Page 39 of The Nymph King

Across the water, Lochheim witches threw up their arms in defense, the short wands strapped beneath their wrists flashing as spells erupted from the movements.

It was efficient destruction, with nothing wasted, overwhelming the Lochheim troops before they could respond.

The Norn line faltered for half a breath, then the soldiers straightened, reformed, and pushed forward with renewed force. Across the water, Lochheim forces shouted at one another, breaking formation as they tried to reposition.

Ellisar’s presence changed the flow of the fight, and the balance tipped momentarily in the Norn elves’ favor.

More importantly, he was opening a route to the slip. Each Lochheim ship he forced aside gave their vessel more open water. The distance shrank, and she kept the Drasil ready while Ellisar stripped away the defenses between her and the fracture.

The High Sentinel didn’t pause after his initial blow. His wand flicked again, sustaining the assault. A line formed on his brow, the only sign of the effort he was expending. Energy flowed along his intended path in relentless assaults, cutting through the water and striking the advancing ships with consecutive blows that left no chance to recover. Without flourish, he was unstoppable, dismantling the battlefield, piece by piece. Watching him, Imani knew this was what it meant to be a twelve-mark.

She’d seen Kiran cast before, but Ellisar was more graceful, less manic. She couldn’t tear her eyes away as the pattern of his strikes settled into a rhythm she could no longer dismiss as skill alone. His power demanded a different scale entirely. Imani wiped her sweaty hands on the folds of her dress, trying to wrap her mind around a witch who commanded magic like Ellisar.

What was he? A Norn elf couldn’t be this powerful. Could he?

Fear, edged with recognition, rose within her. She found herself drawn not only to the man but also to the sheer, undeniable power he wielded, untainted by Kiran’s cruelty.

In the wake of his strikes, the magic eased just enough to create a temporary opening. The battle dissipated near the slip while Lochheim forces scrambled to recover.

Still, this wasn’t victory yet. It was a narrow window just long enough to use. She couldn’t wait for Ellisar to finish, couldn’t look back. She moved toward the bow, steadying herself against the pitch as the vessel drove closer to the slip. She needed to reach the edge of its magical pressure before she could determine how to close it, and every few yards Ellisar bought her mattered.

Each spray of seawater on the deck increased the danger. The boat drove forward as the water grew rougher beneath it, the slip’s distortion thickening ahead until it pressed against them like a snarling beast.

Magic intensified in the air, tugging at her senses through chaotic, unstable flows. The Drasil buzzed in her grip, eager to be wielded. The slip’s form was now distorted as spells contorted and energy unraveled at the margins. The Fabric resisted being controlled. Maintaining it would demand more effort, and her focus sharpened as the overwhelming pressure pushed back.

Imani anchored her magic as everything else threatened to break apart. With a deep inhale, the battle, the movement, even the pull of the slip fell away, leaving only what she needed to act.

Shooting a look over her shoulder, Imani took in the destruction Ellisar’s attacks left behind—damaged Lochheim ships, broken formations, and disrupted spellwork marking his path. His magic had overwhelmed everything in its path.

But the slip reacted differently. She expected her power to meet the Lochheim magic with the same kind of resistance and tear through it. Instead, the structure simply… rearranged around her.

Sweat dampened her brow, but she kept going.

Power rose through her all at once.

The Crown of Life ignited first, its weight constricting her like a living embrace as light pierced her mind. She groaned and squeezed her eyes closed for a second. But it seemed to bolster her power through its own magic signature. The Drasil responded next, its power rising, deep and ancient, expanding and pushing her to her limits. Then the shadows arrived, rushing forward and roiling in anticipation. All three forces lifted simultaneously, in harmony—layered and unified, forming a single, formidable weapon.

Imani’s eyes snagged on the Lochheim vessels beyond the fighting. And she saw the people.

Somewhere among them was the little boy, a wooden toy hugged to his chest. They had crossed into a battle because whatever waited behind them frightened them more than Norn armies and magic.

Closing the slip would cut off their passage.

Her wand lowered a fraction.

How many were still waiting on the other side? How many families had been pushed toward the opening because no one knew whether it would survive another hour? She understood desperation well enough to know what it could make someone justify.

But understanding them did not change what was happening in front of her.

Lochheim soldiers were attacking Norn ships. Norn bodies already floated in the surf. The slip distorted every spell around it, widening under pressure that could trigger another Fabric event if it continued unchecked. If it ruptured completely, there might not be a safe Essenheim left for anyone to flee into.

These were her people being forced backward on their own shore.

Rubbing her forehead, Imani let logic take over.

She could pity the families trapped behind the invasion and still defend the people standing in front of it.

With that thought, she raised the Drasil again.