TW: Blood and depictions of violence. If this makes you uncomfortable, please skip this episode.

I couldn’t breathe for a minute, the world freezing in place as Maysie sprinted towards doors with unnatural speed. All I could think in that moment was how much I wanted her to get out unharmed.  

And how ultimately screwed I was.  

Everything clicked back into place, and I sprang high into the air, dodging an explosion targeted at the place I had stood only moments before. I snarled and landed hard on the ground, releasing a wave of unfiltered magic after the shadowed figure that darted to the back of the library. My moment of rest was short lived as another explosion sounded further in the library, the telltale sound of walls crumbling calling my attention. I started to race haphazardly between the shelves, screaming suddenly as thick books started flinging themselves at me.  

“WHAT THE HELL?!”  

I dodged a book on animal transformation, stumbling though the last of the shelves and straight into the piled remains of the library’s back wall. I gawked at the enormous hole, my eyes shifting in disbelief to a shattered book display.  

“She’s just a small witch...”  

The snippet of a voice is enough for me to find the short man in the dark, his head bent in concentration as he rummaged around in the rubble. He was turned away from me, continuing to talk to someone I could't see. Biting my lip in concentration, I inhaled the smell of my own magic, building up the fear until my hair whipped around my face.   

Fear magic was known in the marshes as dangerous. It was like a ticking time bomb, too much of it resulting in catastrophe. I had spent an unnecessary amount of time getting my fear magic under control, Training for years for fear of hurting someone. The only time it was allowed and pardoned by the high council, was when there was a crisis in the marsh.   

“What are you going to do with this knowledge?”  

The voice that responded was oddly familiar, his accent deep and soothing.  

“That is none of your concern...just help me find the witch’s trinket and we can get out of here.”  

I stepped forward silently, towering over the figure of the man still turned away from me.  

“You won’t be leaving alive, if that’s what you mean.”  

His reaction was impossibly fast, and I stumbled back slightly, surprised but too angry to be frightened. A blade found its way to my throat, the middle-aged man’s voice about as sharp as his weapon.   

“I will,” he pressed the metal against my skin, his smile oozing with black goo that confirmed my suspicions, “but you won’t--”  

His voice trailed off as his knife started to disintegrate against my skin, blowing away into the air. He stared at his empty hand before starting to scramble away.  

“Never underestimate a ‘small witch,’ you unsightly creature of dark magic.”  

I grabbed his neck, pinning him up against the remaining section of wall. His eyes bulged as he struggled for air, digging his fingernails into my skin in protest.   

“Ouch!”   

My eyes found the book that had hit me in the back of my head, its cover a burnt mess for the explosion. I released the warlock and spun around in a fit of rage and hostility, stopping suddenly in shock. Before me stood the man from the apartment, a book clutched to his chest in defense, his gray eyes shining with curiosity.  

"You again?!"

“You’re a witch!”  

“Really?!”  

“You were going to kill him!”  

“REALLY?!”  

I could hear the man charging at me a second too late as I turned into a second blade. For a moment, there was no pain, only shock as I stared down at the blood blooming from my pale tunic. Stumbling backwards, I ran into Endymion as I fell, his hands gently guiding me to the dust and rubble covered floor.  

Endymion’s worried eyes rushed to meet me, and time slowed down. One hand clutched the handle sticking out between my ribs, the other grasped for the young lord’s collar. Gasping breaths slurred by crimson fluid in my mouth, were the only sound in my ears as my world tipped into something blurring and rushed. Hands clamped my jaw and frigid air rushed through my hair, my fear magic paralyzing my whole body. I couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, couldn't see. The only sensation was dull pain and warm arms cradling me like a child on the waves of a sleepy sea.   

“Maybe I... should rest for a while.”  

Drifting through endless sleep didn’t sound so bad...  

▲▲▲  

She was dying as he held her, the young witch’s blood pooling around his knees. The old man seemed about as surprised as he was as her hair started swirling around her face in a wild manner, her long lashes fluttering as she struggled to stay conscious.   

Shock swiftly shifted into anger, anger to pure rage. He could not explain why his reaction was as violent as it was, but in a matter of seconds, Endymion had drawn a hidden dagger from within his belt.   

“You’ve killed her.”  

The old man, having spent his last knife, was now backing into the void he had created a tunnel to escape.  

“That I have...” he smiled slyly, his eyes darting to the slain witch, “And I did, in fact, find the act quite satisfying.”  

Something snapped in Endymion, his usually cold eyes ablaze and he lunged at the man, clutching the hilt of his blade so tight, his knuckles turn pale.   

The old man spun away and tripped the lord, using his offensive maneuver to sprint into the darkness ahead, and Endymion shouted in frustration, his heart pounding. All it took was a small cry from the witch and his attention was diverted from the fleeing imposter. He rushed to where she lay sprawled in her own blood, her vibrant eyes trailing his as he assessed the damage.  

“What’s up, doc? Is it bad?”  

Her light heart tone made him smile weakly, if only for a moment.  

“Barely a flesh wound.”  

He tried to joke along, but his voice shook with concern. Every movement, every breath she took brought more worry as she bled out onto the rubble on the floor. His hands wandered to her ribs, the hilt of the blade heaving as she cried out once more. There were no more soothing comments from the witch as Endymion worked around the wound, tearing off strips of his shirt to slow the hemorrhaging gash. He was truly afraid to pull the blade from between her ribs... Would it bleed more? Endymion was sure that once it was out of her chest, the witch would have but a few minutes left on this side of the dirt.   

“J-just yank it,” her voice was thick and slurred, exhaustion coating every syllable. Endymion did not look at her, for he was too frightened to even think about her fading appearance, the warm color draining from her chocolatey skin as she died.

She reached out a trembling hand and grabbed the hilt, her eyes wide with a strange look as she interupted him from his throughts of morbidity. The witch tried her best to smile, a beautiful thing even when the two of them were covered in dust and blood.

“Don’t be such a worry wart.”  

Her voice was unwavering this time, and a pained smile shone through her multicolored eyes.   

Then she thrust her hand up, a slick, wet sound, leading her blood curdling scream. Endymion screamed along with her, pressing his hands to the wound as blood oozed, trying to do anything to save her. But as golden light shone from beneath his fingers and the witch’s screams faded away, the blood stopped suddenly, and Endymion’s eyes widened. From the would in her ribs were thin, fragile threads, glowing gold as they sewed together torn muscle and tissue.  

He laughed breathily, the feeling of relief spreading through his chest, “Who knew witches were immortal too...”  

Only silence met Endymion’s shaky comment; the ashen faced witch had lost consciousness. He gingerly cradled her body, scooping her up into his arms to carry her to safety.  The tunnel ahead loomed ominously as Endymion trekked through piles of destroyed books and rubble. He couldn't just leave her here until someone came. Only the gods knew how long that would take. And what if her magic stopped working and she bled out with noone to help her?

“I wasn’t going to return to the palace for another few days...” he looked down at the woman, her hair still swirling, “But I fear I have no choice.”