EPISODE 24
SPELLBIND

Year 376...
Empire of Wemont...
Capital, Therasus...
Crown Candidate Royal Castle...

The second sun rose upon the testing grounds with a grim crimson hue, as if the heavens themselves bled anticipation. The Forest of Deorath stood cloaked in morning mist, its breathless silence steeped in menace and memory. Birds did not sing. The trees groaned as though they remembered.

The blare of the ceremonial horn cracked across the morning like thunder.

And the hunt began.

The second day had passed swiftly, and with it, a wave of familiar foes returned-only this time, against new masters.

Sterlla, the daughter of dragons and prophecy, met Frina's spider-creature from the first day-a wailing hybrid of woman and arachnid. Sterlla's twin blades moved like dragonfire-relentless, sharp, and ancient. The beast fell in less than a breath, her body twitching, severed cleanly in two. Her dragons roared in approval from the cliffs beyond, the shadow of their wings a dark blessing above her.

Simore, cloaked in heat and fury, dispatched the headless revenant who has encountered Orion earlier with a flick of his wrist-his fire coiling around it like a crown of execution. The creature had barely lifted its blade before it disintegrated into ember and ash.

Sigel of the Blossoming Vale met the towering water-born beast Lionella had battled once. The fish-mouthed behemoth surged from the marshes, but Sigel called the vines-bladed, blood-slick, and water-fed. They pierced through scale and bone. The forest cheered silently.

Orion, eyes like twin stars in eclipse, faced the serpent Sterlla had once battled. The beast hissed, but Orion whispered-a mere thought-twisting its will with a spell of calm. It curled beneath him, docile, until it faded from this realm entirely.

Lionella, sharp and red like a wound, faced the lava-clad monster once danced with by Simore. Her voice alone was enough-a siren's whisper of longing. She had already divined its weakness. With a single command, it fell to its knees and offered itself to death, her blade sealing its fate.

Frina of the Dreaming Breath encountered the fire beast of Sigel's past. She raised her hands, and with a song, lulled it into slumber eternal. It collapsed like a sleeping child and faded from existence with a sigh.

And so the second day passed.

Each victor walked away not only undefeated, but untethered. The creatures had been, it was clear, not random. They had been chosen-tested against their opposite natures on the first day.

Sterlla's dragons could fell any beast not immune to the old curses.

Simore's fire devoured all but those resistant to flame.

Sigel's floral wrath blossomed in moisture-rich terrain.

Orion bent all who had minds to hear him.

Lionella needed only desire to control.

Frina-she silenced war itself with sleep unless proven otherwise.

Each had met their natural opposite on Day One. On Day Two, their prey were simply doomed.

Then dawn broke upon the third day.

The forest held its breath.

The audience was vast now-streets filled with tents, arcane screens suspended in air by floating monoliths of stone and light. Vendors called out blessings and sales alike. Children wore crowns of flowers woven to represent each contender. Cheers clashed with anticipation.

And Emperor Serox permitted it all.

"It is the right of every soul to earn its bread," he had said, voice iron-clad but just. "So long as no mouth speaks deceit, let them sell to their heart's content."

And now, beneath a rising sun that glittered like a blade's edge, six figures took their places.

The contenders did not stand alone this time.

They stood among armies.

Orion stood clad in shadow-purple, flanked by soldiers in steel grey-commanded by none other than Adena, silent and sharp-eyed. The two did not speak, but the air between them pulsed with something unsaid.

Simore burned like a wildfire among the black banners of Renan's command. His hands crackled even at rest, fire climbing lazily along his veins as he whispered orders. Renan's eyes watched him with both pride and caution.

Sterlla rode at the head of Commander Linone's handpicked squad. No ordinary force-this was the elite, those who served the realm's blade and soul. Linone's hand rested near his hilt at all times, but his eyes often flicked to Sterlla, unreadable.

Lionella walked among the Xiones Private Guard, their silver helms gleaming like moons. At their head stood Shane Xiones, the empire's royal advisor. His respect for her was not masked, nor overly offered. It was balanced-a warrior seeing another.

Frina stood surrounded by velvet-cloaked soldiers of the Cera Family, a quiet and deadly force led by Valen Cera himself-The Empress' blood kin. His hand rested lightly against the hilt of his obsidian blade, and he watched Frina like one watches a prophecy-both feared and inevitable.

Valen Cera
21
Only child of Eryan Cera, Seradole Cera Xiones' cousin brother
Wielder of the spirit of jet black light,
Power of transformation
Squad commander of the Cera army

And Sigel stood in her own sacred grove, a thick line of the Service Army soldiers spreading behind her like an extension of the earth led by none other than Second-In-Command Salivor Dorsey, only junior to Linone Sresch.

Salivor Dorsey
21
Part of the Vinford family
Wielder of the spirit of dust light,
Power of earth control
Squad commander of the Vinford Service Army
Second-in-command of the Wemont Demon Army

The rules for this day were simple-yet unforgiving.

Each leader was to fight with their chosen or assigned army-against whatever the forest conjured. Victory would not only require strength-it demanded leadership, decision-making, and unity.

And so, as the horn blared again-shrill and ancient, shaking the leaves from the trees-

The Six Screens rose once more.

Floating in a perfect circle, they cast a glow upon the faces of every soul who watched-noble or merchant, child or elder. Silence gripped the crowd.

Each screen pulsed, waiting.

And then-

Lionella's screen flickered.

The crowd exhaled in awe.

The first move had begun.

Lionella strode at the helm of the Xiones Private Guard, her golden armor shimmering beneath a fleeting shard of morning sunlight. The soldiers marched behind her in rhythmic silence, glancing now and then at their commander, Shane Xiones, whose composed stride echoed resolve.

Then—suddenly—they halted.

A deafening stillness dropped upon the path.

They had arrived.

Ahead, veiled in the shrouds of trees, emerged a pack of half-human, half-horse abominations—centaur assassins, cloaked in ink-dyed cloth and bloodlust. Their torsos, sleek and muscular, bore tribal markings from prison halls long forgotten. Their equine bodies twitched with combat readiness.

But it was not their shape that marked them trained.

It was the way they held their daggers—tilted not for threat, but for execution. Silent, lethal, practiced.

Lionella's eyes narrowed. Her hand moved instinctively to the hilt of her sword. She stepped forward and raised her voice, sharp as a drawn blade.

"We are outnumbered. Half the guard—stand by for battle. The rest of you, form a healing division."

But then—

A voice low and stern interrupted from behind her.

"There are no healers in this squad."

Shane Xiones.

Lionella’s jaw tensed. The breath that left her lips was sharp and bitter.

“Of course there aren’t,” she muttered under her breath, then pivoted slightly and whispered to him, her voice like wind through iron, “Split them. Six to me. Six to the high trees. Hide in shadow—strike when friends are trapped.”

Shane gave a crisp nod. His eyes glowed faint jet as he cast a spell of mental relay—each soldier received the command in their minds like a whisper from the gods.

And then, like a flame given wind, Lionella charged.

Her boots slammed into the moss-carpeted ground, and her sword gleamed crimson in her hand. A centaur leapt to intercept her, dagger colliding with steel in a clash that echoed like a scream.

"A sword against a dagger," the man hissed with a grin, sweat clinging to his temple, "Don’t you think the unfairness shines through?"

Lionella’s blade snarled against his weapon. Her voice was iron.

“You presume this is a fair game?”

With a fierce shove, she broke from the lock and spun, striking again. Their duel carved scars through the forest clearing.

Behind her, her half of the squad engaged, steel against hoof, blood against bark. The sounds of battle rose—metal shrieking, hooves thundering, orders barked in haste.

But they were vastly outnumbered.

Twelve soldiers.

Dozens of centaurs.

The ground shook beneath their charge.

Lionella gritted her teeth. Another enemy lunged from the side. Without flinching, she drew her second sword—the one at her left hip—and skewered the charging foe through the chest. As his form disintegrated into arcane dust, she twisted, raising both swords to face the smirking captain again.

The captain merely laughed, sharp and guttural.

“So now you bring tricks. Archers in trees? How quaint. Shall we all play hide and seek, princess?”

She blocked his blow, slid beneath his kick, and with a snarl, somersaulted back. She landed beside Shane.

And now—

They were surrounded.

Shane’s hand twitched near his sheath. The trees moaned under the weight of approaching bodies. Six of their own stood in stance. Six more hidden in trees, loosing arrows when openings appeared. But it wasn’t enough.

Lionella’s breathing quickened.

“I... I do not know what to do...”

Her voice was nearly a whisper—raw, trembling, unheard by all but the man beside her.

Shane Xiones turned to her, eyes calm.

“Trust yourself. We shall follow.”

The words struck her like a steadying wind.

Lionella blinked, once.

Then nodded, slowly.

“Magic... I must learn what binds them. What they desire. Their secrets. My enchantment will not work without it. But I need time—time to read into their souls.”

Shane’s jaw clenched. The enemy surged forward again, arrows rained from above, and screams tore through the trees like fire through parchment.

“How long?” he asked.

“Ten minutes. I need ten minutes,” she answered, blades trembling under the force of another clash.

Shane inhaled sharply.

“Given.”

And then he slammed his palm into the air.

A rumble. A whisper of pages.

From nothing, colossal bookshelves erupted around Lionella, forming a glowing dome of arcane wood and leather—his most powerful defense magic: The Tome Sanctuary. Every shelf bore runes, each book alive with binding energy. The dome sealed with a pulse of golden glyphs.

She was protected.

Lionella dropped to one knee inside the dome, her swords crossed on the ground. Her pupils dilated. Her hands rose in invocation. The scent of ancient paper and lavender incense filled the barrier.

She began her work—soul-weaving, as taught by her bloodline.

Outside—

Shane pulled his sword free. He raised it high.

“We trust our leader!”

And he charged.

Steel screamed against dagger. Magic collided with monstrous strength. Shane moved like a wraith, cutting down the first two who charged with ruthless grace.

And all around him, his soldiers gave their lives to buy Lionella her ten minutes.

Above, the six archers rained arrows in relentless waves. Below, blood soaked the earth.

And within the dome—

Lionella’s eyes glowed.

One by one, she was learning the names of their fears. Their grief. Their sins.

The forest reeked of death. The scent of blood mixed with singed bark, magic residue, and sweat-drenched despair. The battlefield was a cruel painting — drawn in slashes, broken limbs, and silent screams. Shane Xiones flew through the smoky air, his black cloak torn, his blade slashing in wide arcs as crimson mist sprayed into the wind with each kill. His once-immaculate tunic clung to his frame, darkened to the colour of dried wine by the blood of the enemy.

Below him, the soldiers of the royal private squad groaned and heaved as they fought tooth and nail to protect what remained of their ranks. Sword met dagger, spell met spell — and in the midst of chaos, time became elastic. Their hope clung to the will of archers perched in trees, arrows flying like desperate prayers to the gods above. Yet it wasn't enough. They were breaking.

And still, Lionella remained sealed within the glowing dome of conjured books — her eyes closed, hands trembling, lips murmuring the hidden desires of enemies. Her enchantment needed time, time she no longer had.

Eleven minutes passed.

Then, as if a current of storm magic surged through the clearing, Shane felt the pulse before it happened — a rupture of energy that made his skin crawl and his instincts flare. His eyes snapped toward the dome, and with a single snap of his blood-slicked fingers, the bookshelves crumbled into dust, sucked into the air like scattered leaves.

Lionella stood at the epicentre, her red magic flaring violently around her, crackling like a firestorm caught in a spell circle.

Her golden eyes, once gentle, now burned with ruthless clarity.

All around, the enemies — half-human, half-horse assassins — stumbled, then dropped to their knees as if yanked by unseen strings. Dozens fell at once, their faces blank, their resistance shattered.

With both blades drawn, Lionella moved — swift, deadly, graceful. She tore through them like a flame through parchment. One by one, heads fell, rolling momentarily before turning into ashes on bloodied earth. The battlefield stilled, the sound of steel fading into silence.

Lionella's breath was ragged. Her hands trembled, blades slick with black-red blood. Her gaze swept the destruction around her — what they had done, what she had done.

A whisper. “Hah… we did it…”

Shane landed beside her, his expression unreadable beneath the streaks of red across his face. He sheathed his sword with a slow, tired motion.

“That we did,” he replied lowly. “Congratulations, Princess Lionella.”

She turned, and at the sight of him — soaked in blood, shoulders bruised, aura drained — something in her chest clenched with guilt. The soldiers behind them lay groaning, wounded but alive, their blood staining the earth like a tapestry of loyalty.

“I…” she began, her voice breaking, “I suppose I am not cut out for things such as this. The throne—”

“Stop.” Shane’s tone was firm as steel. He didn’t raise his voice, but the command in it was absolute.

“I’d rather be a pretty doll. Something well-dressed and kept at court. You saw what happened to your soldiers—”

“They’re alive,” he snapped, without looking at her, already lifting one of the wounded and carrying him with surprising care toward the manifestation he summoned — a vessel made of shimmering, translucent scrolls, unfolding like paper lanterns into a floating boat.

“I should have planned better. I wasn’t—” her voice cracked. “I wasn’t good enough.”

“You were more than enough,” he muttered, placing another injured man on the illusionary boat. His words, unfortunately, Lionella failed to hear.

“Just because I have magic doesn’t mean I’m suited for everything. People expect too much. I—I should have done better. Should have—”

“You speak too much,” Shane interrupted as he boarded his orb — a transparent sphere of colourless energy that hummed beneath his feet. It lifted him slowly into the air.

Lionella’s breath caught. She grit her teeth and snapped her fingers. A golden orb appeared beneath her and rose, chasing after his.

“Well, I’m sorry for wasting your time,” she bit out. “You clearly know how to do everything on your own, don’t you?”

His orb glided forward ahead of her, unbothered. “What are you on about? I am human, Princess Lionella. There are countless things I cannot do.”

She stared at him, stunned.

“I am Shane,” he continued without turning. “A man with limited power, a sharpened mind, and an obligation. I serve the Xiones. I assist the crown. I protect the realm. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Why are you boasting now?” she grumbled.

He ignored her. “You are Lionella Zywan. The darling of every court, the envy of noble women and the hope of noble men. You learn not just with books, but by watching. Listening. You care more than most, even when you try not to. You fight with your wit and your magic, not to win, but to survive. You are the reason people feel safe in royal halls. You command attention. You lead with humanity.”

She was silent. Her chest tightened.

Their orbs glided through the dusk-touched sky, the forest shrinking beneath them. The paper-boat carrying wounded soldiers followed like a quiet shadow.

“Are…” she hesitated, her voice low. “Are you consoling me?”

Shane’s eyes were on the horizon.

“No,” he said softly. “I am simply telling you the truth.”

And with that, the wind carried them forward — towards the awaiting dais, towards the crowd’s thunderous cheers neither of them could yet hear, and toward the next reckoning neither of them could yet name.