Elara sat by the campfire, fingers tracing the smooth curve of her bow. The flames cast flickering shadows across the mismatched tents surrounding her. Some bore the empire's golden eagle, others the church's silver wings.
"Another night wasted," she muttered.
A low snore rumbled from the largest tent. Captain Varro, no doubt.
Closer to the fire, Thorne shifted in his sleep, holy symbols clinking softly. The cleric muttered something about "sacred duty" and "cleansing evil."
Elara rolled her eyes. Humans.
Her gaze drifted to the sprawling forest beyond their camp. She pressed her hand to the soil, reaching out with her elven connection to nature. But where Elara expected to feel the slow, steady pulse of life, there was only a dull, uniform thrum of… something eldritch. She felt no life from the forest. It was dead, but standing.
A chill ran down her spine, quickly replaced by a surge of anger.
"I'll find what killed you, Laera," she spat. "And it'll pay in blood."
She poked at the fire with a stick, watching the embers rise into the night sky. How long would it take to find—
BOOM!
The ground buckled, and the earth heaved. A sound like the world splitting open drowned everything else.
Tents collapsed, supplies scattered, and screams pierced the night.
Elara sprung to her feet, an arrow nocked and ready. Varro burst from his tent, sword glinting. Thorne stumbled out, hands glowing with holy mana.
Then, it struck.
A wave of mana—powerful, suffocating mana—slammed into the camp. Elara's vision swam. Her legs trembled. She fought to stay upright as the mana crushed down, an invisible, unstoppable force.
"What's happening?" Someone shrieked.
No answer came. Only the deafening rumble of earth and magic.
And finally, stillness.
Upstream, where a forested cliff once was, Elara saw only a flat expanse of scorched earth. Trees, rocks, everything—gone.
"By all that is holy…" Thorne's face drained of color. "What is that?"
It was magic. Dangerous, impossibly potent magic.
Elara's keen eyes scanned the perimeter. There, in the river below—she saw a figure, being swept downstream by the current.
Her gut twisted. Whoever that was, they were connected to... whatever that was. She knew it, felt it in her bones.
"There's someone in the river." Elara called out to Varro. "I'm going after them."
"Huh? Wait—"
She was already moving, ignoring Varro's protests.
"Damn it, elf!" Varro growled behind her. "Thorne—with me!"
The riverbank sloped sharply. Elara's feet slid on loose pebbles as she raced downward. The roar of rapid-flowing water grew louder and louder with each step, drowning out all else. She reached the river bank, her boots sinking into the mud.
Now, where was her target?
There—a flash of movement amidst the churning rapids. A dark shape bobbed in and out of view. Elara didn't hesitate. She dove in.
The frigid current slammed into her, pulling at her limbs. It threatened to drag her under, to dash her against hidden rocks. But Elara expected as much, she drew a sheen of mana onto her skin, angled her body, and used the current to propel her towards her target.
It was a man, unconscious or dead, she couldn't tell which. His dark hair was matted to his face, and gashes—small and large—covered what skin she could see.
Elara reached out, and her fingers brushed his tunic.
Missed. She kicked harder, lungs burning.
"Come on," she hissed to herself.
Yes! She snagged his collar, pulling him close. Now for the hard part.
Fighting against the river, Elara inched towards the shore. Her muscles screamed. The weight of the man dragged her down, and the pull of the river was much, much stronger than expected. But she pushed through, kicking with all her might.
Finally, blessedly, her feet touched the riverbed.
Elara dragged the man onto the muddy bank. She collapsed beside him, chest heaving as she gulped in air.
Footsteps.
Varro and Thorne had caught up. Elara forced herself up, checking the man for signs of life.
A faint pulse. Shallow breathing. He was alive... barely.
"Is he alive?" Thorne kneeled beside the stranger, hands already glowing with healing magic.
"Barely, but yes."
Elara studied their new guest as Thorne did his magic. A young man, likely in his early twenties. His face was pale, lips tinged blue from the frigid water. His clothes, while soaked and torn, were clearly of good quality—too fine for commoners, but too plain for nobility.
Elara's brow furrowed. Something felt... off. A tingling sensation crept along her skin, the sheen of mana she summoned on her skin earlier dissipated? How?
She glanced at Thorne, noticing beads of sweat forming on his brow despite the cold.
"Thorne, wait—"
The cleric's hands flickered, his healing spell sputtering out. He stumbled back, gasping.
"What—" Thorne's eyes widened. "My mana, it's..."
Elara felt it too. It was a pull, gentle but insistent. Like water swirling down a drain. And it all led to...
"He's drawing in mana. Ours, the ambient energy, everything."
Varro cursed, reaching for his sword. "Is he dangerous? Should we—"
"No, look!"
Elara's hand shot out, gesturing towards the man. His wounds were closing rapidly. Gashes knitted themselves shut. Color returned to his skin. His chest rose and fell more steadily now, but he still remained unconscious.
"He's healing himself. Unconsciously."
Varro frowned. "I've never seen anything like it."
"Nor have I," Thorne whispered, rubbing his temples. "How is he doing this? It shouldn't be possible."
The stranger's breathing steadied fully. His face relaxed, no longer twisted in pain. Yet he didn't wake.
Varro sighed. "We need to get him back to camp. Can you walk, elf?"
Elara nodded. She rose unsteadily, legs aching from the swim.
"I've got him," Varro grunted, tossing the unconscious man over his shoulder. "Thorne, help her if she needs it."
They made their way back to camp.
Back at the camp, curious faces peeked out of tents. There was a flurry of whispering amongst the group.
"Who is he? What happened out there? Is he dangerous?"
"Silence!" Varro barked, silencing the chatter. "Clear a space. And someone fetch us dry clothes."
They laid the stranger on a bedroll near the fire. Elara knelt beside him, studying his face. Young, but weathered. A scar ran along his jawline. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead.
Who was he? Was he involved in that magic? Was rescuing him a bad idea?
There was so much to ask, but that would have to wait.
"You'd better wake up soon," she murmured. "I have a lot of questions for you."
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