Compared to the average person, the few who possess high concentrations of it are supernaturally durable and possess stamina far exceeding that of a normal person. Additionally, Ardor has been observed to be most concentrated in the organic structures of muscles and bones, less so in the more common organs. This allows for beings with high concentrations of Ardor to withstand and recover from things they, by all logic, reasonably should not be able to survive.

This increased durability allows for one to tap into more of their own muscle strength, as one with a high concentration of Ardor needs not to fear tearing their own muscles off their bones as much; though, one needs to overcome the limiting mental barrier of pain. Conversely, those with high concentrations of Ardor have a harder time building muscle.

Vendrethaisen’s Teachings

(26th of) Summercrest, 1,499 AE

Beylesa Trased

Beylesa Trased, Inquisitor Acolyte of the Vadite Order, tightened the buckles of her breastplate over her asymmetrical vestments as she tromped for her uncle’s manor. The scarlet scrap about her wrist—all that was left of her fallen father’s scarf—whipped and crackled in the breeze of her stride as bells shrieked, horns bellowed their warning, and the frightened crowds’ clamor rose to a crescendo. In the dim light of cracking dawn, an army had been spotted approaching Cannar by road. 

Beylesa thrust a hand skyward, and a crackling symbol of concentric, interlocked circles blazed to light in the air above her head. At its thunderous appearance, the citizenry threw their gazes her way and parted before her—she was far taller than most all of them, and her dark brown skin was distinct enough from their own, but much of that would be concealed by the metallic shell of armor. They reached for her as she passed with outstretched arms and frightened words. Begging, pleading for her to save them. The cries chased her, merely dampened by the heavy wooden door thrown shut by a steel-helmed soldier. 

“Send word to pull the population into the inner wall outer wall,” she commanded him. “Tell them that the adults must only carry a hand’s worth of possession at most.” 

“But-”

Beylesa fixed him with a withering stare. 

“Yes, my lady.” 

“Good man. Off with you.” Turning on her heel, Beylesa continued her fervent stride across the long red rug of the richly decorated hall. Between paintings and statues. Even as they quieted, she let the cries of the citizenry linger in her ears and persist in her mind. They deserved to be heard. 

She threw open the door at the end of the hall, startling those within. Greatest in stature amongst them was a portly man with skin matching her own’s darkness. Salegar Trased, Lord of Cannar, stood tall, draped in Sabian silks of red and blue, clutching the white wooden head of an elegantly carved dress cane in both hands as his eyes rose from the map of the city sprawled out on the meeting room’s table.

“We need to pull our defenses back to the inner wall,” Beylesa declared. “A coordinated retreat herding the citizenry.” 

“Surely our soldiers can handle some eastern ruffians” Captain Caresthial of the Wheatwatch scoffed. “They’re tribesmen and brigands! What’ll they do against our plate and pikes?” 

“With all due respect,” Beylesa said, trying not to grind her teeth, “they’ve swept siege after siege so far with better defended cities. Reports say they have spellweavers in their midst.”

Captain Caresthial shook his head and waved his hand indifferently. “Laggards’ rumors to excuse failures. What do savages know of magic?”

 She turned pleading eyes to her uncle, the lord of the town. “Station archers along the inner wall, and spearmen behind to ward its gates. With the inner wall’s fortifications and defensibility, we might buy enough time.” 

Salegar slowly nodded. “How much time do we have?” he asked. 

“A few hours by the scouts’ testimony.” 

“And your mercenaries? How long before they arrive?” 

Beylesa’s lip twitched and she rubbed the scarf. “Their last bird said they’d arrive today. Vadai knows when.”  Loathing rose like bitter bile in her gut and throat for having to resort to such lows as calling on mercenaries for what some of their ilk had done to her father. 

Salegar grunted. “Enough time, then; enough time.” He waved his hand. “As she says, Captain.” 

Captain Caresthial’s armor of interlocking chain links and metal plating clinked as he saluted, then clanged raucously as the old warrior dashed from the room. 

“I pray to Vadai your mercenaries are up to the task,” Salegar muttered as his hands tightened to choke the head of his cane. 

Beylesa’s lip twitched once more. 

Ajin

Ajin stepped back and exhaled slowly. He regarded his opponent with a critical eye. The lean forest elf wielded a thin, curved sword and long dagger, compelling them in a sinuous pattern, similarly analyzing him. Her right foot glided across the dirt: a lunge telegraphed.

Quick as a viper, Ajin feinted with Bithe, a thin-bladed curved sword, to interrupt her strike. She bought the ploy and raised both blades to beat his blade away, leaving her lower body open.

Ajin stopped his blade short, and hers cut uselessly through the air. He stepped forward quickly and rammed his small, round shield into the hard stomach of the elf. She stumbled, off-balance. He attempted to plant his boot in her chest, but the nimble elf dodged to the left. Ajin swung his sword down at her as he turned his kick into a step, but she put his blade off-line with her dagger. 

The two set into a deadly dance. Extended battles are superfluous displays, Vendres’ voice pushed to the surface of Ajin’s mind, advising him even now. Fights should be ended quickly to minimize the possibility of receiving grievous wounds. The old warrior taught brutal efficiency. 

But this wasn’t a battle with lives at stake. This was training. Ajin grinned, savoring the rush of the fight, the thrill of the contest.

Steel sparked against steel, each weapon cutting a reflective streak in the air. The warriors moved across the open field, boots grinding on dirt and slipping across the grass as each sought a conclusive strike. The sun lethargically clambered above the far-off hills, illuminating the sky in a gray-golden haze. Reasonable folk were sleeping. Not them.

Ajin blocked the blade and stepped back. He feigned slipping on mud. A ploy to lure Evangeline in and use her aggressive nature against her.

In that heartbeat, Evangeline was upon him: sword and dagger bit through the air like two heads of a hydra. Ajin slapped away the thrust aimed at his neck, but his reaction left his lower chest open for a stab with Evangeline’s dagger, which Ajin deflected. Her attacks weren’t aggressive enough for him to press an advantage. He was on the back foot Evangeline came swinging again.

As the two blades dipped and dove in concert, Ajin waited for the perfect moment to reclaim the advantage. Steel flashing with the rising sun, they wove between rocks and through trees. 

He spotted his chance a few moments later: Evangeline swept with both blades from two directions. He turned his shield to let the face of it catch the dagger – the more maneuverable of the two weapons – and snapped the edge of Bithe to deflect the sword. In the same motion, he wrenched his shield forward and knocked the dagger out of her hand to whirl to the ground.

Evangeline began to leap for her fallen weapon, but Ajin raised the hilt of Bithe to his mouth. Evangeline’s eyes widened momentarily, and she instinctively jumped back, vanishing into the underbrush. But she had nothing to worry about – Ajin wasn’t using Kar’nek. Ajin knew the trick wouldn’t work a second time.

He walked forward and planted a weathered boot onto the dagger’s blade. Ajin exhaled lightly, closed his eyes, and let his senses reach out; faint sounds of birds chirping and the water rushing. The grass and bushes moved in the gentle breeze between the towering trees. The scent of flowers and dew mixed and mingled with his sweat. The subtle vibrations in the air and the earth. All of it he took in, letting his breath and the slow drum-like beating of his heart ground him. It painted an image of the surrounding landscape more completely than his eyes could, limited to one perceptive vector. 

Vendres hadn’t just taught him to fight, how to use his heightened senses in concert. Vendres taught him to exploit the opponent’s vulnerabilities and shortcomings, whether physical, mental, or emotional.

He felt a slight tremor in the earth and air behind him. He whirled about and slapped the reaching edge of the sword with Bithe’s own. Evangeline scowled. Ajin met her glare with an encouraging smile. He heard her heartbeat as he did his own; it rose to a crescendo while she coiled her vinelike muscles to strike in response to the challenge.

Evangeline lunged forward, sole sword in a vicious cut towards him. Ajin batted the attack aside and took his foot off her dagger: a silent taunt. Each time she reached for the blade, he warded her off. Her reckless swings, sharp breaths, snarling lip, and glare at him, not his blade, revealed her rage. Ajin knew he had her beaten as surely as she knew that she couldn’t get to her second blade. His height advantage and longer weapon, coupled with her natural fighting style favoring two weapons, made beating Ajin unfavorable.

She lunged forward anyway, blue eyes alight with fury.

When the enemy loses their temper, they lose control. That is when you know you have won. If they cannot control their mind, they cannot control their body.

Ajin slammed her sword to the side with his shield and plunged Bithe towards her sternum. It stopped, hairs away from the layered armor protecting it. He lifted the bottom three fingers off the sword’s hilt so that it hung suspended by his index and thumb, signaling his three wins for the day compared to her one.

His pointy-eared friend scowled, and her breath grew faster. Ajin perked up, alert, as he sensed what was coming a moment too late.

“Shouldn’t have focused so much on me,” Evangeline said as the dark blur crashed into Ajin. Man and panther rolled around as the animal playfully batted at Ajin’s face. Evangeline chuckled as she sheathed her weapons, mentally commanding Bertranth to get off of Ajin. 

“Cheater,” Ajin complained, rubbing his shoulder where he had fallen. “I do not have an animal that follows me wherever I go.”

“But you do have a friend that doesn’t like to be woken up at the crack of dawn,” a gravelly voice came from the forest. The voice’s owner stepped out of the shadows, wincing as he shielded his eyes from dim sunlight. 

It belonged to a young, hawk-faced man who, despite his comment, had wrinkle-free clothes. Even his raven-black hair was neatly combed. But the greenish bags under his near-black eyes that looked like they’d nearly won a staring contest with their reflections told a different tale. Vyrnamint squinted furiously in the dim light of the dawn sun as he regarded Ajin, covered in grass, dirt, and panther hair. “I take it you lost?”

“Not the duel, Virrie,” Ajin corrected as he brushed off his armor. “I still have not found a solid way to counter a fragging panther besides Kar’nek or a spear. Neither of which I had.” He gestured to his pack, where another sword lay sheathed beside a bladed shield. Kar’nek was a beautiful, silvery sword with a draconic design throughout. It was a gift from and a promise to Vendres wrapped in a deadly package. Ajin’s gaze was fond, but he saw the other two regard it respectfully, almost fearfully. They’d seen first-hand what it could do in the right hands. 

Vendres had not trained Ajin to duel and spin about without purpose. He had trained him to defend and kill.

“I think it’s silly that you name your stuff,” Vyrnamint said.

“I think that it is silly you do not. Warriors and travelers alike must care for their equipment. Naming is the start of that.”

The soft sound of a flute from the forest behind drifted through the air, beautiful and melodic. It seemed to rise and fall with the warriors’ breaths and soothed them as they regained their energy.

Vyrnamint sighed. “I want to go back to sleep,” he moaned, dragging his feet back the way he came. Ajin and Evangeline shared a chuckle, silently congratulating each other on a well-fought bout before they trailed behind.

The group strode into a clearing to see Yirnamint standing atop a boulder, eyes softly closed in concentration as he played a lilting melody. Displaced leaves swirled about him in an unseen, unheard wind, lit candles rising and falling with the soothing music. The group felt the hypnotic lure of Yirnamint’s flute, fatigue and soreness washing away, their horses gently stirring from their slumber. Even the surrounding trees seemed to stretch their leaves towards him as he played his gentle tune. 

Like flowers to the sun, Ajin mused. He smiled, basking in the sound.

With his platinum hair and fair, gold-tinted skin, he may as well have been the sun. Yirnamint brought the song to a close with a string of low notes that were fairly uncharacteristic of the instrument. From another musician, they would have sounded flat and hollow. But in his hands, it just worked. Somehow, he could make anything work, given enough time. 

Ajin and Evangeline clapped softly as he opened his eyes, bowed low, and set down his flute. 

So low and fast did the projectile fly that he didn’t see the apple flung at him by Vyrnamint which struck him in the side. Yirnamint grunted at the projectile and looked up sharply.

“Come now, Virrie.” His eyes flicked towards his assailant, mouth curled into a smile. Vyrnamint was standing beside Evangeline, turning another apple over in his hand. He met his brother’s gaze with a sly smile. 

Yirnamint reached down his hand and hummed a rhythm. A delicate, spectral hand shimmering into existence and retrieving the thrown apple. His humming renewed the apple as it floated up to Yirnament. It fixed the blemishes and bruises as a thin sheet of silvery water flowed from the spectral hand, momentarily swaddling the fruit before it evaporated. Yirnamint caught the fruit as it began to fall and took a generous bite, closing his eyes as he visibly savored the natural taste. 

His eyes bulged as the second apple took him right in the crotch. He doubled over, the partially-consumed apple dropping to the boulder and rolling over the edge.

Ajin barked a laugh.

Evangeline simply rolled her eyes. “Men,” she muttered but gave in to a chuckle when she saw Yirnamint glowering at the pair. The bard picked up the fruit and hurled it at Ajin, but a ghostly hand intercepted it and turned the apple to dust. Vyrnamint smirked.

“Alright, alright,” Evangeline declared after a few moments. “Cannar is just a few hours away. We should get there before noon to maximize the time for the search for our contact.”

The others nodded, and the group took down their camp, setting off soon after.

“Nami, do you know any stories about the city of Beldrien?” Ajin called back as the horse rocked beneath him, strapped with weapons, shields, and saddlebags. 

Yirnamint cocked his head, thinking for a few moments. He glanced towards Vyrnamint, soundly snoring despite the daylight, probably making sure he wouldn’t stir his brother. Ajin figured that if he could sleep while riding a horse through a lively forest, he could sleep through a conversation.

“A few. Most of them are in the form of dwarvish songs, and are mainly fictitious. From what I’ve heard, the translation into Kevar doesn’t do them justice. They’re truly mesmerizing to listen to. I’m unfamiliar with the language; I won’t perform them for you. I have to preserve the integrity of these songs and stories.”

Ajin chuckled. “Do any speak of its location?”

“I don’t believe it existed. It’s an old wive’s tale, meant to teach how hubris can endanger society. Besides,” he added, “dwarves specializing in forging a metal that can change form and adapt the properties of other materials? What’s the point of forging it when you can change its form at will?”

“There is a common metal like that,” Ajin countered. “Mercury. Quicksilver. It can easily alloy with nearly any metal.”

Yirnamint shrugged. “It’s likely that the alchemical properties of quicksilver inspired this miracle metal. I believe—”

Vyrnamint snorted loudly, eyes fluttering for a moment. Ajin and Yirnamint fell silent, watching the pale man. After a few heartbeats, Vyrnamint had slumped over in his saddle again. A golden, spectral hand gently nudged him back to the center of his saddle.

“I believe,” Yirnamint continued after the pause, “that the lesson to be learned from the nature of the so-called ‘morphing metal’ is that greed and materialism, paired with the aforementioned hubris, inevitably leads to the downfall of a given group. It’s fascinating, really, the–”

“Would you shut up?” Vyrnamint growled, apparently roused by his brother’s increasing volume. A few birds flew out of a nearby tree. Yirnamint smiled in response and used the spectral hand to muss Vyr’s hair. 

Ajin ignored the outburst and cocked his head thoughtfully. It was the answer he expected. Mirrors, even the historical documents he’d traded for with a sizable amount of solars hadn’t told him much. And he’d long since memorized most of the dwarven songs and stories speaking of Beldrien and the legendary metal that mimicked the draconic trait of shapechanging.

But that wasn’t all Beldric silver could do. No, he’d unlocked the secret to changing its shape, the most basic of its abilities, utilizing transfer and manipulation of thermal energy and his intent to reshape it to his desires. But there was so much more. 

“Energy into energy,” Vendres seemed to whisper, “energy into matter, matter into matter. Mercury’s crossing of natures, all perfected by Akalor’s blood.”

“Transcendent amalgamation,” Ajin whispered to himself, smiling. “Ardor made manifest. Demiurgium.”

He let the conversation drop, humming a familiar, deep melody, mumbling the names repeatedly. 

Soon after, they broke out of the forest line, the sun approaching its zenith. Cannar was a faint dot in the distance. 

Evangeline had stopped short ahead, a hawk on her outstretched arm. She spoke with it in a fluid, almost songlike language. The group had gotten used to her unique skill set, but Ajin remembered the shock he experienced when she talked down a pack of wolves and had them trot alongside her within a few minutes. The wolves had proved useful leverage when bandits ambushed them just a few hours later. The beasts had eaten well that night.

Ajin stopped, not wanting to frighten off the bird. He gestured at the others to similarly halt. Evangeline finished her conversation soon enough, and the hawk ate a red-green berry out of her hand before it fluttered off. When she turned back to him, her dark expression threw Ajin off.

“Black smoke: Cannar is under attack.”

“Already? How many?”

Evangeline shook her head and began to stroke Bertranth’s back. “Birds can’t count well. A few hundred, perhaps?” 

Ajin nodded slowly. “Abating a full-scale attack, might that fulfill your trial?”

“Maybe.” Evangeline turned and mounted her horse, pressing her hand against its flank. The beast took off, practically flying through the forest towards Cannar. Bertranth dipped his head towards Ajin before he bounded off to his master’s side.

Ajin nodded curtly. He wheeled about, dashing to his horse. The two brothers were stretching beside their own. 

“We have to go,” Ajin grunted, swinging himself onto the armored stallion.

Vyrnamint yawned again. “What’s it now?”

“The raiders arrived.” Ajin wheeled his horse about, urging it into a full gallop towards Cannar.

The warriors tore across the plains, Vyrnamint and Yirnamint following further behind on their respective mounts. Ajin and Evangeline quickly closed the distance to the town, arriving just minutes after leaving the forest. Evangeline’s assumption was correct – the raiders were composed of goblins and hobgoblins, and the latter’s commanding shouts to the former rang as loud as the cries of the people they’d slain. There were probably some meogoblins roving around in packs, but they were unlikely to attack in broad daylight. 

As Evangeline strung her bow, Ajin drew a throwing dagger and Kar’nek. A smell not unlike alcohol-based antiseptic emanated from its silvery blade. 

A dozen and a half gray-orange goblins stood before the gate, raising bows against the charging pair. One hobgoblin in chain mail held its jagged greatsword towards the warrior pair and barked a command; another snarled as it unhooked its maul. The arrows loosed as one but only scraped against the horses' armor. Evangeline's arrows whistled through the air, felling two of the goblins as she thundered through their ranks and into the burning town. No doubt seeking glory to fulfill her nebulous ‘trial’.

Bertranth crashed into a group of creatures, biting and thrashing about as Ajin hurled the dagger into a goblin's throat. It gurgled blood as it died. His hand now shot to his sharp-edged shield, unhooking it from the horse's side. 

Ajin clove through one goblin after another from atop his mount. In a few moments, many goblins were either slain or were fleeing—Bertranth would be on those shortly. He slid off his horse.

A snarl sounded from behind Ajin. He tucked and rolled forward as a greatsword swung above where his head was moments before, missing him by a large margin. He whirled about and cut down on the greatsword’s thrust, viciously guiding it to puncture the dirt. 

As the hobgoblin tried to retract its blade, Ajin bent the tip with a stomp and slammed the dull edge of Kar’nek into his foe’s helm. The iron-clad horror staggered to the side, weaponless.

He nodded to Bertranth, and the panther took off after its master.

“I find little pleasure in killing,” Ajin said, eyes flicking to the familiar jagged crest haphazardly depicting the head of a three-horned rhino painted on the hobgoblin’s breastplate – little more than a rectangular plate of hammered iron hanging by shoulder straps and belted to a backplate. He cast his shield aside, gripping Kar’nek in both hands beside his head in a guard—aligning its chill point with his foe’s visor—and kicked the hobgoblin’s weapon across the grass to lay at its feet. 

The hobgoblin scrambled to pick up its sword, setting its feet wide. It drew its blade up in a hanging guard.

“I hate how easy killing comes to me,” Ajin continued, advancing between goblinoid corpses steaming with Kar’nek’s bite. The hobgoblin retreated in equal measure, blade unwavering. “It is often butchery.”

The corners of his lips strained for his ears

“But for you, I think I will enjoy this.”

Evangeline Alrinious

The smoldering gate lay splintered and sundered on the ground behind Evangeline as she thundered through the streets. She fired arrow after arrow into the goblin masses, scattering them. When she neared a group surrounding a smoldering cottage, she turned her horse and leaped off, letting her bow tumble out of her grasp. 

Her sword and dagger flew into her hands as she began to weave and tear through the crowd of snarling goblins. She dodged nimbly out of the way of their frenzied strikes, then spun right back and tore at exposed bellies and necks.

She gave them no quarter as she ruthlessly cut down all the small creatures, particularly those who tried to flee. One cannot easily hide from the wind in the middle of the plains. An arrow stuck harmlessly into the shoulder of her padded jacket. In turn, Evangeline flung one of the knives she kept strapped to her legs at the source of the attack, barely taking a moment to aim before letting the blade fly. Another knife found its way into the back of a fleeing goblin’s skull. It fell without a sound.

Evangeline’s gaze flicked through the bloody but otherwise empty street, breathing hard. It wasn’t entirely because of the exertion. Calm yourself, she thought, forcibly breathing slower, wheeling back to the burning cottage. She closed her eyes, straining to hear faint noises indicating a populated building.

Sure enough, she heard faint whimpers and coughs. She held her breath, lept in through a window, and began evacuating the occupants.

Yirnamint Baldet

“I knew they were good, but not this good,” Vyrnamint remarked as the brothers approached the gate. The area smelled heavily of viscera, excrement, and blood; goblin bodies littered the place, opened up like so many gutted wineskins.

Yirnamint brought out a handkerchief and pinched his nose against the wretched smell, speaking a few arcane words under his breath. A pair of hobgoblins lay strewn out across the smaller corpses. One of them was bisected from hip to hip; its normally orange-red skin turned purplish-blue from the biting cold blade of Kar’nek. Ajin was unnaturally skilled with weaponry; at least Evangeline had the benefits of an elven life and mind well into her third decade. Ajin was a mere human – canny nonetheless, but only human, and only just into his second decade of life.

“Well, that is their specialty,” Yirnamint mumbled nasally beneath the thin cloth. He finished his spell with a flourish of his handkerchief, and now Vyrnamint could smell flowers and other pleasant scents from his brother.

“Specialty doesn’t do it justice. Even Master Falgren probably couldn’t manage six of these savages, let alone two dozen. I couldn’t imagine doing this type of thing without magic.”

They slowed their horses to a trot as they entered the town. Yirnamint, out of the corner of his eye, spotted a group of goblins chasing a young father and child. He nudged his sleepy brother to draw his attention to the chase.

Yirnamint played a single, sharp note that seemed to echo off the buildings as he stretched out a hand. A warbling, undulating wave of air flew through the streets into the midst of the goblins. The brothers heard a sharp crack as the goblins were blasted apart. Blood and torn skin splattered against the road and the nearby housing. The lucky ones outside the blast radius scattered, screaming in a Gruwlen dialect. Yirnamint assumed it was calling for backup.

Indeed, just as the man and kid rounded a street corner, the brothers heard growling and snarling from the direction the goblins had fled. A swarm of goblinoids rushed forth, holding bows. They let loose a volley of arrows, one of which found its way into Vyrnamint’s back.

Shouting in pain, Vyrnamint raised a hand and muttered arcane words. Crimson energy pooled at his fingertips. He glanced at the advancing foes. A large ghostly hand grabbed one of the goblins by the face and sucked the life force out. A moment later, necrosis spread across its face, down its chest, and quickly encapsulated the small creature. It died screaming and wailing. 

Yirnamint didn’t miss the unnaturally wide grin that split his brother’s face.

The goblins advanced more slowly now, bowstrings taught. They all held their breaths for what seemed like an eternity. Their three hobgoblin superiors barked orders, similarly drawing bows of their own. 

A globe of darkness fell over them, causing most goblinoids to fire out of fear or surprise. Yells and the scrapes of boots on stone heralded their mass exodus backward from the darkness. All shuffled into a convenient cluster, and Vyrnamiht incinerated them with a well-aimed ball of fire.

“I just love it when they clump up like that.”

“…and they call me a showoff.”

Ajin

Ajin hacked and cleaved through the crowd of goblinoids. At least now, closer to the town’s keep, there were guards to fight back as well. He whipped his sword about himself fluidly. He barely looked to see where he cut, if at all, instead letting his Sense guide his strikes; Ajin had far more important enemies to watch for. He cut all others down with impunity

When he spun about to survey the battlefield, a relatively large courtyard, he saw what he was searching for: hobgoblins – two – that carried themselves just slightly different from the rest. They were wearing armor, but didn’t look too comfortable with it, and carried weapons free from blood despite the gory battlefield.

The mages.

Ajin’s heart raced faster and faster as he darted through the warring crowd towards them. A stay arrow raced toward a guard to his just within his Sense; Ajin cut it from the air with a snap of his wrist. 

He ducked behind a nearby cart to not alert them of his presence, taking deep breaths. Ajin thrust Kar’nek to the side, and its blade thinned, rounded, and elongated into a spear with a serrated tip. He rushed the first one. 

Surprised, it couldn’t get away as he rammed the spear through the back of its neck. The vast majority of spells required the caster to be able to speak. The hobgoblin choked, its eyes wide as it grabbed at the spear embedded in its throat. Its Ardor was probably strong enough to survive that attack for a time.

The second mage raised its hands, the fingertips of its right hand glowing a fiery orange as it moved in familiar movements. 

Ajin tackled the creature and pinned its hands to the ground. He got up on his knees and rammed the sharp edge of his shield down again and again onto its throat, hearing the crunch of bone and the severing of skin beneath his hands as its Ardor wore out. Its severed head rolled away a few moments later.

He turned away from the bloodied stump to the other mage, who stumbled away, still trying to pull out Kar’nek. Ajin leaped to his feet and darted at the fleeing mage, kicking it to the ground. It tried to crawl away, but Ajin tore Kar’nek out of its neck and rammed it into the hobgoblin's back repeatedly. It twitched for a moment and fell still. Blood mixed with the orange cloak, coloring a patch of the fabric a deep maroon. 

Around him, the battle raged, but for the first time since the battle began, he stood still, fixated upon the garment. His heart seemed like it would tear itself from his chest. All else seemed to fade as his vision tunneled on the cloak. His hands began to tremble. To Ajin, the whole thing blossomed into a violent shade of scarlet.

Focus. The past is the past.

But it was not the voices that pulled him from his stupor – goblinoid cries of fear and shouts to retreat broke his trance and made him spin around, looking for what they were afraid of.