Koros pulled his mount to a halt beside a cluster of frost-covered boulders, the beast's flanks steaming in the cold air. His hands were steady on the reins now, but the metallic taste of fear still coated his tongue—a flavor he hadn't experienced in years. The horse snorted and pawed at the snow, sensing its rider's agitation.
Academy students, yes—but not like this. He'd known they were Lumina-trained, but he'd expected typical student-level competence. Cautious spellcasting, hesitant tactics, the kind of measured approach that came from academic training without real battlefield experience. Instead, he'd watched his expendable fodder get carved apart in seconds by coordinated magic and tactics that belonged on a professional battlefield.
The moment he'd seen that shield fighter simply vanish and reappear—some kind of displacement ability—he'd known the engagement was lost. He'd dropped from his perch and retreated without hesitation, but not before glimpsing the woman's devastating spell tear through the air where he'd been moments before.
Koros spat into the dirt, trying to rid himself of the taste of his own mortality. Twenty years of professional work, and he'd never felt so thoroughly outclassed. These weren't students playing at being mercenaries—they were a coordinated unit with lethal precision.
He whistled softly, a low, warbling call that mimicked the cry of a mountain thrush. Within moments, a sleek raven descended from the canopy above, alighting on his extended forearm with practiced ease. The bird's black eyes fixed on his face, intelligent and patient.
"Bad news for the master," Koros murmured, reaching into his belt pouch for a small scroll of thin parchment. His fingers worked quickly, scratching out a coded message in the shorthand he and Valerius had agreed upon. Each symbol carried the weight of his failure.
He tied the message to the raven's leg with steady hands, though his jaw remained clenched tight. Professional failure was one thing—he could accept that. But watching his diversionary force crumble so completely? That stung deeper than his wounded pride.
"Fly fast," he whispered to the bird. "And pray Valerius has better plans than I did."
The raven launched itself skyward, disappearing into the grey canopy above. Koros watched it go, then spurred his mount forward, turning away from the mountain path entirely. His mind was already working through contingencies and escape routes.
He'd underestimated them once. It wouldn't happen again.
The raven's arrival at the mercenary camp went unnoticed by most. Gregor sat hunched over a meager fire, poking at the coals with a stick, while his remaining men huddled in their tents against the mountain chill. But Valerius, standing at the edge of the clearing with his hands clasped behind his back, saw the dark shape descend from the grey sky.
The bird alighted on a low branch near him, fixing him with intelligent black eyes. Valerius approached calmly, though something in the raven's posture—the way it held itself, tense and urgent—suggested the news it carried was not favorable.
He untied the small scroll from the bird's leg with practiced efficiency, his fingers steady despite the growing knot of apprehension in his chest. The raven took flight immediately after, as if eager to distance itself from whatever message it had delivered.
Valerius unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the coded symbols. His expression remained impassive, but the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed his reaction to the contents.
Ambush thwarted. Academy wolves, not cubs. High-tier battle magic witnessed. Fodder spent entirely. New approach required immediately.
For a long moment, Valerius stood motionless, the implications of Koros's message cascading through his mind like falling dominoes. The delay tactic had not only failed—it had revealed the true capabilities of their opposition. Lumina Academy students operating with battlefield-level coordination and magic.
He folded the message carefully and slipped it into his inner pocket. When he turned toward the camp, his movements carried a new urgency, though his composed facade never wavered.
"Lyra," he called softly, his voice cutting through the camp's quiet bustle. "A word, if you please. Immediately."
The pale woman emerged from her cluttered tent, her dark eyes reading the tension in his posture even before he spoke. Whatever patience he'd had for gradual approaches had just evaporated.
Lyra followed him away from the main camp, her pale features drawn with curiosity rather than concern. When they were well out of earshot, Valerius turned to face her, his usual composure showing subtle cracks of urgency.
"The situation has changed," he said without preamble. "Our timeline has accelerated significantly. We need that artifact's location now, not in days."
Lyra's dark eyes gleamed with interest. "The blood magic you mean? The ritual I mentioned?"
"Precisely." Valerius studied her face carefully. "You said there were ways to enhance your scrying abilities significantly. I need to know exactly what that entails."
A slow smile spread across the Occultist's lips, transforming her pale features into something almost predatory. "With the right... offerings... I could create a sensing matrix. A physical focus that would lead us directly to the artifact's location." Her voice took on an eager edge. "Human blood carries such potent life force. Far more than I could achieve through conventional means."
Valerius glanced back toward the camp where Gregor's men huddled around their fires. "How many would you require?"
"Five, perhaps six. The ritual demands significant life essence to create something truly lasting." She licked her lips unconsciously. "I've been refining the process for years, perfecting the balance between sacrifice and power."
"How long would the ritual take?"
"An hour, perhaps two. But Master Valerius," her eyes brightened with anticipation, "the results would be extraordinary. Not just a location—I could create a permanent sensing device. Something that would track the artifact's movements, resonate with its magical signature."
Valerius was quiet for a long moment, weighing the cost of half a dozen expendable sellswords against mission success. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of a final decision.
"Gather what you need. We begin immediately."
Lyra's smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp in the dim light. "With pleasure."
Lyra moved through the camp with practiced ease, her pale eyes scanning the huddled figures around the dying fires. She selected her victims with the cold calculation of a butcher choosing cuts of meat—men who kept to themselves, those without close allies who might ask uncomfortable questions. A quiet word here, a gentle touch there, and soon six of Gregor's sellswords were following her into the darkness beyond the camp's perimeter.
"Purification before the final approach," she explained to those who bothered to look up from their meager meals. "The mountain spirits must be appeased before we enter the sacred village."
The men she led away seemed almost docile, their eyes glazed with the subtle influence of her minor enchantments. They walked like sleepwalkers, unaware of their true purpose in the ritual to come.
Gregor watched the procession with growing unease, his weathered face twisting into a scowl. He pushed himself to his feet, taking a step toward the departing group. "Hold on there. What kind of purification needs six of my—"
A firm hand settled on his shoulder, fingers gripping with just enough pressure to convey a warning. Valerius had appeared beside him like a shadow, his voice low but carrying absolute authority.
"The Occultist requires privacy for her work, Captain. I suggest you focus on preparing the remaining men for tonight's approach to the village."
Gregor's jaw worked furiously, but he said nothing more. He watched helplessly as his men disappeared into the forest, Lyra's pale form leading them deeper into the darkness where the trees would muffle any sounds that might follow.
The ritual was about to begin.
Deep in the forest, far from the camp's dying fires, Lyra had found the perfect clearing. Ancient stones formed a rough circle here, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of mountain weather. Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting everything in silver and shadow.
The six men stood in a loose group at the circle's center, their eyes still clouded by her enchantments. They swayed slightly, like wheat in a gentle breeze, unaware of the symbols she had carved into the earth around them or the significance of the ritual blade glinting in her pale hands.
"Sanguinis revelio, vita fluens, potentia nascens," Lyra began, her voice taking on a rhythmic cadence that seemed to make the very air thrum with power. The ancient words rolled off her tongue like a familiar song, each syllable charged with dark intent.
She moved between the stones with practiced grace, touching each one briefly. Where her fingers made contact, the carved symbols began to glow with a sickly red light, as if the stone itself was bleeding. The enchanted men remained motionless, their breathing shallow and synchronized.
The blade found its first target with surgical precision. Then the second. The third. Each death fed the growing circle of power, the spilled blood seeping into the carved channels she had prepared, flowing toward the ritual's focal point at the circle's heart.
As the life force of the sacrifices poured into her working, Lyra's eyes rolled back, revealing only whites that gleamed in the supernatural glow. Power coursed through her like liquid fire, more intoxicating than any wine. This was what she had been born for—not the timid hedge magic of village wise women, but true power drawn from the very essence of life itself.
"Umbra quaerit, sanguis ducit, destinatum invenit," she chanted, her voice rising to a fever pitch. The blood-soaked earth began to smoke and hiss, releasing vapors that coalesced into writhing, serpentine shapes in the air above.
At the ritual's climax, the accumulated power compressed itself into a single point of brilliant crimson light. When the glow faded, a small crystalline orb rested in the palm of her outstretched hand, its surface swirling with threads of captured blood that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Lyra smiled, her teeth stained red in the moonlight. The sensing matrix was complete.