Verona turned to her four comrades —Darrik’s comrades, she corrected herself. Though she was ostensibly the leader of this team, she had no illusions of actually being in control. She saw how they all turned to Darrik, the subtle nods he gave them, instructing them to continue obeying her for the time being.

It grated her. She hated having been forced to ally herself with the Pyrastern family. They were slavers, though they primarily dealt with non-humans. Verona had seen the looks in the eyes of the captive sun elves bound for the Pyrastern production facilities. Though she had more human blood than elf they could tell with a simple glance she shared their heritage and the looks in their eyes told her they thought her a traitor. She never let her guard down so long as she was around a Pyrastern. Most of the family was reasonable enough, but Darrik had always had a sadistic streak to him. It might have been paranoia, but she couldn’t help but feel Darrik thought of her as little more than chattel that had somehow gotten loose of its chains. She wouldn’t need to put up with him for too much longer though. Soon she’d have everything she’d need to annul that ridiculous engagement and say goodbye to Darrik forever. She shivered, remembering how he wrapped his arm around her.

Verona had no illusions about what her life would be like if she hadn’t been so blessed with magical talent. There were precious few places in the world that would accept half-elves. Here in Orlem, she’d be lucky to be treated as a second-class citizen for her non-human heritage. She unconsciously swept her hair back over her ears, obscuring the slight points. It was only because Orlem was the cosmopolitan urban center it was that she wasn’t exiled from its walls at birth.

Someday things would change. Someday soon if she had anything to say about it. For years she had bowed and scraped and groveled to those that had sneered at her with looks of disgust on their face. She could only imagine what they would have done to her if she wasn’t a mage. In Orlem, magic ruled, and those with magic commanded great respect. Among mages, those with the most power commanded the most respect. Among all the mages currently training at Orlem’s school of magic, she had the most power. If she continued to train and grow, she could someday become the most powerful woman in Orlem. When that day came she would have to power to alter Orlem as she wished, and make it a better place for all.

She would make this city beautiful. Make it what the founders had meant for it to become. A place of magic, pure and simple, not tied down by the prejudices of lesser nations. The mages of Orlem were the best in the world at elemental magic, but there was so much more to learn. Bringing in a few masters from the dwarven kingdoms had been a start, but it only scratched the surface of what mages in Orlem could learn if they just opened themselves up to new types of magic that didn’t fit into their mold. In their arrogance, the mages of Orlem dismissed the beastkin, the elves, the orcs and so many others, but all of them had powerful and vibrant mystic arts of their own to teach. Perhaps if the masters had been more open minded about what qualified as magic, her childhood friend Mar would be at her side, rather than that slime, Darrik. She was certain that the tests did not lie, she’d been right there beside him during all their examinations. She’d been shocked and confused when she’d been told he had no aptitude for magic. That was impossible, there was simply no way Mar wasn’t a mage. He was far too clever to be a simple mundane.

That’s why she’d been so happy for him when he told her that he was leaving Orlem. She’d watched the proud young boy she knew slowly withering away among the books and drudgery of common labor. He was destined for so much more.

And when the day came that he returned to Orlem as a great mage, she would be there to greet him. She’d rebuild the city into a kinder, more accepting place that cared for all its citizens, just like they’d always talked about.

But there was no time for wistfulness now. She needed the Pyrasterns help, just as they needed hers. They were using her for her talents, just as she used them for their resources. Once this was all over though, Verona would try her damndest to find a way to distance herself as much as possible from the Pyrasterns. And when the time was right, she’d make sure to bring their empire —slaves and all— crashing to the ground.

She blinked away her thoughts and noticed the others were chatting lightly.

Ayron whispered. Although his lips barely seemed to move his air magic was sufficient to carry his words across the aether.

Darrik replied coldly.

one of the other group members said.

Complained Roy, the groups earth mage.

Sarasha muttered.

Darrik stroked his chin.

Verona said. Verona pointed to the earth mage, Roy. Verona pointed at the Ayron

Verona noticed with irritation that they turned towards Darrik for confirmation. He gave a slight nod, but there seemed to be more there then simple encouragement. Verona’s suspicion grew, but she dismissed it. She didn’t have time to worry now.

Verona whispered at the bottom of the stairs.

She shouted and they all burst into the room, expecting to encounter a dozen third order mages armed and ready.

They were surprised when the room was empty.

The Ayron whispered.

Sarasha, the groups water mage, hissed quietly.

Verona replied sternly.

They wandered around and Verona had both the air mage and the earth mage scan the surrounding area by sensing the vibrations through their respective mediums. Both picked up nothing.

Darrik stated with finality.

Verona shook her head She noticed that the other mages had gathered around her.

None of the others moved or spoke. They all looked to Darrik.

Darrik barked a laugh.

Verona hissed.

Verona replied, blood rising to her face in anger. She had to mentally steady herself. She knew this betrayal was coming, but she’d hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.

Darrik grinned.

Verona looked at the other mages.

Roy, their earth mage looked around. There were several more nods.

Verona met their traitorous gazes.

The mages exchanged nervous looks. They all knew the words Verona spoke were true. All of them were talented third order mages, but Verona had reached the fourth order at the record breaking age of fifteen. Even ten third order mages would be hard pressed to overcome her.

Verona continued.

Roy glanced anxiously at Sarasha and Ayron, who seemed to be honestly considering Verona’s offer. He turned to Darrik, who stood motionless except for his furious expression. Sarasha was the first to break the tension. With three brisk steps, she broke formation and went to stand behind Verona.

Ayron snorted and moved over to stand by Darrik’s side. Roy was caught between the two opposing forces. He realized with trepidation that he had suddenly become the center of attention.

Darrik snarled.

The earth mage glanced once more at Darrik and Verona each. After a long moment, he looked over at Darrik one last time. and then he hurried over to Verona’s side. When he turned around he expected Darrik to be enraged at this sudden turn of events, but he just stood there grinning like a madman.

Verona stretched out her hands as the familiar feeling of mana coursing through her warmed her body. Light gathered at the tips of her fingers and sparks arched between them.

Darrik’s grin widened.

The magic coursing through Verona’s limbs sputtered and died. She looked down at her abdomen. Her manifestation was rapidly breaking down and wild mana was spraying everywhere. A wave of agony hit her. Verona collapsed to her knees.

She groped around her side and felt the handle of a something jutting out of her back. It felt like a dagger, but the pain was so much more intense than something a simple piece of metal should be able to cause.

Verona weakly demanded.

Darrik walked over and grasped Verona’s chin in his hand, gently raising her head to look him in the eyes. Darrik pulled back a foot and slammed it into Verona’s stomach. She coughed up a puddle of shimmering water mana.

Verona groaned on the ground. The colors were fading rapidly from her and she was beginning to turn gray.

Verona’s limbs were going cold. This wasn’t the sensation of being banished back into her physical body. She felt her mind beginning to slip. She scrambled desperately, reaching for her power to patch her wounds and grant her the strength to stand, but she couldn’t summon the energy. It hit her with frightful realization. She was dying, and for the first time in so many years, her magic was beyond her grasp, leaving her completely helpless.

Darkness began to overtake her vision, and her mind wandered to a time long ago.

She’d been lying in the muck. After her mother’s death, the brothel owner had kicked her out onto the streets. She’d been seven years old at the time, but elves, even half-elves, mature slower than humans. She’d barley learned to talk and had no idea how to scavenge for food. The other street children had robbed her of everything she’d salvaged from her mother’s room within the end of the first night. A week after that, her belly was empty and every part of her body ached.

And so, she lay down in the empty alley, just praying for her miserable life to come to an end. That’s when he came. A boy her own age, dressed in the finest garb she’d ever seen. He’d picked her up and carried her back to the orphanage where he lived. He’d demanded the people there give her food and drink, though the people there were hesitant to aid anyone with elf-blood the boy threw such a fit they gave it. Eventually some mages came to poke and prod her, and to their astonishment they discovered she had nearly as much talent for magic as the boy who’d found her.

That’s right. She would have died that day if it wasn’t for Mar.

Suddenly, the constant pain that had defined her existence for the last minute vanished, leaving only the throbbing ache of a gaping wound. She reached for her magic and this time it came to her without effort. Immediately, she began repairing the damage to her manifestation. Were this the real world it would have taken her much longer to heal herself, but here in the spirit realm things were much simpler.

When she was finally able to move her arm, she reached around behind her for the knife. Sure enough, it was gone. Someone had pulled it out while she was on the ground, but who? Roy perhaps? But he had run all the way to the far wall, looking terrified. Then she spotted movement in the shadows. Ayron was looking that way, as was Darrik. Sarasha was picking herself up from off the ground while looking in that direction.

The figure was dressed all in black with a cloak and a hood. His manifestation was impressively detailed, even better constructed than Verona’s own. By that logic, he must have been a very talented mage. Glancing at the figures hand, she saw a black dagger that was wreathed in a sinister silver mist. Red mana still dripped from its edge like drops of blood. She reached for her back again. She knew that was the blade that had until recently been inside her.

The figure pulled back his arm, tossing the dagger so he held it point in hand. Drawing back his arm he hurled the knife at Darrik. There was a wide-eyed expression on Darrik’s face as he saw the piece of unholy enchantment flying at him, and he desperately threw himself to the ground to avoid touching it. He needn’t have bothered. The knife clearly wasn’t designed for throwing, and even if it had been the thrower wasn’t particularly well practiced in that art.

The black-cloaked mage charged forward and tackled Ayron to the ground. Straddling the air mage, the mysterious interloper punched Ayron in the face repeatedly.

It was strange that a mage with such a powerful, detailed manifestation wasn’t returning with spell craft, and instead opting for such a mundane method of attack as punching. But it would be easy enough to remedy the lack of fireballs in the air. It was clear that this figure in black had been the one who had saved her life, and Verona always payed her debts.

The moment Verona could move her legs she sprang to her feet. Sarasha turned to her and fired off a flurry of ice shards. Verona had sparred with the water mage before though, and her reaction time was inhumanly fast, thanks to her elvish blood. Instantly, she had her most powerful shielding spell up and the ice spikes shattered on it like glass hitting stone. Unlike a shielding spell cast by most other mages, this one was forged from all of Verona’s affinities and so contained essence of fire, earth, water, and air. In doing so, it played to each elements strengths, and covered each weakness. The rigidity of earth, the flexibility of water, the resilience of air, and the persistence of fire.

Even weakened by Darrik’s repairs and her mana pool drained from healing herself, she was a omni-elemental mage of the fourth order. It was time she showed them what she was really made of.