If even one person had kept their head clear; someone sharp enough to realize that aiding Oliver might turn the tide and spread that idea through the crowd; the situation might have played out differently. But the only person with the composure to think rationally, the village chief, had already been swallowed by the surging sea of panicked bodies.
Out of nowhere, a butterfly fluttered toward the magic barrier, its delicate wings brushing against the surface. Instantly, it was reduced to a wisp of ash, disintegrating before it even hit the ground. A chilling reminder: no one was safe here, not even something as fragile as a butterfly.
The distant murmur of the gathering crowd grew louder, spreading like a rising tide. Their numbers swelled, more than a hundred, perhaps far more. Even the group of elves who had stood between Oliver and the enemy were now swept aside, consumed by the flood of bodies. The press of people separated him from everyone else. He stood alone, a solitary figure caught in the growing storm.
The wind shifted suddenly, dragging with it a burst of cold rain. The downpour struck without warning, soaking his clothes until the fabric clung uncomfortably to his skin. He yanked at his collar, trying to free himself from the suffocating damp, and slung his bow across his back. Without wasting another moment, he grabbed an arrow and set it to the bowstring, sprinting forward through the wet grass.
---
From somewhere within the throng of elves, the voice of their leader drifted like a thought carried on the wind, transmitted directly into the minds of those around him. A subtle, eerie blessing; one that required no words, only intent.
"Funny, isn't it? The ones we saved are fighting against us."
The elf who had made the initial prophecy stood nearby, his wounds completely healed. He responded in kind, his voice weaving into the collective mind-link, calm but tinged with bitterness.
"Yeah. If this keeps up, I think I might lose it."
"Did he use the blessing?" the leader asked, his mental tone sharpened with suspicion.
"No," the prophet replied. "We're unaffected, so it can't have been him."
"Agreed," came the leader's final thought, abruptly ending their connection.
---
Oliver kept running, his senses sharpened, every nerve on high alert. He wasn't about to be caught off-guard again; not by sudden bursts of mud, not by invisible ropes, nor the blinding lights meant to rob him of his vision.
'If I had even a sliver of magic power left, this wouldn't be so hard.' The thought flickered through his mind, but he pushed it aside. Wishing for what he didn't have wouldn't save him now.
Ahead of him, the muddy earth gleamed dangerously, but he leaped, clearing the puddle in one smooth motion. A sharp curse followed from one of the elves behind him, but Oliver didn't look back.
'Not my problem,' he thought grimly. He had no time for revenge; only survival.
While airborne, he twisted his torso to the left, lining up his bow mid-flight. Two elves blocked his path ahead, faces twisted with desperation. They still looked like elves, but the raw hunger in their eyes told another story; a ferocity born from the primal instinct to survive.
Oliver released the arrow. It cut through the rain and struck its mark with precision. Both elves stumbled, clutching their arms as sharp pain exploded in their knees, forcing them to kneel.
He hit the ground a heartbeat later, catching himself on his right foot. His momentum carried him forward, and he dragged his left foot against the wet grass to slow down, nearly toppling over in the process. Somehow, he managed to keep his balance and pressed on.
'Why am I hesitating?' he scolded himself bitterly. 'Am I going soft?'
He cast a quick glance over his shoulder and confirmed what he suspected; none of the elves were following him. Good. That meant he could keep going.
But just as he exhaled in relief, ice snaked across the grass, slithering toward him like a predator. It moved too fast to avoid, latching onto his right foot the moment it touched the ground. The cold hit him like a shock, freezing his shoe to the grass beneath him.
The frost spread rapidly, numbing his foot within seconds. Without thinking, Oliver yanked his foot out of the frozen shoe, just barely avoiding the ice crawling up his leg. Even so, a layer of frost clung stubbornly to his ankle, biting into his skin.
His next step sent pain shooting through him. The frost had cracked under the impact, and now the skin beneath it was torn open, revealing raw muscle underneath. Tiny beads of blood welled up, mingling with the falling rain and dripping down his leg.
The pain hit like a hammer, sharp and relentless. He gritted his teeth, sucking in a ragged breath through clenched teeth.
'No time to stop.' But the pain was growing, threatening to cripple him. If he didn't do something fast, he'd be as good as dead.
Oliver dropped to a knee, digging into his pack with one hand. His fingers brushed the bottom, but all he found were two smoke bombs; everything else had already been used.
He sighed, frustration flickering across his face. 'No bandages left... great.'
With a resigned grunt, he pulled the pin on one of the smoke bombs and let it fall to the ground. Thick clouds of smoke billowed out, cloaking him in a veil of gray. It wasn't much, but it bought him precious seconds.
Working quickly, he tore off a strip of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his injured foot. The bandage was crude, and the pain didn't go away, but at least the bleeding slowed. He flexed his foot experimentally; still sore, but manageable.
The rain hammered down harder, the world beyond the smoke a blur of shifting shadows.
Oliver took a deep breath, steadying himself. He was back on his feet in an instant, bow in hand, ready to move again.
'I'm not done yet.'
The fight wasn't over, far from it but he was still standing. And as long as he could stand, he'd keep moving. He had no other choice.
As the smoke thinned, Oliver didn't waste a second. He darted forward, eyes scanning for any threats. Then, just on the edge of the crowd, something caught his attention; a subtle movement that made his blood run cold. From behind the chaotic front line of elves, several figures were raising crossbows.
At first, it seemed like a mistake, why would they aim from behind their own fighters? But then it clicked. 'They're planning a sneak attack, using the front line as a shield.'
Without hesitation, Oliver raised his bow, nocking an arrow in one fluid motion. But instead of targeting the elf directly in front of him, he aimed beyond them, straight at the group lurking behind. His arrow shot forward, slicing through the rain and chaos.
His sudden movement was so swift, the attackers didn't have time to react. But in his rush to act, the familiar sensation of dissonance returned; a strange interference that twisted his body's coordination. His attempt to dodge the incoming attacks faltered, and before he could adjust, an arrow grazed his left arm, leaving a shallow but burning cut.
He gritted his teeth, ignoring the sting. His own arrow, meanwhile, continued on its path, destined to strike the chest of an elf standing in the front row.
But then, something unexpected happened. Instead of sinking into flesh, the arrow clinked against something hard. A sharp, metallic 'crack' echoed through the air as the arrow ricocheted off, leaving the elf completely unharmed.
For a moment, the battlefield froze. The elves, startled by what had just happened, exchanged confused glances. They didn't react much outwardly, but Oliver noticed their subtle tension; a shift in posture, a flicker of uncertainty.
Something didn't add up.
He narrowed his eyes, his mind racing. His gaze drifted to the elf he'd hit or tried to hit and took note of the rain-soaked clothes sticking to their body. It was summer, so the elf wasn't wearing much, making the shape underneath the clothing easier to spot. There, beneath the fabric, was the outline of something irregular.
'It's a stone?'
That didn't make sense. Elves weren't like dragons; they didn't carry precious gems or stones. There had never been any custom of wearing such things in battle, either. Yet there it was, tucked beneath their clothes. It wasn't the stone's appearance that concerned him; it was the 'purpose' behind it.
Oliver's instincts screamed that this was the key to everything. Just as he prepared to move, one of the newer elves, the one who had joined the fight late, stepped in front of him again, blocking his path.
---
"He noticed," whispered one elf, using that strange telepathic link again.
"So what now?" came another voice, amused. "Guess the show's over."
"Looks that way."
The elf nodded toward a companion, who silently returned the gesture.
---
The rain intensified, soaking everything in cold sheets, yet the elves still blocked Oliver's way, standing like a wall of hostility.
Something shifted in the air, an emotion that didn't feel natural. Oliver's frustration began to grow, bubbling to the surface for no reason at all. It was strange; irrational. He wasn't usually one to lose his temper in battle.
But he wasn't the only one affected. The elves in front of him were changing too. Their eyes darkened, bloodshot and wild, their faces contorting with unrestrained fury. They hurled curses at him, shouting vile words with reckless abandon, as if they'd abandoned reason altogether. And despite having no real experience with close combat, they rushed toward him, fists raised, driven by pure rage.
'This has to be a blessing,' Oliver thought grimly, slinging his bow over his back and storing his arrows. 'One that triggers uncontrollable anger...'
He glanced toward the group of elves lingering at the edges of the battlefield, the ones who had been watching everything unfold like spectators at a play. To his surprise, even some of them seemed to be affected. Their faces were twisting with the same inexplicable fury, hands trembling with the urge to fight.
'It's spreading,' he realized. And then the crowd surged, blocking his line of sight.
His own head throbbed with the heat of anger, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. He knew better than to let emotions cloud his judgment, especially when blessings were in play.
The first elf reached him, raising a clenched fist, rage burning in his eyes. His brain screamed at him to react violently: 'Crush his throat. Elbow him in the ribs. Finish him quickly.' The thoughts were simple, brutal, and relentless.
But reason won out in the last second. Oliver sidestepped the elf's attack and caught his opponent's wrist with a precise grip. With one swift motion, he kicked the elf's leg out from under him, sending him off balance. Before the elf could recover, Oliver twisted and threw him to the ground with a dull 'thud'.
Even though he succeeded, the internal conflict; the war between reason and the aggressive instinct triggered by the blessing, left him exhausted. He gasped for air, his muscles trembling from the effort of keeping himself in check.
There was no time to rest. Two more elves charged at him from opposite sides, their faces twisted with fury. He tensed, preparing to block their attacks, but then, just as he braced himself, the familiar wave of dissonance hit him again, scrambling his body's coordination.
'Not now!' His mind screamed in frustration as his limbs refused to respond the way he wanted. His footing wavered, throwing him off balance.
Before he could recover, a searing light appeared in the distance; a fireball, hurtling through the air toward him. It moved too fast for the elves to react.
The two attackers barely had time to register its approach before the fireball struck. They were swallowed whole by the roaring flames, their bodies consumed in an instant. The heat was so intense that no screams escaped their lips, only silence followed the explosion, broken by the sound of falling rain.
Oliver stumbled back, narrowly avoiding the edges of the blast. The heat licked at his skin, and the lingering smoke stung his eyes, but he was still standing.
His mind whirled, trying to piece together what had just happened.
'The fireball...' He scanned the battlefield, searching for the source. The chaotic mess of combat, anger, and interference left little room for answers.
With no time to dwell on it, he adjusted his stance and kept moving. Whatever strange forces were at play, whether blessings, interference, or rage; he had to stay ahead of it all.
The rain poured down harder, cold and unrelenting. His injured arm throbbed, and his frostbitten ankle ached with every step. But Oliver pressed on, teeth clenched in determination.
He wasn't out of this fight yet. And as long as he still drew breath, he would keep running; through the rain, the curses, and the chaos.