The night shattered like glass.

  Ysar hit the sand hard after dodge another arrow aimed at him, the world spinning around him.

  A second passed.

  Then a blur of movement.

  Boots pounding.

  A figure rushing in—curved blade raised high.

  Ysar rolled on instinct.

  The scimitar plunged into the ground where his chest had been, spraying grit. He gasped, pain biting through his shoulder, and shoved himself up with his good arm. Another figure closed in, fast and silent.

  His fingers tightened on his sword.

  He slashed.

  The edge of his curved blade met thigh. Flesh tore.

  The bandit screamed and staggered.

  Ysar didn’t wait.

  He lunged, driving his sword up beneath the ribs. The man collapsed.

  No time to breathe.

  “They’re good!” some one shouted, maybe, but the number is not on their side.

  Another was already on him.

  He brought his blade up just in time—metal slammed against metal. Sparks flew. The impact rang down his bones, made his knees tremble. He couldn’t keep this up.

  Then came Elsha.

  Descended like lightning—blades flashing, movements sharp and exact. Her first push the blade of that bandit away from Ysar, the second gauze open a long wound on hit chest before he back away with a hiss.

  Elsha didn’t even blink.

  “Get your shit together, Ysar,” she snapped, backpedaling into a guard stance.

  Ysar staggered upright. “Was just warming up.”

  “No more mistakes,” she hissed.

  More of them closing in.

  Elsha moved first.

  She deflected one blade, spun low, and sliced across her attacker’s leg. He collapsed into the sand with a howl. But the second was faster.

  His strike crashed into her crossed blades. She held him, grit spraying around her feet as she was forced backward.

  Too much pressure.

  She shifted to parry—and her footing betrayed her.

  The sand slipped.

  Her balance faltered.

  The scimitar came down.

  Ysar intercepted, steel meeting steel.

  The shock of the block lit up his wounded arm, but he held, shoved the enemy back.

  Elsha surged forward, driving her blade into the bandit’s side.

  One more down.

  But more shadows were moving. More shapes rising from the dunes.

  Zafran moved in the distance—a ghost of steel.

  He said nothing. His sword did all the talking.

  Clean, sharp arcs. No wasted movement. Every strike effective.

  But his priority was clear—he kept Karin behind him, shielding her from the chaos.

  She try to keep up with him, hiding behind.

  Zafran parried a blow—stepped into his attacker’s guard—and drove his straight sword through the man’s gut.

  Then spun to the next.

  The bandits weren’t mindless.

  They coordinated.

  They pressed the attack from all sides, circling like wolves, picking at weakness. Always moving. Always pressuring.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  And they were gaining.

  Ysar was slowing.

  His shoulder screamed every time he lifted his blade. His breaths came ragged. Another enemy closed in, slashing low. Ysar twisted, blocked, but staggered.

  A blade caught him across the cheek.

  Shallow. But enough.

  He stumbled back, vision blurred.

  The enemy raised his sword for the kill.

  Then Elsha again—sharp and clean. Her twin blades danced.

  She disarmed him, cut deep across the ribs, and ended it with a clean strike through the chest.

  But she was bleeding now too—arm slashed, her right sleeve dark with blood.

  She didn’t flinch.

  Another came at her before she could breathe.

  She ducked.

  Too slow.

  A blade kissed her side, shallow but enough to burn.

  She growled, dropped low, swept his leg, and opened his throat when he fell.

  She turned.

  Ysar was down again.

  “Ysar!”

  “I’m—fine—” he grunted.

  He blocked another strike. Barely.

  Elsha moved to cover him. Again.

  Their footwork was dragging. Their bodies heavy. Their blades dulled with blood.

  Too many.

  Still coming.

  The desert had come alive.

  And it wasn’t letting go.

  Zafran moved like a dancer in a storm.

  His sword wasn’t wild—it was refined. A clean, straight edge guided by years of control. While Ysar and Elsha fought in furious bursts, Zafran moved with rhythm—pauses, pivots, strikes. Each motion was deliberate. Each cut counted.

  Another bandit charged him, screaming.

  Zafran turned just enough. The scimitar glanced off his bracer. He didn’t flinch. His blade slipped forward—no flair, just a thrust through the ribs. The man folded without a sound.

  Another came from behind.

  Zafran pivoted low, letting the blade whistle over his head, then came up and brought his sword down like a hammer.

  Steel cracked collarbone.

  The man dropped.

  But he didn’t move on.

  He turned—checked.

  Karin.

  She was still behind the rock. Her hands hovered at the ready, eyes locked on the battle. Tense. Watching. Waiting.

  Good.

  Zafran stepped back, drawing the fight closer to her. He wouldn’t stray far. She was the heart of this formation, and mages didn’t survive being left alone.

  A scream drew his gaze left.

  Ysar faltered—his blade caught in a block, his footing slipping.

  Zafran grabbed a curved blade from the sand. It was still warm from a dying hand.

  He hurled it.

  It spun twice—then buried into the side of a bandit lunging for Ysar.

  The man dropped.

  Zafran didn’t wait. He moved in.

  He reached Ysar and Elsha just as another bandit charged in. Zafran intercepted the strike aimed for Elsha’s back, his sword catching the blow mid-arc. The impact shook the air.

  Elsha didn’t look surprised. “About time.”

  “I was giving you practice,” he muttered, pivoting to strike low.

  The three of them formed up, Karin just behind them. Zafran adjusted their stance subtly—tightening the gap, giving her space to act if she needed to.

  More enemies came.

  Zafran moved like he was reading a script.

  Feints read. Footwork anticipated. Each swing placed with purpose.

  He turned with the flow of battle, slashing low, parrying high. He moved around Ysar, stepped into Elsha’s blind spot, caught a blade before it reached her.

  But it wasn’t sustainable.

  They were being pushed.

  Zafran’s gaze swept the field—quick, sharp.

  There was a rhythm to this chaos. The bandits didn’t act like rabble. They moved with intent, timing, discipline.

  Someone was leading them.

  He looked—scanned the ridges.

  There.

  A shadow, distant, watching. Still as stone.

  Zafran’s eyes narrowed. His heart quickened.

  This wasn’t a raid.

  It was an execution.

  Unless they ended it first.

  Zafran stepped back, just far enough to keep Karin in his periphery. He shouted, loud and clear—

  “Karin!”

  She looked up, startled—but focused.

  He pointed.

  “There!”

  She followed his gesture—saw the figure on the ridge.

  Still. Commanding. Silent.

  And that was enough.

  The heat pulsed around her.

  No words. No chant.

  Just fire, already rising.

  Her hands lifted into the air, fingers trembling from pure arcane pressure.

  A pulse of heat rippled outward.

  Fire.

  A sphere of flame bloomed in her grasp, enormous—too enormous. It pulsed like a second sun, swirling with chaotic energy. Not conjured. Unleashed.

  The very air recoiled.

  Magic coiled in her lungs like a scream she hadn’t let out in years. It begged to be freed.

  Zafran turned—caught sight of it.

  His eyes widened. “Wait… that’s—”

  But it was already too late.

  Karin let it go.

  The fireball roared into the sky, massive and furious, its light turning the night into molten gold.

  And then—

  The world caught fire.

  Wind snapped toward the blast point, as if the desert itself held its breath. Then—

  Detonation.

  A tidal wave of flame crashed into the ridge. Screams never had time to rise—consumed instantly in a furnace of sand and ash. The earth groaned beneath the force, dunes collapsing as a shockwave burst outward.

  Zafran cursed, grabbing Karin and shoving her to the ground. “Down!”

  The air ignited.

  Heat surged toward them—merciless, searing. It tore across the camp like a living inferno, burning through cloth, scorching exposed skin.

  Ysar and Elsha were just as close.

  Both dropped low, shielding their faces, bracing against the firestorm.

  And still, it burned.

  The ridge was gone.

  Melted.

  A crater of jagged, blackened glass lay where the leader and his guards had once stood. The sand hadn’t just been scorched—it had been reshaped.

  The heat at their position was unbearable. Even crouched behind stone, even at that distance—it licked at their backs like the breath of a god.

  When the flame finally died down, the desert was still.

  Silent.

  Only the hiss of vaporized sand cooling remained.

  Then—movement.

  One of the bandits turned. Another shouted. Panic began to spread like a contagion.

  “The Academia!”

  “She’s an Arch Magi!”

  “Run!”

  The retreat was immediate—undignified. Swords fell. Bodies stumbled. Boots thundered over sand as they scattered, directionless, driven by terror.

  No one tried to stay.

  No one even looked back.

  And then… silence.

  The kind that felt sacred.

  Zafran stood slowly, brushing ash from his shoulder. His cloak was singed. His sword’s guard warped with heat. His jaw locked tight as he stared at the smoking crater.

  Ysar emerged, coughing hard, one hand gripping his side. “I thought I was dead.”

  Elsha stood beside him, blade still in hand, but her face blank. Her cheek was streaked with soot, hair curled from the heat, eyes locked on the girl behind them.

  Karin.

  She was still on the ground, braced against the sand where Zafran had thrown her down.

  But slowly—deliberately—she rose.

  Smoke curled from her fingertips. Her cloak hung scorched and ragged around her shoulders. Her breaths came shallow. Controlled. As if she were holding something back.

  Her eyes glowed faintly. Not with triumph—but relief.

  Not pride.

  Just release.

  Zafran watched her rise, silhouetted against the smoldering crater, and for a moment—she looked untouchable.

  Powerful.

  Alien.

  He said nothing for a long time.

  Then finally, in a low voice that cut through the quiet—

  “…What is that?”