing toward the red-haired elf.

Yvonne's eyes widened—not in fear, but in delight. "Ohhh, new tricks!" She sprang back from the first tendril, twisted past a second aimed at her waist, and tore free when a third snagged her sleeve. "Almost got me—!" She hurled her wheel blade, its spinning edge slicing through two tendrils as it arced toward Sylvanie's face. Sylvanie merely tilted her head, letting it sail past. The severed shadows dissolved into smoke, then reformed behind Yvonne and struck from her blind spot.

"Behind you," Sylvanie said coldly.

A tendril coiled around Yvonne's ankle and yanked her off balance. She yelped as her back struck the ground, but she was already moving. Catching her returning wheel blade, she severed the tendril in one smooth motion, then sprang to her feet, clearly enjoying the warm-up.

Meanwhile, Divia sharpened only her clawed hands and lunged at Oreon, but Celestia stepped into her path.

Celestia stepped in front of Oreon and calmly deflected Divia's slashing claw. In the same motion, she drove her other palm into Divia's stomach, forcing her back. Divia landed perfectly on her feet.

"You won't touch him," Celestia said, settling into a fighting stance that revealed her training in blending magic with hand-to-hand combat.

A brief flicker of surprise crossed Divia's crimson eyes. She straightened after landing, hand rubbing against her stomach as if testing whether Celestia's palm strike had hurt more than she let on. A thin smile touched her lips but never reached her eyes.

"Well, well." Divia tilted her head as her claws flexed at her sides with a sickening click. "The princess can fight after all. I remember when you only wanted to be a healer—when every battle made you flinch." She circled slowly, sizing Celestia up. "Tell me, did you learn that from your mother? She was the only one who would get her hands dirty if necessary."

Celestia's expression held, though the mention of her mother cracked her carefully rebuilt composure. She matched Divia's circling with measured steps, staying low and balanced. Golden light pulsed around her fists—not the soft glow of healing, but something denser.

"My mother taught me many things," Celestia said calmly, never taking her eyes off Divia. "Including how to recognize when someone is looking for an opening."

Divia's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. "She noticed."

The dark elf's circling was deliberate. She wasn't merely assessing Celestia; she was maneuvering to flank her and reach Oreon. Celestia adjusted with every step, quietly blocking the path.

"You always were perceptive," Divia conceded. "Fine. Let's see how much the princess has grown."

Divia lunged at Celestia's left, sweeping her claws wide to force Celestia right and clear a path to Oreon. The strike doubled as a feint, delivered with the calculated cruelty Divia had honed over decades of service.

But Celestia didn't dodge right. She stepped into the strike, seized Divia's wrist with her left hand, and drove her glowing right palm toward Divia's chest. The burst landed only partially—Divia was too quick—but still sent the shapeshifter skidding back, smoke curling from her scorched robes.

"Tch." Divia hissed, glancing at the burn. Her eyes snapped up, now burning with irritation. "You're going to regret that."

As his companions fought their own battles, Oreon faced the remaining three—Vexes, Eilist, and Grunk. Vexes stood motionless with his arms folded, watching both fights like a chess match.

"Three against one," Oreon muttered, spinning his daggers in his hands, holding them in reverse grip. "Seems fair."

"Fair?" Eilist chuckled softly. "My dear boy, nothing about this situation is fair. You're outmatched, outmaneuvered, and—if I may be so bold—out of your depth entirely." He aimed his staff at Oreon and fired a serpent of dark energy. Oreon snapped into a defensive stance and sprang aside. The blast streaked past him and blew apart a building on impact.

Oreon rolled across the ground as debris rained down and the building collapsed behind him. He rose to one knee, eyes wide at the smoldering crater where the wall had stood.

"Okay." He breathed. "Don't get hit by that."

Eilist was already charging another shot. The holy insignia in his pupils spun faster as dark energy writhed around his staff like a living thing. "Impressive reflexes for a human. However, it won't do you any good here." Before Oreon could respond, Grunk dropped toward him from above. Oreon's eyes widened, but he moved again, and Grunk struck nothing but ground.

Grunk's landing cracked the ground beneath him. Oreon moved at once, pivoting to slash his exposed side. But Grunk was quicker than his size suggested. His thick forearm blocked the strike, and the dagger barely scratched his scarred flesh.

"Gonna need more than that, boy." Grunk's fist came swinging around like a battering ram.

Oreon ducked as the punch whipped his hair. He rolled backward to gain distance, only to find Vexes blocking his path.

Oreon's blood ran cold. He hadn't seen Vexes move. One moment, the man stood twenty feet away with his arms folded; the next, he was close enough for Oreon to see faint red flecks in his dark eyes.

"Shit." Oreon leaped back to create distance, but Vexes was far quicker. With a casual backhand, he struck Oreon's jaw and sent him flying through the barrels where Grog and his men had been hiding.

Oreon burst through the barrels in a spray of splinters and stale ale. Grog and his men scattered, cursing as they tripped over one another. Oreon slammed onto his back and skidded to a stop, stars swimming across his vision as blood filled his mouth.

"Crap..." He wheezed. "That's going to hurt tomorrow..." He breathed, but in his mind. "That. That wasn't even a real hit." The realization settled in his gut. "He wasn't even trying. It was like he just waved at me."

"He's gonna get us all killed!" The scrawny man with the patchy beard screamed.

"Aye! He's been lying to us this whole time! Lying to the town! He's the purifier's—"

"Will you shut up already!" Oreon shouted, silencing them as he slowly rose to face Vexes. Grunk and Eilist stood behind the unmoving elf, ready to strike.

"Geez...I can never catch a break." Oreon gritted his teeth as he glanced over at Grog, specifically. "Grog...I need you to listen to me and do me a favor." Oreon began speaking, tightening his grip around his daggers as he kept his eyes locked on Vexes.

Grog stared at Oreon as if he'd grown a second head. Pale and sweating, he clutched a broken barrel like a shield with trembling hands. The other men looked just as terrified, and some were already edging toward the nearest alley.

"A fa-fa-favor?!" Grog sputtered, his voice cracking. "You want a favor from me?! You—you brought these monsters to our doorstep! You've been hiding who you are this whole time, and now you want—"

"Grog." Oreon's voice cut through his panic. "I'm not asking you to fight. I'm not asking you to be brave. I'm asking you to grab Silas and take him to the tavern. Take him and anyone still in their homes." Oreon glanced at the building Eilist had destroyed, still burning, then at the residents watching from their windows. Silas remained where Celestia had left him, unconscious against his shop wall.

Grog's mouth opened and closed without a sound. His gaze darted from Oreon to Silas, unconscious against the shop wall, then to the three elven warriors looming in the street like monuments to his deepest fears. For a moment, he seemed ready to refuse—or flee and leave everyone behind.

"You're insane," Grog whispered hoarsely. "You're absolutely, completely—"

"Grog!' Oreon glanced over at him. "Stop stalling and do something right for once in your life!" Oreon yelled at him. "Listen, I don't care what your beef with me is; we can solve that after this, assuming that we all make it out of this alive. But right now, I need you to take an old man and anyone too scared to leave their homes and take them to Meara's tavern. If you don't, and this keeps going the way it's going, people are going to die! Innocent people who don't have anything to do with this! So, stop standing there like a scared idiot and move your ass!"

Grog started to retort, but his expression changed as he looked from the three dark elves to Oreon. Maybe it was the crack in Oreon's voice—not fear, but genuine desperation to save others. Maybe it was Silas, the old man who had never minded having Grog around. Or maybe it was shame. Whatever the reason, Grog's jaw tightened, and for the first time since the nightmare began, his hands stopped shaking.

"You better not die, runt." He turned his back to Oreon. "The old lady will kill me if you do."

Oreon, who had his back facing Grog and his eyes on the elves, responded. "She'll probably do that anyway once she finds out you lied to her and sold me out, but maybe I'll put in a good word for you, so she doesn't go overboard."

Grog grunted in return. "Alright! You heard him! Mick, grab the old man! Darren, start banging on doors. Anyone still inside, we're moving to Meara's! Now, damn it, MOVE!"

The men froze for half a heartbeat until Grog shoved the nearest one forward. Mick—the scrawny man with the patchy beard—rushed to Silas, hooked his arms beneath the unconscious man's shoulders, and dragged him as gently as panic allowed. Darren sprinted to the nearest houses, pounding on doors and shouting for everyone to leave. The others followed while Grog glanced back at Oreon.

"You owe me a drink after this." He said gruffly.

"I owe you another punch in the face, but sure, if this turns out well, we can hash it out over drinks," Oreon replied.

Grog snorted, then lumbered after his men. His heavy footsteps faded amid pounding doors and shouted warnings as he helped evacuate whoever he could, leaving Oreon alone in the ruined street with three elves, each capable of killing him in a different, inventive way.

"Admirable," Vexes said finally. "Sending the civilians away. Pragmatic. It tells me you've already accepted that this place is about to become a battlefield. However, it also tells me that you care about these people. You, with the blood of the purifier who cares about the flock he's meant to shepherd himself. How utterly distasteful."

"You seem to have the wrong idea about my father and me." Oreon returned. "I don't know what kind of crap he told you, or what self-delusion you're wrapped up in. But we've had no kind of father-son relationship. So, there's no hidden destiny that I'm tied to because of him. Hell, if anything, you could say I never needed him to begin with."

"Then you live a pointless struggle," Vexes remarked. "All the reasons I will return you to the Order, willingly or not."

Oreon pointed his blade at Vexes, slightly narrowing his eyes at the corrupted dark elf. "Then I guess we're starting round 2."