The alley was cloaked in shadows, save for the faint, greenish glow radiating from the figure of a young elf. His features were sharp, eyes intense, his face twisted in concentration as he muttered incantations under his breath, fingers tracing complex patterns in the air. Flickers of magic danced around him, raw and unstable, casting eerie reflections onto the walls.

In the palm of his hand, he held a spectral flame—dark and pulsing, flickering erratically as though it might explode at any moment. He glared at it, frustration etched into every line of his face, but the flame did not obey him. It sputtered and vanished, leaving only a faint trail of green smoke.

“Come on… I know I can do this,” he whispered to himself, his voice trembling with equal parts anger and desperation. His hands clenched into fists, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing himself to remain calm. This magic, this power—it was his only weapon, the only way he could avenge those who had been wronged. He wouldn’t allow himself to fail.

He closed his eyes, whispering another spell, his voice carrying a note of quiet rage. This time, the shadows around him began to shift, forming into vague, skeletal shapes that moved with an unnatural, jerking motion. They hissed and writhed, unsteady yet menacing, each flicker of movement revealing the instability in his spellwork.

The elf’s brow furrowed as he tried to hold the shapes together, sweat beading on his forehead. But his magic was rough, unpolished, and the shadows broke apart, dissolving back into the darkness. He swore under his breath, his hand trembling as he forced himself to try again.

In that moment, a strange light filled his eyes—not just anger, but pain, a wound that had never healed. He wasn’t doing this just to prove his strength; he was fighting for something far deeper, something rooted in the injustices he’d endured. The vengeance he sought wasn’t just against his enemies—it was against the world that had cast him aside, treated him like a monster, forced him to survive on borrowed time and stolen power.

He raised his hand again, this time attempting a different spell. The air around him grew cold as a thick mist seeped from his fingertips, swirling into an eerie fog that filled the alley. Faint whispers echoed through the mist, like voices from another world, and a chill spread through the shadows as the spirits began to take shape.

But his control wavered. The mist began to fade, slipping through his fingers, the voices fading into silence. He cursed again, a mixture of anger and despair flashing in his eyes as he realized he still hadn’t mastered it. His power was immense, but his skills were fractured, unstable—a volatile storm that could tear him apart as easily as it could his enemies.

In the depths of his frustration, he clenched his fists, his voice barely a whisper as he vowed, “I’ll make them fucking pay… every last one of them. I don’t care how much power it takes. I’ll burn every last one to ashes.”

And as he stood alone in the darkness, his magic sparking and flickering around him like embers on the edge of a wildfire, he was unaware that his relentless pursuit for control, for vengeance, was bringing him ever closer to crossing lines from which there would be no return.

The rawness of his power, the desperation in his eyes—this was what Valmet and her friends would soon face. A storm of rage and magic, an enemy who wielded spells without restraint, driven by a need for revenge that burned brighter than any spell he could cast.