The violet glow of the altar pulsed like a dying heart, casting long, distorted shadows of the four Sentinels closing in on Seraphina. Her breath came in shallow, burning hitches. Her vision was swimming, and the weight of her blood-soaked gown felt like it was dragging her into the earth.
I need to alert Alaric. I need to get a signal out, she thought desperately, her eyes darting toward her belt where a single mana-flare hung. But she couldn't reach it; every time she shifted her weight, a Sentinel lunged, forcing her to parry with a strength she no longer possessed.
She was at her limit. A blade whistled past her ear, shearing off a lock of hair. Another caught her forearm. She was seconds away from collapsing when a small, calm voice drifted through the sound of clashing steel.
"Why are they not dead yet? Is it that hard for you?"
Seraphina nearly stumbled in shock. From behind the mossy trunk of an ancient oak, a young boy stepped out. He looked no older than ten, wearing a simple tunic that seemed completely out of place in this forest of death. He was watching the life-and-death struggle with the detached curiosity of someone watching a slow insect.
"Where... where did you come from?" Seraphina gasped, ducking under a horizontal swing that would have taken her head off. "Get back! Run!"
The kid tilted his head, ignored her warning, and kicked a loose stone. "You should focus on the fight," he said plainly. "Your footwork is getting messy."
Seraphina hissed through her teeth, driving her sword into a Sentinel's shoulder. "I'm a little busy trying not to die, kid!"
The Sentinels ignored the boy, their programmed minds focused entirely on the Duchess. They moved in for the kill, three blades descending in a synchronized execution strike. Seraphina braced herself, raising her sword in a desperate, final guard.
"Do you need help?" the boy asked.
Before Seraphina could even form the word 'Yes,' a strange sensation washed over her. It wasn't the heavy, burning heat of the Church's light. It felt like being submerged in a cold, rushing mountain stream.
Suddenly, the crushing weight of her dress vanished. Her limbs felt as light as dandelion seeds. When she swung her sword to parry the three incoming blades, her arm moved with a blurring, unnatural speed.
CLANG!
The force of her parry didn't just stop the Sentinels; it sent all three of them stumbling back five paces. Seraphina looked at her hands. Her blade hummed with a faint, translucent green shimmer. Every time she moved, a small gust of air cleared the dirt from her path.
"Wind magic is amazing, isn't it?" the boy shouted, a mischievous grin finally breaking across his face.
Seraphina didn't question the miracle. She felt the wind pushing against her heels, propelling her forward. She lunged, and instead of a slow, heavy thrust, she became a streak of silver light. She cut through the Sentinels' armor as if it were parchment. The restrictive fabric of her gown now fluttered behind her like a battle-standard, no longer a hindrance but a part of the storm.
With the boy's magic augmenting her every move, the unskilled Lady began to dismantle the elite assassins with a grace she hadn't expected to achieve for years.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice carried by the wind as she prepared to strike the Altar.