“Pull back at once,” Darcy gritted out. Sweat beaded at his brow as he grasped for their magic, asking almost desperately from Elizabeth’s reserves to add to his own. She felt the impulse; she channeled her power freely to meet his request.
Darcy slammed a wall of golden light into existence before them, its solid form materialising a heartbeat before impact.
The elements seemed to turn against them. Gusts of frigid wind, sharp as razors, battered their magical shield. The earth tried to hinder them, the ground beneath their feet turning to a thick, grasping mud that sought to pull them down. From that same corrupted mire, scalding geysers of black, stinking water erupted, threatening to boil them where they stood. The rain that began to fall was not water, but a darkness that hissed like acid where it struck their shields.
It became a gruelling, elemental duel. Darcy, a master of elements, met each attack with a powerful counter. He smothered the Blight's fiery gales beneath crashing waves of pure water, he caught the violent winds in swirling funnels of air, diverting their fury harmlessly skyward, and he commanded the earth to harden beneath their feet. Elizabeth concentrated her energy into their attack, a flood of power that Darcy guided and focused, relentlessly hammering at the Blight’s core.
For a time, they held it at a stalemate, a breathtaking, exhausting push-and-pull of raw magical power. They were beating it back, inch by agonising inch, the darkness receding before their combined assault. The node began to glow with a soft, returning light.
Then, just as they thought they might break it, the Blight changed its tactics. From the soured earth all around them, shadowy tendrils of rot and decay erupted, not as a random outburst, but as living manifestations of the Blight’s will. Theywere black, slick, and moved with a horrifying, serpentine speed. Ignoring Elizabeth entirely, they swept towards Darcy, sensing in him the greater threat to be broken.
As one, Darcy and Elizabeth unleashed a storm of fire. But the tendrils did not burn; they seemed to drink the flames, dissolving the brilliant orange and gold flames into the inky blackness without leaving so much as a scorch mark.
Before Darcy could conjure a second defence, the tendrils seized upon him, wrapping around his arms, his chest, his throat, with constricting force, crushing the air from his lungs. He gave a choked sound, his magic faltering as the Blight’s power tightened, not just physically, but magically, attempting to strangle his connection to the elements.
A cry ripped from Elizabeth’s throat. “No!”
She loosed a searing sheet of flame, a desperate blast meant to burn the corruption from his body. But the flames recoiled, hissing and dying, unable to touch the oily, magic-deadening shadow.
The writhing mass of shadow enveloped Darcy completely, his muffled screams lost as the darkness smothered his form.
She tried again, this time with air, summoning a shearing gale of wind meant to tear the tendrils apart. The wind howled, but it was like throwing a fistful of air at a mountain; the shadowy mass did not even stir.
He was dying. Darcy was dying, and every bit of magic she had learnt was utterly, pathetically, useless against it.
A wave of hopeless panic threatened to drown her. Her own magic felt useless, a frantic thrashing in the dark waters of the Blight. Frantic, she cast her senses outward, a desperate, final plea, not at the Blight, butthroughit, seeking any current, any anchor, any answer in the suffocating depths.
For a moment, there was nothing but the cold, dead pressure.
And then she felt it. A flicker. A single, steady beat against the overwhelming silence. Beneath all the layers of parasitic sickness and choking vine, the land itself was still breathing. It was the slow, powerful pulse of the earth-song, an ancient magic of stone and time.
Holding desperately onto her connection with Darcy, finding the echo of his control within their bond, she reached into that deep well of power andpulled. She pulled with a ferocity that was more than magic; it was a raw act of will.
The power that answered her was a deluge. A primal, elemental force slammed into her, so immense it threatened to tear her apart. A scream of sheer, agonising effort tore through her mind as she wrestled with a force that scoured her from the inside out. She held on by the barest shred of her being, desperately, absolutely terrified she would lose control and let it erupt as a destructive force. The power surged through her veins like liquid fire as she fought to give the torrent a channel.
With everything she was — her spirit, her strength — and with everything she had, all the fierce, overwhelming love she possessed for him, Elizabeth wrenched control from the chaos searing through her and thrust it forward to save him.
It was not fire or wind she unleashed, but pure life. A verdant power surged from her, channeled through their bond, and into Darcy. It was the magic of deep roots and stubborn, growing things.
The shadowy tendrils of the Blight hissed, smoked, and recoiled from him as if burnt, dissolving back into the poisoned earth from which they had sprung.
Darcy collapsed to the ground, his breathing a shallow, painful wheeze as air flooded his lungs. Elizabeth rushed to his side, her heart seizing with terror.
Alive.
In an instant, Elizabeth flung her arms around him, tears flowing freely down her face as she clung desperately to his warmth. His living, breathing warmth.
The Blight had retreated. Whatever she had done, whatever magic she had somehow pulled from the earth, it had beaten the Blight back. But as Elizabeth collapsed against him, her own strength spent, they both could feel it. The tendrils were gone, but the central knot of the Blight remained, deep in the earth. It was simmering, weakened but not destroyed. It would regrow.
They stood there for a long moment, clinging to each other for support, shaken to their souls. The air was clean now, the shadowy tendrils gone, but the victory felt brittle. Temporary.
Darcy’s face was pale, his breathing pained. He looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of awe, gratitude, and a new, terrifying awareness.
Their Concordance was a weapon the Blight had not anticipated. They could fight it. They could even win battles.
But looking out at the desolate landscape, feeling the deep, persistent sickness that still pulsed beneath their feet, a single, chilling thought settled upon them both: it might not be enough.
Darcy finally broke the silence, his words rough with exhaustion. “The third node…” he croaked, the words scraping against a throat and windpipe raw from the Blight’s chokehold before faltering into silence. He did not need to finish. The thought of another such battle, of facing that awfulness again in their depleted state, was impossible.
