Screams and roars filled the air as the Champion of Uldar met the cult with maximum violence.

To Drestra, though?

It was music to her ears.

The Sage dove under water and gave Angharad an enthusiastic thumbs up, letting him know that Hart was in position.

He nodded, turned to the witches waiting with him and pointed to the surface, it was time to start their ascent. By the time he turned back to Drestra, she was already gone, climbing through the water, wasting no time; their captured kin had little to spare. A flight spell tumbled from the Sage’s lips, and as she broke the surface and climbed through the air, she chanted another spell. In the guard post above camp, two cultists gaped open-mouthed at what was happening below.

“What in every hell?” One cried. “Are we under attack?”

“No, all that shoutin’ and mayhem means everything’s just fine!” The second sentry scrambled for the bell. “You idiot, of course we’re under attack, but it looks like it’s only one—”

“Wrong,” Drestra’s voice crackled beside the sentry post as she hovered in the air.

Fire magic flared around her hands.

“Catch.”

She tossed twin cones of flame at the pair—one’s hands shot out to catch them, while the other man ducked; that didn’t help him. Flame enveloped both before they could even grasp why, and screaming, they leapt over the sides, burning like torches. Drestra soared over the palisade below without a second glance at them.

Roosting on a perch above the pit, two screeching bird-like demons spread their wings, ready to tear her from the sky. Lightning struck, turning the demons and their perch to ash; it gently floated into the pit like a light rain. The crackle of lightning and falling ash had the prisoners looking to the sky when the Sage—floating down like a miracle—touched the ground. Shocked cries and whispers spread among puzzled captives. They squinted at her like she was the sun itself.

Drestra’s eyes welled with tears as her rage seethed at the state they were in.

Each was filthy, bruised, and gaunt, with eyes that were sunken so deep, they looked like dark craters. Some had injuries: broken arms stained with dried blood were barely supported by tattered rags, and manacles circled bony wrists. Across every face, symbols of mana expulsion were painted.

Drestra’s hands balled into fists.

“Kindred, I am Drestra of Crymlyn VIllage, daughter of Elder Blodeuwedd,” she said. “It’s time for you to go home!”

“Oh praise the spirits!” A witch cried, his voice breaking. “Praise them!”

Others prayed loudly, some sobbed with relief.

And then she heard her name from a familiar voice. It was low and weak.

“Drestra?”

The Sage’s heart leapt.

“Ffion?” Her voice caught while she looked around desperately “Ffion where are you?”

A bedraggled woman came through the crowd. She’d always leaned toward the thin side, but now, she looked like the slightest breeze would blow her over.

“I’m here,” Ffion said weakly. “How did you—Oof!”

The Sage rushed her old friend, catching her in a hug and holding on like she thought she’d slip away.

“Drestra…Drestraaaa…you’re crushing me,” Ffion smiled, her face was pained like she wanted to cry. But only a single tear came. “We’ll get everyone water,” the Sage exhaled softly. “I’m so glad we found you.” The tears flowed as she gently pulled away and held her friend at arm's length, examining her. “I’m sorry this ever happened to you. We’re going to get you home. Everyone’s going home.” Drestra’s voice was like iron.

“Oh thank the spirits,” Ffion said softly. “I prayed everyday that someone would come and murder these bastards. And here you are. To murder these bastards,” she gave a weak laugh.

Drestra squeezed her friend’s hands, her eyes smiling above her veil. “I’m glad they couldn’t break your spirit.”

“Not in this lifetime. And I mean it, they’re parasites, and they need killing.” Her voice was calm.

“I agree. They’re a plague that nothing good can ever come from.” Drestra said.

“And we’ll deal with all of these demons and demon worshipping filth like they deserve to be dealt with. One way or another, they’re leaving our swamp, I promise everyone that.” She looked up at the palisade’s gate, eyeing a dirt ramp that spiralled down the edges of the pit to give the cultists access to the hostages.

“I have witches from Crymlyn Village and Uldar’s Champion with me. Our kin will take everyone out of this place and Hart and I will see to these cultists. Stay put, I’ll go let Angharad in.” Drestra flew to the gate and—with a spell—blasted it with a wave of force.

Both the bar and gate wrenched open, revealing a shocked Angharad and the other rescuers on the other side.

“Hey, you nearly took my damn face off with that spell,” he complained as he led the others through the palisade.

“Sorry,” Drestra said. “I was trying to save time.”

“Don’t apologise, save that sort of thing for the—” The man paused when he saw the hostages below, his eyes clouded. “Oh, by the spirits, this is awful. Go on, we’ll see to our people. You go help pay back the rest of those bastards.”

“With pleasure,” she flew from the palisade, and turned to the witches below. “I’ll be back soon!”

“Drestra!” Ffion called after. “Get that traitor Osrian and all the other stinking traitors with him! Don’t let them get away.”

Angry voices rose in agreement.

The Sage nodded, holding her fingers up like claws.

“If Hart didn’t get him yet, he’ll die by my bare hands.”

She tore from the palisade and flew over the camp, watching the carnage below. The Champion of Uldar was racing between tents, cutting down demons, cultists, and the few traitor witches remaining. With every step, he was a blur of death.

But, too slow for her liking.

Calling on her power, Drestra rained lightning and ice from above, cutting down the enemy by the dozen. She avoided fire: the camp was packed with supplies her people could use, especially with winter so near.

Her eyes kept searching for Osrian…but the coward was nowhere in sight. Maybe he’d already run off at the first hint of a battle at his front door, though she had to admit, there were surprisingly few traitor witches around.

“You’re not getting away, Osrian. I’ll hunt you for the rest of my days, if that’s what it takes,” she whispered, climbing higher then turning in place, scanning the camp.

…there!

A boat’s stern was heading into the trees.

“Hart!” her voice crackled like burning logs. “Rats are escaping! I’ll be right back!”

“Oh, take your time!” He cut the head off a three-eyed demon. “I’ll be here, having a blast!”

The Sage shot for the trees.

Coming close to her quarry, voices carried to her on the wind.

“—disaster. She’s going to kill us when she gets back, Osrian,” a man said.

“And that’s why we’ll be long gone when she does,” another man replied. “We’re going to disappear so deep in the Crymlyn, even invisible marauders won’t be able to find us.”

“What about the others who went with the army?” a third voice asked. “They’re our people. Do we leave them to her wrath?”

“At this point, we have to survive or our ways die with us,” Osrian said. “We’ll leave signs so they can find us if they get away from Zonon-In”

“The only signs you’re going to leave—” Drestra dropped below the trees and hovered above both vessels. “—are your bloated corpses.”

The witches recoiled like they’d been scalded.

“I am Drestra, the Sage.” Her voice crackled like a blazing fire. “Which of you is Osrian?”

As one, the traitorous witches glanced at a man at the bow of a boat.

He flinched, looking at his companions in shock. “You—traitors! You betrayed me!” he hissed, with no sense of irony, then whirled on the Sage. “This is our swamp!” His voice grew firm, this was only slightly undercut by him trembling like a leaf. “We needed allies to keep outsiders out! To…to…to…”

His voice trailed off.

Drestra wasn’t listening.

And though she hadn’t said much, she was finished talking, too.

Instead, she did something she had not done in front of another living being for many years. She reached to her face. Her hands unclasped a hidden catch.

And she took her veil off.

“Oh!” Osrian cried. “Oh spirits protect us!”

Then, she flew at them.

Screams erupted from the swamp, followed by a terrible cracking and immense crashing. Something crumbled. Someone’s breath rasped as they sank beneath the water. A tree snapped in half.

When the Sage at last flew into the sky—her veil was back in place—and every last traitor was sinking in muddy water.

She swooped away, speeding to the camp and finding most of the enemy already dead. Enemy numbers had been slashed, pushing the enemy to desperate measures. Some rushed the palisade, looking for hostages, but instead of hostages for their taking, witches of Crymlyn Village waited at the gate with volley after volley of ice, acid and other deadly magics for them.

The Sage soared over the camp, raking the few remaining knots of resistance with lightning and conjured stones, allowing them a quick death, something they’d denied her kin.

“Yes!” Hart laughed, his dagger and stolen axe carving a swath of carnage through the rest. “Get ‘em, Drestra! They’re breaking like kindling now!”

And he was right.

Demons and cultists had fought in a fantical frenzy, but as their numbers dwindled and all hope was lost, their courage shattered. They fled for the swamp in all directions, but Drestra and Hart were merciless.

Less than a dozen minor demons escaped, and all bore grave wounds. They’d be prey for the swamp’s predators soon enough.

“Not a bad bit of exercise,” the Champion said, tossing aside the now-broken axe and grabbing another.

“We still have more to do,” Drestra said. “I’ll go tell the others.”

“Oh, take your time, I ain’t going anywhere.” Hart took a wineskin from a corpse, flicked the cork away, sniffed it, then took a long swig. A broad grin covered his face. “This is the life.”

“The cultists are dead!” The Sage flew above the pit, calling to her people. “That filth Osrian won’t be trading away anyone else's freedom ever again! You’re free!”

The witches of Crymlyn—former prisoners and rescuers alike—cheered and wept, some did both at the same time. Relief washed over everyone…but Drestra couldn’t share in it.

To the south, flashes of explosive magic and columns of smoke rose from the swamp.

The battle hadn’t been won yet.

“Angharad, we’ve done what we came to do—less than a dozen demons fled into the woods and they’re so badly injured, they won’t be alive for long—but those with the leader are still putting up a fight. Cedric and the others can use reinforcements. Do you think you’ll be alright getting everyone back to the village?”

“There’s thirty of us, you go, help the others.” Angharad said. “We’d be pretty poor witches and mages of Crymlyn if we couldn’t handle a dozen half-dead demons.”

“Go!” one of the prisoners cried. “Help the rest of our people!”

“Yes, go ahead, Drestra, they need you.” Ffion said. “Angharad told us they’re also fighting these monsters! So don’t worry about us. We’re fine now!”

“Thank the spirits you’ll be back home soon, everyone’s waiting for you. Stay safe, all of you, and I’ll see you soon!” Drestra flew toward the Champion, who was cleaning his blades. “Let’s go. Time to help the others!”

“Alright, game on, then,” he said, tossing the wineskin aside as she cast a flight spell on him.

Together, the two Heroes flew toward the southern battle as the Sage sent a signal through the sky.

A plume of flame erupted, announcing they were on their way.

“They know we’re coming, so let’s move!” Drestra said. “We should be there in about five minutes…if we don’t run into trouble!”

“Oh, I think we will!” Hart snarled. He squinted in the distance. “Something’s flying this way, and it ain’t moving at a slow leisurely pace either.”

Drestra swore. “Well, if we’re really lucky, maybe the enemy’s retreating. I hope the others are having an easy time like we had.”

###

Alex stared at the long gash across Claygon’s chest.

It was deep, nearly deep enough to pierce his core, and if that had happened—

“Claygon!” Theresa cried, whirling at the demon. “You filthy monster!”

She slashed at its eyes, but the demon casually clipped the huntress with a backhand, sending her careening through the air.

“No!” Alex screamed, diving toward her.

Theresa held up a hand, the gesture stopped him, then she charged back into battle. Her teeth were clenched as she joined Cedric and the witches’ dying trees. Claygon came for the demonic leader while she fended off their attack, and slammed a fist into her shoulder.

She howled with pain. “Alright! Felt that! You need to go, rock man!”

“No!” Alex shouted.

“Dodge, big fellow!” The demon flipped the war-spear in her grip and hurled it.

The young wizard’s mind flooded Claygon with directions, and the golem spun to the side.

But not quick enough.

The spear struck, clipping his shoulder, ripping away a chunk of clay. His arm almost separated from his body.

“Oh, by the Traveller,” Alex murmured, watching Claygon climb away from the fight. “If that had hit any lower—”

A rush of teleportation magic cut off his words. The demon’s war-spear reappeared in her hand, and she slashed another tree in half. As it was falling, Cedric was darting in, his weapon changing from form to form; he slashed with a sword, then stabbed with a spear, struck with a mace, then parried with a shield. Theresa sliced the demon’s flanks and her blind spots, drawing dark lines of blood from shallow wounds.

But the monster hardly seemed bothered; she lazily batted aside the two supernatural warriors and the powerful trees. She was…even…

“Oh shit!” Alex cursed. “She’s actually humming. This isn’t working. If this keeps up, someone’s gonna die. Focus! Focus!”

He looked for Claygon; the golem and Cedric were the only ones doing any real damage, but Claygon was too slow to avoid that bloody spear.

‘Alright, now she’s toying with us. She’s not really paying attention. You can use that. Just get that weapon away from her,’ he thought. ‘Teleportation magic! Maybe when she’s stabbing at Cedric, I can cast Call Through Ice and she'll stab her blade into the portal. She can probably teleport it back into her hand, but before she does, I’ll have Claygon crush her damn skull!’

He began casting, sinking into the Mark’s interference.

The whoosh of a blade cutting the air warned him.

He stopped the spell, pulling out of the images.

The war-spear was coming right for him.

With a shout, he dove as it tore through the air where his head had just been.

“Nice dodge! Now, no more spells from up there!” The demon said as her spear flashed back into her hand. “If you want to fight me, then you’re going to have to come down and use those tiny little hands of yours!”

A chill went through him; he’d called it wrong.

‘She looks like she’s toying with us,’ he thought. ‘But she’s actually watching the battlefield like a hawk…Alright, so we’ll have to blind her first.’

He sent two Wizard’s Hands at her face. The spells flared brightly and clapped over her eyes, trying to blind her.

She opened her mouth.

Dozens of long tentacles slithered from between yellowed fangs, wrapped around the spells, and crushed them.

“I said hands!” she barked, as she blocked Cedric’s blow.

“Those were hands!” he fired back.

“Hah! You make jokes, how fun! Why don’t we try some physical comedy for a bit!”

Her eyes met Alex’s and her lips moved.

But no sound came out.

Then something hit his mind with the force of Claygon’s fist.