The air crackled with dark energy. The ritual site fell silent. Isara's hands, trembling with uncertainty, hovered over the circle she had drawn. It was a complex web of glowing sigils that began to waver. Maroth's presence was like a thick, suffocating fog. It pressed against her mind, filling every part of the room. And then, in an instant, the air split with a crackling sound, and the world shifted.
Maroth's laughter rang out—deep and resonant, a sound that seemed to bend the very air around it. Isara's gaze snapped upward as she caught sight of what Maroth had conjured. A village floated above the ritual circle, like a reflection in a broken mirror. Farmers and traders froze Vaarthen, a settlement, in time. Once a thriving town, it now teetered on the brink of ruin. The small and quaint houses crumbled as if the builders had made them of sand. Windows shattered with a deafening crack.
The scent of smoke and ash permeated the vision, suffocating her senses. "Isara," Maroth's voice rumbled, smooth and dripping with malice. "If you fail, they will burn. Your hesitation will be their doom." The villagers' faces flickered in the dreamlike scene. Their eyes were wide with terror. Isara saw familiar faces among them. These were the children she had once protected. They played in the fields, as they had before darkness came for her family. Memories surged, sharp and jagged.
They were of the moment she had lost them to a similar, destructive force. Her breath caught in her chest. No. She couldn't let this happen. She couldn't lose another innocent life. She clenched her fists. Her heart raced, and the weight of the moment pressed down upon her. The ritual—the delicate web she had woven with great care—began to falter. Focus, Isara, focus. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the vision. But the echoes of the villagers' screams bled into her thoughts. Don't look. Don't listen. Her teeth ground together, and her heart pounded against her ribs as if it would break free of her chest. She couldn't fail. She wouldn't fail. She forced her hands back to the sigils, pushing away the rising panic that clouded her thoughts.
A bead of sweat trickled down her temple as the first tremor of doubt slipped through her defenses. Not possible to remove the adverb. Maroth had shown her this scene—this destruction—and it was enough to shake her resolve. "Isara," Maroth purred, a new edge to its voice. "What if the Order has been lying to you? What if binding me is the wrong choice? Can you place your trust in those who command you?" Her breath hitched as the question lodged deep in her chest. The Order had always been her foundation—the guiding force of her life.
She had never doubted its purpose, its teachings. But now, with every word from Maroth, the cracks in that foundation widened. What if they had been wrong all along? The ward, a fragile barrier she built with care, started to crack because of her hesitation. With a sharp motion, Maroth gestured, and the air around her seemed to collapse inward. The ward's crackling energy wavered and weakened. Then, a section vanished, curling away like burnt parchment. Isara gasped, her focus shattered completely.
The ritual was slipping out of her control. A cold voice whispered from the Grimoire of Lost Spirits, an ancient tome she had held for years. Its pages were alive with forgotten souls, bound within its bindings. "Cracks… fissures in the bindings. The Order hides more than you know…" The words echoed in her mind, as Maroth's voice had. The tome, once a source of guidance, now seemed to murmur its own dark truths. Not possible to remove the adverb. The whispers grew louder, overwhelming her senses, and her stomach twisted. She couldn't concentrate.
She couldn't push through the doubt that had taken root in her heart. The vision of Vaarthen, the burning village, flashed again. She felt the weight of the world pressing down on her. She clenched her eyes shut, forcing herself to focus. The ritual needed someone to reinforce the symbols or Maroth would break free. And then… the village would burn. But the whispers grew louder. "Cracks… in the bindings…" The voice from the tome was more urgent now. "The Order has suppressed knowledge of spirits like Maroth... spirits who maintain the balance of decay and renewal..." The Grimoire's words twisted in her mind.
Was it true? Had the Order hidden the truth from her all these years? Had they used her—used her magic—for their own purposes, without ever telling her the full story? No. She forced herself to take a deep breath, to pull herself back from the edge. This was the only way. This ritual was the only way to save Vaarthen, to save the world from the threat Maroth posed. Her doubts couldn't guide her now. But the next crack of the ward tore through the air like a thunderclap. "Isara," Maroth crooned, its voice dripping with a satisfaction that made her skin crawl. "You're too slow. Too weak.
I will break free, and all your precious Order will be nothing but dust." The shadows surged forward again, lashing out at her. Their dark forms, like snakes, twisted and rippled with corruption. They moved with the speed of a storm, sharp as blades, slicing through the air with malicious intent. She raised her hand, desperation flooding her veins. The inkstone in her palm pulsed with dark power, calling to her. She whispered an incantation older than the world. From the ground, spectral chains erupted. They twisted around the tendrils, capturing them in an embrace that resembled a ghost. Each link emitted a pale light that seemed to belong to another world. For a moment, it seemed as though the chains might hold.
The tendrils writhed, struggling against their bonds, but the chains held firm. The tendrils were relentless. They cracked and snapped against the chains, breaking them apart with ease. Isara felt the strain in her body as the magic drained her. Her blood magic was strong but risky. It took more than her energy. With every use, her body weakened. Every spark of magic pulled her further from herself. But she had no choice. She had to keep going. She raised her hands again, her blood searing through her veins, fueling the magic. New chains erupted, thicker and stronger. They encircled the tendrils in a vise of spectral force. But Maroth wasn't finished. With a snarl, the tendrils flared, blazing with shadowfire. It was a fire that burned with the pure corruption of Maroth's essence, not with heat.
The chains began to dissolve. Their spectral forms withered as the shadowfire spread like a disease. Isara gasped as the fire touched her skin. It burned deeper than any flame, searing her soul, twisting her body from the inside out. Her shield of light flickered, struggling to withstand the onslaught of dark energy. One of the tendrils lashed out with a jagged strike, slamming into the Grimoire in her hands. The book screamed in pain as the tendril shredded its pages, a jagged crack running across its spine. Isara's heart lurched. "No!" she cried out, her grip faltering as she felt the life within the tome begin to flicker and die.
She couldn't let it go. She couldn't lose it. It was all she had left of her mentor, all she had left of her true connection to the magic she wielded. Her blood magic surged again, but this time, it was out of control. Tendrils of raw, chaotic power burst from her veins, darkening the air around her. She was losing herself. She could feel it—the very core of her being was crumbling under the weight of the magic. "Bind me, Isara," Maroth taunted, its voice now a whisper in her ear. "Bind me, and you will take my essence into yourself. You will be more powerful than you ever imagined—forever tainted. Fail, and I will walk free, and the Order will cast you into darkness." Isara's heart pounded in her chest, the weight of her decision pressing down on her like an iron vice.
Bind her, and become corrupted forever? Will you fail and become branded a traitor? Her hands trembled as she stared at the Grimoire, at the broken pages, at the souls trapped within. The fight had escalated to something far beyond her control. Maroth was testing her resolve in ways she could never have imagined. And in that moment, the world seemed to narrow. There was only the ritual. Only the choice that lay ahead. The fate of Vaarthen, the fate of the Order, and the fate of her very soul hung in the balance. She took a deep breath. There was no turning back now.