The swamp's mist clung to Elara's skin, cold and invasive. She crouched low beneath a drooping tree branch, its gnarled fingers stretching toward the boggy ground. Her breath came in controlled bursts, the distant sounds of battle echoing through the marsh.
"Do you see them?" Oran's voice, barely a whisper, carried through the thin line of Prismatic threads extending from his fingertips to hers. The faint, glowing threads vanished into the air like ephemeral spider silk.
"No," Elara whispered back, scanning the dense underbrush ahead. "But they're close. Too close."
The fog around them pulsed faintly with prismatic energy, a phenomenon common to Nytheria's marshlands. The energy-enhanced atmosphere amplified abilities here—but it also concealed the movements of the hunters chasing them.
Elara pressed her hand against the cold, damp bark of a tree, steadying her nerves. Somewhere in the distance, another explosion rumbled, sending ripples across the swamp water. The enemy was relentless, cutting down her faction's numbers with brutal efficiency.
And she hadn't been able to stop any of it.
"Focus," Oran hissed, sensing her spiraling thoughts through the threads. "We're not going to die here. Not today."
Elara swallowed hard and nodded. Oran was reckless, but his unwavering confidence always managed to steady her. Together, they were the last two members of their team still alive—or so she believed.
Ahead, a shadow shifted.
Elara felt it before she saw it: the tingling sensation of energy disruption. Someone was manipulating the fog to obscure their approach. Her heart quickened, and she gripped the small dagger at her side, though she knew it would do little against a seasoned wielder.
The shadow moved again, faster this time, and Elara's instincts screamed at her to act. Without thinking, she stretched her hand forward, her ability flaring. The damp air shivered as the faint hum of disrupted energy radiated outward.
The fog parted, revealing an enemy scout—a wiry man with glowing blue veins running up his arms. He blinked, startled, as his energy manipulation faltered under Elara's interference.
"Now!" Elara shouted.
Oran's threads snapped into action, streaking through the air and coiling around the scout's limbs. The man let out a strangled cry as Oran yanked him forward, slamming him into a tree.
"Good call," Oran muttered, his tone almost playful as he tightened the threads. "But one down isn't going to save us. There's more—"
Another explosion rocked the swamp, cutting him off. The shockwave sent both of them sprawling into the mud.
"Elara!"
She coughed, trying to shake the ringing in her ears. Through the swirling mist, she saw a towering figure emerge. The man was clad in armor reinforced with glowing prismatic plates, and the energy radiating off him was suffocating.
Not just a scout. A commander.
"Elara Myris and Oran Daris," the man intoned, his voice like grinding stone. "By order of the Crimson Veil, you are sentenced to death."
Elara scrambled to her feet, her mind racing. The Crimson Veil was one of the most ruthless factions in Nytheria, and this commander's presence confirmed her worst fears—they were hunting survivors.
"We're outmatched," Oran muttered, his threads twitching as he readied himself for a fight.
"No," Elara said, her voice steadier than she expected. "We just need to hold out."
"Hold out for what?"
A shadow streaked overhead, followed by a piercing whistle. The next moment, the commander's head snapped back, a golden arrow embedded in his helmet.
Elara and Oran froze, stunned.
Out of the mist, two figures emerged. One was a woman with a quiver slung across her back, her sharp gaze locking onto the battlefield. Shimmering lines of trajectory danced in the air around her as she nocked another arrow. The other was a man, calm and composed, his hands glowing faintly with Prismatic energy.
"Lyra," Oran breathed. "And Kael."
The legends had arrived.
The commander's body hit the swamp floor with a heavy thud, the glowing energy plates on his armor dimming to nothing. Lyra lowered her bow, her golden trajectory lines fading into the mist as she turned toward Elara and Oran.
"Sloppy," she said flatly, her voice cutting through the silence. "You're lucky we were nearby."
Oran bristled, wiping mud off his face. "We had it under control."
Lyra raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Is that what you call lying face down in a swamp?"
Before Oran could retort, Kael stepped forward, his movements smooth and deliberate. His gaze,swept over Elara and Oran, assessing them like a craftsman inspecting flawed tools. He stopped a few paces away, arms crossed.
"Alive, at least," Kael said, his tone calm but carrying an edge of disapproval. "Barely. Do you have a plan, or were you just improvising your way to an early grave?"
Elara felt heat rise to her cheeks. The legends stood before her, but instead of feeling inspired, she felt…small. She bit back her frustration and spoke quickly. "We were heading to the Eastern edge of the marsh. There's a safe zone near the Blackwater Ruins."
Kael glanced at Lyra, who nodded slightly.
"Not bad," he admitted, his tone neutral. "But the Veil won't let you get that far. They're sweeping the area for survivors."
"So, what now?" Oran asked, his voice tinged with defiance. His threads hovered around his hands, twitching as if eager for a fight.
Lyra stepped closer, her piercing gaze locking onto Oran. "Now? You stop playing hero and listen." She gestured toward the fog where faint silhouettes of more Veil scouts flitted in and out of sight. "They're regrouping. We don't have time for bravado."
"Then what do you suggest?" Elara asked, forcing herself to sound confident despite the tension pressing on her chest.
Lyra smiled faintly. "We're taking you with us."
Elara blinked. "With you?"
"To the ruins," Kael added, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "If you're so determined to get there, you might as well not die on the way."