Stories

Malika stalked away, caring little if the Orthael followed. She had no care for her own life anymore. Everything she had ever known and cared about had been stripped from her in a single night.

A parishioner had requested aid against the Dead. The task of returning the dead to rest was beyond import – it lay somewhere in the realm of the sacrosanct.

At last Malika leaned away from the stranger, shrugging off his embrace like a cloak. She wanted her pain, needed it in order to do what must be done.

“Who be you,” Malika whispered once more, her head leaning still against the stranger’s chest. “Orthael you may be. Paladin you may be. But you be not like the others who would have come before, the others who would have seen me yet not seen me. They be complacent and indifferent.”

There was a silent explosion of glittering light that swept through the forest in a radiant blast.

Malika was suddenly overwhelmed by the cleansing intent and purity of Flame. It flowed through and over her like an all-consuming heat — and as it did, it drew much of the pain and fury from her slight frame.

They fought on. Orthael gave ground again and again, knowing that he could not – would not – strike her. She threw him a dangerously open slice, daring him to show her that Fire destroyed without meaning or mercy. But that was not the case. He caught her blade in his shield hand.

Orthael felt her blow crash into his guard with a stunning violence. He spun to deliver a pommel strike and felt her duck under him before his shield caught two quick blows.