Right in front of me.
Right in the path of?—
I see her when it's far too late.
My vision stabilizes with the particular clarity that horror provides—the hellhound's multiple perspectives finally synchronizing into coherent observation just as the flames leave my control. She stands before the gates with chains in her hands, silver hair whipping in winds created by forces I've unleashed, her expression carrying... trust?
She's not moving.
Why isn't she moving?
Why is she just standing there like?—
I let go of the flame.
The release happens before conscious thought can intervene—muscles completing the action they were preparing, magic following the trajectory that instinct demanded. The hellfire launches toward her with speed that defies tracking, with heat that makes the air itself combust in its wake, with power that could destroy anything in existence.
No.
NO.
GWENIEVERE!
Instant regret pours through me with force that dwarfs everything the hellhound instincts have been producing. Fear throttles through my consciousness like a wave of plague, terror so intense that even this monstrous form trembles with the magnitude of what I've just done.
I killed her.
The woman I've been protecting for years.
The bond mate I never got to properly claim.
I killed her with my own flames.
Nothing can stop it.
Hellfire doesn't obey normal rules of magical intervention. The flames I've released carry power that transcends elemental manipulation, destruction that ignores the usual methods of deflection and defense. Once unleashed, hellfire continues until it reaches its target or until?—
Another figure stands before her.
The motion happens so fast that even my triple perspectives can barely track it—one moment the space in front of Gwenievere is empty, the next a familiar ancient form has positioned itself between my attack and its intended target.
Professor Eternalis.
Her hand rises with the particular authority of beings who have existed long enough to consider most threats merelyinconvenient. The gesture is simple—just a lifting of palm, just a positioning of ancient flesh between destruction and the woman it was meant to consume.
The fireballceases to exist.
Not deflected. Not absorbed. Not redirected or dissipated or any of the other methods that magical defense usually employs. The concentrated hellfire that I released with every intention of destroying the gates simply... stops being. One moment it exists as apocalyptic force hurtling toward its target, the next moment it's gone—erased from reality with the particular finality of beings who don't negotiate with threats, who simply remove them from consideration.
Impossible.
That's impossible.
Hellfire can't be?—
The silence is deafening.
Every sound that has been filling this volcanic nightmare seems to stop simultaneously—the roar of lava, the crack of ice against heat, the shouts of those who were watching what should have been Gwenievere's death. Everything pauses in recognition of what just happened, of the impossible intervention that saved her life.
