As significant as a grain of sand on a beach, a wrist of the statue, of the former female mage, turned until the palm was facing towards the rock gauntlets heading towards it. More significant was what happened when the rock hit the ash statue. Like a fragile clay pot, the rock gauntlets shattered into a thousand pieces. Faster than the eye could see, moving just one arm, the ash statue grabbed the earth mage's wrist.
The atmosphere shifted. The air became charged with an otherworldly energy, a palpable tension seized both Jakob and the King in its unrelenting grip.
With a single scream that resonated with the sound of nightmares, the earth mage started to bleed from his arm. Forming long thin coils, the blood crawled as if gravity had no hold on it. As mobile as the dead, the earth mage was frozen in place as the blood leapt from his arm into the arm of the ashen statue.
What just happened? Thought Jakob as he was trying to comprehend what he was watching. Each tendril of blood that left the earth mage seemed to…
No, thought Jakob, that's not right.
The Earth mage wasn't just seeming to age, he was getting older. His once-vibrant skin, now drained of life, took on the pallor of ancient paper. Lines etched themselves upon his face with alarming speed, like a cruel artist sketching the passage of decades in mere seconds. His hair, once youthful and dark, cascaded down in brittle strands, betraying the merciless theft of vitality. A silent scream froze on his face as years left their mark in seconds.
Is this what soul magic can do? Jakob's fear intensified with each passing moment. The realisation that such magic could strip away the very essence of a person's existence sent shivers down his spine. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach, a nauseating blend of horror and helplessness. The earth mage's eyes, once filled with vitality, now mirrored an abyss of despair, reflecting the terror that consumed Jakob's own heart.
The King stood frozen, trying to chant a spell. His eyes, widened with dread, betrayed a vulnerability seldom seen in a leader accustomed to the rigours of war. The pride of a sovereign was replaced by an unspoken fear, a recognition of the formidable power wielded by the Soul mage. The spell was too late. Dust hit the ground where the earth mage had once stood, vanished, soul stolen by the statue. Ash exploded from the statue and there, unharmed, without a single scratch, stood the female mage. A smile touched her lips and she raised a hand. All she did was snap her fingers. Such a simple move that showed her proficiency with magic. Such a simple move. Such a horrific outcome.
With a moan, the very earth itself shuddered. From the ground ruby red spears of blood burst forth. With a flick of her wrist the mage sent these blood spears soaring across the battlefield. One such spear flew towards the King. With no time to cast a spell, Jakob watched as the King acted on instinct. Lightning crackled curling from his legs. Faster than Jakob had thought it was possible for a man to move, faster than he had moved earlier, the King leapt out of the way.
The injury on the outside of his leg hindered him. He was not fast enough, the spear was faster. The blood spear tore through his side like a knife through wet paper. Stunned, the King fell to his hands and knees. His blood painted the ground in a morbid canvas of red. As if on the edge of a rowboat, the world rippled like sea water and the King swayed, on the edge of consciousness. Regaining his strength, he punched the ground and rose to his feet.
All around the King lay a scene from the depth of his nightmares. The scent of blood was so tangible that Jakob could almost taste the horrific red liquid. The ground, once the colour of dirt, now ran red with blood. The warriors who had not been fortunate enough to be killed from the spears, lay screaming on the dirt as horrific wounds sapped their souls.
What is this? Jakob thought.
The visible world lay in ruins and the Soul mage did it as easily as wiping dirt off a jacket. The Soul mage started clapping, slowly sarcastically.
The King, still reeling from the shock of witnessing his soldiers fall prey to the Soul mage's dark powers, gathered his strength and summoned magic with a desperate intensity. He called upon his faithful forces, attempting to channel the might of the flames and lightning. However, his efforts were useless, as the female mage, her eyes ablaze with a twisted amusement, effortlessly countered his every move. It was as if the fire and lighting failed to come close to the mage as she sidestepped fireballs and deflected lightning bolts with a mere flick of her fingers.
"Well done, I'm impressed," She said as if she was awarding a child a toy for behaviour.
"Go to hell," the king coughed, blood speckling his beard and robe.
Before the king could make a move, and faster than Jakob could see, the Soul mage had covered the distance between them and grabbed the King by his throat.
"Like I said… I've always wanted to steal a King's soul," she said with a smile on her face. The King screamed in pain as tendrils of blood erupted from his body. As Jakob was living his memory, he could feel the pain and anguish the King was in.
His senses were assaulted, the pain not merely a physical torment but an all-encompassing assault on every area of his being. It started as a searing heat, akin to the relentless burn of icy winds against his skin during the harshest winter days. The chill crawled beneath his flesh, finding residence in the marrow of his bones, as if winter itself had taken root within him.
All he could see was the Soul mage's face, grinning with a smile that resembled a corpse, as she slowly ripped the King's soul from his body. Veins across the soul mage's face and especially in her neck glowed a red the colour of pain, as they greedily swallowed the King's life.
Pushing through the clouded memory of pain, Jakob noticed a dark blue blob move in the corner of the King's vision. The blob took shape and a cloaked figure appeared, behind the female mage. Hurry! Jakob thought, desperately egging the figure on. Casting the female mage in shadow, a beam of light, as bright as the stars during winter, poured forth from the figure's hands. Like an arrow, the light raced across the battlefield heading towards the Soul mage. When the beam of light touched the soul mage something unexpected happened.
The pain of having a soul ripped from your body suddenly stopped, and the tendrils of blood exploded in a crimson shower. The soul mage's expression changed from one of delight, to one of fear. Her veins glowed brighter and brighter.
A web of blood, trapped.
Like the spring flood, the soul mage suddenly erupted sending red bolts of chaos flying in all directions. The mage who had thrown the beam of light held up a hand. Like a switch had been thrown, the bolts froze in place. Only, without warning, to change their direction and hurtle towards him. The mage moaned in pain, falling to a knee, as the bolts struck him in the chest.
The King, free from the soul mage's grip, fell like a brick to the ground. Coughing up specks of blood, the King tried to stay conscious despite the beating his body had taken. With a lot of effort, the figure stumbled over to the king and reached out a hand. The King, out of lack of energy, didn't reach for the hand immediately. Instead, he paused, trying to regain some little speck of strength the King waited. Finally, after what seemed like years to Jakob, the King reached up and grasped the mage's hand.
The mage pulled the King, with the strength of a thousand bulls, into a hug.
"You are safe now, I've got you," the mage said. When Jakob looked, through the King's memory, into the mage's face he was surprised to see that the mage was the spitting image of the King, just with hair the colour of the midnight sky instead of the King's gold.