The wind howled through the jagged cliffs of the Crimson Vale, carrying with it the faint scent of sulfur and the distant rumble of a storm. The air gnawed at Laura's skin, yanking at her black cloak and sending her red dress flaring like a defiant flame against the garish yellow pants she wore with unapologetic bravado. Her long, spiky red hair thrashed wildly, barely tamed by the black bandana knotted tight across her brow, its ends snapping like tiny banners in the gale. At eighteen, Laura was a witch with a flare for chaos and a craving for glory, her staff gripped firm in one hand. The crystal atop it flickered like a trapped ember, a whisper of the raw, untamed magic bubbling inside her. She'd come for the Vault of Veyris, a hoard of lost enchantments she'd tracked through bandit traps and wyrm-ridden wilds. This was her moment to shine.
Until he slithered into her path.
A figure peeled from the shadow of a craggy outcrop, moving with a predator's grace despite his hulking frame. He was a beast of a man, broad and muscled, his wild brown hair a tangled mane spilling past his ears. His dark leathers hugged his body, patched and worn, and a hood cloaked his face—save for the icy blue eyes that glinted like frost and the faint, maddening smirk tugging at his lips. But it was the sword at his hip that hooked Laura's gaze. Its blade shimmered with an unearthly glow, a swirl of violet, gold, and abyssal black that no mortal forge could dream of crafting. The hilt bore runes that twisted like living shadows, and the air around it thrummed with a faint, alien pulse. Not of this world, Laura thought, her witch's senses buzzing. Did he know? His easy stance gave nothing away.
"You're in my way," Laura snapped, slamming her staff into the dirt with a thud. The crystal pulsed, a sharp warning she hoped he'd catch.
"Funny," he drawled, his voice a low growl that sliced through the wind's wail. "I was about to say the same to you, cupcake."
Laura's eyes narrowed, her spiky hair quivering with her rising temper as the bandana's knot dug into her scalp. "Cupcake? I'm Laura, fiercest spell-slinger this side of the Emberfall Peaks, and I'm here for the Vault. Move, or I'll turn you into a toad."
He tilted his head, unfazed. "The Vault? Too late, sugarplum. I've already cleaned it out." He patted a bulging satchel at his side, the clink of loot and a faint magical shimmer leaking through the leather.
Laura's jaw dropped, her cloak snapping in the gusts. "You—what?! That's mine! I fought bandits, roasted a wyrm, and slogged through this sulfur-reeking pit for that haul!"
"Admirable," he said, though his smirk hinted at amusement. "But while you were playing hero, I was picking locks. Name's Figarland. And you're... loud for such a mature woman who looks like she's seen a few more winters than she has."
"Loud?!" Laura's staff blazed brighter, and she thrust it toward him. "Hand over that satchel, or I'll blast you off this cliff, you overgrown thief! And I'm eighteen, you jackass!"
Figarland raised his hands, the smirk unshaken. "Easy, fireball. How about a deal? I need a distraction—mercenary camp down the ravine, and they're baying for my blood. Help me slip past, and I'll split the take. Fifty-fifty."
Laura glared, her red dress whipping in the wind as she sized him up. "Why trust you? You're a rogue—probably itching to run me through with that freaky sword the second I turn."
He chuckled, a deep rumble that rolled off the cliffs. "Smart, sugarplum. But I don't skewer people who can sling magic like you. Too messy." His hand brushed the sword's hilt, and Laura swore the blade flared for an instant. Did he feel it too?
"Fine," she said, easing her staff down a notch. "But if you cross me, I'll hex you 'til your shadow begs for mercy. Deal?"
"Deal," Figarland said, offering a gloved hand. She shook it, feeling the iron in his grip—older than her, maybe thirty or more, but steady as the rocks around them. Thief or not, he had guts. She could work with that.
The ravine stretched below like a gash in the earth, torchlight flickering across a camp of mercenaries—brutes in battered armor, their coarse laughter scraping the stone walls. Laura crouched behind a boulder, her yellow pants scuffing the dirt as she peeked out. Beside her, Figarland's bulk loomed like a gathering storm, his wild hair catching the firelight as he studied the scene. His sword hung silent, but its strange pulse tickled her senses.
"The plan," he murmured, "is you make noise—big, loud, messy. I'll slip through. Meet me on the other side.
"Laura's lips curled into a feral grin. "Messy's my specialty, big guy."
She rose, staff aloft, her cloak billowing like a thunderhead. The chant tore from her throat, fierce and jagged, and the crystal flared like a dying star. With a shout, she drove the staff down. The earth quaked, and a magic ball of fire erupted, streaking into the camp and bursting in a glorious storm of flame and ash. Tents blazed, men howled, and the night shattered into chaos.
Figarland whistled low. "Damn, cupcake. You're a tempest."
He faded into the shadows, leaving Laura to the fray. A mercenary charged, axe high, and she swung her staff like a cudgel, cracking his helm with a sharp clang. Another rushed her, and she snapped her fingers, a wind blast hurling him into a rock with a wet crunch. Her magic was rough, but it danced in her blood.
Singed and breathless, she stumbled out the ravine's far end. Figarland lounged against a twisted tree, that smirk still etched on his rugged face. He tossed her a pouch from his satchel—coins jingled, and a faint magical hum pulsed within.
"Fifty-fifty," he said. "Told you I keep my word."
Laura snatched it, her spiky hair damp with sweat under the bandana. "Huh. You're not as vile as you look."
"And you're not just a loudmouth with a stick," he fired back. "That spell could've leveled a fortress. Ever think of sticking around? More vaults to crack, and I could use a mature-looking lass with your fire."
Laura paused, then smirked, twirling her staff. "Only if you ditch the 'mature woman' bit—I'm barely legal, you oaf. Partners?"
"Partners," Figarland agreed, tipping his hood. The sword at his hip gleamed faintly, and Laura's curiosity flared anew. "Tavern's a day off. First round's mine. Something tells me we're in for a wild ride."
The storm broke as they set out, rain drumming on Laura's bandana and rinsing the sulfur tang from Figarland's leathers. The path ahead was a mystery, but for once, Laura didn't mind the shadow at her side. That sword's secrets could wait. For now, the thrill was enough.