The air around the Gate crackled with the static of dying realities. Captain Alastair Reid parried Seraphine's blade—a jagged shard of corrupted ley-line energy—as the ground beneath them buckled and split. The Weaver's shadow loomed behind the sorceress, its form a shifting collage of screaming faces and grasping tendrils that defied geometry. Reid's arms burned from the strain, but he grinned through gritted teeth.
"Still using the same tired lines, Seraphine? 'Humanity's greed, blah, blah.' You're like a broken record—if the record were also on fire and actively trying to murder me."
Seraphine's violet eyes narrowed, her sword flaring with necrotic energy as she pressed her attack. "You cling to humor as a shield, Captain. How quaint."
Their blades met in a shower of green sparks. Reid's boots skidded on the glassy remains of what had once been a druidic shrine. Around them, the battlefield raged—Valkyrie soldiers fought undead knights in the shadow of the Gate's swirling vortex, while Whitaker and Maeve worked desperately to stabilize Excalibur's energy for the final strike.
"Let's recap," Reid said, ducking a swipe that would have decapitated a less stubborn man. "You've got a thousand-year-old superiority complex, a wardrobe that screams 'edgy goth prom,' and a habit of turning allies into zombies. Hard pass on the mentorship program."
Seraphine's lip curled. "And you have this." She gestured to the carnage around them—the crumbling ruins, the mutated soldiers, the sky bleeding ichor from the Weaver's half-manifested form. "Your precious 'trust' and 'sacrifice' reduced to ash. Tell me, Captain—when your bones join them, will your ideals taste as bitter?"
Reid lunged, forcing her back toward a fissure venting acrid smoke. "Nah. I'll be too busy haunting you. Picture it: poltergeist dad jokes, spectral PowerPoints on ethical leadership…"
---
Elsewhere on the battlefield:
Dr. Eleanor Whitaker crouched behind a shattered obelisk, her fingers dancing across Excalibur's hilt. The reforged blade pulsed erratically, its blue-white light dimmed by the Weaver's oppressive presence.
"Maeve! I need you to channel the Flame through the tertiary ley-node now!"
The druidess knelt nearby, her hands pressed to the earth. The Forgotten Flame's containment unit hovered above her palms, its light warping under the strain. "It's resisting me," she gasped, ley-line markings flaring across her skin like live wires. "The Weaver knows what we're trying to do."
"Of course it does," Whitaker snapped, adjusting her cracked glasses. "It's a cosmic horror, not a toddler with object permanence issues. Push harder."
A geyser of black magma erupted nearby, showering them with molten debris. Whitaker didn't flinch.
"You're enjoying this," Maeve accused, her voice strained.
"Academic curiosity," Whitaker corrected, though her grin was borderline unhinged. "Now stop complaining and synch the frequencies."
---
Lance Corporal Parvati Singh sprinted through the chaos, her medical kit slung over one shoulder and a stolen elven crossbow in the other. She vaulted over a fallen dwarf, firing a bolt into the eye socket of a pursuing undead hound.
"Medic!" A soldier waved frantically from behind a smoldering chariot. His leg ended at the knee.
Singh skidded to a halt, already applying a tourniquet. "You'll live. Probably."
"Where's the Captain?"
"Arguing with a megalomaniac." She nodded toward the Gate, where Reid and Seraphine's duel sent shockwaves through the air. "Standard Tuesday."
The ground trembled. Singh glanced at the Weaver's growing silhouette. "Actually, scratch that. This is at least a Thursday."
---
Back at the duel:
Seraphine's blade grazed Reid's ribs, searing through his armor. He hissed, rolling behind a toppled column. "You know, for an immortal sorceress, you've got terrible follow-through."
"And you," she sneered, "fight like a peasant with a kitchen knife."
"Funny—Gareth said the same thing." Reid surged forward, Gareth's dagger in his off-hand. The druid-forged steel sliced through Seraphine's ward, drawing a line of black blood across her cheek. "Miss him yet?"
Her composure cracked. "That traitor deserved worse than death."
"Says the woman who turned her own family into paperweights." Reid pressed his advantage, driving her toward a cluster of unstable ley-line crystals. "Here's the thing, Seraphine—leadership isn't about control. It's about knowing when to let go."
The crystals detonated.
Seraphine's scream echoed as the blast hurled her into a crater. Reid staggered, ears ringing. When the smoke cleared, he found her pinned beneath a slab of obsidian, her left arm twisted at a nauseating angle.
"Finish it," she spat, blood staining her teeth. "Prove you're as ruthless as your kind."
Reid leveled his blade at her throat. "See, that's the difference between us. I don't need to kill you to win."
Her laughter was raw, broken. "Mercy? Now? When your world burns?"
"Mercy's not for you." He sheathed his dagger. "It's for the idiots who'll have to rebuild this mess."
As he turned away, Seraphine's voice followed him—a venomous whisper. "You'll regret this, Reid."
"Already do," he called over his shoulder. "The therapy bills alone…"
---
At the ritual site:
Maeve collapsed, her nose bleeding freely. The Forgotten Flame flickered dangerously.
"Almost… there…"
Whitaker cursed, slamming Excalibur into the earth. The blade's light stabilized, forming a lattice of energy that pushed back against the Weaver's tendrils. "Reid! Get your theatrically scarred hide over here!"
The Captain arrived, breathing hard. "Status?"
"Stabilization at 12%," Whitaker said. "Maeve's tapped out. The Flame needs a new conductor."
Reid stared at the swirling vortex above them. The Weaver's eye—a massive, pulsing orb of void—fixed on him. "Do it."
"You'll die."
"And here I thought Tuesdays couldn't get worse."
Maeve gripped his arm. "Wait. There's another way."
She pressed her palm to Excalibur's hilt. The Flame surged, merging with the sword's energy in a maelstrom of light.
"Maeve—"
"Tell Singh… the coffee's still terrible."
The explosion blinded them all.
When the light faded, the Gate was gone. So was Maeve.
Reid found Seraphine's dagger embedded in the earth where she'd lain—a final insult, or perhaps a plea. He pocketed it.
Somewhere in the ashes, a lone vine sprouted—pale green, defiant.
Whitaker adjusted her glasses. "Well. That was…"
"Academic?" Reid offered.
She snorted. "Spectacularly unethical."
They stood in silence as the dust settled. Somewhere, a bird sang.
Singh joined them, her uniform singed but her smirk intact. "So. Who's buying the first round?"
Reid stared at the horizon, where dawn bled through the smoke. "Make it a double."
Above them, the sky was quiet.
For now.