26. 25 #2
A sharp caw sliced through the night like warning bells.
Mabel’s head snapped up, every nerve flaring. Inside the cabin, chaos bloomed—crashing wood, scrambling boots, the shrill cry of a raven in defense.
“You filthy beast!” Lance’s voice, rough, rising in fury.
She ran.
Her heels struck the porch hard, the door rattling as she flung it open and stormed back inside. The fire still flickered low—but now it danced wildly in response to motion.
Whisper was a storm of feathers and fury, diving at Lance’s head, talons raking the air with sharp precision. Lance had his arm up, shielding his face, but what chilled her more was the dagger in his other hand—drawn, glinting, raised.
He wasn’t defending. He’d been advancing.
“Whisper!” she cried out.
The raven wheeled once, skimming low across the cabin before landing on the rafters above her, wings half-fanned in defiance. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, feathers bristled and fierce.
Lance turned, eyes wild, the blade still tight in his grasp. “He came at me,” he spat. “Clawed my face like he’d lost his mind!”
She took in everything. The way the flame cast too-sharp light on his figure—the flicker in his eyes as if the light passed through them, the way his shadow lagged half a second behind his movements.
She stepped inside fully, shoulders squaring. “Why do you have a dagger?”
He hesitated. And in that breath, Mabel knew.
Lance didn’t answer. He just moved.
No flicker of warning, no pause for breath—he lunged, dagger gleaming in the firelight as his face twisted, all tenderness vanished in an instant.
Mabel reacted on instinct.
Her palm snapped outward. Heat surged up her arm like lightning through bone.
Flames erupted.
Not a wild blaze—but a barrier, hot and sharp, rising between them in a wall of searing blue and gold. The fire didn’t burn the air—it cut through it, alive, coiled, and controlled.
The illusion reeled back, face lit grotesquely in the fire’s glow. For a blink, his features warped—too smooth, then too sharp. Not Lance. Not even close.
“Stay back!” Mabel shouted, every nerve alive, her other hand rising now, energy building fast and ready.
But the illusion only hissed, voice distorted, crawling with a magic not its own. “He knew you’d run.”
Whisper shrieked from above, launching into a fresh dive.
Mabel stood her ground, flames circling her palms.
The illusion lunged again, faster this time—less human, more a collection of rage and command wrapped in familiar skin. The dagger arced toward her with terrifying precision, firelight glinting from the steel.
Mabel threw up both hands. Flame erupted, not clean this time, but ragged—born of fear. It blasted outward in a flash of blue and gold, driving the figure back several paces. The walls trembled with the force of it, dust shaking from the rafters, Whisper shrieking overhead as he circled.
But the illusion didn’t falter for long. It charged through the smoke, eyes gleaming wrong. Mabel backpedaled, casting another bout of flame toward the floor—forcing the creature to stumble, but not fall.
Her breathing was ragged now, arms aching.
The fire surged, wild and biting, but he was relentless.
He feinted to the side, and she barely turned in time, raising a wall of searing air that hissed against the dagger’s edge—too late.
The blade sliced across her ribs, deep, a searing flash of pain stealing her breath.
She staggered, blood hot against her skin, but the fire did not falter.
Too fast. Too strong. Her magic flared again, but it was slipping—threads fraying with every cast.
She thrust her palm forward as the other clutched at her side. Fire licked across his chest, and this time, it struck true—burning through the illusion for a single, splintered second.
His face twitched, not in pain, but like paper tearing. Her father’s magic was unraveling. But still, it pressed forward.
The cabin groaned around them, the heat mounting. And Mabel knew—she couldn’t hold him off for much longer.
He surged forward again, faster this time—more force than form, driven by something savage beneath his stolen face. The dagger flashed in the firelight, raised high as he closed the distance. It came down in a vicious arc, swift and brutal.
Mabel’s fingers trembled as the blade flared to life in her hand—a conjured weapon of magic and will, its edge still forming as it met his with a thunderous clang. Sparks scattered across the cabin floor as the illusion pressed in, merciless, relentless.
She gritted her teeth and held him at bay; their blades locked near her shoulder. The heat from the fire behind her licked at her back; the pressure of his advance pushed her to the edge of balance.
He growled—low, unnatural. His eyes flickered, warped, swimming with magic too old for the face it wore.
Mabel faltered. And in that breath, he broke through.
His blade knocked hers aside with brutal strength, sending her stumbling. Her heels scraped across the wooden floor as she fell with a loud thud. Pain shot through her side like fire igniting. Her hand clutched at her side, breath sharp as she felt the sodden fabric of her dress.
The illusion stalked through the rising flames, cloak charred, skin blistering and reforming, eyes fixed on her like a beast finally loose from the leash.
“Why won’t you stop?” she cried, her voice cracking over the roar of the flames.
He didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t meant to answer—he was only created to return her.
She backed away, throwing another jet of searing flame, then another—each one brighter, hotter. The walls of the cabin crackled around them, heat warping the wood.
But the thing in Lance’s skin kept coming.
And her strength was slipping.
He towered over her, shadows twisting across his face as that crooked, too-wide grin spread again. Before she could scramble away, his hands shot out—fingers clamping around her ankles.
Mabel screamed, panic ripping from her throat as he yanked her across the floorboards with unnatural strength. Her nails scraped uselessly against the wood as he dragged her toward the door, boots slamming into the frame.
In a breathless blur, she was thrown onto the porch. The cold struck her like a slap. Before she could rise, he was on her again—hands seizing her wrists, forcing her upright with a brutal jerk. The dagger caught moonlight as he raised it to her throat.
She’d burned through every drop of magic she had left—her limbs ached, her fingers twitched uselessly, the heat inside her reduced to ash and embers. The illusion’s grip on her wrists was crushing, dragging her across the porch, inch by inch, toward whatever fate had been carved for her.
Still, she fought. Weakly, desperately, Mabel twisted in his grasp, summoning the last flicker of warmth from deep within her chest. A spark—not fire, but fury. Enough to jolt her elbow free, enough to stagger him half a step.
But not enough to escape.
A voice cut through the trees. Cold. Commanding. “That’s enough.”
The illusion froze.
From the shadows beyond the treeline, the heavy clomp of hooves, the rumble of wheels. A dark carriage stood at the forest’s edge, drawn by two black steeds that barely stirred despite the tension spilling across the clearing.
And exiting it—her father.
Tall, still, his silhouette carved from winter itself.
His hands were folded calmly behind his back, but there was nothing casual about the way he stood, as if the forest itself bowed in deference to his presence.
“You’ve made quite the mess,” he said, voice smooth as frostbite. “But don’t fret, child. It ends now.”
The illusion still held her. Its grip pinned her arms behind her back, the dagger’s edge grazing her ribs as it held her upright on trembling legs. Every muscle in Mabel’s body screamed to resist, but all she could do was lift her head.
Mabel summoned the last dregs of her strength, fire flickering to life at her fingertips—shaky, sputtering, but still burning. Every breath was a battle, every heartbeat a reminder of the pain lancing through her side. She swayed but remained standing.
Cavric’s voice slithered through the air, full of venomous amusement. “Parlor tricks. Is that all you’ve got left? Look at you—you’re bleeding, broken. Even whole, you never stood a chance.” He stepped closer, sneering. “Stop pretending this ends any way but mine.”