The Warmth of the Hearth
Faith

A swift blow of wind hits the back of Luke’s head as he ducks to avoid a sweeping high kick, courtesy of one of the attackers flanking him. He puts up his right arm, effectively blocking the punch that follows. The three dash towards him to provide aid but backs off as Luke’s current opponent raises a hand, his gloves embroidered with a crest Luke has not seen before. The three nod, understanding the gesture the young Laisren could not comprehend and immediately leave, leaving Luke to face off against three less opponents.

The realization hits him as he remembers Rachel and Evan who had just departed. They’re after them! He blasts the masked figure away with searing heat and tries to make chase. However, towering walls of water and wood emerge from the ground in front of him, continuing to expand into a small concentrated arena with no visible signs of exit. “You guys really don’t want me leaving, do you?” Intense white flames emerge from his skin, swirling all over his body as the manna within him hums with excitement.

“You... you are not weak. Why do you protect the Feebles?” The man speaks, the same man Luke had just blown away a few seconds ago. His hood has come off, visible cracks now present in his mask. “Do you not see the potential your power has? You could rule over everything, build a continent with no signs of weakness. An impenetrable fortress with the ability to strike down those who dare oppose.” He makes a grandeur gesture with his arms, raising both as if he was addressing all that was to be seen around them. “Join us. It is our destiny to serve Lord Skye, to aid in his dream in which all of us will stand tall.” He reaches out a hand, his glove now scorched with holes due to Luke’s flames. “What do you sa---”

He doesn’t get to finish as Luke conjures a flame from the ground beneath him, engulfing the man in white flame as he writhes around, his robes on fire as his skin turns black from the heat. “Oops.” Luke tenses as all twelve of the masked attackers move in unison, their movements precise and calculated as they dance around Luke as one unit. His eyes barely catch all of the movements approaching him as he weaves in and out of kicks and strikes, all the while evading all of the spells being casted upon him. Luke desperately scours for an opening as one of his attackers fumble, missing him just enough to land a devastating punch filled with the impact of his flames. The man goes flying as Luke breaks through, creating distance between him and the remaining eleven. “Who’s next?”

Olin departs the camp, a mere leather satchel strapped around his robe as Xylia sits comfortably on his shoulder. “My dear Xylia, are you sure that the young master will be okay?” This is met by a glare from the pixie, which Olin only sighs to. “It is not that I have no faith in my nephew’s abilities, but rather that I do not trust that his enemies will play fairly. If what young Nieko said was true, all of Ezicion will be a warzone for the mannaless, and young Luke will do everything that he can to protect them.”

The main bridge comes into view, its once magnificent structure now littered with cracks and rubble. A horrifying sight hits Olin as he sees the bodies of those who have been slaughtered the night before. Their skin were pale as their lifeless eyes look at him, dried blood smeared across their faces as they lie still as sculptures of the horror they have felt in the last seconds of their lives. “My word...”

Xylia winces as they pass through one body after another before finally arriving at the gate, its metal grates now lying askew into the broken walls, allowing entry for anybody who might dare to pass. “Humans make me sick.” She mutters, a wrenching feeling in her gut grows as she does her best to look away.

“Trust me my dear Xylia, I feel the same way.” Olin responds as they arrive at the broken lines of structures flooding the view. “But I have not lost hope that there will be those who will make amends for all the wrong that we have done.”

A scream shakes the air as a little boy struggles to shake a lady on the ground. Two masked men come into view as one picks the boy by the throat, visibly blocking the young boy’s wind pipe. Olin doesn’t hesitate, throwing a condensed spear of flame that penetrates the offender’s chest. Olin closes his palm into a fist and dozens of spikes emerge from the spear, skewering the man from within as he erupts into flames. One of the protruding spikes impales the other as he too shares the same fate.

The little boy fumbles to the ground and cries, his wails alerting more of the masked men as more appear to greet them. The air hums with manna as Olin braces himself for the upcoming fight. Ifrit calls from within him, feeding on Olin’s rage as flames crackle around his arm. Heed me mortal! I will crush your foes for you, let me do what your puny magic cannot! An excruciating pain overcomes Olin as he feels his grip of reality slip away. “No!”

“Get him.” The men swiftly dash towards Olin, daggers and axes in hand as they make the most of the incapacitated mage. Xylia steps in front and conjures a flame barrier, wrapping her along with the child and Olin in a small net of safety. Cracks appear on the shield as Xylia feels the effect of being distant from Luke for too long. “Anytime now, Olin.” The flame wall shatters as shards of manna scatter all over the place. “This is not good!” Xylia flinches as the masked man do not hesitate to send spells along their way. A huge explosion follows as smoke covers the area, rendering all of them blind. Xylia looks towards Olin, her eyes widening with horror from what she sees. “No...”

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