Death's Door and a Magical Makeover: Because Apparently, Dramatic Exits Aren't My Style (Yet) And a Quick Lesson in How Not to Negotiate with Witches.
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Author Note: "Alright, buckle up, buttercups! If you thought things were intense before, we're about to dive headfirst into the 'wait, what just happened?' zone. Keep an eye on that girl – her healing isn't exactly textbook. And pay close attention to Arbitr's last words… they might just be more important than all the flashy magic. Also, side note: apparently, even in fantasy worlds, goodbyes are rarely easy."
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Sawyer could feel it in every shallow breath, in the dull throb of his side where warm blood continued to spill. Each heartbeat was a thunderclap of loss, each second a theft of strength. The numbness creeping through his limbs felt final. Irreversible.
And worst of all—he could do nothing.
He could not lift a hand, not whisper a word, not reach for the one friend who was still trying, still fighting, still hoping.
Then something shifted.
The girl's body, limp and unmoving in Arbitr's arms, began to stir with a slow, unnatural magic. Her wound—gaping and brutal, an ugly, ragged tear across her shoulder—began to close. Flesh that had been shredded was knitting back together, the blood retreating, the skin pulling tight, smooth, whole. It wasn't healing in the way the body should. It was something else. Something... otherworldly.
Sawyer blinked, disbelief momentarily overriding his pain. The sight was too surreal. Her skin, once ghostly white and cold as marble, began to flush with warmth—subtle at first, like the slow rise of dawn.
A pink hue touched her cheeks. Her lips darkened from a bloodless blue to something fuller, alive. Life was returning to her in a way that defied every natural law he knew. It was miraculous. It was terrifying.
And amidst it all, Arbitr's expression shifted.
"I guess this is goodbye, Sawyer," he said quietly.
He didn't turn immediately. He remained beside her a second longer, soaking in what might be his final moment of peace before facing the storm.
Then he rose.
Slowly. Steadily. With purpose.
When he turned to face the lead witch, there was no fear in his eyes. No desperation. Only a haunting, steady resolve.
His face, streaked with blood and tears, bore the softest ghost of a smile—a faint, melancholic thing, like a man who had already made peace with what was to come.
It was the smile of someone who understood sacrifice.
Of someone who had made his choice.
"What do you think you're doing, you fool?"
The lead witch's voice sliced through the tension, sharp and venom-laced, her tone brimming with contempt and fury. Her eyes, once cool and calculating, now blazed with incandescent rage, glowing like twin embers about to ignite. She raised her wand—a long, slender rod of twisted wood that trembled in her grasp—not from fear, but from the sheer force of the magic thrumming through it.
At the tip, a red light pulsed, slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat made of molten fire. It was not just a glow—it was a warning. A silent signal of the devastation it could unleash, the kind of destruction that scorched flesh from bone and left only ashes behind.
Arbitr did not flinch.
He stood his ground, his breath shallow but steady, his body visibly weakening from the toll of injury and effort, yet his eyes remained locked on the girl. There was something in his gaze—soft, deep, immeasurably tender. The kind of look that only came with love or guilt. Maybe both.
He knew she couldn't hear him. She wasn't even fully awake. But still, he lingered in that moment, as if it might be his last. His eyes spoke the words he didn't say—I'm sorry. Forgive me. Live.
"Your last chance, Arbitr!" the witch shrieked.
Her voice shot up, shrill and desperate now, no longer fully in control. Her power was immense, but this wasn't going the way she had foreseen. Her wand crackled violently, red sparks arcing from its tip and searing the air. "Give us the key, and you will live!" she hissed, her words a twisted blend of promise and threat.
Arbitr turned to face her at last.
He stood with great effort, blood still trickling from the corner of his mouth, his breathing labored, his muscles trembling from strain—but he stood. Against three witches, against overwhelming odds, against certain death.
"I know I won't survive this," he said, and his voice was steady. Not loud, but clear. There was no tremor of fear in it, no hesitation. Just truth.
A chilling calm had settled over him, the kind of peace that came only to those who had nothing left to lose and everything left to protect.
His words landed like stone dropped in still water—heavy, irrevocable.
"But neither will any of you."
He didn't shout. He didn't scream.
He just declared it—flat and final—a promise sealed with blood, pain, and purpose.
And in that instant, the air changed.
Not because of magic. Not yet.
But because they all knew he meant it.
Every. Single. Word.
"Ignis Lancea!" the witch shrieked.
Her voice tore through the air like a feral scream, guttural and raw, the sound more beast than human—a primal release of fury and desperation. The very earth seemed to recoil from her rage. A beam of crimson energy exploded from the tip of her wand, slicing through the air like a spear of molten light. It wasn't just magic—it was an executioner's blade, honed with intent, aimed with hate.
The red beam surged toward Arbitr, a streak of searing death that pulsed with heat and fury, aimed directly at his heart.
He moved.
Not with grace, but with the urgency of a man dancing between life and oblivion. He twisted to the side, his feet slipping slightly on the loose sand, the heat of the magic brushing his shoulder as it missed him by inches. The beam struck a boulder behind him, carving a glowing, smoking gouge deep into the stone.
Before he could catch his breath, another flash of red erupted from his right.
This one hit.
The second witch's attack crashed into his side like a freight train made of fire. Arbitr's body was lifted off the ground and thrown through the air like a ragdoll, his limbs flailing helplessly before he slammed into the sand with a bone-jarring thud.
The impact stole the breath from his lungs. Pain radiated out from every joint, every muscle, every inch of skin. His ribs ached. His vision blurred. His mind teetered on the edge of blackness.
But he didn't stop.
With sheer willpower, teeth clenched against the screaming pain, Arbitr rolled onto his side. Sand clung to his bloodied skin, the heat of the desert mixing with the raw, cold agony spreading through his body. One arm stretched forward, trembling, reaching—searching for something unseen, something distant yet desperately needed.
Magic.
His fingers twitched, then stiffened. The air shimmered around him, the faintest ripple of power answering his call.
And the witch, the one who'd fired the fatal second shot, faltered.
She blinked, confused for half a second—too long.
The invisible force surged around her ankles, pulling, yanking her forward before she could react. Her scream caught in her throat as her body was hurled toward Arbitr, her limbs flailing, her wand slipping from her grasp.
He was waiting.
His hand, open and ready, caught her by the throat mid-air.
His grip tightened instantly, fingers digging into soft flesh, the raw force of survival giving him strength he should no longer have. The witch thrashed in his grasp, nails raking his arms, legs kicking violently.
But Arbitr didn't relent.
With a final, brutal twist—fueled by pain, desperation, and the last flicker of his resolve—a sharp crack echoed into the open desert.
The witch went limp.
Her body slumped in his grasp, her life snuffed out not with a spell or a curse, but with the raw, brutal finality of human hands.
And still, Arbitr did not collapse.
He couldn't. Not yet.
Not until the girl was safe.
"Buy me time, sister!" the remaining witch screamed, her voice high-pitched, trembling with desperation.
It wasn't a command—it was a plea. A frantic, breathless cry drenched in panic, fear, and something else… helplessness. She raised both arms toward the sky, her fingers trembling as they stretched open, each digit rigid with tension. Her lips parted, and a low, guttural chant began to spill forth, the language ancient and jarring, its syllables unnatural to the human ear.
The ground vibrated softly beneath her feet, responding to the summoning. The air itself thickened, charged with static, as if the atmosphere had been replaced with liquid lightning. Invisible forces stirred in response, coiling and curling around her like smoke—seen only through the way light bent around her frame.
She was pulling something from beyond the veil. Something that didn't belong here.
Arbitr's breath hitched as he took in the scene.
He could feel it too—that old power waking, responding.
"I won't let you!" he bellowed.
The roar tore from his throat, raw and full of agony and rage. It wasn't just defiance—it was desperation. It was grief. It was the last stand of a man who had nothing left to lose.
And in that moment, something shifted.
A sword materialized in his hand with a shimmer and a gust of wind, as though the very world had breathed it into existence. It appeared not with a flash, but with a slow, deliberate bloom—dark, sleek, and ominous.
The blade was eighteen inches long, curved ever so slightly at the tip, and forged from blackened metal that seemed to swallow light. Intricate runes glowed faintly along its length, pulsing like a heartbeat, alive with ancient energy. Its eight-inch hilt was wrapped in worn leather, stained dark from past battles. This wasn't a soldier's weapon—it was a relic of power, a blade born for moments like this.
He gripped it tight and ran.
Every step sent fresh pain ricocheting through his body, but he didn't stop. Couldn't. His legs burned. His breath came in ragged gasps. Sand kicked up in his wake, and still he charged—toward the chanting witch, toward the surge of magic that threatened to consume everything.
He swung.
The blade sliced through the air in a wide, determined arc, the glow from its runes leaving a faint trail of light. His strike was pure instinct—no flourish, no elegance—just raw force and purpose.
But she was ready.
Her eyes snapped open, and with terrifying ease, she sidestepped.
Her movements were graceful, fluid, almost hypnotic. Her cloak billowed like wings as she moved—fast, too fast. Her wand snapped forward.
Another beam.
A streak of searing crimson light tore through the space between them, moving faster than sound, aimed directly at Arbitr's chest.
There was no time to think. Only to react.
And react he did.
Even as the pain screamed through his body, even as the world blurred at the edges, Arbitr twisted, the sword still raised, the light from her magic reflected in his wide, furious eyes.
But he was slower now. Weaker.
And she—she was only just getting started.
"Ignis Lancea" she screamed once more, the words leaving her lips in a harsh, guttural cry, less like a spell and more like a primal cry for dominance.
The incantation cracked through the air like a whip, heavy with ancient weight—an invocation not just of power, but of history. It wasn't just a spell; it was a summoning of old forces, a command passed down through generations of witches who had danced with destruction.
The sky pulsed in response.
A jagged beam of crimson light surged forth from her wand, slicing through the air like a blade of fire, aimed straight at Arbitr's chest. It burned brighter than before, more focused—lethal.
But before the deadly light could reach him, something changed.
Another weapon emerged.
A second sword flickered into being in Arbitr's left hand—this one unlike the first.
It shimmered with an eerie, blood-red glow, not shining but pulsing, as though the blade itself had a heartbeat, as though it breathed in rhythm with the chaos around them. It was birthed not from light, but from shadow, sliding out of the darkness like a predator finally revealing itself.
The aura surrounding the sword was… wrong.
Not evil, but ancient. Hungry. A blade that had tasted blood before and remembered the taste.
Arbitr didn't hesitate.
He lunged forward, both swords now an extension of his rage, his grief, his desperation. His entire body moved like a wave crashing forward—silent, swift, and unstoppable.
The red blade struck first.
It tore through the side of the witch's torso, slipping beneath her ribs and driving deep. There was no cry, no scream—just a breathless gasp, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, and then silence.
The spell died on her tongue.
Her lips, still mid-incantation, froze as if time had stopped. Her eyes widened for a split second before the life behind them vanished completely.
Her body crumpled to the sand like a marionette with its strings cut, arms splayed, wand slipping from limp fingers.
The beam she had summoned vanished in mid-air. Dissolved.
Arbitr yanked the crimson sword from her body with a sharp pull, the motion quick and final. Dark fluid dripped from the blade—thicker than blood, darker than shadow—and sizzled as it hit the hot sand beneath him.
He didn't pause to grieve.
He turned, slowly, deliberately, to face the last witch.
She stood there, her stance calm, composed… almost amused.
Her arms folded across her chest, wand dangling lazily at her side. A soft smirk curled her lips—not one of arrogance, but of assurance, the quiet smile of someone who knows a secret and intends to savor its reveal.
There was no fear in her eyes.
Only certainty.
As if the death of her sisters meant nothing.
As if everything had already gone exactly as planned.
"You're too late," she murmured, her voice no longer loud, but low and deliberate—an icy whisper that slid into the air like smoke.
It wasn't a scream of defeat or a cry for mercy. It was a statement. Cold. Final. A mocking declaration from a woman who, even in her final moment, knew something the rest of the world didn't.
Arbitr didn't respond with words. His expression didn't change, but there was a shift—an invisible tremor that passed through him like a ripple on still water.
He simply let go.
His fingers released the grip on the first sword. The dark blade spun upward with a shriek, catching the air like a spinning fan of death. Its arc was perfect, almost graceful—a blur of blackened steel against the blood-stained sky.
Then, like the hand of judgment, it descended.
The blade whistled as it fell, cutting through the silence. In less than a heartbeat, it struck the witch—clean, ruthless.
Her body jerked as the sword sliced through her, severing flesh, bone, and sinew with surgical brutality. She didn't even have time to flinch.
She dropped.
First, her body crumpled, hitting the sand with a heavy, unceremonious thud. A second later, her head followed, rolling a short distance before coming to rest beside her own shoulder, her expression still twisted in that awful smirk—as if her lips hadn't yet received the message that she was dead.
But even death did not quiet her.
Her mouth moved.
Barely.
Just a twitch.
And then a sound. A whisper. Not from her throat anymore—but from the space around her, as though her final words had stained the air.
"You're too late… you're too late…"
The phrase echoed unnaturally, detached from any living source, repeating like a curse etched into the wind.
Arbitr froze.
For a moment, he couldn't breathe.
Then he exploded.
"Shut up!" he roared, his voice ragged and raw, hoarse from battle and emotion, yet loud enough to shake the quiet that followed.
His eyes, wide and wild, snapped to the heavens.
What had once been a peaceful sky—clear and vast—was now contorting into chaos.
Above him, the clouds twisted in on themselves, black and red coiling together in violent spirals. The sun had vanished, swallowed by something older and darker than mere weather. The wind howled like it had been wounded, and a low hum—deep, guttural—vibrated in the bones of the earth.
The sky was… wrong.
He staggered back a step, then another, his breath coming faster now, his chest rising and falling as if he were still fighting even though the last witch was gone.
"That stupid fire Mage…" he muttered, barely above a breath.
There was no rage in his voice now, only something quieter. He wasn't yelling anymore—he was mourning.
Mourning not just the girl, or the witches, or the ruin around him. He was mourning something larger.
A missed moment. A broken chain of fate. A future he couldn't stop.
He turned slowly, the fire in his limbs giving way to exhaustion, his strength flickering like a candle in the wind.
His gaze fell on the girl.
The silence between them was thick, like the world itself was holding its breath.
And Arbitr's steps toward her were slow—deliberate—not because he was cautious… but because, in his heart, he already knew.
Something was about to change. Something already had.
He knelt beside her, his breath shallow, his movements slow—weighted not by injury, but by emotion. Carefully, almost reverently, he reached into the folds of his armour and pulled out the key.
The object they had all fought over.
The reason blood had been spilled, spells cast, and lives lost.
It shimmered faintly in the fading light, an ancient artifact that pulsed with dormant power, the kind that did not belong in any mortal's hands.
Arbitr looked down at her—at Elise—her eyes closed now, her chest barely rising. She was still breathing, but only just. Her hand was open beside her, limp and cold against the sand.
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he placed the key into her palm, letting her fingers curl around it with his guidance. His touch lingered—just for a moment. Just long enough to say what his voice struggled to form.
"I can't let this monstrosity leave this realm," he murmured, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. His voice was quiet, trembling at the edges with something like sorrow, something like guilt.
His eyes burned, but no tears fell. Not here. Not now.
"Maybe if we had met in another life… in a world untouched by this darkness, I would have loved you back."
There was a pause. A beat suspended in time.
He lowered his head slightly.
"Goodbye, Elise."
Her name left his lips like a confession. A benediction. A wound.
Then the world began to shift.
The earth beneath her trembled—subtle at first, then more violent. The sand grew darker, slicker. What had once been solid ground morphed into a viscous black pool, oily and unnaturally thick. It pulsed with malevolent energy, as if alive, as if it hungered.
And then—she began to sink.
Her body was dragged down slowly at first, then faster, as if some unseen force had wrapped its claws around her ankles. Her limbs thrashed weakly, the last flickers of strength fighting against the inevitable.
"Elise—"
Her eyes opened. Panic. Desperation. Terror.
Her hand shot out, fingers straining. She caught his wrist with surprising force.
Her voice—raw, trembling, urgent—tore through the chaos like a blade.
"Wake up!"
Everything shattered.
Sawyer jolted awake, his body convulsing as though struck by lightning. His limbs flailed, heart hammering in his chest like a war drum, and he tumbled out of bed with a loud, bone-jarring thud.
The cold, hard floor met him like a slap.
For a few long, breathless seconds, he just lay there—half-wrapped in twisted sheets, sweat clinging to his skin, his lungs gasping for air. The room was dark, lit only by the faint orange glow of the streetlight filtering in through the blinds.
Reality bled in slowly, cruelly.
He wasn't in that battlefield. Elise wasn't here. The blackened earth hadn't swallowed her.
It was just a dream.
But his hand… his hand still tingled, as if her fingers had really been there. As if she'd actually reached out and touched him.
Sawyer sat up, head in his hands, and whispered to the silence, "What the hell is happening to me?"
"Keep it down!"
The voice came from downstairs, deep and gravelly, filled with the kind of irritation that only years of early mornings and thin walls could cultivate.
It echoed up the staircase and cut clean through the haze of Sawyer's disorientation, yanking him a little further out of the fragments of his dream.
"These fucking students…" the voice muttered again, more distant this time—likely directed at someone else, maybe the man's long-suffering wife. It was less an accusation and more a tired, habitual grumble, the kind of complaint voiced so often it had become part of the morning routine.
Sawyer blinked.
He was sitting up now—though he didn't remember getting there. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. His heart thudded painfully inside his chest, like it was trying to break free. Cold sweat coated his forehead, trickling down the sides of his face and soaking the collar of his t-shirt.
For a few seconds, he couldn't tell whether he was still dreaming.
His eyes darted around the room, desperate for something solid, something real. He found it in the worn posters tacked unevenly to the wall, in the stack of old textbooks balanced precariously on his nightstand, and in the white sheets of paper littered across his bed, all filled with diagrams of the human body in varying states of clarity.
His notes. His reality. His life.
The rustling sound of a snack wrapper beneath his leg startled him—a bag of chips, half-eaten and forgotten. Next to it, a small plate of chicken sandwich that had gone cold during the night, untouched and neglected. His bedside lamp flickered slightly, the bulb protesting after being left on too long.
Then he saw his phone.
It lay face-up on the mattress beside him, almost hidden under a notebook. He snatched it up with trembling fingers, desperate for an anchor.
The screen lit up.
7:30 AM.
The numbers might as well have screamed at him.
Sawyer froze.
His breath caught.
His eyes widened, pupils shrinking with the rush of adrenaline.
He was supposed to be up an hour ago.
Panic surged through him like a jolt of electricity. His thoughts tripped over themselves, colliding and scattering like papers in a storm. Lectures. Attendance. He had a practical at eight.
"Shit," he whispered, voice hoarse.
Reality was back. And it was already moving too fast.
"Fuck!" he yelled, the word bursting out of him like a reflex, raw and sharp.
He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his tangled bedsheet in the process. His limbs moved on instinct—chaotic, uncoordinated—as if they hadn't fully caught up to the panic surging through his mind.
His thoughts were a blur, a mess of flashing images and consequences. Missed class. Strikes. His professor's sharp tone. The awkward stares from classmates. Another black mark on a record already too fragile to afford another slip.
"I'm so dead," he breathed, the words trembling as they left his lips, as if saying them out loud gave weight to the nightmare unfolding in real-time.
His heart pounded violently in his chest—too fast, too loud. It wasn't just the fear of being late. It was the fear of failing, of letting things spiral again.
Of disappointing everyone.
The cold grip of dread tightened around his stomach, twisting and sinking its claws into him as he stared at the cluttered room—the scattered papers, the unfinished assignments, the notes he hadn't reviewed, the medical textbook still open to a chapter he couldn't remember reading.
It felt like the room was closing in on him, every object a reminder of how much he was juggling, how thin the thread had become.
He shoved a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on a tangle, but he didn't care.
He had no time.
And yet—he stood there, frozen for a second too long, like a deer in headlights, as if his body hadn't fully accepted that the day had already started without him.
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Notes: "So, 'Ignis Lancea' sounds like a fancy way to say 'fiery death spear.' Good to know! Also, did anyone else catch that weird connection between Arbitr and the girl? 'Maybe in another life…' Hmm, intriguing! And finally, our protagonist just woke up from what sounds like a very intense nightmare. Is it just a dream, or is something more… real going on?"