Grix had been dragged off like luggage, and Nira’s triumphant smirk remained etched in Mazari’s thoughts. Luthea’s delicate frame felt like a cage—far too fragile for the violence she wanted to inflict. Zorath stepped beside her, his obsidian greatsword, *Shadowfang*, balanced across his neck. His gaze, usually a calculating storm, crackled with a dangerous intensity that matched her own. “The breach is contained for now,” he stated, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floor. “They hit the lower wards, a diversion for the archives. Their forward camp must be close. We move.” “The camp?” Mazari's voice was a raw rasp, laced with unspent fury. “Just us? Grix needs us now.” “My scouts are securing the Keep. A whole legion would be detected too easily.” Zorath met her eyes, a predatory glint within his dark irises. “Besides, you are no longer just *Luthea*. You are the weapon they fear. And I,” he finished, a wolfish grin briefly baring his canines, “am the shadow that clears your path.” He didn’t question her intent, only confirmed it. He understood. They moved with the speed of a gathering storm. Through twisting, unlit tunnels that smelled of damp earth and raw power, Zorath led the way. His presence was a solid, reassuring anchor in the suffocating darkness, a stark contrast to the betrayal she’d known. Mazari, focused on the image of Grix, followed, her every step fueled by a simmering rage. Her palms prickled with volatile venom, a warped inversion of the restoration she was still struggling to master. They breached the surface through a concealed exit, emerging into the biting night air of Ophalos. The Moon-Shards, the jagged mountain range that formed the perimeter of Vexxar, loomed overhead, their peaks catching the ghostly luminescence of the twin moons. Below, nestled in a hidden valley, a cluster of hastily erected tents glowed with the orange flicker of campfires. The Sun-Peak forward camp. Dozens of guards milled about, their heavy armor reflecting the light, their postures radiating a false sense of security. “Hold,” Zorath commanded, catching her elbow. He pointed to a command pavilion, distinguished by a banner bearing the faded crest of Galdos’s house. “Grix will be there. Nira too. They want to bait you.” “Then I’ll be the bait,” Mazari snarled, already moving, her caution eclipsed by her protective instincts. She saw a flicker of amusement in Zorath’s eyes, a knowing approval. He released her, falling into a silent stride beside her. They tore forward without hesitation. Zorath moved like liquid shadow, *Shadowfang* a blur of obsidian, silencing sentries before they could even draw breath. Mazari, however, was a different kind of storm. As a sentry in scale mail lunged at her, his broadsword arcing for her neck, a flash of emerald light spat from her palm. But it lacked the gentle warmth of mending. It was sharp, venomous, and targeted. The guard’s blade, mid-swing, suddenly groaned. Streaks of crimson-orange rust exploded across its polished surface, pitting the steel, flaking away in showers of metallic dust. His armor, once form-fitting, seemed to *tighten*, seams groaning, plates compressing, squeezing his limbs with an audible *creak*. He shrieked, dropping the useless, disintegrating sword as his armor constricted around him like a vengeful iron maiden. Another guard, hearing the commotion, charged with a spiked mace raised. Mazari merely thrust her hand forward, a green discharge lashing across the air. The weapon instantly shrank. Its spikes receded, the head shriveling into a dense ball no bigger than an acorn. The sentry gaped at his fingers, suddenly dwarfing the shriveled haft. He looked utterly bewildered, and then stumbled as his own armor began to cinch, squeezing him into a comically contorted posture. “What in the name of the Moon-Shards was that?” Zorath’s voice was laced with genuine surprise, a hint of something akin to delight. He dispatched a pair of archers with swift, silent slashes, leaving them crumpled in the dust. “I don’t know!” Mazari gasped, a thrill running through her. It felt… right. So incredibly, satisfyingly right. Her restorative gift, twisted by sheer fury, had inverted into pure blight. It wasn’t about mending; it was about *unmaking*, about reversing the very essence of creation, and it brought a fierce joy that banished the lingering dread of Grix’s capture. “It’s… the opposite. It’s like *un-healing*.” They continued their two-person assault, a brutal dance of shadow and emerald fury. Zorath moved with lethal grace, a dark tide sweeping through the camp. Mazari followed, her new, destructive power leaving a trail of comically incapacitated enemies: swords reduced to crumbling dust, shields warped into useless lumps, armor shrinking until guards resembled sausages squeezed into too-tight casings. One particularly unfortunate warrior found his helmet shrink-wrapped to his head, leaving him blindly flailing. They reached the main tent, combat noises thinning behind them as the remaining guards scrambled to comprehend the bizarre onslaught. Zorath sliced open the tent flap, revealing a scene that brought Mazari’s rampage to a screeching halt. Grix lay on a pile of furs, bruised and dirty, but *awake*. His eyes, though swollen, held a familiar glint of cynical determination. In his hands, clutched like a sacred relic, was his leather-bound ledger. Next to him, a crude wooden table was littered with scraps of parchment and a half-eaten loaf of bread. “Grix!” Mazari rushed forward, her destructive energy momentarily forgotten. She knelt beside him, hands hovering, ready to channel pure restoration. “Don’t you dare heal me, Lady Luthea,” Grix rasped, a weak but stubborn frown on his face. “I’m almost done. The mole. I found him.” He held up a crumpled piece of parchment, already stained with blood, pointing to a name scrawled at the bottom. “*Rhysandir*. The Quartermaster of the Outer Reaches. He runs the supply lines.” Zorath knelt on the other side of Grix, his expression grim as he read the name. “A high-ranking target. Well done, Grix.” He clasped the servant's collar, a rare gesture of respect. Before Mazari could even begin to ask how Grix had deduced the mole’s identity, or offer to mend his cracked ribs, the very fabric of reality shuddered. A sickening *crack* ripped through the air, followed by the splintering groan of wood. The ceiling of the tent above them exploded inwards, showering them with debris. A massive figure, wreathed in a swirling, sickly green aura, crashed down into the center of the tent, sending shockwaves through the ground. Galdos. But not the deflating, squeaking Galdos Mazari had last seen. This Galdos was grotesquely inflated, his frame absurdly wide, swollen muscles straining against his tunic while veins pulsed black. His aura, once a pitiful echo, now roared, a virulent, unnatural green, crackling with raw, unstable power. It pulsed around him, an aggressive, rancid haze of stolen power. His eyes, fixed on Mazari, were not the dull, bewildered gaze of a broken Alpha, but gleamed with a chilling, possessive hunger. He was terrifying, a mockery of true strength, and in his outstretched hand, humming with the same sickly green light, was the Aura Siphon. He pressed the glowing artifact against Grix’s temple, its unnatural light reflecting in the servant’s wide, suddenly fearful eyes. “The healer,” Galdos’s voice boomed, deep and resonant, utterly devoid of his previous squeak. “Surrender your magic, or the rogue dies.”

The Hot-Tempered Healer