Phantoms of the Mind

He’d been in battle countless times before. Hunted enough mage-turned beasts to leave his fear of pain long behind him. The fire that hit his shoulder and back was forceful, so hot it was cold, and his mind went blank from the sickening numbness that ensued.

He couldn’t think when the manacles were unlocked, but when he felt his magic rush back to him as if held back behind unseen doors, he used it. A dome so complete appeared over the three of them that the sudden lack of heat was a cool shock, the smoke kept at bay beyond shimmering runes.

The girl’s manacle was unlocked next as Málmr struggled to gather himself, and as the enchanted iron clattered to the floor, she sucked in a breath so ragged and loud, and he felt his eyes must’ve been betraying him – she seemed to fill out her dress with that breath, like she’d been nothing but ribs and bones the moment before, on the brink of something terrible as her stars over her skin struggled to light up and save her.

Out of all of them, she got to her feet first somehow, wiping the black ichor from her mouth with such a look of fresh outrage for them both. “You’re not taking me anywhere,” She hissed, stealing Sylen’s crossbow he’d set down in order to free them both, holding it all wrong. “I’ve had enough of you witchfinders! Mucking everything up when all we wanted was a nice day at the beach!” She aimed the weapon at Málmr, her small fingers nowhere near the trigger, and bit out, “Now let me out of this thrice-forsaken house!”

Málmr eyes narrowed in pain, the blood running down his first casting wound running fresh again as his magic made its due on his poor skin, and he nodded, panting as the numbness over his arm and his back started to take a bite to it. He used the poker to help himself up to his feet with a deep grunt, the dome centered on him as they hurried out.

He didn’t hear the roof start to crack over their dome, didn’t hear the girl yell to hurry. His awareness shut down in the face of the burn that was rearing its head more and more, stiffening and blistering and making his head swim the more he moved. Only when his hands and knees hit dry autumn grass did he let down the dome, with no idea how he’d fallen so easily. Only when his unburned shoulder was shaken roughly did he try to focus and create a door through the high shield wall around the house that’d caved in behind them.

Breathe. In. Out. He’d been hurt before. He’d lived through it, he would live through this. The vague need to get to his pack left back at camp, to where his medicine pouch from Rasha was, was the only thing that got him back to his feet again.

Sighing roughly, he caught the tail end of the girl running through the door he’d made, the witch’s servants standing limp and directionless on the other side without her to guide them. He then looked to Sylen. “I’m sorry,” He said wearily, in light of the roaring fire behind them, holding his wounded arm gingerly. “I’ll leave you. I was...still am, headed to Namarast, to give myself in.”

He closed his eyes tightly, either in pain or in resolution, and turned to go. “I’m sorry.”