Ezra marched through the forest, the knights trailing close behind. Normally, he'd let a subtle flow of Aether seep from his body to ward off weak monsters, but that was a risk he couldn't afford with a witch nearby. She likely already sensed their presence, but if he revealed his strength too soon, he'd lose any chance of taking her by surprise.
As they approached a small clearing, Ezra raised a hand, signaling them to halt. "She knows we're here. She's coming—I can feel the shift in Aether around us," he said, his voice low and steady. "You four, get moving. Find her crux. I'll hold her off here."
The knights hesitated, eyes widening as they watched Ezra's Aether flare to life. Shadows engulfed his body, seething and twisting around him. With a fierce focus, he channeled his Aether into his sword, transforming the entire blade into an abyssal black, wisps of shadow spiraling from its edge.
One by one, the knights nodded, steeling themselves before darting off into the depths of the forest, leaving Ezra standing alone in the clearing, ready to face whatever dark force awaited him.
A spear of bone shot forward, and Ezra deflected it with a swift flick of his blade, the shadows surrounding his sword dissipating the brittle shards as he knocked them away. Without breaking his stride, he dashed forward, his senses tuned to the witch's presence. More bone spears tore through the air, whistling as they came toward him in rapid succession, but he parried each one effortlessly, his movements smooth and precise.
Just as he closed in on her position, Ezra felt a shift beneath his feet—a faint tremor radiating from the ground. Reacting instinctively, he rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the massive skeletal hand that erupted from the earth, its bony fingers grasping at the air where he'd just stood. The hand scraped the ground, sending clods of earth flying as it withdrew momentarily, only to brace itself to strike again.
"Come out and face me, coward!" Ezra called into the shadows, his voice echoing through the silent forest. The air grew colder, and he felt an unnatural chill seeping through the trees. A low, guttural laugh drifted from the shadows, sending a shiver down his spine.
The witch stepped into view, draped in tattered black robes, her face obscured by a wild tangle of hair. Behind her loomed two towering skeleton hands, hovering like her twisted sentinels. Her eyes gleamed with malice as she held out her hand, and more skeletal limbs clawed their way up from the ground, their fingers stretching toward Ezra like a web of death.
Undaunted, Ezra's eyes narrowed. Channeling his Aether, he sent a surge of shadow along the blade of his sword, lengthening it into a dark, blade-like tendril. With a powerful slash, he cleaved through the nearest skeletal hand, shattering it into fragments.
"Is that all you have?" he taunted, his tone cold. "I've fought stronger witches than you, and every one of them regretted crossing me."
The witch sneered, her eyes flashing with anger as she raised both hands. Instantly, a dozen bone spikes materialized around her, hovering like arrows ready to be loosed. She unleashed them with a flick of her fingers, and they launched toward Ezra in a deadly storm.
He spun through them, dodging and deflecting, his movements swift and deliberate. Despite the relentless barrage, he closed the distance between them, his shadow-infused blade cutting down any bone construct that dared to stand in his way.
Ezra could feel the dark energy pulsing around her—the concentrated malice and sorrow bound to her powers. He knew he couldn't let her distract him for long. The crux was nearby, and the others were counting on him to buy them enough time. He just hoped they could find it before this fight became too costly.
The witch snarled in fury, raising her hand as two enormous, bestial skulls materialized behind her, spectral blue flames crackling in their gaping maws. With a sinister gleam in her eye, she gestured sharply, and blasts of icy energy surged from the skulls, hurtling toward Ezra like twin torrents of frost and death. He met the blasts head-on, parrying them with deft, sweeping motions of his shadow-infused blade, dissipating the icy energy into a shower of blue sparks.
Seizing his chance, Ezra dashed forward, his sword cleaving cleanly through one of the spectral skulls. It shattered with an ear-splitting crack, fragments of ghostly bone scattering around them before dissolving into mist. Ezra turned, his gaze locking onto the witch, who took an involuntary step back, her expression a mix of rage and panic.
Before she could cast another spell, Ezra's body coiled tightly, a shadowy circle manifesting beneath his feet, his Aether swirling within it like a dark vortex. In an instant, he launched himself forward, the dark energy propelling him faster than she could react. He uncurled mid-air, his fist connecting squarely with her face in a powerful punch that echoed through the clearing. The force sent her stumbling back, her head snapping to the side as blood streaked from her lip.
"You're not as untouchable as you thought," he taunted, watching as the witch staggered, clutching her face, her eyes flashing with fury and desperation. Her hands trembled as she tried to summon another spell, her confidence wavering.
But Ezra didn't give her a moment to recover. He moved with relentless precision, pressing the advantage. His sword swept out, sending another tendril of shadow toward her, slicing through the skeletal hands that rose to defend her. The witch gasped, clutching a tattered amulet hanging from her neck, her fingers glowing faintly as she muttered a desperate incantation.
With a pulse of dark energy, she called forth another wave of skeletal warriors from the ground, their bony frames crackling as they clawed their way up. Ezra paused, assessing the reinforcements she'd summoned—half a dozen skeletal warriors, each armed with jagged, spectral weapons.
"You think these bones will stop me?" Ezra challenged, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Raising his sword, he released another surge of Aether, the shadows surrounding him coiling with dark intent. The skeletal warriors advanced, their weapons raised, but Ezra struck first, his sword slicing through the first with a precise, shadow-laden strike that shattered it into fragments.
As he fought through the summoned horde, Ezra could see the witch backing away, her confidence draining with each fallen skeleton. He parried another attack, his sword a blur of dark steel and shadow, cutting through the skeletal warriors with relentless force. When only one remained, he dispatched it with a brutal swing, sending the shattered remains clattering to the ground.
He looked up, catching sight of the witch as she reached for her amulet, her eyes wide with terror.
"It's over," he growled, stepping forward with his sword pointed at her, the wisps of shadow swirling menacingly around the blade.
But the witch's face twisted in defiance, her lips curling into a venomous smile as she raised the amulet high. "You haven't won yet," she hissed, her voice laced with dark intent. She began chanting in a language unfamiliar to Ezra, and the ground trembled in response.
Ezra braced himself, sensing a final, desperate spell. But he remained undeterred, ready to end this battle once and for all.
Ezra swiped the settling dust from his face, his eyes narrowing as he took in the witch's new form. Standing tall in the center of the ravaged forest, she was now cloaked in an imposing armor of bones that clinked and shifted with her every move. On each hand, razor-sharp talons blazed with that same ghostly blue fire, reminiscent of the spectral skulls that had been firing at him only moments ago.
Ezra grimaced. She was far more powerful than he'd anticipated, especially for a witch so young. Her newfound strength was almost unnatural, and he suspected that her rage and despair had fueled a rapid surge in her abilities. He silently willed the knights to hurry—destroying the crux was their only hope of cutting her power source before she overwhelmed him entirely.
The witch let out a bloodcurdling shriek, charging forward. Ezra met her head-on, his sword flashing as they locked in a furious exchange of slashes and parries. Her talons scraped against his blade, sparking as shadow-infused steel clashed against spectral bone. Each blow from her talons sent shockwaves through his body, and he could feel the intense cold radiating from her icy flames with every near miss.
As he dodged and countered, he noticed her movements becoming sharper, more vicious, as if each clash fueled her fury further. Ezra knew he couldn't hold out forever; she was relentless, her attacks growing faster and more unpredictable. He darted to the side, his blade slashing at her exposed flank, but she twisted, blocking his attack with a sweep of her fiery talons.
Suddenly, a clamor of footsteps and labored breaths sounded from the tree line. Ezra glanced over his shoulder, spotting the knights stumbling back into the clearing, their faces pale and armor battered. One of them, the younger knight who'd spoken earlier, was clutching a bleeding arm, his face etched with defeat.
"We… we couldn't find it," he gasped, his voice tinged with despair. "We searched everywhere you directed us, but there was no sign of the crux. It's like it's hidden… or maybe protected by some spell."
Ezra's jaw clenched. This was exactly what he'd feared. Without finding the crux, there was no way to sever her power at the root. They'd have to kill her the hard way, something he'd hoped to avoid. He turned back just in time to deflect another of her vicious strikes, narrowly avoiding the crackling talons as they whizzed past his face.
"Then we're in for a fight," Ezra barked, steeling himself. "Keep your distance! One of her hits could kill you outright, and I can't spare time to save anyone who gets too close."
The witch laughed, her voice echoing hauntingly through the clearing as she advanced. "You think you can survive against me? Without finding my crux, you're nothing but insects scrambling in the dark!" She lashed out, her talons slicing through the air, forcing the knights to scramble back in terror.
Ezra dodged and countered, landing a glancing blow across her bone armor. But she barely flinched, her gaze fixed on him with a feral intensity. Ezra quickly scanned the clearing, searching for any hint of the crux. Perhaps it was hidden in plain sight, embedded in some talisman on her person or concealed by an illusion spell.
Drawing on his remaining Aether, he launched himself forward, his blade flashing as he attempted a series of feints to test her defenses. The witch deflected each strike, her movements more fluid than before, her icy talons aiming for his vital points with uncanny accuracy. Ezra could feel the strain, his muscles screaming in protest as he blocked and evaded each successive strike.
Then, just as his strength began to wane, he spotted something—a small, brittle pendant hanging around her neck, hidden beneath the armor of bone. A faint shimmer of spectral energy pulsed from it, so subtle he almost missed it amidst the frenzy.
"That's it," he muttered, a spark of hope igniting within him. He shouted back to the knights, "The crux—it's around her neck! Aim for the pendant!"
The knights nodded, their expressions a mix of fear and determination as they nocked arrows and took aim. The witch, realizing her vulnerability had been exposed, let out an enraged scream and lunged toward Ezra, her talons crackling with intensified energy. She launched a furious barrage of attacks, trying to keep him at bay, her movements frantic as she protected her pendant with desperate fervor.
Ezra's gaze sharpened. He surged forward, his sword carving through the air with deadly precision, forcing her back with a relentless onslaught of slashes and thrusts. Her talons screeched against his blade, but he pressed on, inching closer to the pendant. The knights let loose their arrows, some striking her armor but others grazing dangerously close to her throat, drawing her attention away from Ezra for a fraction of a second.
Seizing the opportunity, he lunged forward, his shadow-cloaked sword aimed directly at the pendant. With a final, furious strike, he plunged the blade through the armor, shattering the pendant in an explosion of spectral energy. The witch let out a bloodcurdling scream as her body convulsed, her form flickering erratically as the spectral energy tore through her.
With the crux destroyed, the icy fire extinguished from her talons, and the armor of bone collapsed around her, clattering to the ground in fragments. She staggered back, her once-powerful form now weakened and frail, her skin pallid as the last of her strength drained away.
Ezra stepped back, breathing heavily, his sword still raised as he watched her collapse to her knees. The battle was over, but the clearing remained heavy with the echoes of her rage and despair, a haunting reminder of the power she'd wielded and the life she'd lost to grief and vengeance.
Ezra knelt down, gently holding the dying woman. If she'd been just a bit stronger, she might have survived the loss of her power. But if she'd been that powerful, he and the knights would likely be lying dead around her instead. Her once-fierce demeanor had faded, replaced by silent tears that slipped down her face. He'd seen this before—how witches, stripped of their magic, became fragile and broken, as though the curse itself was the only thing that had kept them going.
He stroked her hair, offering what little comfort he could. Her memories flooded into him, a torrent of pain and anger. He felt the horror and violation she'd endured, felt the helpless fury that had followed. He glimpsed the joy she'd found when her son was born, and the piercing sorrow when he'd died, the thin finger bone she'd placed in the pendant as a desperate memento of the only happiness she'd ever known. He saw her begging, pleading to return to her old job, willing to endure anything to survive, only to be turned away time and again, despair twisting into something darker.
Ezra sighed, knowing her path to witchcraft hadn't been a choice but a last resort, driven by desperation and heartache.
"What is your name, ma'am?" Ezra asked softly, feeling her grip tighten around his arm. She struggled to get the words out, voice barely a whisper. "It's... Nymessa."
Ezra smiled gently, letting her hold onto him as her strength waned. "And your son? What was his name?"
"John," she murmured, a faint, broken smile flickering across her face. "That was his name."
Ezra nodded, closing her eyes for her as she slipped away, her breaths becoming shallower until she was still. Bowing his head, he whispered, "May the Twelve guide your soul, Nymessa, and let you be reborn as the freest soul in the land. Shalom."
A knight approached from behind, giving Ezra a small, surprised smile. "I didn't take you for the religious type."
Ezra turned to the knight who had spoken; it was the youngest of the group. "I wasn't before," he replied, a faint smile playing on his lips. "But I met a devout cleric during my time as a soldier. She prayed over me when she thought I was on death's door, trying to give me comfort by offering a glimpse of the Twelve."
He paused, recalling the memory. "I managed to survive that day, barely. But ever since, I make sure to pray at least once a day. She told me that the gods themselves had intervened to save me."
Ezra picked up the woman's lifeless body and carried her back to Redford, handing her over in exchange for his payment. Redford sneered down at the corpse.
"Damn whore, risking my reputation over a mere child," he spat, raising his hand to strike the woman's body.
Ezra's grip shot out, stopping Redford's fist mid-swing. "Don't desecrate the dead," he said firmly. "It's against the teachings of the Twelve. And let's be clear—you're the reason she ended up like this. If you'd controlled yourself, none of this would have happened."
Redford scoffed but hesitated, visibly uneasy under Ezra's unflinching gaze. Ezra's voice dropped to a warning tone. "So keep yourself in check. Don't go creating more witches like her. She was already strong, and if she'd had more time to grow in power, there would've been far more casualties."
Ezra released Redford's fist, then turned and made his way back toward the capital. Damn nobles and their egos—always too proud to take responsibility for anything. In his years as a soldier, Ezra had learned that men like Redford saw those of lower status as little more than tools, mere dregs to be used and discarded without a second thought. The thought sickened him, but he walked on, determined to leave this wretched job behind.