Trinity of Magic

Every nerve in Zeke's body was sharpened to an edge, his muscles coiled like a tightly wound spring. A chilling calm settled over him, laced with eager anticipation—a sensation that only came in the moments before an inevitable fight.

It was exhilarating!

Yet, he remained unmoving, watching the two scholars with the sharp focus of a hawk. Balin and Thoren widened their eyes, clearly not expecting him to meet their show of force with such unwavering defiance. They had likely assumed intimidation alone would make him back down.

Too bad for them.

With the Draconic Heart pounding in his chest, retreat was almost unthinkable. Only a battle with near-impossible odds of victory might have given him pause—if even that. It was a sobering realization, but Zeke didn't linger on it. For someone who had never particularly reveled in violence, his newfound eagerness for battle felt, in this moment, like an advantage rather than a concern.

As expected, the two scholars exchanged a glance. With the situation escalating, coordination between them had become even more crucial. However, what had been an advantage during negotiations had now turned into a weakness—Zeke had been waiting for precisely that fleeting moment of distraction.

In the instant their gazes left him, Zeke vanished from his spot, reappearing before Balin in the same breath. His hand shot forward, aiming for the artifact in the dwarf's grasp.

The moment his fingers brushed against the slick metal surface of the cube, he yanked back with all his strength. But the instincts of a Grandmage were not to be underestimated. Though Balin hadn't been able to track Zeke's movement, his grip tightened reflexively the moment he sensed something amiss.

Not good.

Zeke couldn't afford to be locked in place—not while facing two powerful opponents. Mobility was his greatest advantage. Yet, despite his efforts, the dwarf's grip was unyielding.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise. There was an old saying in the Empire: An Earth Mage with his feet on the ground is like a mountain. While a touch dramatic, there was truth to it. Earth Mages were among the toughest defenders, their physical strength unmatched among most spellcasters.

And Balin, a cousin to the king, was no exception. If anything, his dwarven heritage only reinforced his natural resilience, making him an even more formidable opponent.

At least, that would have been true against anyone else.

Zeke's muscles bulged beyond their limits as his pupils narrowed into slits. In that instant, Balin's grip felt no stronger than a child's. With effortless force, Zeke ripped the cube from his grasp, the violent motion scraping the dwarf's hands raw.

In his accelerated perception, he caught the grimace of pain forming on Balin's face—but only for a fraction of a second. His follow-up strike sent the old man flying across the room before the pain could even fully register.

The entire exchange had taken place in the blink of an eye—far too fast for either dwarf to unleash even a single spell. However, now the brief window of advantage from his surprise attack had closed. A dense barrage of projectiles surged toward him from behind—Thoren's response was swift and relentless.

The dwarf had conjured a flurry of razor-sharp metal arrows from pure Mana, an impressive feat given the short time he had to react. However, the rapid assault came at a cost—sacrificing power for speed.

Even so, taking those projectiles head-on would leave him seriously wounded. Fortunately, though physically outnumbered, he wasn't fighting alone either. While he had been focused on retrieving the artifact, Akasha had seamlessly stepped into the role of defender.

Four spear-like appendages burst from his back, two on either side of his spine. At first glance, they seemed rigid, but the moment they struck, they shifted—whips of crimson energy lashing out to intercept the incoming projectiles. This variation of his [Blood Whips] had quickly become Akasha's favorite, and Zeke had to admit, it suited her perfectly.

The sheer mental strain of controlling four independent limbs would have been overwhelming for most, but Akasha wielded them with ease. At times, they took on the sharp, segmented precision of a spider's legs, stabbing and skewering with lethal intent. In the next instant, they flowed like the sinuous coils of a serpent, striking with eerie, fluid grace.

It was an incredibly demanding weapon to master, yet the Spirit wielded it flawlessly, forming an impenetrable defense at his back.

The greatest advantage of fighting alongside Akasha, however, was how seamlessly their actions synchronized. At times, Zeke felt as if the additional limbs sprouting from his back were truly his own—moving exactly as he willed, without the need for thought or command.

This was the power of their bond. By granting the Spirit unrestricted access to his mind, their cooperation transcended mere teamwork; it became instinctual. They didn't fight as two separate entities but as a single being with two minds, anticipating the other's every move.

The result was as such.

Not a single shard of metal touched his skin. Every projectile was either slapped from the air or sliced to shreds before it could make contact. But that wasn't enough to bring down a Grandmage. While Zeke had easily dealt with Thoren's first spell—rushed and desperate in an attempt to protect his colleague—the dwarf's follow-up was far more calculated.

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Metal, like stone, was omnipresent in the dwarven city. Lanterns, screws, nails, and ornaments—all crafted from metal—now seemed to conspire against him. To Zeke, it felt as though the very room had turned into an enemy. Screeching and slicing through the air, the metal objects—once harmless—had transformed into sharp, jagged spears, hurtling toward him from every direction. Even with his heightened perception, there was no way to dodge. The encircling barrage left no openings, no escape.

Zeke focused on the area next to his second target and reached for the familiar tear in reality. With a thought, he sought to slip through the cracks of space, as he had done countless times before. But this time, to his utter bewilderment and growing alarm, the usually pliable fabric of the world resisted his pull. The spatial tear refused to open, locking him in place.

This… had never happened before.

Before the shock of the situation could fully register on his face, Zeke was jolted by the searing pain of metal slicing his shoulder. The sudden jolt yanked him back into reality, and he realized the extent of the crisis. Though Akasha did her best to shield him, the relentless barrage of projectiles was overwhelming, even for her.

Zeke fought to assist her, evading as many of the incoming strikes as he could. But it was futile. Even when he slipped past one attack, the stakes and blades twisted midair, adjusting their trajectory to follow him. They pursued him like a swarm of angry bees, relentlessly honing in on their target.

Soon, Zeke's body was covered in bloody lacerations, each strike leaving its mark. It felt as if not a single part of him remained unscathed, his body painted red from head to toe. Even Akasha's tendrils, once fierce and controlled, seemed to have lost some of their strength as they struggled to even protect his vital areas. Her movements, once fluid and precise, now seemed sluggish, overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught.

After nearly cutting him to ribbons, Thoren's assault finally began to slow. His face—pale and exhausted—was lit with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed victory was assured.

Freed from the constant barrage, Zeke collapsed to his knees. A massive pool of blood gathered beneath him, its size enough to kill an ordinary man twice over. Yet Zeke remained conscious, though it was unclear for how much longer. The pool continued to grow as his life essence steadily slipped from his grasp.

"Arrogant whelp," Thoren spat, his tone thick with scorn. "Ye've got the stones to challenge Thoren Ironhide, yet yer skill ain't worth a rusty nail."

Zeke gasped for breath, each inhalation a struggle. His voice came out as little more than a rasp, barely audible. "How?" he croaked, the question more a whisper than anything else.

It wasn't Thoren who responded, but a pained voice from farther away. "Ye thought that wee love tap could put me down, did ye?"

The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the room, each one heavy against the stone floor. Zeke glanced up just in time to see Balin looming over him, his broad figure casting a long shadow across his kneeling form.

The old dwarf had clearly seen better days. A gash ran along the back of his head, likely from the impact with the wall, and his sternum appeared shattered, the deep bruising and swelling evidence of the brutal blow he'd taken. Yet despite the visible injuries, the man was still standing—still very much in fighting shape.

Zeke's gaze fell to the man's hands, and there, he found the answer to his question. Clutched tightly between the dwarf's fingers was an elegantly carved crystal, its surface etched with an intricate web of enchanted nodes. The power of Space practically oozed from the artifact, radiating with an energy that Zeke immediately recognized. He didn't need to be told—this was the tool that had solidified space and rendered his teleportation useless.

But the artifact had clearly borne the strain of its use. A series of fine cracks marred its outer shell, each one telling the story of its limits. This was a tool on the brink of failure. It wouldn't be able to hold off a determined Space Mage forever. But that, Zeke thought grimly, was of little comfort in the here and now.

A heavy boot slammed into Zeke's midsection, forcing the breath from his lungs and sending him crashing to the ground. The pain was immediate and sharp, but Zeke paid more attention to the warmth of his own blood, spreading out across his back and pooling beneath him. The crimson stain quickly began to spread, covering most of the hall. It was an absurd amount.

Despite the alarming sight, the two dwarves had eyes only for the object clutched tightly in Zeke's hand. The punishment his body had endured hadn't been enough to make him relinquish the World Anchor. Even now, lying on his back with a boot pressing down on his chest, he refused to let go.

"Got some fire in ye, lad," Balin grunted, his tone low and mocking. "But spirit alone won't save ye. Tell ye what," he went on, the offer coldly insincere, "Ye drop that nonsense 'bout the cube an' forget everythin' ye heard today… an' I just might let ye walk outta here with yer head still on yer shoulders."

Zeke let out a snort, a burst of blood flying from his mouth with the motion. "Do you even dare kill me, scholar?" he rasped, his voice edged with defiance. "I am no common scoundrel. I arrived at these halls with the invitation of the Ironhide family, after rendering them great service. Dozens of the guards witnessed this."

Balin's lips curled in a brief grimace, but his face quickly hardened, his resolve firming. "Ye talk sense, lad. But ye've sorely underestimated the worth o' the World Anchor." His gaze shifted to the cube in Zeke's grasp, a hunger, and fervor flickering in his eyes. "If ye had the faintest clue what kind o' treasure ye be holdin'… Hah! In the right hands, lad, it could be used for far greater things than ye can even fathom."

Zeke's eyes narrowed, a fierce determination rising within him. "All the more reason not to hand it over."

Balin let out a long, drawn-out sigh, his voice heavy with resignation, as if he truly regretted what was about to happen. "Then ye leave me no damned choice!"

Zeke felt the stone beneath him shift. It was as if the dwarf was preparing to use the very floor itself to crush him. In a weakened, near-mortal state, there was no way to escape—especially with the ability to manipulate space sealed. The situation appeared grim. Or, it would have, if all was as it seemed.

"What…!?"

As they spoke, the pool of blood that had spread across the hall began to move, a subtle change at first, but quickly growing more pronounced. Only now did the dwarfs notice the unnaturalness of the situation—but by the time they recognized it, it was far too late.

Dozens of tendrils, slick and red, shot up from the blood-soaked floor. The firsts to strike wrapped tightly around both of their ankles, yanking them off balance. Before they could react, the tendrils surged upwards, forcing them to their knees, and then flattened them against the stone.

Caught completely off guard, both dwarfs found themselves helpless in a matter of seconds. Their limbs were completely restrained, and tight coils of blood wrapped around their necks, cutting off their airways. There was nothing they could do. The attack had come too swiftly, the force overwhelming, and the execution as ruthless as it was sudden.

Amidst the chaos of the scene, a bloodied figure stood calmly, watching with cold detachment as the restrained dwarfs struggled for breath. The contrast between the brutality of the moment and the figure's unhurried stance only added to the eerie tension that hung in the air.