To the northwest of Liresil, in the midst of the river, lay a small, tranquil island, undisturbed by the fires and steel of man. It was a sacred place, though the exact reason for that had long been forgotten by most. Its population of mice, birds, and otters were blissfully unaware of the conflict happening just across the water from their shores.

  Until a blazing comet streaked across the sky and crashed into the river, sending up plumes of water and superheated steam for a hundred feet in every direction.

  Eryndor walked out of the riverbed onto the island, uninjured and already dry, watching Vaeril leap after him from back on shore. The ‘asura’ was unbelievably powerful, and his altered body made him all the more dangerous. Eryndor wanted to believe it was some sort of body transformation technique, but his instincts warned him against such a simple answer. Even the flow of mana around Vaeril’s body was unusual—almost like he wasn’t a channeler at all. Yet, his power and speed far exceeded that of a pure mage.

  As Vaeril landed, every tree nearby was blown apart with a simple push of his aura, opening up the space. “This is more than far enough,” he said as he summoned the silver and gold scimitars back into his hands.

  Eryndor’s eyes held on the familiar blades, lamenting again the loss of his friend and mentor. But his grief only served as fuel for his resolve, and he held his own sword out front.

  “You have my thanks for changing locations.”

  “I have no desire to see this city leveled,” Vaeril said. “Nor do I have any desire to kill you, or your students Kaelburn. Your strength is apparent, and weakening Aeora’s military only serves the enemy.”

  Eryndor narrowed his eyes. “And who is the enemy? Nladia? Is that the cult’s goal, or your own?”

  “The church’s goals and mine align. That country, under the thumb of that false god, cannot be allowed to continue to exist. I will give you one last chance to surrender, spirit knight. Walk away and live.”

  In response, Eryndor settled into his stance, gathering flames onto his feet and blade.

  “I cannot abide by such ideals, and so we have reached an impasse. I will not back down, nor I suspect, will you. So, with all of my strength, I will burn you into nothingness. Prepare yourself, Vaeril. You will learn the five forms of the Kaelburn family.”

  “Then come.” Vaeril took a lazy stance, but his eyes were focused, and his dark mantle was thick.

  “First form, Burning Wake.”

  The ground beneath Eryndor’s feet cracked as he shot forward, crossing the gap between them in an instant. Fire aura compressed on the tip of his sword, using the momentum to create an incredibly fast and powerful thrust, aimed straight at Vaeril’s neck.

  Unable to dodge, Vaeril caught the thrust on the flat of his scimitar, his feet sliding back through the dirt.

  Eryndor whirled around before his opponent could recover. “Second form, Scorching Halo.”

  A white-gold ring of fire tore off his sword, screaming through the air like a blade of sunlight before crashing into Vaeril’s mantle.

  Eryndor was already moving into his next attack. “Fourth form, Purifying Fla—”

  Suddenly, he felt a huge mass of mana gathering to his right, and he abandoned his technique just in time to deflect a spectral blade the size of a tree from cutting him in two. He was caught off-guard, but the strike was relatively weak, and the blade disappeared a moment later.

  An annoying technique, Eryndor thought.

  Wasting no time, Vaeril closed the distance and assaulted him with a flurry of attacks, forcing Eryndor onto the defensive as he parried and countered. He grit his teeth, searching for an opening.

  With his third arm, Vaeril threw a jab at Eryndor’s stomach.

  Gotcha.

  Having been waiting for a cheap shot, Eryndor twisted and caught Vaeril’s wrist. In one motion, he pulled, throwing the asura off balance. His blade swept towards Vaeril’s back as he stumbled past.

  Once more, Eryndor felt a flash of mana, and an impact hit his side like a shot from a cannon. The strike tore crumpled his mantle and slammed into his ribs, blowing him off his feet.

  He crashed into the dirt, rolling over, but managed to recover, righting himself just in time to see a translucent purple arm slowly dissolve into the air where he’d stood before.

  That was stronger than the last one. Eryndor rubbed his side, gritting his teeth. Because it was a punch?

  As he caught his breath, Vaeril cracked his neck, unhurried as he watched with interest.

  “Surely this isn’t the limit of your strength Eryndor?” Vaeril smiled. “I’m afraid you’ll have to work much harder to push me.”

  “And you’ve yet to show me the limits of your own,” Eryndor said. If Vaeril wanted to talk, it was fine. The longer the battle dragged out, the better it would be. Thoughts of a quick victory, or returning to protect the others had to be put aside—this wasn’t a fight in which he could afford to hold anything back. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised. You seem natural with those scimitars.”

  Vaeril spun them lazily. “I should be. I was a member of the Ashkari guard.”

  Eryndor’s eyes widened. The Ashkari guard was an order similar to the sepals of Liresil, serving a great spirit—Vhatta—in the southeast. “You’re a warrior of Quenrel?”

  “Ah, you’ve heard of us. I thought a spirit knight your age might not know.”

  “I spent two years in the southeast during the war. You are not the first survivor I have met. But if you were an Ashkari, then why join the cult? If your grudge is against Nladia, then why are you here?”

  “So few of us remain…” Vaeril’s eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a bitter tone. “Even as young as you are, you should know the horrors those devils wrought. Our home was torn apart, our farms burned, and our villages were sacked. As our children died in the streets, too weak to fight back, it was not the spirits that came to our aid. That is the lie—burn me for believing it. But the sages opened my eyes!”

  Painful memories flashed through Eryndor’s mind. He knew the horrors of that war well, even if he’d only fought a short while in it.

  “False gods, great spirits,” Vaeril growled. “They are all to blame for holding us back. Humanity is fit for elevation, a higher status! We are the truest gods, and through His power, we can make it so!” He clenched a fist in front of him. “If I had only had this power then… if I hadn’t relied on anyone else…” Then, he opened his palm again, and a languid smile returned to his face. “Ah, but that’s all behind me now, isn’t it? You had me feeling wistful for a moment. Let’s not dwell on the past. You should be worrying more about how you will survive me now.”

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  Vaeril swept one blade through empty air, and Eryndor felt a spike of mana behind him. He spun and blocked the tremendous blow, then ducked under and pivoted to catch the next direct onslaught.

  As they clashed back and forth, the spectral blades began to sync with Vaeril’s attacks, and Eryndor found himself guarding against four swords from multiple angles. He was faster than Vaeril, and a better swordsman, but he wasn’t able to create an opening while on the defensive.

  He dodged too wide, and a blade bit into his shoulder before he could reinforce it.

  Damn! Eryndor let out a burst of unstructured fire-aura, forcing Vaeril back. It was inefficient compared to a technique, but he didn’t have a choice.

  From the wound, a thick, bubbling aura began to slowly spread throughout his body. As it went, he could feel his channels being disrupted, and the skin around the wound began to purple. It reminded Eryndor of death mana, though slower acting and more contagious.

  “A poison aspect? That’s rare.”

  “Can you feel it Eryndor? Your channels are thrown into disarray as they slowly begin to break down, and your body along with them.”

  Eryndor smiled cooly at him. “You must have never fought a fire channeler on my level before. I’m sorry to say Vaeril, but I’m a terrible opponent for you.” With a flex of his aura, the poison was devoured, and like dry wood catching alight, it only became fuel for his own fire.

  Vaeril’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

  In response, Eryndor flipped his sword around in his hand, then rammed it into the dirt. “Third form, Conflagration.”

  Fire aura raced down the blade and into the earth. The ground cracked open, and magma bubbled up to the surface as flames erupted from the rifts. The fire aura in the air began to thicken, and the trees remaining on the island burst alight.

  Vaeril took a small step back as a tongue of magma burst up where he’d been standing. His mantle hissed, beating back the growing heat. “Impressive. Though I don’t imagine it will help as much as you believe.”

  “Let’s find out. Second form, Scorching Halo!” Eryndor swept his blade in a wide arc, and threw another ring of fire from its edge.

  Vaeril thrust out a hand, and a spectral mirror appeared in front to block the attack—but the sea of fire mana was hungry, and the technique flickered, then shattered as the halo tore through it. Vaeril swung both scimitars to deflect it.

  Eryndor followed, using Burning Wake to close the distance in an instant, aiming for a gap in the Asura’s defense.

  With a defiant roar, Vaeril’s third arm twisted into a handsign, and a massive, purple hand appeared between them, eating the brunt of Eryndor’s attack. A colossal arm formed next, followed by a shoulder, then a chest. After a few seconds, it resolved into the upper body of a headless, four-armed statue, almost four stories tall. The air groaned as it solidified, taking on the appearance of stone, marred with spiderwebbing cracks of amethyst that leaked violet light. It wielded two scimitars in its upper arms, to match Vaeril, though it had the fourth arm that he was missing.

  A Vhatta statue, Eryndor realized. Though it’s been defaced. What an absurd quantity of aura! And it’s dense enough to hold together in this air?

  Old doubts bubbled up in his stomach, but he grit his teeth, forcing them down.

  No! I am a spirit knight.

  “It would seem you’re worthy after all, Eryndor.” Vaeril stepped out from beneath the massive statue, scimitars gleaming in the flickering firelight. “If you believe you can, then defend yourself.”

  The statue struck.

  Four limbs attacked at once, and Eryndor barely had time to raise his sword before the first impact smashed him into the ground, fire exploding outwards from him in a desperate shield.

  He rolled and sprang up, meeting the next strike head-on. It drove him to his knees, and his arms screamed in protest as he redirected the blow, molten rock spraying like rain.

  “Purifying Flame!” he yelled, abridging the name as he threw out a wide wave of fire in-between attacks.

  Vaeril was ready, and a silvery blade bit into Eryndor’s arm, but Eryndor had reinforced the area just in time, so it didn’t cut deep. He kicked out Vaeril’s leg before he could follow up with the gold.

  The statue’s third arm hooked him from the side, and he crumpled, thrown across the river and into the side of a ridge. He hit it like a meteor, and huge chunks of stone fell into the water. Before he could even breath, a burning tree, thrown by the fourth arm, flew at him, and Eryndor cut it in half with a clean stroke.

  Vaeril leapt after him, and the statue followed.

  Damn! It’s mobile too? It seemed bound to its master at least, unlike the free-floating limbs earlier.

  They clashed again—fire and poison raging, changing the landscape around them by sheer weight of their power. The river boiled, and the air was scorched as neither gave an inch of ground.

  Finally, they broke apart, and Erydor caught his breath while taking stock of his condition. He’d taken a few more cuts, but fire seared them closed. Aura could keep him going until he saw a healer. Even still, he could feel his body beginning to wear. Could he last long enough?

  It’s a battle of attrition, he thought. A poison channeler should have a low capacity, and he must have drained much of it to create that statue. I can win.

  “I know what you’re thinking!” Vaeril shouted. “But this isn’t going to go the way you think it will Eryndor! You’ve already lost, don’t you see? Look up and witness what my power is capable of!”

  Even before he looked, Eryndor knew what he would see. But he looked anyway, unable to turn away from the weight of his failures.

  Countless leaves, black and withered, were falling from the tree so far above. As they got near, they burned up almost immediately, but they still fell nonetheless.

  “Haoma is dying, Eryndor! Even if you could kill me, nothing can stop what has been set in motion!”

  Was there anything he could do? Eryndor didn’t know. “If that is the case, then killing you will be penance for that failure, and justice for those whose lives you’ve taken.”

  “If you really want justice, then you should stop holding back on me Eryndor,” Vaeril said. “You said there were five forms, didn't you? I’ve only counted four!”

  “Don’t presume to—” Eryndor paused, his eyes catching the faintest flickering at the edges of the Vhatta statue. Though it was still holding against the fire, its edges had begun to fray, its form wavering as the flames gnawed at the mana binding it together, growing even hotter.

  “Cat got your tongue Eryndor?” Vaeril taunted. “Show me everything you’ve been hiding!”

  Eryndor took a breath, finally smiling. This battlefield was to his advantage. Only he could replenish his reserves in fire mana this thick. He was a spirit knight—and what that meant was…

  “I’m going to dismantle that technique of yours,” he said, projecting confidence into his voice, wearing it like the cape on his back. He levelled his blade at his opponent. “And then, I’m going to take back those swords.”