"What the hell is this!?" Cassel thought, his mind reeling between panic and a flicker of hope. The substance pulsed faintly, moving with each beat of his heart, spreading from his fingers to his wrists, from his heels to his ankles. It was cold, eerily cold. His eyes widened, fixed on his trembling hands, where the halo seemed to thicken, outlining every contour with unsettling clarity.
The cloaked assassin gave him no respite. The rune on their leg glowed with a pale blue light, pulsing like a beacon in the dimness, and his daggers flashed as he lunged again. Cassel, propelled by the killing intent that burned his skin like an icy lash, rolled to the side, the floorboards creaking under his weight. One dagger embedded in the floor where he'd been, splintering the wood, while the other grazed his shoulder, opening a new cut that burned like embers. Cassel grunted, pain mingling with adrenaline, and crawled backward, his hands scrabbling for anything to defend himself. His fingers found a shard of the broken table, a jagged splinter of wood, and he hurled it with force at the cloaked figure. The projectile sliced through the air, but the assassin dodged with an impossible twist, his cape rippling like liquid shadow, oblivious to the halo Cassel saw enveloping him.
Cassel staggered to his feet, the room spinning. The ethereal halo grew more visible, as if every effort, every spark of his inner rune, fed it. The assassin struck again, his speed inhuman, and Cassel, guided by that killing intent, threw himself against the wall, using the old chest as a barrier. The cloaked figure's dagger struck the rusty metal of the chest, sending sparks flying, but the blow left him exposed for a moment. Cassel, with a roar, kicked the chest toward the assassin, who dodged, but the move brought him dangerously close, cornering Cassel against the granite wall.
The air was thick with tension, Mith's cold seeping through the broken window, mingling with sweat and blood. Dorel was no longer in sight. Cassel's gaze was locked on the assassin, his face still hidden under the hood, but his movements were frantic, anxious. Cassel could feel it—not just the killing intent, but a palpable urgency, as if the cloaked figure knew he had to finish quickly.
The assassin launched another attack, his daggers slicing the air in a whirlwind. Cassel, trapped against the wall, dodged by a hair, using the terrain to his advantage: he kicked a loose floorboard, which flipped up and distracted the cloaked figure for a fraction of a second. He rolled to the side, his thigh throbbing with pain, and lunged for the cold fireplace, grabbing a rusty iron poker used to stir ashes. He swung it like a weapon, blocking a blow that would have torn open his chest. The impact reverberated through his arms, the iron groaning, and the ethereal halo thickened further, finally covering his feet and body completely. Cassel blinked, stunned, feeling its presence—a shiver ran up his spine, giving him a small spasm. He felt it at last, something the boy found hard to explain. This substance wasn't solid, but he could sense it. The air around him, the wood beneath his feet—he could feel the touch of things a few centimeters before they made contact.
"What's happening to me?" he thought, his breath ragged, as the assassin stepped back, eyeing him warily. The halo was more than a veil now; it was a complete silhouette, outlining his form, but it remained invisible to the cloaked figure, who showed no reaction to it. The cold intensified, a cold that burned.
The assassin growled, his rune blazing with blinding intensity, and attacked with renewed ferocity. Cassel, cornered, could barely move, the wall at his back, the toppled chest blocking his flank. A dagger flew toward his neck, and he raised the iron poker, deflecting it by millimeters, but the other dagger sank into his forearm, wrenching a scream from him. Blood poured, the ethereal halo unable to stop the cut, only vibrating as if trying to respond. Cassel, heart in his throat, counterattacked, swinging the poker at the assassin's leg. The blow landed, a dull thud that made the cloaked figure grunt and stumble back, their rune flickering as if Mith's cold slowed them again.
But the assassin didn't stop. With a roar, they lunged for the kill, his dagger raised for a mortal strike to the heart. Cassel, trapped, felt the halo's cold intensify, turning bone-chilling. Instinctively, he strained, tensing every muscle, as if trying to solidify his body against the impending blow. Something shifted. In an instant, the ethereal substance transformed, materializing into a layer of hardened black fur, like the hide of an ancient beast, covering the forearms he'd raised to protect himself. The assassin's dagger struck this new fur, the impact resounding like metal on stone. The blade cut, but left only a shallow mark on the hardened fur, a thin line that barely bled.
Cassel blinked, stunned, staring at his forearms. The halo, now visible as black fur, was tough as a beast's hide, yet flexible, alive. The assassin staggered back, his breathing ragged, eyes glinting with fury and confusion under the hood.
Cassel's vision suddenly blurred violently, a fatal dizziness hitting him. A searing pain in his chest stole his breath. Symptoms of the anemia typical of overusing runes. He couldn't go on, he was certain—he'd lost. On his knees, he collapsed to the wooden floor, and then:
"Blergh!" Vomit.
In his imminent faint, left to fate, images of Amelia, Uncle Dann, Uncle Orus, Dorel, and some local vendor from Mith's streets who tolerated his childhood pranks flashed through his mind. He was apparently about to die. His blurred vision fixed on his hands in the vomit. Cassel heard, with sounds echoing in his ears as if underwater:
"Dorel! What's happened?! Get Cassel to the infirmary while I go after that bastard!"
"That's… Vassil?!" Cassel thought, confused, as his vision faded to black.