The ruins loomed beneath the moonlight, their jagged edges carving deep shadows that flickered and shifted with the glow of scattered torches. Pip clutched his slingshot tightly, his pulse hammering in his ears as he crept closer to the altar.
In the distance, Irelia's feigned cries rang out, her voice cutting through the night—a carefully crafted illusion of distress, meant to lure the cultists away. It was working. Pip could see them turning, their attention drawn toward the chaos she had unleashed.
This was his chance.
His small frame allowed him to move silently through the narrow spaces between fallen stones and crumbled walls. Every step felt like an eternity, his breath shallow as he neared the altar where his friends lay bound. Torchlight illuminated their faces, pale but alive, and Pip's heart clenched. "Just hold on," he whispered to himself. "I'll get you out."
Carefully, he unwrapped a sack from his pack and stuffed it with blankets to mimic the shape of a person. With painstaking effort, he swapped the sack for the first captive, dragging his friend into the shadows. His arms ached, and his legs trembled with each trip, but he forced himself to keep moving. The dim light and the cultists' focus on Irelia worked in his favor.
By the time he reached the last captive, sweat drenched his clothes, and his breath came in ragged gasps. As he bent to untie the final knot, a sharp voice rang out. "Hey! Who's there?"
Pip froze. A cultist ascended the steps, torch in hand, their eyes narrowing as they spotted him. Pip's heart leapt into his throat, and as he tried to move, his foot caught on a loose stone. He stumbled, grazing his knee on the rough ground. Pain shot through his leg, but he bit back a cry and hurried up. He scrambled for his slingshot. Without thinking, he loaded a small stone and fired, the projectile striking the cultist squarely on the shoulder. The figure staggered back, more startled than hurt, and shouted for reinforcements.
"Oh, no," Pip muttered, his hands fumbling for another stone. Two more cultists appeared from the shadows, their robes billowing as they advanced. Pip darted behind a crumbled pillar, his small frame making him a difficult target. A cultist rounded the corner, and with a surge of desperation, Pip swung a small rock-filled pouch from his belt. It struck the cultist on the temple with a sickening thud, sending them sprawling unconscious to the ground. He fired another shot, this one hitting a cultist's hand and knocking a staff to the ground.
"Get him!" one of the cultists snarled, raising a hand as arcane energy crackled at their fingertips.
A fiery bolt shot past Pip, missing him by mere inches before exploding against the stone wall behind him. Heat singed the edge of his cloak as he ducked, his heart pounding.
"I was supposed to be a merchant!" he hissed under his breath, darting behind a crumbling pillar as another spell whizzed past. "How in Elaris' name did I end up fighting a cult in some gods-forsaken ruins?!"
Panic surged, but his instincts screamed louder. Keep moving. Stay low. Don't get hit.
A sudden force struck him from behind, sending Pip sprawling onto the cold stone. Pain flared through his side as he gasped, scrambling to push himself up. A shadow loomed over him—a cultist, their staff crackling with ominous energy.
Pip's hand flew to his belt, fingers closing around the smooth surface of the runestone Irelia had given him. No time to think. No hesitation. He pressed it.
A brilliant flash lit up the ruins, momentarily blinding his attacker. When the light faded, Irelia stood between them, her daggers gleaming in the moonlight. Her sharp eyes assessed the situation in an instant.
"Stay down, Pip!" she barked, already moving.
She lunged at the cultist before they could recover, her blade slicing clean through their casting hand. The spell fizzled out with a sharp hiss, their cry of pain cut short as she struck again—fast, efficient, lethal.
The remaining cultists hesitated, their confidence wavering as Irelia advanced. Her movements were fluid and precise, though a fraction slower than usual—each strike measured, every motion conserving energy. A flick of her wrist sent a weapon clattering to the ground, her other blade slipping effortlessly past a cultist's feeble defenses.
"You're late," Pip groaned, dragging himself upright.
"You're reckless," Irelia shot back, her voice edged with exhaustion, though not without concern. She drove her boot into a fallen cultist's side, ensuring they stayed down, before turning to Pip. Crouching beside him, she scanned his injuries with a sharp, assessing gaze.
"You should've used the runestone earlier."
Pip shifted uncomfortably, his fingers brushing the dirt. "I wanted to handle it myself."
Irelia exhaled, her expression softening just a fraction. "Next time, don't wait until you're about to die." She met his gaze, her tone firm but not unkind. "You're the one who wants to be a team. Act like it."
Before Pip could respond, a low, guttural growl rippled through the ruins, sending a chill down his spine.
Irelia's head snapped up, her grip tightening around her daggers. From the darkness, three hulking forms emerged, their molten eyes burning like embers in the night.
The hellhounds were back.
Their claws scraped against the ancient stone, leaving scorched trails in their wake as they prowled forward, fire licking at their maws. The air thickened with heat, the scent of sulfur sharp and suffocating.
Irelia shifted her stance, muscles coiling like a drawn bow.
"Pip," Irelia said, her voice steady but urgent, "get your friend out of here. Now."
"What about you?" Pip's voice trembled as he stared at the smoldering beasts.
Irelia glanced over her shoulder, a grim smile on her lips. "I'll handle them. Go."
Pip hesitated for a moment before nodding, his face set with determination. He turned and ran toward his remaining friend, leaving Irelia to face the hellhounds alone.
The cultists did not remain silent. Their voices surged in frantic incantations, panic fueling their spellwork as they hurled magic toward Irelia.
Fireballs and crackling bolts of energy streaked through the air, forcing her to weave between the crumbling ruins, using the jagged stone for cover. A searing blast grazed her shoulder, burning through her leather armor and sending a sharp jolt of pain through her body.
Gritting her teeth, she retaliated. With a flick of her wrist, she activated a teleportation rune, vanishing in a flash of blue light and reappearing behind a boulder.
From her new vantage point, she hurled an ice shard at the nearest cultist, the spell hitting them squarely and freezing them in place. But the cultists were relentless, fanning out and trying to corner her.
Then came the hellhounds. The beasts lunged as one, their snarls reverberating through the ruins and adding another layer of chaos. Irelia dodged the first, her teleportation rune flaring and whisking her to safety. She retaliated with a blast of ice magic, the shards striking the lead hellhound and slowing its advance. But the other two flanked her, forcing her to retreat toward the altar.
Her mind raced as she fought, every strike and dodge pulling at her already depleted reserves. Mana burned low, and fatigue crept into her limbs like a slow-moving poison.
Then she saw it—the runes on the altar. Faint, but unmistakable.
She parried another attack, her thoughts whirling as the pieces locked into place.
The hellhounds were bound to the ruins, their presence tethered to the ancient inscriptions. They weren't simply summoned—they were controlled. The cultists had altered the bond, twisting the guardians into their weapons.
But if she could break that control…
A grim smirk tugged at her lips.
"Let's see if this works," she muttered under her breath, reaching into her pouch and pulling out several runestones.
She set them in a circle, their magic pulsing as she channeled her energy into them. The air around her crackled, the pressure building, the faint hum of the runes rising in pitch.
She was preparing an anti-magic shockwave.
One chance.
The hellhounds lunged, molten breath searing the air as they closed the final distance.
At the last moment, Irelia slammed her hand onto the runestones.
A blinding pulse of energy erupted outward, the shockwave disrupting every trace of magic within its radius.
The effect was immediate.
The hellhounds staggered mid-charge, their snarls twisting into confused growls as the unnatural bond shackling them to the cultists shattered. Their burning eyes flickered—then reignited, but this time with unrestrained fury.
The cultists froze, their triumphant chants choking into silence.
And then, chaos.
The beasts turned on their former masters, a vengeance long suppressed now unleashed in fire and blood. The first cultist barely had time to scream before a set of jaws clamped down, silencing them in a spray of crimson.
Panic tore through the remaining ranks. Some fled, tripping over their own robes as they scrambled over the jagged stones. Others desperately attempted to cast defensive spells, their voices rising in frantic incantations—too slow, too late.
The hellhounds tore through them like a storm of fire and shadow, claws raking, fangs ripping. Their roars mingled with the dying shrieks of the cultists, the once-reverent ruins now a battlefield of slaughter.
Irelia braced herself against a broken column, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her vision blurred at the edges, the last remnants of the potion's effects fading, leaving her limbs leaden and her thoughts sluggish.
Mana depletion is no joke.
Her dagger slipped slightly in her trembling grip as she forced herself upright. Sweat dripped down her brow, mixing with the dirt and blood streaking her face. Every step felt like wading through thick water, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her.
The battle was won. The cultists lay in ruins.
But there was no relief.
The hellhounds turned, their fiery eyes locking onto her once more. Their bond to the cult was severed, but their original purpose—their duty as guardians—remained.
And she was still an intruder.
"Not done yet," Irelia muttered, her voice rough and frayed.
Her fingers curled around the hilt of her second dagger, the weapon feeling heavier than ever in her grip. Every breath was a shallow gasp, her body screaming for rest, but she forced herself to stay upright.
Running isn't an option.
Sure, she could escape—her teleportation runes covered most of the Bastion Peaks. She could vanish in an instant, leave this battle behind.
But leaving Pip and his friends to the hellhounds' mercy?
Unthinkable.
She had to win. There was no other choice.
The first hellhound lunged, molten claws slashing through the air where she had stood just moments before. Irelia barely managed to sidestep, but the movement sent a sharp jolt of pain through her shoulder. She staggered, catching herself against a broken stone, her breath ragged.
Her fingers twitched, instinctively tracing a rune—but the spell fizzled out before it could form. Her mana reserves were nearly gone.
"Damn it," she hissed, gripping her aching shoulder. Her vision swam, and she blinked rapidly, forcing herself to focus.
The remaining two hellhounds circled her, their snarls reverberating through the stone ruins like a low, rolling thunder. Their firelit eyes burned with primal fury, their bodies coiled and ready to strike.
She couldn't last much longer.
Her limbs felt like lead, her mana nearly drained, and every muscle ached from the relentless battle.
But her mind?
Still sharp. Still calculating.
And she wasn't out of options just yet.
Irelia eyed the snarling beasts, their molten claws sparking against the stone with every step.
"You're not getting through me," she muttered under her breath.
But how?
The hellhounds were faster, stronger, relentless. In her current state, she wouldn't last more than a few minutes in direct combat. Spells were out of the question. Even her runes—
Her runestones.
A dry, bitter chuckle escaped her lips.
"Of course," she murmured, fingers twitching around the hilt of her daggers. "It's a wild shot."
Her thoughts raced, mapping out the reckless plan forming in her mind.
A crazy plan. Just my style.
She steadied herself, a grim smirk tugging at her lips despite the pounding of her heart. Betting her life had never been hard for her. Time and again, she had wagered everything—and walked away victorious. Every gamble was a declaration.
Against her family. Against her past.
Dying?
That would mean admitting defeat. That would mean proving them right.
Their voices echoed in her mind, laced with cold dismissal, heavy with scorn.
"Worthless."
"A failure."
Her jaw tightened, emerald eyes blazing with defiance.
"Not today," she growled.
"Not ever."
Spite was a petty fuel—but it burned hot and bright.
She wasn't about to give her family the satisfaction of being right. Staying alive—winning against impossible odds—was her ultimate act of defiance.
Her grip tightened as she pulled a small pouch from her belt. Inside, the runestones glowed dimly, their magic waiting to be unleashed. Her hands trembled as she channeled what little mana she had left into them, the symbols flaring to life.
Overloading them was reckless. Dangerous.
She didn't hesitate.
If she couldn't win with strength, she'd win through sheer unpredictability.
"This is going to hurt," she muttered, a wry smirk ghosting across her face. "No pain, no gain, right?"
The hellhounds circled closer, their growls vibrating through the ruins, heat rolling off them in waves.
Irelia exhaled slowly, her fingers twitching over the charged runestones.
"Send Veyra my regards," she murmured, voice edged with taunting defiance.
Then she moved.
With a flick of her wrist, she hurled one of her daggers toward the forest. The moment the blade left her fingers, she activated its teleportation rune—vanishing in a pulse of energy just as the hellhounds lunged.
And behind, left in the dust, the overcharged runestones began to crackle.
The runestones erupted in a brilliant cascade of light and heat, the explosion tearing through the ruins with a deafening roar. A shockwave rippled outward, distorting the air as it blasted everything in its path.
Irelia had only a heartbeat to register the danger before the force struck her mid-air, hurling her backward with bone-rattling intensity. Heat licked at her skin, the searing pressure threatening to consume her.
Instinct kicked in—she tried to summon a wind barrier, desperate to escape the blast—but her mana was gone. There was nothing left. No spell to cushion her fall.
She could only brace herself as the ground rushed up to meet her.
The impact was brutal. Jagged stone slammed into her back, pain detonating through her body like a thousand tiny fractures. The air was knocked from her lungs in a sharp, breathless gasp, and for a terrifying moment, she couldn't move.
Her vision swam, the ruins above blurring into distant smears of torchlight and shadows. The glow of the explosion faded, swallowed by the vast, starry sky.
Darkness crept in at the edges of her mind, pulling her under despite the frantic warning screams echoing in her head. Get up. Stay awake. Move.
But her body refused to obey.
Somewhere, through the haze of pain and exhaustion, a voice called her name—panicked, desperate, familiar.
A fleeting warmth spread through her chest, chasing the cold, but it wasn't enough to hold onto consciousness.
The darkness swallowed her whole.