15^th Illumis, 460 AG, 19:24PM, Heodal Kingdom

The group ran towards the open space ahead of the church, flattened by the last two barrages of boulders, completely taken over with the odor of burnt wood and the occasional taste of iron from all the blood. Katyl swept the courtyard in a single glance, four enemy soldiers, dark armor that drank in the little light left in the day.

Two of them were dragging a figure out by his arms, a local guard. His uniform was torn, and blood struck down from multiple places, his knees scraping the ground. A second guard was up against the church wall, lying sideways and pressing his hand to a cut that ran all the way from the wrist up to the elbow; the blood had already soaked through the clothes and left a slow drip, as if it was marking the time.

She scanned left, noticing the shattered remains of a once pretty house; the roof collapsed, and the rubble formed an accidental trench along the line. It was perfect.

“Under the rubble. All three of you,” she said, voice so heavy it came like a hand on Xyron’s back.

His mouth readied a protest about to come out, but she caught him mid-breath, with a stare that should have been impossible at such distance. Xyron calmed himself down and nodded, grabbing Aolyne by the hand. The little one moved weirdly, steps jerky from adrenaline or maybe the pain at his ankles, but Xyron kept him upright and hurried into the debris.

Kai followed by half a step behind, scanning everywhere for threats as though expecting an ambush; he’d definitely make a proper scout, if he lived to see that day. Katyl pointed two fingers at the deepest part of the rubble pit, and watched as the three boys slipped behind a wooden beam and vanished. Now for the hard part: the enemy.

The pair dragging the first guard seemed to have gotten bored, letting his head bounce against the paving stones, and turning their focus to the man at the wall. He was older, around Paul’s age; she could only guess by the many scars on his face. He tried to keep his sword up, but the blood loss was denying his grip much strength, and the Argo man facing him could see it too. The fourth soldier stayed back; he seemed like a silent type with both his hands on a large sword that would have taken Katyl all her strength to swing. He watched the front entrance and nothing else.

She could see what kind of people they were: undisciplined and reckless, too confident for their own good. Her magic ached under her skin, a heat that beat in her own soul. However, she had to keep it as controlled as possible, or face the consequences. She shut her eyes for a short moment, feeling the way the wind might take if she let it, the way it would dance around her, and into her.

She couldn’t delay much longer, or the guards were as good as dead. One of them barked at the bleeding guard, then shoved him down onto both knees, with his blade pressing in so close she could see the first dent where the steel would cut through the skin.

Katyl moved, but not out in the open, not yet. She circled wide, sticking to the edge of the broken buildings and sliding along the shadow where the smoke bent sunlight into thin, blurred light. Her boots made no sound on the scorched ground, and with each stride she let her magic bleed a little into her muscles. With every motion, her body became lighter than ever, as if she herself had become wind.

Katyl played the battle in her head countless times: what moves she could make to catch them off guard, which way she could take so the injured guards could live. All she needed was the enemy to distract themselves for a second.

As she crept forward like a shadow, the younger of the two guards, fearing for his life, couldn’t hold the pain and begged the enemy for mercy.

“You don’t have to do this. We surrender!” he cried.

The soldiers could only laugh at his desperation and punched the guard in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious. Katyl was closer every second. She steadied herself and readied the knife at her hip. Her throat was dry, but her wind was hungry to end those bastards.

She angled her approach so that the boys’ hiding place was out of the way of the likely crossfire. She’d have to close the distance fast and keep the enemy always in front; if she got surrounded, that would be the end.

A sudden shout came from inside the church, and all four soldiers twitched, looking toward the doorway. That was the distraction she needed.

Katyl covered eight meters in the fraction of a second, landed behind the one with the big sword, and stabbed him in the gap at the back of his right knee. She poured the full force of wind into the knife, and felt the blade slide through the joint like she was chopping through fruit. The man screamed as he fell on his other knee, but Katyl was already past him, spinning the knife up and into her left hand.

The soldier on the right caught the movement first, swinging his sword sideways on instinct. Katyl ducked under the blade, swept her leg in a tight arc, and kicked his ankle. He tumbled forward, arm pinned under his own body. Then, she thrusted the knife up through under his chin, and into the roof of his mouth. The body spasmed on the ground, devoid of life.

Two left.

The closest one was bringing his sword up for a proper cut, but he was too slow. Katyl braced her foot on the corpse and threw the knife, not at the man, but at his blade. It hit its side with a crack, knocking the weapon off target. Katyl closed the gap, grabbed the man by the strap at his chin, and forced his head sideways, hard enough to pop something at the base of his neck.

The last soldier dropped the injured guard and ran for the church door. Katyl picked up one of the fallen swords, feeling its unfamiliar weight, and let the wind guide the throw. The blade left her hand while spinning, the wind carrying it flat. It caught the soldier just above the waist, cutting him deeply. He slammed onto the door, bounced off of it, and fell limp on the ground.