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The mists of the Darkwoodz curled like ghostly fingers through the dense underbrush, clinging to moss-laden branches and the twisted roots that jutted from the forest floor like broken bones. The moon, a pale coin in a shroud of drifting clouds, cast long shadows across the clearing, bathing the forest in a bluish gloom that smelled of rotting leaves and old blood.
Two figures crouched low behind a veil of thorny ferns and gnarled bramble. One was an elf—slender, sharp-eyed, with wild, leaf-colored hair that spilled messily down his shoulders. The other, a hume, sat still as stone—his short white hair like bone against the dark, his eyes hidden behind a pair of round, smoke-tinted glasses. Both were silent now, their breaths shallow, but moments earlier a whisper had slipped into the dark.
"Do you think they know we're here?" the elf murmured, barely audible above the rustle of the mist.
The hume turned to him, voice sharp and low like the hiss of steel from a sheath. "Keep your mouth shut, Osirus. If you keep flapping your tongue, they'll be gnawing on it by the time dawn breaks."
This was Onyx, a monk by discipline and hunter by trade. A mace hung in his hand, its metal almost worn smooth from years of use, and slung across his back was a dragonsteel warhammer. Around his belt clinked a grim selection of glass vials—potions, elixirs, and ampoules of various healing tonics, liquid silver, and holy water.
Osirus, for his part, was far from helpless. Beneath his long brown duster, dozens of compartments hid the gleam of flintlocks, the weight of black-powder bombs, and cartridges filled with enchanted silver. A short, curved sword hugged his side like a loyal dog, eager to be drawn when noise was no longer an option.
Without warning, a faint rustle above.
A slight form dropped from the trees, landing in a crouch between them with barely a whisper of sound—Osira, a young elf with an archer’s grace and a troublemaker’s smile. Her bow was still in hand, strung with a black-threaded string of shadow silk.
“They’re coming,” she said softly, eyes fixed toward the treeline. “Two. Moving fast. They’ll be through the mist any moment.”
She elbowed the two men sharply, forcing herself into the cramped cover beside them.
“Make room, you oafs,” she hissed. “They’re not what they seem. Once, they were just ghoulish, mindless, half-rotted husks. But something’s changed. Now they glide like phantoms... and wear the shape of death like a cloak.”
Onyx raised an eyebrow, glancing toward her.
“So, we’re fighting two reapers, are we?” he muttered. “Charming.”
Osira grinned and mimicked the arc of a scythe through the air, smashing her fists into Osirus’s chest as she did. “Silver breaks their cursed veil. Strike true, then finish them—right through the skull. That’s the only way to stop them from rejuvenating.”
Rubbing his sternum, Osirus scowled. “You sure about this? I’m not dying over bad intel again. Last time you said ‘right’ you pointed left and nearly got us both skewered. Mother always said you couldn’t tell your left from your right.”
Osira’s ears twitched as she punched Osirus in the chest, and her voice dipped to a hiss. “Mother never said that!”
Their whisper-argument died abruptly as two figures materialized in the mist beyond the path—ghostly silhouettes gliding without sound, their movements more fluid than flesh. Tattered cloaks dragged across the forest floor, their scythes blackened and humming with malevolent energy, like rusted bells in a cursed church.
Without a word, Osira vanished back up into the trees, her body dissolving into the branches above.
Onyx reached for a thick vial at his side, its glass warm to the touch. With a fluid motion, he hurled it skyward. Before gravity could claim it, a sharp crack shattered the silence. A single gunshot from Osirus’s perch burst the vial midair. The mist ignited in radiant blue flame as holy water rained down over the path.
The wraiths screamed—a sound not meant for mortal ears. Their cloaks writhed like dying serpents as smoke erupted from their translucent forms. Ethereal skin blistered where the sacred droplets struck.
From the underbrush, Onyx stepped forth. The flames cast dancing shadows over his frame as he rested the warhammer on his shoulder with casual menace.
“Come then, cursed souls,” he called out. “I am Onyx, hammer of the gods. Let me return you to the hells you were born from.”
The creatures halted, briefly, their heads tilting in eerie synchronization. One drifted forward, its voice a hollow whisper that echoed like wind through a crypt.
“Foolish mortal. Do you think sanctified water will save you from what lurks beyond death?”
The second hissed in tandem, their voices overlapping.
“We are not merely dead—we are what death fears. And you are merely meat, wearing bravery like armor.”
The mist thickened behind them. Trees groaned as if the forest itself recoiled from their presence. Somewhere above, a low creaking signaled Osira drawing her bowstring, and behind the veil of foliage, Osirus silently loaded another blessed round into his flintlock.
The wraiths began to glide forward again—closer, slower—almost savoring the moment.
But Onyx didn’t wait.
He surged forward, his warhammer descending like a thunderclap.
Undeterred by the looming threat, Onyx surged forward from the treeline, his muscles coiling while he shuffled his weapon more like a javlin than a blunt melee weapon. With a roar, he hurled his warhammer—one fluid motion of divine strength and precise instinct. The sacred weapon whistled through the air, wreathed in faint silver sparks from its enchantments, before slamming squarely into the chest of the closest wraith.
The creature reeled backward, stunned—caught entirely off guard. The hammer didn’t simply pass through its form as it might have with any ordinary specter. No, it tore a hole straight through its cursed essence, ripping apart its spectral cohesion and leaving behind a gaping wound of unraveling blue shadow.
It collapsed to its knees as its cursed form peeled away like burned parchment, revealing a once-human corpse beneath the veil. The remains twitched and convulsed, mouth gurgling as blood bubbled up from its throat, choking off any last, coherent words. Its arms quivered weakly, still clinging to the rusted haft of a scythe. Then, it fell to the forest floor in a heap of ragged breath and blood.
Before the body could even twitch again, a small metallic sphere arced overhead, soaring from the bramble’s edge. It landed neatly within the open, twitching chest cavity—and exploded.
The crack of the detonation was sharp and thunderous.
A spray of silver shrapnel ripped through the corpse from within, sending rib fragments and mushy, pink-grey brain matter splattering against the trees. Splinters of spine and skull ejected from the gaping wound like bloody confetti, coating the second wraith in its comrade’s obliterated remains. The smell was thick and acrid—burned flesh, divine metal, and something sourer still: corruption evaporating into the mist.
The second wraith let out a piercing shriek—an echoing, soul-rending wail that cut through the forest and scattered birds from the canopy. Its ghostly shroud billowed violently, as if its very soul had flinched at the desecration of its kin. The corpse beside it spasmed once… and collapsed into violet smoke, leaving behind only a faintly pulsating crystal shard—a soul-stone, aglow with a cold, otherworldly hunger.
A glyph blazed beneath the surviving wraith's feet—an elegant, circular seal laced with twisting lines and ancient calligraphy, pulsating with golden radiance. Dozens—if not hundreds—of sacred symbols spun within the circle’s edge like a mechanical clock, spinning faster and faster until they blurred.
From the dense shadows of the thicket, a small figure stepped forward, luminous in the eerie gloom. Kitsune.
Her white cloak fluttered in the breeze of gathering power, her golden eyes glowing as if lit by starlight. A towering staff, nearly twice her height, hummed in her grip—its body carved from dark dragonwood, etched with silver runework and wrapped with paper talismans and religious charms.
Her chant filled the air—soft, melodic, and impossible to forget. Ethereal and divine magic entwined around her words, twisting skyward like a vortex of silver fire.
She raised her staff overhead and shouted, "Lux Divina!"
The sigil beneath the wraith detonated in a radiant pulse.
The creature shrieked again—louder now, a sound like metal twisting inside flesh—as light engulfed its body. The burning radiance incinerated it from within, unraveling its form one painful thread at a time. Its limbs disintegrated into ash, its face crumbling like parchment in a furnace. Even the soul crystal pulsed once, violently, and then dispersed into fine violet mist, devoured by the spell's power.
From the trees above, a voice cried out in dismay.
"Kitsune!" Osira tumbled gracefully from the canopy, landing beside her with a dramatic thump. “You incinerated the soul crystal! That was our bounty, you overgrown mutt!”
Still breathless from casting, Kitsune blinked up at her innocently as Osira gave her a playful swat on the head. “You have to be more careful with that kind of magic, you mischievous little Foxling!” She grabbed a tuft of Kitsune’s furred ear and ruffled it affectionately, trying in vain to ruffle her composure as well.
But Kitsune merely sighed dreamily, clearly delighted. “I’m sorry! I was just... excited to try the new spell Master Theo taught me!” Her ears twitched as she looked up apologetically. “It was my first real attempt at blending ethereal and divine magic in the field. I—I didn’t expect it to vaporize everything so thoroughly... I swear!”
Osirus emerged from the shadows behind them, his trench coat swaying with each measured step. He was holstering one of his flintlocks, the faint scent of burnt gunpowder clinging to him.
With a sardonic smirk, he said, “Well, darling Foxling, we’ll just deduct the bounty from your cut and reassign you to eat from the dung heap. Dragons and dire wolves need feeding, after all. Or maybe you could try asking for a bite from them.”
Kitsune gasped. “You wouldn’t!”
Osira burst into laughter. “You’d get eaten in a heartbeat. Nox doesn’t share, and the twins are worse!”
Just then, Onyx returned from the path, his warhammer now slung over one shoulder, the other hand cradling the unspent soul crystal from the first wraith.
“You’ll be wrestling with Nox, Ragnar, and Ragnus for scraps,” he said, deadpan. “And between you and me, the twins play dirty.”
Kitsune groaned. “You’re all so mean to me,” she whined, puffing out her cheeks. “You know I couldn’t fight off a dragon, let alone two dire wolves!”
“You could always try throwing another Lux Divina at them,” Osirus mused dryly. “Would certainly clear out dinner fast.”
Despite her predominantly hume appearance, Kitsune bore the undeniable hallmarks of her fox heritage. Tawny, fur-tufted ears crowned her head, twitching with every shift in the air. A bushy tail of silken brownish reds and lavender swayed gently behind her, expressive and animated. Small patches of downy fur marked the backs of her hands and feet, her toes tipped in claw-like nails that made footwear impractical—so she went barefoot, preferring the sensation of earth and stone beneath her soles.
Though deceptively petite and graceful, Kitsune’s abilities were vast. A prodigy of elemental, ethereal, and divine magicks, she stood as the party’s primary healer and alchemical specialist. Her grasp of surgical arts, anatomy, and potion-brewing rivaled that of royal court physicians, and she had long served as the party’s apothecary and battlefield medic. But her prowess extended far beyond salves and spells. Beneath her robes was a seasoned warrior who had bled and endured alongside her comrades, mastering the flow of battle both as a mage and a melee combatant.
The staff she wielded—a gift from Master Theo—was no ordinary relic. Crafted from mystic magicwood and dragonwood, it shimmered faintly in moonlight, humming with latent energy. Its most sacred feature was its malleability: at Kitsune’s whispered command, it could shift forms instantly. Into an axe, the shaft became the handle, while blades of glowing ethereal energy manifested at its head. As a bow, the drawstring appeared as a taut line of summoned light, and every draw conjured a pure magical arrow, crackling with unspent wrath. It was both conduit and weapon, a perfect extension of her will.
Osira, dusting herself off from the scuffle, flashed her a grin and said, “Fear not, Kitsune. Should you truly be exiled to the leftovers, I’ll share my portions. But please, a little more warning before obliterating the paycheck next time.”
Before Kitsune could respond, a spray of crimson erupted between them, warm and wet across their faces. The laughter died in their throats. Time seemed to freeze.
Osira’s pupils contracted into pinpricks.
Kitsune gasped, paralyzed in mid-breath.
From behind the shadows—a monstrous scythe blade erupted through Onyx’s chest with a sickening, wet squelch. The blow lifted him off the ground before hurling him backward like a broken marionette. Blood sprayed in an arc through the air, catching the moonlight in a crimson sheen. He hit the ground hard—limbs twitching, eyes wide and unfocused.
A purplish miasma began to pour from his wound, curling upward like smoke from a corpse-pyre. The pool of blood beneath him blackened unnaturally, the soil rejecting it as something wrong, something cursed.
"Foolish. Fucking. Creatures..."471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDSwaECglm9
The words slithered out of the gloom like barbed wire, the timbre low and resonant—layered, as if two voices spoke at once.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFVxP116f6x
"You dared strike down my kindred. You will pay... with your lives."
The miasma coalesced—writhing, pulsing, until a figure emerged: tall, draped in tatters that bled smoke, its flesh translucent and rippling with dark veins. At its side, it carried a monstrous scythe, the blade jagged like a butcher's tool, oozing ichor that hissed where it struck the ground.
A wraith—but not like the others.
This one commanded the darkness.
This one had a name.
Necroth.
With a guttural hiss, it surged forward. Osira and Osirus moved as one, launching upward into the trees. Leaves scattered like dying embers as they vanished into the canopy, branches snapping underfoot.
Necroth’s scythe came crashing down, cleaving through a tree trunk, the force sending shards of wood flying like razors. A wave of corruptive miasma spread outward with every strike, burning plants to ash, sickening the air.
Below, Kitsune dropped to her knees beside Onyx, panic choking her throat. His breathing was shallow—rattling like pebbles in a jar. Blood bubbled from the hole in his chest, every convulsion more violent than the last.
Her hands glowed instantly, already channeling divine power.
“Scutum Praesidium!” The words cut through the chaos like a war-drum.
A shimmering dome of divine energy encased them, a bubble of golden light that repelled the sickened air. Her staff glowed bright as the sun, veins of holy energy surging down its length and into her hands. She laid them across Onyx’s chest, the golden glow sinking into him like warm breath into frozen flesh. With each pulse of her magic, the miasma hissed and recoiled, only to surge again, tendrils trying to wrap around her arms.
Inside her mind, a whisper slithered.
"He’s mine now... Your light cannot reach where I dwell."
But Kitsune grit her teeth, eyes flaring with fire. “We’ll see about that, you shadow-born filth.”
And for a moment, the divine light around her flared so brilliantly it seemed the darkness itself winced.
“Hold on, Onyx,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t you dare die. Don’t you fucking dare…”
Outside the barrier, Necroth roared. Trees fell around him like brittle kindling. The earth split where he walked. The air grew heavier, the light dimmer, and the sky—though still obscured by trees—seemed to darken further.
Osira and Osirus darted from tree to tree, firing enchanted rounds, arrows, and launching improvised explosives. The shots shattered across Necroth’s armor-like form, barely wounding it, but slowing its path of destruction.
Osirus bellowed into the canopy, his voice trembling with fury and disbelief, "Vyncent said there’d be two not three! By the gods, how have we been so reckless?!" The chaos around him surged like a living storm, yet he moved with unerring precision—leaping, vaulting, twisting mid-air like a shadow given purpose. From within his coat, silver-laced bombs sailed in graceful arcs down onto the nightmare below, bursting in radiant blooms of light and force that tore at the wraith's shadow-wrapped body.
But instead of deterring it, the damage only seemed to feed the creature’s wrath. Necroth’s swings grew more erratic, more violent, its jagged scythe slicing entire trees in half as if they were made of parchment. Purple miasma bled from each wound and seeped into the forest floor like poison, killing everything it touched.
From above, Osira sprang forward from a bough—but the wraith was faster. Its scythe cut through the trunk mid-leap, and the tree she was destined to land on snapped like brittle bone. The canopy gave way beneath her feet, and she plummeted with a scream, flailing helplessly as death rushed up from below.
But just before she struck the ground, Osirus dived through the foliage, catching her midair with one arm. The other pulled free a gleaming chain whip from his coat. With a metallic snap, he lashed it to an overhead limb, using its taut resistance to swing them away from the collapsing ruin below.
As the momentum steadied and he landed them upon another tree limb, Osira's breath caught in her throat. For a moment, the world held still—just the rustle of leaves, the acrid sting of miasma in their lungs, and the beat of their hearts in tandem.
With a sheepish smile, she turned to him. "I owe you my thanks for braving such peril to rescue me. Never thought you'd risk life and limb for little ole me..."
Osirus gave a breathless laugh, guiding her along as they sprang again. "You honestly doubted I’d come to your rescue? Please. If I let harm befall my little sister, mother would turn me into a willow or some shit again!"
Below them, the wraith let out a snarl that curdled the wind itself, its presence now shaking the trees around them. With a sweeping motion, it hurled its scythe, spinning through the air with a whistle sharp enough to shear bone. It carved a corridor of devastation through the forest canopy—splitting trees apart in its path.
Osirus barely dodged, leaping to the side and catching a branch mid-fall—but Osira was not so fortunate.
The scythe’s shockwave struck the base of a great tree just beneath her. The trunk groaned, split, and then fell—crashing down upon her like a titan’s hand.
A scream split the sky.
Osira slammed into the forest floor, buried beneath a crushing cascade of branches and timber. Splintered wood tore through flesh and bone. Her legs bent at grotesque angles as the weight crushed them. Each crunch echoed, each nerve screamed, and her voice—raw and agonized—sang a dirge of pain and terror. Blood pooled around her, soaking into the moss and bark.
Above the chorus of her suffering came laughter—low, cruel, and echoing.
Necroth descended like a phantom executioner, trees wilting in its wake. With boney fingers like talons curled beneath the remnants of the tree trunks, it slowly tore away the barricade of wood to reveal the broken prize beneath.
"Filthy. Fucking. Creature," it hissed, each word vibrating with absolute hate.
But when the final log was flung aside, it found Osira still conscious. Barely. Bloodied. But not broken.
With her single working arm, she raised her wand—a splintered shaft of magicwood cracked at the hilt, glowing faintly with crimson energy. Her teeth gritted, tears streaking through blood and dirt, she spat:
"Annihilare!"
The world lit ablaze.
A detonation of pure red and golden light burst from the wand like a dying star. The explosion wasn’t just fire—it was destruction made manifest. A scream, both hers and the world’s, ripped through the air as the blast vaporized Necroth, annihilated the surrounding trees, and upturned the very earth in a crater of blazing fire and ethereal flame.
The forest fell silent.
Smoke choked the air. Cinders drifted like falling stars.
At the epicenter, Osira lay, limp and ruined, her cloak and tunic blasted away—her pale, bruised skin exposed, riddled with lacerations, burns, and broken limbs. Her legs were mangled beyond recognition, and shards of bone pierced through tattered flesh like pale spears jutting from clay.
Her body quivered as she fought the blackness pulling at her.
One arm remained lifted, trembling, reaching toward the void. Her lips moved, barely forming the words:
"Did I... vanquish it?"
The silence answered. Not with triumph, but stillness. Her arm fell limply beside her, the breath in her chest growing shallow, the pain dimming into numbness.
Above her, the crimson sky of early dawn began to bloom. But to her, it was fading to black.
From the only patch of treetops left untouched by the wand’s blast, Osirus came crashing down like an avalanche, landing in the charred crater with a grunt of disbelief. Smoke coiled in serpentine tendrils around him, the scent of scorched earth and blood clinging thick in the air.
“Holy shit! Osira, what in the hells were you thinking?” he barked, his voice cracking with a tremor that betrayed his fear. He didn’t wait for an answer—she was barely breathing, her skin pale and slick with sweat, her eyes rolled back into her skull. Her shattered limbs looked like snapped branches, her body grotesquely twisted beneath the ash and cinder.
Gently, but with frantic urgency, he scooped her up into his arms, feeling the sticky warmth of blood soaking into his gloves. Her wand, still gripped loosely in her one functioning hand, caught his eye. He snatched it before it could slip away and shoved it into his coat. Without a second thought, he vaulted into the canopy, branches groaning under his weight as he bounded from limb to limb.
“Please… don’t you dare die on me, Osira,” he whispered—then shouted, then screamed, his voice growing hoarse with desperation. Each leap was a reckless gamble, each landing an explosion of pain in his knees, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
Then, through the broken trees and rising smoke, he spotted her: Kitsune, kneeling beside the unconscious Onyx, her staff glowing with divine light. He dove down with all the grace of a meteor, landing hard beside her.
“Kitsune!” he gasped, placing Osira carefully onto the earth. He tore his trench coat from his back and covered his sister’s body, shielding her from the cool night air. “Help her. Gods, please help her.”
Kitsune turned, her ears twitching, her golden eyes wide with alarm. "I knew something dreadful had transpired when I saw that blast," she said breathlessly. She turned her attention back to Onyx, finishing the last lines of her healing incantation. The divine circle beneath him flickered once, then faded.
"Onyx should recover," she continued, already shifting to Osira. "I've broken the curse in his blood, healed the scythe wound as best I can. But his soul is fractured—he'll need time to mend. He won’t wake for a while."
Osira groaned, her breath rattling in her throat. Kitsune's expression hardened. "Now hold still, Osira... this is going to hurt."
Her staff illuminated again, a celestial light bathing the clearing. Beneath it, the ghastly sound of bones grinding, snapping, resetting filled the air—a gruesome orchestration of restoration. Wet, slurping cracks echoed through the trees as ligaments reknitted and muscles spasmed beneath torn skin.
Osirus turned away, bile rising in his throat. He could handle battle, could stomach wounds, even executions. But this slow, agonizing undoing of mangled death... it unnerved even him.
Then—a sudden gasp.
Osira's eyes fluttered open, wide and distant, her body twitching as nerves reawakened. Her mouth moved before sound came out.
“Hey guys…” Her voice was weak. Raw. “Did... did I vanquish the wraith?”
Osirus turned sharply, relief flashing across his face—and then fury.
“You not only vanquished that wretched bastard,” he snapped, his tone sharp and trembling, “you obliterated half the godsdamn forest and nearly got yourself killed.” He thrust the wand into her half-curled hand. “Put this away in my coat. And don’t you dare touch it again.”
Osira blinked, dazed. Her fingers tightened slightly around the wand, just enough to hold it, and Osirus draped the coat back over her.
Kitsune, now kneeling at her side, cast a worried glance at the wand’s jagged grip, blackened and pitted like a relic torn from a battlefield.
There it was—the infamous Wand of Annihilation.
Crafted by an ancient golem long since reduced to dust, the wand was an arcane aberration—a thing of destructive genius cursed by the clumsy hands of its own creator. The golem, a master spellwright yet a terrible smith, had imbued the wand with power drawn from primordial chaos: a raw, unrefined, barely tethered force of unmaking.
The first test of its power ended with the creator’s body vaporized in a blast so immense it collapsed the cavern around him. The wand was left behind in his tomb of rubble, sealed in a mountain choked by miasma and haunted by beasts spawned from its lingering madness.
Isaac had claimed it after delving into that cursed peak—a relic hunter desperate to burn the rot from the world. And upon returning, he gifted it to Osira, seeing the gap between her archery mastery and her melee skill. He didn’t give it with a smile—he gave it with warning.
"Last resort," he had said. "Only if there’s no other way. This wand has teeth—and they’ll chew on your soul, too."
The wand’s destructive ratio was infamous. Ninety-nine chances in a hundred it would hurt you just as badly—if not worse—than your target.
And yet Osira had drawn it without hesitation. Because, when death clawed toward her, she chose to pull the trigger.
Osirus looked down at his sister, the adrenaline now ebbing, replaced by dread and a thousand unspoken words. He wanted to scold her again. To curse. To shake her.
Instead, he just knelt beside her and held her trembling hand.
“I loathe that cursed object,” Osira muttered bitterly, her voice hoarse and ragged. Her fingers flexed weakly around the wand before she placed it in a pocket within Osirus’ coat. “It tries to kill me every time I wield it… but gods be damned, there’s no denying its effectiveness.”
She shifted her weight, attempting to move her legs or even sit upright. Nothing. Only her good arm responded, the rest of her body remained a heap of bruised and mending bone and sinew, her limbs limp and numb from trauma and overexertion.
Osirus scoffed as he re-tucked the wand deeper away, careful not to touch the warped shaft more than necessary. The thing radiated like a loaded trap, pulsing faintly with latent heat, as though resentful it hadn’t taken its wielder with it. “In truth,” he said dryly, “you’re quite fortunate. Miraculous, really. Given the number of times you’ve rolled the dice with that wand, I’m amazed you haven’t gone up in smoke. I’d have expected a crater where you stood and a vague whiff of burnt elf.”
Osira smirked despite herself, her expression weary and frayed. “A crater and a breeze of regrets, I’m sure.”
Kitsune, still kneeling beside her, had her eyes closed tightly in concentration. Sweat dotted her brow, her fingers trembling as divine light poured from her staff, weaving into Osira’s bones like ethereal thread. She had been channeling without pause, and the effort had clearly taken its toll. Her breathing had grown shallow and erratic, her lips moving in barely audible incantations.
“It appears…” Kitsune began, her voice barely above a whisper, “all critical injuries have been stabilized. But… the bones will take more time. The healing magic is still at work beneath the surface. You… you must remain still for at least a day. Two, if you want to avoid anything… snapping again.”
Her hands faltered, the glowing sigils around her staff dimming. She blinked hard once, trying to focus—but her golden eyes had glazed over. “I fear… I may have overdone it a bit…”
Then, without warning, her small frame slumped forward. She let out a soft exhale and collapsed face-first into Osira’s chest, her staff falling to the ground with a wooden clatter.
“Agh—shit!” Osira cried out as Kitsune’s head landed squarely on her bruised ribs, sending a fresh jolt of pain down her spine. “Right on the wound, Foxy... Right on the godsdamn wound…”
But within seconds, the sharpness dulled again. Her hand—her one still-working hand—rose and began to gently stroke Kitsune’s hair with quiet, affectionate circles.
“It’s alright,” she whispered. Her eyelids drooped again, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as the haze of exhaustion crept back in. “At least everything’s still in one piece. If only I had a more generous, cushionier bosom… you might’ve had a softer landing. You’ll have to fix these ribs again, Foxy.”
Her voice faded to a faint hum. And like that, she surrendered to unconsciousness once more, her breath rising and falling in rhythm with Kitsune’s, the two of them curled together in a tangled heap of scorched cloth, magic-scorched bodies, and fragile peace.
Osirus stood a few paces away, watching them with a look that hovered somewhere between fondness, disbelief, and total exasperation.
“Ain’t this fuckin’ great,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face and smearing it with sweat and dried blood. His voice dripped with sarcasm, but the tremor in his hand betrayed a little of the adrenaline still working its way out of his system. He looked over at Onyx, still unconscious in the grass, half-wrapped in dried blood and torn garments, and then down at the cuddled, unconscious mass of Kitsune and Osira.
“How in the hells,” he grumbled, “am I supposed to haul these unconscious degenerates back to camp?”
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