The surviving beasts fled after the death of the mind flayer, scattering into the trees or being cut down by the knights if they weren't fast enough. The forest floor was slick with blood, dark shapes darting between ancient trunks as the last of the creatures howled in fear or pain. Smoke from small fires drifted in the cool air, mingling with the coppery scent of spilled entrails.
Jasmine walked up to Richard and William, sheathing her daggers while eyeing William venomously. Her boots squelched in wet earth as she closed the distance, anger radiating from her in pulsing waves.
"What was that for? You could have warned me before finishing it off with such a powerful attack," she complained, fury in her eyes, voice trembling slightly with pent-up adrenaline.
"It's not my fault you know nothing of mind flayers. Besides, I did warn you that such creatures can use the abilities of the beasts under their control," William said indifferently. His expression was calm, but there was a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes.
"What does that even mean? How did it come back to life after being killed?" she demanded, voice cracking in disbelief. Her fingers twitched near the hilts of her daggers again, a nervous habit she hadn't broken.
"There is a creature in the wilderness of Zadis called a Duomortis. All mind flayers have at least one under their control. These creatures aren't aggressive, but they're very territorial. They're also not very strong," William explained patiently, his tone turning patronizing as he looked her up and down, as if assessing her competence.
Jasmine's nostrils flared. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest. She felt humiliated—first by being surprised by the mind flayer's return, now by William's smug superiority.
"What does that have to do with this?" Jasmine demanded, taking a threatening step closer. Her voice dropped to a growl, eyes narrowing to slits.
"Are you being dense on purpose today?" William jeered, a smirk twisting his lips. He leaned on his axe, clearly enjoying provoking her.
"Y—you! How dare you!" she snarled, her eyes glowing with green light as she hurled a ball of poison at him. Acidic vapor trailed behind it, sizzling where it touched the ground.
Lightning flashed from Richard's outstretched hand, striking the ball mid-air and turning it to vapor. The force of the discharge rattled nearby branches, scattering blackened leaves to the wind. The crack of thunder left their ears ringing.
"The mind flayer had a Duomortis under its control. The Duomortis has a particularly nasty ability, they have to be killed twice. The mind flayer hid it away somewhere, so if it died, it would come back to life," Richard interjected, eyeing Jasmine sharply. His voice was low and steady, each word precise, like a teacher correcting a disobedient pupil.
Jasmine cowered under his gaze, her shoulders hunching slightly, trying to make herself appear smaller. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry, fingers flexing nervously at her sides.
"Good work, both of you. Gather everyone. Heal the wounded and burn the dead. We're moving out," Richard instructed William, his eyes still pinned on Jasmine a moment longer before he turned away.
"On it, Sir Richard." William saluted smartly before strutting off with an exaggerated swing of his shoulders, a grin playing at the corner of his mouth.
Jasmine let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"How have you been?" Richard asked her, his tone shifting unexpectedly to something surprisingly gentle. His eyes softened, the harsh command melting away to something more familiar.
She rolled her eyes before giggling, tension bleeding out of her with a nervous laugh.
"I'm fine. You know you don't have to look out for me—I can handle William myself," she replied, trying to sound confident, though her voice was softer now. She glanced after William's retreating back with a scowl.
"You can't. He's stronger than you, and his fire can burn through your poison. If he ever had bad intentions toward you, you'd be powerless to stop him," Richard said, stepping closer and stroking her hair with surprising tenderness. His fingers combed through the dusty strands, brushing away flecks of blood she hadn't noticed.
She leaned reflexively into his chest with a sigh, feeling his warmth seep into her. For a heartbeat she let herself relax, let the world fade—but then she realized what she was doing and jumped away like a startled cat, cheeks flushing crimson.
"I'm not a kid anymore, you know," she snapped, her tone laced with mock anger. She tried to cross her arms, but they fell limp at her sides.
"You used to like that. Besides, you'll always be a kid to me," he chuckled, folding his arms and tilting his head as if daring her to contradict him.
She rolled her eyes dramatically, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips, betraying her fondness.
---
The knights piled their dead into a heap nearby, the smell of charred flesh and blood thick in the air. Flames crackled as they prepared the pyres, smoke drifting skyward in slow, spiraling tendrils that faded into the twilight.
Of the hundred who had ridden off to the coastal villages, only eighty-seven remained. Many were bloodied and limping, leaning on comrades or makeshift crutches. Priests and healers moved among them with quiet efficiency, chanting softly as they closed wounds with glowing hands or cleaned blood from pale, shivering faces.
Among the villagers, three lay dead, including the man possessed by the mind flayer. His twisted body was unrecognizable now, burnt black from the lightning that had ended his suffering.
Anne, a petite, pale woman with white hair that reached her waist and was now streaked with dirt and blood, limped around searching frantically for her child. She held her side, sticky with half-dried blood where claws had raked her. Her eyes darted wildly between faces, hope dying a little with every empty glance.
She had been attacked by the possessed man, thrown aside like a rag doll, and her child had gone missing at the very start of the battle.
"Please," she gasped, grabbing a passing knight by the sleeve. "My daughter—have you seen her? She's eight. Gray hair—please."
The knight shook his head silently, face grave. He squeezed her arm gently before moving on to tend the wounded.
Anne searched in vain, her limp growing worse, tears blurring her vision. Her breath hitched in her chest with every sob she tried to choke down. At last she turned toward the back of the field to find another knight, her voice hoarse from crying.
There, lying on the ground among the dead, was a child no older than eight. Thin, with gray hair matted in blood and dirt, covered in old and new scars. Half of her head was torn open, bone gleaming white in the dying light.
Anne fell to her knees with a broken scream.
"No, no, no," she sobbed, voice cracking horribly as she cradled her dead child in her arms. She rocked back and forth, pressing the small, ruined body to her chest.
"Please don't leave me. Please, my love, come back," she wailed, her cry piercing the field, echoing across the silent line of knights and villagers who turned away, unable to bear the sight.
Smoke drifted past her, carrying the smell of burning corpses, while the sun dipped below the trees, casting long, cold shadows over the ruined ground.