A fae blade catches him across the ribs, opening a wound that would drop a human instantly, but Maul doesn’t slow. He grabs the warrior responsible by the head with one massive paw and squeezes. The sound of the skull collapsing is wet and final.
“That all you got?” Maul roars, voice distorted by his werewolf throat. “Come on? Make it interesting!”
Ruckus stands in the center of chaos, grinning like he’s watching his favorite show, gold glinting at his throat and fingers, and probability bends itself into new configurations around him. Fae warriors slip on suddenly treacherous footing. Their weapons jam at critical moments. Magical attacks veer off course, hitting their own allies instead of intended targets.
“Oops,” Ruckus says cheerfully as a fae warrior’s sword inexplicably shatters mid-swing. “Bad luck, that one.”
He tosses a gold coin into the air. It spins, catches the light, and when it lands, three fae warriors simultaneously trip over absolutely nothing and crash into each other hard enough to break bones.
One fae combatant steps into his warped radius and doesn’t stumble. Coins spin around him without landing, resisting probability itself. His smile is cold as he lunges, his blade grazing Ruckus’ sleeve before fate twists again and sends the strike wide.
“Feelin’ lucky tonight, lads?” Ruckus calls out. “Because I’m definitely feelin’ lucky.”
I smirk, turning to see Flux shift forms so rapidly he becomes impossible to track, cycling through wolf, hawk, something vaguely humanoid but fundamentally wicked, settling briefly on a massive hunting cat before blurring into shadow and reforming as something with too many teeth. He flows through the battle like liquid violence, each form optimized for maximum efficiency, targeting weak points with surgical precision honed over centuries of hunting both prey and currency.
Thorn staggers to his feet despite his injuries, and the clubhouse responds to his will. Vines erupt from between floorboards, thick as a man’s arm and covered in thorns that weep poison. They wrap around fae warriors with crushing force, squeezing until ribs crack and internal organs rupture.
Fae magic answers him in kind. Roots blacken under bursts of lunar fire, blossoms turning to ash mid-bloom as a fae druid lashes back with crystalline vines that slash through the air like whips, forcing Thorn to shield his face as bark splinters beneath the assault.
“This ismy ground,” Thorn growls, sap-blood streaming down his face. “My territory. And you burn here.”
I let my dragon surge forward, not a complete transformation, half human, half dragon. Fire and ice erupt from my skin simultaneously, my hybrid form manifesting with enough force to crack stone beneath my feet. Scales ripple across my flesh in overlapping plates of ember-orange and ice-blue, heat and cold warring for dominance even as they work in terrible harmony.
A fae warrior charges me with a spear that glows with starlight magic. I catch the weapon mid-thrust, scaled hand wrapping around the shaft as ice flash-freezes the metal whilefire superheats it in rapid cycles. The enchanted spear shatters into sparkling fragments that melt before they hit the ground.
I charge forward, claws slashing through armor and flesh, breath painting the world in alternating waves of flame and killing frost.
One fae doesn’t run.
A prince-marked warrior drives straight through the chaos, armor glowing with sigils that devour heat and crack ice on contact. His blade meets my claws in a violent clash that sends sparks across the club room, power slamming into me hard enough to drive my heels through stone.
Good.
Finally, something worth breaking.
Through the chaos, I track Roxy. She fights near the stairs, magic erupting from her hands in fractured streaks of violet and shadowed gold, the power crackling wild and untrained as dull gold sigils flare unevenly through the air. They flicker in and out of existence, shadow leaking between the gaps like a spell still learning how to breathe, sparks of obsidian light threading each strike as if her magic remembers something older than she does. The lashes slam into fae warriors and send them skidding across stone. She’s terrified, I can smell it, but she doesn’t run.
A fae seer catches her wrist mid-spell. The air around them ripples, colors bending uneven, silver light spilling over her skin in a way that doesn’t belong to her power. Roxy’s movements falter. Her eyes go distant, unfocused, magic stuttering like a heartbeat out of rhythm. For a single, razor-thin moment, she just… stops.
Glamour.
I feel it even from across the room, that oily pull of fae illusion trying to rewrite the world around her.
Shit, I need to help her!
I go to run to her when her power lashes back.
Violet and shadowed gold explode outward in a violent flare, sigils fracturing as raw magic tears through the seer’s hold. The glamour shatters like glass under pressure, and the backlash hurls the fae over the banister hard enough to splinter wood and send him crashing to the level below.
Holy fuck, my Firecracker is strong!
She staggers, breath sharp, but her eyes snap clear again.
Pride surges through me alongside the fire.
Ivy appears near Roxy, the tree nymph’s usually gentle nature replaced by something ancient and furious. Decorative vines twist into strangling ropes, while thorned monstrosities burst through windows, dragging fae warriors down.
“Touch her…” Ivy snarls at one reaching for Roxy, “… and I’ll grow a tree through your chest cavity.”