The dark-haired boy raced down the abandoned stone pathway, kicking off dust in his flashy wake. His heavy panting echoed all around him as though the trees and winds had paused in their harmony to bear witness to his supernatural speed.

His palm closed tightly around the clammy metal hilt. Even in the dim midnight, one could clearly see the cursive runes engraved around it, its meaning long lost to mortals.

Even though it no longer housed the magnificent blade it once held, the glowing remains of the metal still stuck around the hilt, alongside its swirling malevolent aura bore testimony to the ethereal nature of the sword.

This meant that even the hilt was as dangerous as the sword itself, and must not be abandoned to the enemy, at whatever cost there inevitably had to be.

The fleeing youth muttered desperately, almost insanely, and a dull green aura began to swirl around him as he accelerated through the shadowy woods.

His sleek long black hair, long enough for anyone to mistake him for an enchanting goddess, blew up around him, unruly tendrils sticking to his sweaty face, leaving the hair disheveled.

Just behind him, four riders appeared out of the shadows, their swords flashing in the bleak moonlight. Without the slightest hint of fear, all their actions screaming victory, they urged their horses towards the dashing youth.

The boy was still incredibly fast, moving with so much velocity to be able to gap war-bred horses even while dodging tree branches and ducking constant arrows. The pursuers had that to their advantage, as they owned the domain and were familiar with the terrains.

He flung his ruined hilt far behind him, as a last measure distraction, hoping at least to escape with his life intact, discounting all the injuries criss crossing his fair skin. 

In the few crucial seconds that his pursuers hesitated to see whatever hidden aces he had, he drove his right hand in a wide circle, muttering indistinctly.

Finally, he had played his trump card. And if it failed…

Well, that will be a straight ticket to the popular "Circles", rumoured home to all perished ancestors.

Green light glowed brightly in the darkness as mist swirled eerily, obliterating their parry from their view. A portal opened out of the mist, widening alarmingly to block out the pursuers.

That was all he needed, a few seconds to finalize his escape mission.

One of the horse riders rode to the front and threw back her hood, exposing her shiny grey hair, reflecting off the color of the serene moon.

She began to chant a strange incantation, her voice resonating with so much power and magic. As she spoke, a glint of silver dust began to spread around the portal, thinning it. The portal darkened, but did not close.

The same rider began to whirl her hands in what looked like a set of wide interlocking circles, creating an invisible force field that pushed the green portal and began to dissipate it slowly. A thin sliver of light glowed around her hands, then stretching out to subdue the widening portal.

 She then added a little effort but something strange happened.

The portal continued widening, but the Sorceress didn't look perturbed, for some reason. She just scrunched up her eyes in determined effort, and the spell sort of exploded, almost throwing off her nearby colleagues. 

She muttered an apology, working quickly to contain the greater effects of the spell, and the portal vanished in a great cloud of smoke and eerie resounding crackling sound.

By the look on her face, she didn't quite expect that. But she couldn't explain the bluff either.

"Get him!," another horseman snarled, and the others behind them increased their velocities and hurried ahead into the cornering path. 

They met an empty part, the wind whistling with a theatrical flair, as though to reassure them of the fact that nobody was there.

The boy was no longer in sight. He had escaped.

Fury first tore at their hearts, then rapidly replaced by fear, which pooled at the bottom of their stomach, when they realized the possible consequences of their failure.

But no one dared to say it out loud. Not yet.

The witch hurried along, presumably to make sure of his escape through her sorcery.

 She muttered a spell, stretching out her index. A thin trailing glow of silver escaped it and snaked down the path. The others waited for her feedback as they all watched the spell twist away and fade into the distance.

The caster stared into the distance intently, before shaking her head.

"He's gone", she said, shaking her dark hair out of her eyes. "No sign of any demonic essence."

"That's strange, he managed to clearly extinguish all traces of his essence", the horseman who had first spoken said, pulling off his hood too. "We have to alert the other hunting groups before they go on searching futilely. We are not geared up for a clash with those wretched Incarnas."

"I'm on it", a horseman said, hurrying away at once. They could still hear his horse neighing noisily as the messenger rode away.

"He would have used mental transmission",the witch grumbled in a low voice. "Or he would have just asked me to do it."

"At least Savart will be pleased." The first horseman, who seemed like the commander, spoke again. His tone though, sounded like he was trying to reassure himself. "We managed to chase him away-"

"We both know that's untrue", the witch said again, now staring down the wide path where the boy had vanished. "How are you going to explain to him that you failed to catch a boy of – perhaps sixteen–"

"The boy's quick-witted for his age, and he has a high battle perception", the commander said dismissively. "He's a member of the legendary Szen Incarnas bloodline – that portal proved that – and he must not be toyed with."

"He's the Incarnian greatest investment", the soldier left behind, cut in. "And he's still using incognito powers –"

"You don't know how trained he is, Nuell, so let's not make assumptions", the witch advised.

Everyone there knew that if the Prince was as strong as he was hyped, then they really stood no chance against his powers.

But he had used magic, instead of his supposed dark powers, which opened several possibilities to the Cruceni.

"I'm going back to the castle", she continued, "you guys should better stay back and plan on what to tell Savart, because he's not going to take that excuse for an answer".

"We will better be off", the commander said. "I know what to tell the king".

The witch rode away immediately, chatting away with the other soldier and the commander looked at the duo suspiciously and then sighed.

'She's obviously hiding something, but since I can't find out what it is, there's really no need to worry.'

He had seen her look of disbelief when her spell had almost backfired. She didn't expect it either, which aroused his suspicions. The other soldiers didn't realize that, but as a war general, he had almost superlative perception and it hadn't escaped past his notice.

Meanwhile, he had more pressing issues to deal with, so he put that out of his mind.

The disappointment of the Prince's escape hung heavy in his heart. But he still felt a tinge of fear. 

The Sorceress was more powerful than him by very wide margins, and he had seen a flash of fear on her face during the pursuit. As much as he wanted not to believe it, he was a man of the battlefield and couldn't mistake Fear, of all the emotions ever known.

"Simma?", a voice called from the darkness, and he startled, his hand flying to his hilt before he recognized it.

Apparently, he wasn't the only one reminiscing in the dark.

"Are you going to stay there and think all night? Your steed is whining, don't you think?"

With a heavy heart, the commander called Simma kicked the flanks of his horse and he trotted to meet the waiting Sorceress.

Together, they melted into the darkness.